Prince of My Heart - Valarr Targaryen - Chapter 3
Word Count: 4,376
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
The Baratheons were not known to be people who enjoyed leisurely strolls in gardens; if it pleased them to be among the flora and fauna, they would simply ride out to the Rain Wood or one of the many other great woodlands under their domain. As a result, the greenery in their keep was left wanting. The gardens at Storm’s End were more of a small forest enclosed behind stone walls than proper grounds. The flowery blooms were not organized in rows, indeed there were few flowers at all compared to the overwhelming amount of plain foliage. There were no rare birds imported from Essos, or twisting vines from the Dornish marshes, or Wirewood trees from the Northernmost kingdom. Certainly, the Baratheons’ vassal lords had more impressive keeps to boast about. But those flowering fortresses all fell when the dragon lords came. Storm’s End was not built to impress perfumed diplomats; it was built to survive the storms of gods and men.
On this particular day, the Stormland’s skies were clear as a fresh sheet of parchment, and the only storm brewing was that of Lyanna Baratheon. By the time Lyanna had awoken, the hunting party had long since departed from the gates of Storm’s End. The young lady spent the better part of the morning in her rooms entertaining herself by picking at pastries, playing with her dolls, and pulling servants into fleeting conversations about the likelihood her father would bring her back a unicorn.
“You ought go outside yourself, M’lady, seeing ‘ow tis such a beautiful day,” nudged Joan Rivers, her favorite of her mother’s attendants. Joan was no more than ten years older than she and needed far less convincing than others to engage Lyanna in a game of Monsters and Maidens. “Perhaps you find a unicorn yourself.” Lyanna did not want to admit to Joan, who would surely tease her for it, that the reason she elected to stay in her rooms, despite the kind weather, was for fear of another dreadful encounter with Prince Valarr.
Since their shared dance the previous night, Lyanna had thought him cruel, stupid, boring, and back to cruel again. She’s sworn she had no use to speak to him and would happily avoid him throughout the remainder of his stay and as much as it could be helped in the future. However, by midday, Lyanna’s rooms seemed to shrink around her, and she had exhausted every means of entertainment, save throwing herself from the window.
“Very well,” she sighed, throwing a book she had only managed to read one page of onto her bed. “I will find the unicorn myself.”
Armed with a small, handheld fishing net, Lyanna stalked through the gardens in search of her prey. She looked high and low among the wet greens, peeling back swordferns and blooming bellflowers, only to be met with disappointment. She had discovered gangly mushrooms growing from the crevices in a fallen wormtree and an abundance of lungwort blossoming beneath the shade of a red maple, whose purple blossoms she tucked carefully into her braided hair. She tracked a newt across lichen-covered stones, whistled at the cliff swallows flying overhead, frightened a toad burrowed in the leaves from last fall, and pet the sweet, grey stable cat who emerged from a patch of liverwort with a dead mouse hanging from its jaws. All these creatures and still no unicorn.
She ran her hand along the pale grey stone comprising the outer garden wall. She attempted to find a hold for her feet so she might climb over, but was not afforded such luck. Not even the wind could find purchase between the perfectly placed stones. “I could find my unicorn if I were allowed outside, I know it.”
After the better part of an hour, Lyanna lay down on a mossy patch of grass, gazing up at the canopy of trees shading her. She studied, for a moment, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves as the wind guided them this way and that. As she pondered if her unicorn would be the color of sunlight or perhaps a deep plum like the beast on the sigil of House Brax, a soft buzz grew louder in her ear.
“Shoo,” Lyanna swatted at the honey bee dancing around her head. The pest dodged her hands as it made its way to the lugwort flowers tangled in her dark brown curls. “I demand you leave,” the garden’s tyrant tried again in a voice akin to her grandmother’s. Still, the bee persisted even after Lyanna rose to her feet, forgetting her net, and made a mad dash through the ferns. “Leave me alon-” Her foot caught on the root of an oak protruding from the ground. “Umph!”
Lying on the soft dirt, Lyanna felt the tiny legs of her pursuer tap across her forehead. “I said leave!” She swatted again, sending the bee onto her honey-colored sleeves. The insect’s wing caught in the lace stitching. “Get off me!” she shouted, panic rising in her voice before the bee sent its stinger under her skin.
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Valarr was beginning to notice, in the way children did as they grew up, the behavior of the adults around him– or rather towards him. He noticed the way their voices quieted when he spoke, the way their eyes found him in the back of a room, even when he did not mean to be observed, and the way they straightened their shoulders when he passed by as though his six-year-old stature was large enough to intimidate seasoned men-at-arms.
The young prince had come to the yard to practice his aim with the bow. He possessed some natural talent for the craft. He enjoyed the resistance he felt when he nocked the arrow, the way his breathing slowed as he focused his aim, and the soft brush of the fletching against his cheek as he released his hold. Most of all, he enjoyed the way his father smiled when his arrow struck the center of the painted target with a thwap before all the other boys could get their arrows to fly anywhere but the dirt. Valarr hoped his father would reward his practice by allowing the princeling to accompany him on the next hunting party instead of leaving him put like a helpless babe.
That was his plan until his attention was pulled away to the guards sparring in the yard beside him. Now, he watched the fight the way a tutor watches their student, making note of each step and misstep. He noticed how the man with a complexion as dark as the night sky vocalized his thrusts and parries with greater volume once Valarr abandoned his bow to sit and watch. He noticed how the bearded man twirled his morning star when the prince’s eyes were on him. He also noticed, over the flurry of twirling swords and discarded shields, a small yellow figure exiting the gardens with great speed.
Valarr recognized the figure to be Lady Lyanna, the demanding little girl he had danced with the night before. He blushed as he recalled the way her smiling face twisted in frustration, her mouth tightening and brow raising, while he stood in front of her trying to remember which hand he was supposed to take in his and which was to remain at her side. Only now, her face was grimaced in pain instead of annoyance; her cheeks were red, and her eyes were puffy. She cradled her hand close to her chest and cast weary glances over her shoulder as if she were holding something delicate she did not wish others to find her carrying. Valarr did not remember walking towards her until he was standing in front of her.
“My lady.” Lyanna’s eyes widened before directing her stare towards the ground. She gave the prince a stiff, short curtsy, never letting go of her hand. She looked annoyed that the boy might inconvenience her from wherever she was off in such a hurry, but held her tongue, which Valarr already knew was unusual. “You are crying,” Valarr stated.
“I am not,” Lyanna responded too quickly as traitorous tears fled down her cheeks.
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Was someone mean to you?”
“No.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” Lyanna sniffled and drew her hand in closer, glaring at Valarr, willing him to move out of her way. He only stared back, waiting. At age six, he already possessed more patience than most men ten times his age, or so he had been told. Finally, Lyanna huffed and extended her arm, rolling back her sleeve to expose the inside of her wrist. “I was searching for a unicorn when a honey bee attacked me.”
“Oh,” It was no mortal wound, Valarr observed. There was a single drop of blood that glistened at the center of the red swell on her arm. Still, she seemed in great pain. “Did you find it?”
“What?” Valarr returned his eyes to her face. “The unicorn?”
“No,” Lyanna slumped, embarrassed.
“Oh,” Valarr replied, sharing her disappointment. He watched as she used her uninjured hand to wipe away a few straggler tears.
There always seemed to be a chill in the air on Dragonstone, and thus the fireplaces were lit in every room, even during the summer months. The light of the fire made Lady Jena’s red hair glow as she set another stitch into the blanket for her new babe. When she caught sight of her eldest son trembling in the doorway, her needlework was quickly forgotten.
“Valarr?” The boy rushed towards his mother, who knelt down to embrace him. The dam of tears he had been holding broke as he nuzzled into his mother’s arms. She felt warm and smelled of citrus. “What is it, sweetling?”
“Samwell tripped me during training– in front of Grandsire– I hurt my arm.” Valarr pulled away to show Lady Jena where his doublet had torn from his fall and the skin around his elbow split open. She placed a gentle hand on her child’s arm, rubbing little circles atop his forearm with her thumb.
“Oh my dear boy, it must hurt. I imagine you were a little scared, too.” Valarr’s bottom lip puckered, trying not to cry any more than he already had. “But I know just what will make it better.”
“You do?”
“Of course,” Jena swept his tears away. “All you need is a kiss to take the pain away.” She brought his injured arm to her and placed a kiss just above his cut. His tears stopped. “Do you feel better, Valarr?”
Valarr took Lyanna’s extended hand and placed a quick peck on the inside of her wrist. Her blood lingered on his lips for a moment before he wiped it on the back of his sleeve. Lyanna blinked at him, her face twisted again, but this time in confusion rather than exasperation. “Why did you do that?”
“So you would feel better,” Valarr answered with sincerity.
“Oh.”
The children remained standing in front of each other, shifting back and forth on their feet, while the chimes of swords colliding echoed off the castle walls.
“Unicorns live on an island in the North.”
“I know,” said Lyanna, who was only just hearing of this.
“So you would not find a unicorn in the Stormlands,” Valarr continued. Lyanna huffed and looked away. Her patience with this strange princeling who did not dance and kissed bee stings and knew everything about unicorns was draining. “But there may be dragons,” Valarr tried, hopefully.
“The dragons are gone,” Lyanna stated. It was Valarr’s turn to look away, hurt, as if Lyanna’s words had personally plucked the beasts from their skies. She hated the way his downturned eyes and pursed lips made her feel. “But we may find one,” Lyanna chimed. Valarr peered at her with skepticism all the while Lyanna plotted. “Yes, if we take my pony out, we can find a dragon then!”
“I do not believe we are permitted to leave, my lady. Mayhaps we search the gardens?”
“No,” Lyanna said far too quickly. “My father lets me leave the grounds all the time. And dragons do not like gardens, they would get stung by the bees– like me. So we must leave the castle, we must if we want to find it, my prince.”
Valarr weighed the options in his mind. His father had not told him he could not leave, only that he was to stay at Storm’s End. Surely, if they stayed in sight of the castle and far away from the cliffside, there would be no trouble. They would not find dragons hidden in a garden anyway. And Lyanna was right, dragons hated bees. Valarr believed he had read that somewhere.
“Alright-”
“But you must tell the stable master it was your idea! Otherwise, he won’t let us go.”
“Are we not allowed to-”
“We are!” She continued. “Only the stable master is mean and does not let me ride, but he must listen to you,” Lyanna grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him towards the edge of the yard. “He will listen to you, I know it!”
Valarr wanted to protest. He wanted to ask a dozen more questions of his host to ensure they were, in fact, not breaking any rules. But Lyanna seemed so happy, grinning from ear to ear at him, as the fickle stable master set her atop her pony. Her distress with the garden and the bee sting had been entirely forgotten.
So he ignored the growing feeling of unease sitting in his gut. He ignored it when the stable master muttered “I’s don’ ‘ow ‘bout it, not right that is” to himself when he passed the pony’s reins to Valarr. He ignored it when the guards passed uneasy looks between each other while he led Lyanna from the gate. He ignored it when the wind coming off the cliffs nearly knocked him on his behind, sending Lyanna into a fit of giggles. He ignored it so well that somewhere in between the stables and the distant woods, Valarr had stopped feeling anxious altogether.
Perhaps it was Lyanna’s chatter that put him at ease. Questions poured out of her like a stream spills into the sea: What color would their dragon be? How large? As big as Vahgar, the beastly dragon that had once dwarfed Storm’s End, or smaller like Arrax, the dragon Vahgar had vanquished above Shipbreaker Bay? How fast would it fly? Faster than a horse? Than a ship? Than a raven?
Lyanna also asked him about the dragons that came before, not in the way his father’s advisors or his mother’s ladies would, asking questions they already knew the answers to just to praise Valarr for knowing the answer himself. All Lyanna’s questions were always in earnest. For every question she posed, he would give an answer with greater and greater enthusiasm until he hardly cared when the trees covered the castle growing in distance behind them.
What he enjoyed most, though, was that she would listen, truly listen, when he gave his answer. She followed him into the pictures he painted of dragonlords and their mounts, biting back the urge to interrupt with more inquiries, while he recited the histories he had read or the stories his grandsire had told him.
Valarr explained, in great detail, how the Valyrians were once sheepherders until they found dragons living in the chain of volcanoes on the Valyrian peninsula called the Fourteen Flames. He spoke about how some dragon keepers believed dragons needed sunlight to grow, which is why none of the dragons born in Westeros ever grew as big as their relatives from Essos. Valarr added, “Balerion was the last dragon from Essos. He was the largest dragon this world has ever seen. His shadow could block out the sun for all of Kingslanding! He needed to eat half a herd of cattle every day.”
“How old was he?” Lyanna wondered.
“He was more than 200 years of age. King Viserys the Peaceful was his last rider.” Valarr detailed the Westerois dragon’s family tree and their riders. Some dragons had to be claimed while others grew up with their riders as hatchlings. He also told her how dragon eggs turned into stone if they did not hatch.
“Have you seen one, my prince? An egg?”
“Yes, I have one.”
“You do!”
“Yes, all Targaryens are given a cradle egg when they are born. They won’t hatch because they are petrified. But Father says tradition is important, so Matarys and I both got one. My cousins did not. Uncle Maekar says they are just old, shiny rocks,” Valarr explained, replacing some of the language his uncle had used in his description of the eggs.
“What color is your egg?” Lyanna inquired.
“Blue, my lady. Blue with green flecks like leaves blowing in the sky.” Valarr smiled.
“Then that is what color our dragon will be.”
Valarr chose not to explain to Lyanna that dragons do not have two riders at the same time and only accepted riders with Valyrian heritage. He decided he would try to claim the dragon first to keep her from being eaten, then, if the dragon was kind, which he hoped it would be, it would allow her to fly with them. All this he kept to himself because he suspected that if he told Lyanna there was something she could not do, she would dive headfirst into the dragon’s jaws just to prove she could.
Eventually, the pair stopped to rest at a spring, no deeper than their knees, trickling through the woods so the pony could drink. The thick layers of trees protected the land from the harsh sea winds, allowing moss, fungi, and a variety of delicate flowers to bloom without disruption, which Buttercup, the pony, happily feasted on. Lyanna had descended from her ride and took to wandering around, calling out for their dragon. “Rytsa zaldrizes…” she sang through the trees, practicing the words Valarr had taught her.
Valarr brushed his hands along the Buttercup’s main. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to the pony. “I won’t let the dragon eat you… or her. I’ll keep us safe like a good knight should.” Buttercup only nickered and leaned into Valarr’s touch. The prince decided he was happy he had left the yard and the grunting knights. He enjoyed the woods much better; the shady trees, the sweet flowers, the quiet– Why was it so quiet?
“Lyanna,” he called out, but was met with silence. He couldn't see Lyanna's yellow dress against the greens and browns of the forest anymore. He couldn’t hear her voice calling out through the woods. He couldn’t hear anything at all over the sound of his own heart beating. Panic seized him. Prince Valarr dashed around the trees, calling out Lyanna’s name to no avail. He cursed himself for taking them out, for taking them into the woods, for going so far they lost sight of the castle.
I’ve lost her. I’ve lost her, and Father will be so mad. We’ll never get to play again. We’ll never find our dragon. We’ll be eaten by-
“BOO!” Lyanna jumped an inch from Valarr’s face, springing out from behind a giant oak. Valarr shoved Lyanna back with all his strength. Once he realized what he had done, it was too late. Lyanna’s gleeful expression fell quickly to fear as she flailed her arms before crashing back into the spring. The force of Valarr’s push landed on her backside, water soaking her little body from her cloak to her boots.
Valarr quickly splashed through the water to reach her. Words of apology died on his tongue as she glared up at him through her long, wet hair sticking to her face. Instead, he extended his hand, which she took, and hoisted her up to her feet. “You frightened me– I did not mean to, my lady– I am sorry.” Lyanna only nodded, her lips pursed in that awful way of hers. “I am sorry too, my prince.” Then she pushed him.
Valarr hit the water with as much grace as Lyanna had. The cold spring traveled right through his small clothes, biting at the skin. He could not tell if his body was ridged from the shock of the cold water or the fact that she had pushed him in the first place.
Lyanna stood over him, smiling proudly. And Valarr, for whatever reason, smiled too. He rose from the spring with no aid, stuck his palms back into the cold, and sent a wave of water towards her. Lyanna shrieked as the spray crashed into her. Then she stuck her hands into the water and splashed back. Soon, their giggles and cries melded with the happy sounds of the forest as the two children chased each other up and down the stream.
“That’s unfair,” Valarr called out when clever little Lyanna used a broken tree branch to send larger waves towards the princeling. “You are cheating.”
“So? You are bigger than me,” she retorted with another splash, pushing him further back towards the shore.
“And faster.” Valarr grinned, breaking into a run. Lyanna screamed, dropping the stick, and sloshed through the water to flee Valarr. She did not make it far before he cornered her, and in a last-ditch effort, Lyanna splashed madly at the water. Valarr copied her, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. They were so distracted by their little war, so enthralled in their play, that with so much water flying all around them, they did not notice the three persons on horseback approaching until–
“LADY LYANNA.” The splashing stopped at once. Both children snapped their heads to find Ser Robert, Ser Dale, and Lyanna’s septa, Septa Moraina, staring at them from the creekside. They did not hide their shock to find the heir to the heir to the Iron Throne and a lady of House Baratheon trampling through the woods, looking like a pair of politely dressed wet rats thrown overboard a ship.
“Mother, have mercy, what have you done to yourselves?” Septa Morania continued, eyes flicking back and forth between the two soaking children in front of her. The Septa was an old woman with as many lines in her face as streams in the Riverlands to prove it. Her face appeared chiseled from stone into a permanently disagreeable expression. Lyanna balled her fists at her side when her sharp gaze fell on her.
Valarr bravely stepped forward, “Please, Septa, we did not mean to worry anyone. We were trying to find a dragon. We did not realize how much time had passed.”
“And Lady Lyanna should have told you, my prince, she is not permitted to travel beyond the castle walls. Not without her father and certainly not without any guards.” Valarr turned to look at Lyanna, whose eyes did not rise from the water passing over her boots. “What would your family say, girl, to find galavanting through the woods with a prince of the realm and no knights accompanying you?”
“I did not think–”
“Percisely. You did not think. The Stranger could have carried off with the both of you because you did not think.” Valarr observed the way Lyanna grinded her jaw, not permitting the tears to leave her eyes. And still she did not look at him. “Ser Robert, please give Prince Valarr your cloak and take him back to the castle. Inform Septa Sila he is to be bathed and brought dinner.”
Ser Robert swept from his horse and did as the Septa instructed. He plucked the prince from the water like he was little more than a leaf floating downstream before setting him upon his steed. Valarr began to shiver. Even with the knight’s cloak, he suddenly felt as though a great warmth had left him. He looked down at Lyanna, who stood still as a stone in the water. She refused to look at the old woman berating her. “Let us pray your foolishness will not encourage illness in the prince. Let us go.”
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The ride back to Storms End went by at a snail’s pace. Ser Robert rode ahead of the party for fear the prince would catch a deadly cold, and the rage of House Tagaryen would fall upon their hosts. This left Septa Moraina, Ser Dale, and Lyanna to trudge back to the castle alone. Buttercup, who was not used to so much activity in a day, grunted and stalled often. By the time the party reached the gates, the sun was nearly gone, and Prince Valarr had already been bathed, put in dry clothes, and sent to bed.
Lyanna shivered as Ser Dale helped her down from her seat. She unclasped the cloak he was not ordered to give her, yet had done so anyway. “Thank you, ser,” Lyanna whispered. He patted her affectionately on the head. “Best of luck, little Lady,” he said before leaving her to the will of her Septa. “Lady Lyanna, you will be bathed and set to bed at once.”
“But-”
“Dinner is for good girls who do not trick princes.” Lyanna closed her mouth. “When your parents return tomorrow evening, they will decide what is to be done with you. Until then, you are not permitted to leave your rooms. Your dolls, toys, and books will be confiscated. You may contemplate your actions with prayer.”
Lyanna wanted to tell her Septa she did not need to pray. She felt so much guilt that she was certain the Gods would not allow her a night's sleep. She wanted to beg for a chance to go to the prince and apologize, to say her Septa was right and she had not thought. She wanted to say she was sorry for getting them in trouble. She wanted not to feel his sad gaze on her as he rode away. Instead, she held her tongue and marched into the castle, unaware of the little prince watching from his window above.
