The Privilege of Loving You

1

Valarr knew precisely how many suitcases his wife required for seven days at sea.

Fourteen.

This number did not include the cream leather hatbox balanced precariously upon the luggage trolley, the canvas bag containing nothing but books she would almost certainly not read, or the small velvet case she carried personally because she did not trust anyone else with her jewelry.

Valarr stood upon the marina beneath the bright Lysene sun, one hand tucked into the pocket of his linen trousers, watching the yacht's crew attempt to determine how fourteen suitcases might be distributed without compromising the vessel's weight or dignity.

His wife stood beside him in enormous sunglasses and a white sundress, entirely untroubled.

"You said to pack for warm weather," you reminded him.

"I said we were spending a week on a yacht."

"Yes."

"Not emigrating."

You slowly lowered your sunglasses.

Valarr met your gaze with the solemnity of a man preparing to defend himself before a tribunal.

"You told me there would be dinners."

"There will be dinners."

"Then I require dinner dresses."

"Seven?"

"I might change my mind."

"And the three cases of shoes?"

"What would you have me do? Wear the wrong shoes with the right dress?"

"I would never ask such a sacrifice of you."

"I know." You pushed your sunglasses back up your nose. "That is why I married you."

Valarr's mouth twitched.

Behind you, one of the crewmen lifted a suitcase and nearly staggered beneath its weight.

Valarr immediately stepped forward.

"Careful with that one."

You turned your head.

A smile began at the corner of your mouth. "I thought I had packed too much."

"You have."

"And yet you are personally supervising my luggage."

"I am preventing you from accusing innocent men of creasing your clothes."

"That happened once."

"Twice."

"The second time was your fault."

"I was not even in the country."

"You hired the staff."

Valarr glanced toward the yacht, where every one of your cases was being carried aboard under his watchful eye.

He had complained about the luggage from the moment it had appeared in the marble entrance hall of your home that morning. He had complained while the driver attempted to fit it all into the cars. He had complained when two additional vehicles had been summoned.

He would nevertheless have carried each case aboard himself before allowing one to be left behind.

You knew this.

The crew knew it.

The entirety of Westeros knew that Valarr Targaryen had been hopelessly defeated by his wife years ago and had made no meaningful attempt to recover.