COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN

*A knock at the door* “Your Grace...Forgive the-.... - it is about Prince Valarr.”

Baelor:

“I will return shortly,” , “You will see me at breakfast, before the tourney begins. Forgive me, my lady.”

What he meant to say was:

DAMN U ALL!!!! I'M HAVING A FCKING GREAT TIME WITH MY BEAUTIFUL AND GORGEOUS PRECIOUS WIFE I JUST GOT MARRIED AND SHOULD BE HAVING A FCKING HAPPY MOMENTS!!! -BUT NOOOO!! U ALL GOTTA DO SOME SHIT TO RUIN IT ALL !!! FCK U ALL NOW I'M HAPPY YALL NOW PLANNING TO RUIN IT ALL!!??? look i love u my son-BUT WHAT THE HELL DID U FCKING DO?!! AND WHY THE HELL IS IT NOW!???

“I stopped them, but it was already too late. The deed was done.”

Valard: father-

Baelor: No

What he meant to say was:

OHH! SEVEN RULERS OR WTV YALL GODS ARE.. K1LL ME NOW!! i could be cuddling with my WIFE rn *slams the table dramatically*.. DAMN THIS!! DO I GET NO FCKING BREAKS FROM ALL THESE SHITS ??! OOOG GODS!! HAVE U CURSED ME? MY BABY BOY NOW GROWN UP AND CANT KEEP HIS PINEAPPLE IN HIS LUXURY PANTS!! FROM ALL THE TRAITS I HAVE AND ONE TRAIT HE COULD NOT GET WAS RESTRAINT ! (i shoulda gave him a ring to spin it around his finger and think or something ..it helped me tho)

Valarr and kierra:

Baelor:

U cAN'T FcKING MaRRY A PErSON U JUsT FCkInG MET!!

Baelor prolly while talking to valarr:

Broo my WIFE is waiting for Me AnD nOW we HAvE to LeaVe aND FiX IT ALL!! Look i love you but OMFGGGGG BROO T0T

@finchsbadhairday a problematic valarr ?? AHHAHAAH THIS IS SOOO FUNNY I bet maekar is lowkey loving what's happening cause its not his son this time XD

CERYN

Her stomach twisted like a rope pulled taut against a gale, the emptiness sharpening into a pain that seemed to feed upon itself, chewing through the last reserves of her strength with every sway of the saddle. 

Sweat carved runnels through the grime on her face, the marsh air so thick and wet she could scarcely tell where her own body ended and the sodden world began.

Days had blurred into one endless ride, the kind that left her thighs raw and her mind scraped thin. She had paused only when the horse demanded it, never long enough for sleep to claim her. Sleep was a luxury for those who were not fleeing the shape of their own life.

Ceryn leaned forward, one hand resting against the destrier’s sweat-darkened neck. “Easy, old one,” she murmured, barely more than breath. 

The horse flicked an ear in acknowledgment. He was a sturdy creature of Winterfell stock, with a coat the color of ancient bark and a temper mellowed by years of idleness. He had been her father's once, ridden hard in youth and forgotten in age. Now they belonged to one another in this strange communion of the desperate.

She had taken him because no one would miss him, because he was too old for glory and too sound for pity. In the shadowed stables of Winterfell, she had pressed her forehead to his, whispering promises of green fields and rest she could not guarantee.

Now, in this gods-forsaken swamp, she offered him the only tenderness she had left… slow strokes along his withers, soothing words scarcely louder than the insects' drone, water poured from her near-empty skin into her cupped palm, though every swallow she spared him left her own throat burning.

He had carried her far, this old northerner, legs churning through sucking mud where finer horses would have foundered.

"A little farther," she whispered, rubbing the coarse hair between his ears. "Then we'll find you grass worth eating. Soft grass. None of this cursed marsh reed."

The swamp pressed close, a haze of cypress and rot and water that smelled of things long drowned. This was not the pine-scented woods of home, where she could track a hare by the bend of a fern or bring down a deer with a single clean shot. Here, the land itself conspired against her. Game was scarce and skittish; what little she had managed to snare had been stringy and insufficient. 

Her belly cramped again, a deep, hollow protest that made her vision swim for a moment. She straightened in the saddle, jaw tight. 

Hunger was only another enemy to outride.

The sun hung low, a sullen coin behind the haze, promising night soon enough. But night meant even more vigilance. She could not sleep until the distance between her and Winterfell felt insurmountable. Until she was far enough that the lie might hold.

A sound split the air.

The sound she had been outriding for days.

Hooves. Too many. The rhythm rolled over the marsh like a death knell, followed by voices the damp wind dragged toward her in broken shouts. Sharp with purpose, cutting through the drone of insects. Not travelers. Not merchants. Men hunting.

They had found her.