valarr | young prince

between the age difference and the height – he's seldom seen on the receiving end of a pointed wooden sword. oft, he wonders it simply to be because no one actually takes him seriously. the concept alone fuels his need to prove himself. for a boy his age, he's wise. but wit alone will not earn for him what he yearns for. perhaps this is why he stands in such a way that commands for even a modicum of respect.

❝ i am a squire, cousin –  ❞ brows furrow as he stares back at the other, lifting the visor of a helmet that balances a size too big upon his bald head. ❝ you should regard me as an honorable knight. one day, i shall be one, you'll see! — now, do you mean to toss around words or to disarm me? ❞

The thought of sparring with someone so young compared to him like Egg would be an embarrassment to the young prince if anyone were to see them but he knew the annoyance of not being taken seriously when it came to physical combat of all degrees and recreations. How long he’d waited outside his tent for someone to call upon his shield in a joust only for old knights or green ones to be the only contenders. 

“I couldn’t imagine any of mine doing that,” he thinks bewildered in the best way of such bright colours all on display and imagining people looking like Keira with all those bright colours. The thought of his uncle sporting a bright orange dye or a green one bought out a bright laugh from the prince. “What colour would you say for me?” There were maybe one or two ideas that popped into his head but he wanted to hear her thoughts.

she is certain there is more to be said of her husband's thoughts on daeron, and other of his kin, but she decides to let the subject pass for the time being since there will be plenty of time in the future for him to properly acquaint her with the various branches of his family. for now, she will content herself to simply note his opinions and keep them in the back of her mind. on another occasion will come the opportunity to delve deeper.

'i hope your grandsire and your father realize how fortunate they are in you for many a man in your position would be all too happy to consider a future without them if it means getting your hands on a crown.' indeed, some sons were even said to concoct schemes to shorten the lives of their predecessors. such ambition was certainly not unheard of either in westeros or essos and she found valarr's candid sincerity to be refreshing. here was someone who considered themselves a son before an heir and the thought only serves to endear him even more to her. 'when the time comes, i have no doubt that you will be a great king but for both our sakes, and that of your predecessors, i too hope that moment will not come to fruition for a long time. i would like the both of us to be able to live long, full lives before we must take on the responsibilities of ruling.'

she hopes the day of their reign is long in the future and yet she finds her curiosity piqued as she imagines the day when he too will choose a crown for himself, 'and have you ever had a thought as to what you might like yours to look like?' she questions with a raised brow, head tilting faintly to the side.

a sheepish laugh slips from smiling lips as she shakes her head insistently, 'not at all boring! just...different! less colorful and more somber but i think it suits you all quite well.' she would miss the colorful fabrics that adorned the individuals breezing through the streets of tyrosh but in king's landing, appearances would translate into power and influence. if one wished to play the part, they also needed to look the part.

her eyes strive to be everywhere all at once, the array of fabrics set out for passerbys, the different spices and fruits and then the alleged dragon eggs, which capture her attention save for the moment when she notes valarr's purchase of pears with a smile. the fresh fruit of home, pears among them, have been sorely missed. 'i suppose the merchant assumes no one here would have seen a dragon's egg so they would not know any better. little did they think they might have a targaryen in their midst one day!'

“I’ve met lords sons who are more than eager to take over their fathers duties even if it means their meeting with the Stranger,” he sighs only a little as he speaks it, clearly judging that way of thinking and unable to comprehend it at all but the compliment from Keira causes a pinkish blush to start on his cheeks. All he wanted was to make his site and father proud, to be their image. If someone else saw it that meant everything to him. On some occasions he was present at court to determine the outcomes of those matters when an overeager heir was caught trying to hasten the process of his succession. “I have so much to learn before that happens but I hope that I’m learning from my kin for a long time. Us both,” he beams with a nod to her. “I know my mother is thrilled to have a daughter and she was full of compliments about you during our wedding banquet. Her and my father were an arrangement,” he pauses and his mouth twists in a way that it does when he’s thinking on it he should carry on letting the thought from his head into words. “She told me she was cautious about marrying him at first because of the Stormlands and Dorne but she grew to love him fast.” 

It feels gauche to talk about the crown and no matter how he truly feels about it, there’s always a worry that it will come off as expected. “My grandsire already has it made,” sheepishly admitted. “Just over a year ago he became ill. Nobody knew other than the small council and my family and he wanted to have things in order so my father and I came up with some ideas. My father wanted a simple circlet of gold and Valyrian steel similar to Aegon III. Simple, strong and without vanity.” Anytime he spoke of anything to do with Baelor the pride and love flowed free. “I couldn’t decide on some things and didn’t want to just think of one part of my heritage so mine is grander but it’s not for vanity,” he promises worried that it would appear that way. “I know how much my birth means and I don’t mean that to brag,” he begins slowing his pace to be stood next to his wife still holding her hand. “The Targaryens, Dorne and the Stormlands all run through me, my grandsire's intention, and they’ve all fought with each other in big bloody long ways so I know what it means. So, mine is reminiscent of Jaehaerys I and the Dragon himself. A gold circlet made of the same gold as my father with Valyrian steel running through the middle and I have square cut rubies and smaller circle cuts amethyst and spessartine around them. For my mothers house and my grandmother's. It looks much simpler than I’m making it sound,” he insists. “I could have some pink sapphires put in,” he says, brushing a strand of Kiera’s pink hair slowly behind her ear. “For you.” The image of her wearing his crown struck in his mind and he thought, even though it was just a thought in his head, that she looked a vision in it. 

A wide grin that lights his eyes immediately appears when he hears her laugh then settles into a teasing grin. “The red makes it striking but it is very somber. I’ll try and put some more colour in. Or around Dragonstone, too.” The two places he found the most feeling like home were Dragonstone and Sunspear, so different to each other but he loved them the same. 

 He gives her a pear and keeps one to himself, noting the bright golden yellow colour with bits of even brighter green on them and thinks that the Tyroshi pears would likely look and taste even better. 

“They should know better,” he grumbles, tearing his eyes away to send a dangerous glare to the merchant who was nervously looking their way. “It’s dangerous to lie about that after the Blackfyre issues,” the words whispered quietly and felt a risk even saying that name out loud. “Other Targaryen’s could say such a deceit would be fueling treason.” 

Those men were traitors. They claimed to be fighting for honour, but they all wanted the pride of fighting in the first trial of seven in a hundred years. No matter what, the history books would remember them, and Aerion knew the truth; that was why they all fought for Ser Duncan, Baelor included. “Those men aren’t respected,” Aerion laughed. “A knight with a broken leg, one with no eye, and yet you treat them like heroes?” Aerion didn’t know the standards could falter so much. Maybe because it was the first time Aerion had evoked such a reaction from his cousin, he couldn’t stop goading him, even if he wanted to. Finally, Vallar showed some inkling of being a dragon; it only took his father to die. “People will remember me,” Aerion said slowly. “They’ll remember my name for years to come while yours and your father’s will be forgotten.” Prince Baelor, the king that never was, or never shall be. The realm could speak about what king he might’ve been, but Aerion knew he’d be nothing in history. “My brothers, do you mean the drunk or the runaway?” Aerion laughed once more. “They’re nothing. They’ll never be anything; I am the dragon!” He shouted. For too long, his brothers were the standard. No one could see beyond Aerion’s own temper, but things would change. Daeron was nothing, Egg was nothing. 

Aerion knew exactly what he was doing with his words. He wanted them to cut and sting, and Vallar admired his father too much to not be weighed down with grief and guilt. “You wouldn’t have,” Aerion shrugged. "Instead, you prepared him like a lamb going to slaughter. Did you act as his squire, fitting him for armour you both know did not fit?” Maeker may have swung the mace, but it was Vallar’s armour that killed him. They all knew it; they just didn’t say it to save the poor little prince. 

“Has your ego blinded you so completely that you do not see things for how they are or how you have doomed this family by what you did because your pride couldn’t handle someone else was stronger than you and could stand up to your cruelty?” The darker haired Targaryen stares at his cousin l, his two coloured eyes narrow and creased together in bewildered anger. “Do you hear what they about those men compared to you? To our house?” The entire reason for Valarr existing was to be the future of the house and he knew nothing else from it but the tourney had showed the reality of so much and how easily their historic lineage could fall when he always thought it would stand forever. “People will remember you but it will be devoid of respect completely,” jaw clenched and anger seething from all of it with every sound made against his father. Valarr only had one brother and their relationship was so different to Aerion and his, there was pity in that thought but it quickly went, remembering what Aerion had just said about Baelor. Hearing his cousin proclaim he’s a dragon, Valarr surprises himself and laughs. It’s a cruel laugh, odious and contumelious that rife with mocking. “Keep thinking that. That's all you have," scoffed.

Eyes burned into Aerion, anger now settled into its permanence that he knew he’d forever feel Aerion. Other people might be forgiven or the feeling quelled but not him. The word fit had not faded when Valarr connected his fist into the lips that the words fell from. Aerion was right. Had the amour fit properly then Baelor was likely to have lived. Valarr knew he should have fought, should have insisted on it but he knew Baelor would never have allowed it. Knowing that was their last conversation was when he fitted his father into the amour that wasn’t his, Valarr wished he’d have done anything different. Even killing the hedge knight himself. Or Aerion. “You’ll never know what it’s like to have your fathers pride.” It sounded hollow. “Exile is too kind for you,” he spits back with much more vigor.

SUMMERHALL. LANDS O' PLENTY *&. BEAUTEOUS. pleasant *&. reminisce of home. brow arches itself; scintillating gaze of curisity. ' young prince, i walk no louder than any breathing man. i would say, whatever spirit you have chosen as your poison is to blame. ' laughter smothers, wishing no further thrum to the youth's likely woe. a familiar feeling as the bee does love to flitter with a dance *&. a goblet himself. another knight might find fault, yet this man of honeyholt is amused.

Every noise reverberated into the princes head, every sense of it as if it were claws of a large dragon fighting inside scratching the walls of his skull. “I am living in some delusion that it is whatever tonic my uncles maester provided this early morn to ease me of the ache but you are right,” Valarr groans, humored by the the laughter from the bee knight, a smile fighting its way up on the young prince but the movement of the muscle angers the ached head. “It might be that I over indulged last night. Might,” insists the prince as he reaches for a goblet of some honeyed lavender drink made by the maesters.

𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑? 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒.

All these quotes are taken from different media and some made from scratch about the royal succession line and the troubles it brought during a medieval/fantasy period. Change pronouns, names, titles and locations as you see fit.

You poison a king so that they may take his place.

Have no fear, Stark. I was only keeping it warm for our friend Robert. It's not a very comfortable seat, I'm afraid.

I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one.

Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you, the realm will bleed.

I will claim the Iron Throne by myself, with your swords and your allegiance.

If Daenerys is no more than a sweet young girl, the Iron Throne will cut her into sweet young pieces.

Princess Catherine. Your loss has endeared you to the people. They share your grief.

 You've had your courses for days, but you do not tell anyone. I don't understand.

God would have me wed Prince Harry.

But you are his brother's widow. It is impossible. It is forbidden.

I am every inch the soldier... And commander.

In England, widows don't handle swords, much less a widow carrying a prince in her womb. 

And I'll wager that you were praying for a boy.

My mother is already planning my next marriage, though in God's eyes it will be my first marriage.

If you are still a maid, then, Catherine, I can be your husband. 

I will raise you up, you... you and all of England. You will be my princess and... and my queen.

Ten years since the king has been on the throne and there is no heir apparent. Only his brother, gods forbid. 

Daughters don’t inherit, sons do. 

You have a son but you must have a spare too. Gods know what would happen if the boy dies.

The line of succession is clear on these matters. Girls are the last resource.

I am a woman, whoever I marry must be clear on his duty. He is not the crown, I am.

His Majesty has no male heir and will have none but he, Buckingham will succeed to the throne.

By assassinating His Majesty.

Right of Conquest is still a rightful way to gain a throne. Has anyone banned it as a law?

Will you like it when an old man tries to make love to you?

 God forbid that the king should abandon her just to ease his own conscience. I don't think the English people would ever forgive him.

She is threatening the peace in this realm by playing the king with empty promises. No one can predict a son. 

Perhaps the succession must change, this dynasty is large and will survive.

Your Majesty, I beg that you yield to the King's will.

To your wife, the mother of your child. You treat me so unkindly and in public neglect me.

You think he might invade England in support of the queen?

You underestimate the support he/she has with the smallfolk and highborn alike. They would  go to war if you dismiss them.

Perhaps, one day this little girl will preside over empires.

Now I am indeed Queen.

Perhaps Elizabeth isn't even mine! 

Perhaps there should be reasons to annul the marriage and make the king consider marry another. He is still young. 

Nothing like a young bride to make a man forget his troubles. 

He will have his heir or else he will have my head.

Tell Sir Francis to double the guards around the Princess Mary and defend her with their life- for if the King dies, some will be for the boy, others for her.

There shall be a proclamation soon, the king shall announce his heir and the realm will rest.

A lifetime of building an empire can fall in a day because of the wrong successor to the empire.

It is not by blood, anyhow, that man's true continuity is established.

He became their king by right of blood; he's held the position by beating the crap out of anyone who tries to take it away.

When the crown is weak and struggles, anyone can come and sweep it away. And in this world, it is allowed.

This small council tried to work out what that meant for the line of succession.

If she were to wed him, her claim to the throne will increase, as her popularity. 

While the king entertains the highborns, the prince/princess makes friends with the people they rule. The decision is easy.

Whoever he marries is as important as how many heirs he can produce. 

Sons are good for the realm, Daughters are good for alliances. 

My father chose me, his firstborn child, to succeed him. He held to his decision until death.

They stole my crown and murdered my daughter, and they shall answer for it.

I would rather feed my sons to the dragons, than have them carry spears and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.

I understand why you're angry. And you are my sister and technically have a claim to the throne. And believe me, I would love for someone else to rule. But it can't be you.

Father would hate to see you sit in his seat, when it was never you he chose.

The pretty decent king split the crown between his heirs.

Proclamations are good, but this should have been in written, send to every corner of the world. Now we have war.

When the king needed to be replaced, one of the royal family would be elected to be the new king.

Succession is never peaceful. The King new this and the reason he called a council for his new heir to be chosen.

The line must always continue.

That little bit of dragon blood in him allowed Robert Baratheon to sit on the throne and continue.

Our son is a wastrel and a halfwit. We shudder to think of the throne in his hands.

My greatest hope is that you will surpass me in every way, consigning my name to some forgotten corner of history.

What's most important is what he isn't like—his father. I think you'll find him to be a reasonable man.

The King is easily controlled by those in his council. All too happy to give some of the power away to another.

A king is a martyr to their ideals.

If the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne.

Women can rule as wise as men, perhaps even more.

Men would sooner put the realm to the torch than see a woman ascend the Iron Throne.

Have you never imagined yourself on the Iron Throne?

We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield.

Ten years you’ve been king, and yet not once have you asked me to be your Hand.

The princess remains your best bet to step closer to the throne. Seduce her, marry her. 

In the end, history will remember little, as history is written by the winners.

You have not one son now but two, Your Grace. Perhaps some changes to the successions are to be made.

I know why you are here. Men want my crown as much as they want the pleasure of a woman. 

I need to give the realm an heir and plenty of spares. 

What use is to gain a throne if you are already in crisis by having no heir by blood?

I can give you what she never gave you. Another son. 

Are the rumors true, then? There is a child in your belly? 

'we will have more sons, sons to name after you and your father.' she promises as she reaches a hand upwards to gentle brush through his hair in a gesture of soothing tenderness. 'it is a sadness that far too many women have experienced and i am sure that i should take comfort of knowing that i am not alone in facing such loss, that neither of us are alone.' and yet what remains unsaid is that she does not take as much comfort as she would like to from knowing that her experience is not an anomaly. like her husband says, it is different for everyone and to compare experiences or griefs will likely to little to assuage the pain.

the question is one she should expect and yet it takes her by surprise for there is a part of her that has tried not to think of that moment of final parting, of first the bewilderment, then the numbness, and then finally, the waves of agonizing grief. yet she feels a sense of calmness descend upon her as she finally speaks, as if she speaks as someone who was a mere observer to the scene rather than a participant. 'only for a moment.' she confesses in a quiet murmur as her brow furrows in pensive reflection. 'one of the midwives wished to take them from the room quickly...it was meant as a kindness, i think, in hindsight. but i asked to hold them for a moment. if i had not known better, i would have thought they were only sleeping.' her voice briefly wavers before it steadies and she blinks the tears away.

The feel of her hand brushing through his hair instantly relaxes Valarr even though the weight of their shared loss remains in every part of his mind and soul, feeling that ache deeper than anything ever felt before. A gentle breath escapes as a sigh as he moves just slightly to wrap his arm around her and presses the side of his forehead against her, for comfort to her as well as himself. “We can name them after anyone we want and they will be of you as much as me. I want them to know that and for you to know you can honour your family in the same way if you wish it.” They would have the heavy weight of Valarr’s historic surname and their children would be of both of them. “If knowing that others have gone through the same or similar loss as you doesn’t bring you comfort, that is fine. It doesn’t have to. You feel however you want.” To shut it away would not be good for either of them. 

There’s a tenseness in his shoulders as he waits for her answer, guilt eating up inside for asking it and for the worry that he might have been the only one to hold them. The wavered part of her words cuts him harder than he could ever possibly brace for and adds a heavy weight to his chest hearing the answer. “I did too,” he whispers barely above a sound but the guilt still echoes in his voice that he knows will likely not go away. “I wanted to hold them once and…” there’s a wince and a pain felt in chest that makes him pause. “I thought they deserved to be held by their father once. And I was selfish,” he admits, “I wanted to pretend for a moment they were fine and they were still ours.” The maesters and septons had refused at first but whatever he said to them that made them stop their preparations and allow him to hold his boys was not something he could remember. It was a moment of pure rage and grief all mixed into one. Likely the first time he showed any of the dragon in him. 

“Of me?” The prince asks, contemplating his answer. Where Baelor Targaryen was warm, it could be said that people found Maekar to be the cold opposite. Not to Valarr. There was an understanding of the prickly nature many seemed to know about his uncle but he held a deep warm affection, that was not just out of respect but from love too. Septons teach us we should love our family, rings in Valarr’s head in that voice of his father who he missed and knew would never hear that sound ever again. He could see him in the mirror as he grew older. Or he hoped for it. They all said how much he looked the image of his father and now he was praying that those words were true and grew more as the years added up on his face. 

For someone who thrived on social interactions, Isabella rarely got to meet new people. It was a shame, truly, for she knew it would entertain her greatly. On the bright side, it made actual meetings so much more interesting to her - although she had not expected to find herself speaking to a prince. Let alone one so ... peculiar. She had lured him away, selfishly so, because for someone with his upbringing, he surprised her quite a lot. Isabella was not a shy woman, in fact, she took perhaps too much after her mother when it came to her boldness. She tilted her head, one hand reaching out to trace a design on his sleeve. "You must tell me, how did you become so curious about R'hllor? It is rare in these lands, I do not know another house that prays to this god."

Like with most things, it started as a curiosity born from Valarr looking into his lineage and trying to find anything or if anything would call to him. The only thing that did was R”hllor and he dared not speak it in the Red Keep or even in Dragonstone. Dorne had less judgment than other places but it was still not a place where he could speak or explore it freely like he wanted. 

And it felt right.

The Stark shrugged off his question. Taking an unsteady step away, towards Warrick, trying to cover up the sudden tension in her petite frame, there was a warning in the back of her mind, whispering, but she didn't have the opportunity to listen, not around so many strangers. "I don't think you should venture too far from camp. You don't know the bog," Arya retorted, still hesitant to make eye contact. "I know what you meant, I apologize, your grace. I'd feel better if I checked on the progress myself."

Perhaps too rude and sudden but better that than risk an uneasy explanation to the southerners. Even among northern men, her bond with Nymeria was not well-known. It'd cause too much gossip. A wolfdog raised by the Stark daughter would be believable enough if no one caught a glimpse of Nymeria. She'd grown too large to disguise if she'd come into camp and she was coming. Arya could feel it. But why?

"Warrick!" Arya waved the young Reed heir over, forcing a smile. She hastily placed distance between herself and the Targaryen, a strained smile, desperate to keep appearances though faltering. "I think Nym is in the swamp," she whispered when Warrick approached before speaking in a normal volume again. "Keep an eye on things? Help the prince with whatever he needs." Her body keeps moving, a pull to search for some quiet, a place to listen and let the wolf thoughts be heard.

Warrick hovered their hand before the prince to dissuade him from following just yet.

"I'm gonna check the perimeter," Arya called back, grabbing her satchel and archery equipment for good measure, Needle already at her hip. "I won't be long." She started a light jog, trying to fight the impulse to run, run, run.

A distant lone wolf's howl echoed in the swamp, miles away, no response

The abruptness only furthered the suspicion that something else was going on. Not something bad. Quite the opposite.

Further surprise was given when he saw the pouch offered to him and then more confusion at the words that followed. Questions soared through his mind, shouting at him to ask for more information, but the opportunity to catch up was fading and his choice was clear. With a nod and then a glare, moving his bag and egg closer with a warning clear in his eyes before he does his best to follow Arya. 

Their upbringings were so eclipsed. At least, that’s what the princess thought. Where her friend was the center of attention, she was at the back of people’s minds. It was eerily similar to his father and his uncle; the dynamic evident in the way her brother was the star of their family and she was the fading gleam in the sky that only some who appreciated the little things took notice of.

Ayldri tried to not be one of the multitude of servants that drilled questions and concern mixed into one through his skull. She didn’t want to exhaust him—more than he already was—with her worry and the urge to consistently ask whether he was alright or not had threatened to come out more times than she could count.

She liked his hair and was rather jealous of it, although she was too busy hoping he wasn’t stressing himself out over the process of trying to braid her hair to admit such a thing. Her fascination with his hair hadn’t sprouted anew, it had been this weird fixation when they were just children. It happened during a moment of anxiety and she had begun to mess with it, the softness was enough to ground her and make her realize things were fine, but even before then, she had been attached to Valarr’s hip, akin to a cat attaching themselves to their person so to speak.

“Maybe not Daeron,” she replies with a soft laugh, feeling his fingers twist strands of hair together. She could tell he was trying, she should’ve explained it better…

The thought of Aerion being jealous of Valarr’s hair made her laugh, the sound was rare when you’ve spent most of your time in shadow and books. “I could see him being a little envious of you if not of your hair then at least the attention.” She smiled again when Valarr brought up Aegon, realizing that out of the three, he certainly might’ve been the only one who could be jealous. Hell, she could picture him telling his cousin such a thing.

Ayldri could sense his slight frustration and remained quiet for a moment as if attempting to imagine what state her hair was in at the moment only to laugh some more, fidgeting with the ring on her index finger.

“Think of it like practice, what if you have a daughter one day and she asks you to braid her hair?” It was moments like this where the fallen star was allowed to be herself without the thought of shame clouding her judgement nor the worry of what would happen if she had allowed herself to be as she usually was when there were eyes of the court lingering and calculating her every move.

To just sit and attempt something felt better and much more helpful than the maesters and septons going on and on about how well he was healing, inspecting his head. He was thankful for Ayldri. 

“Why not Daeron?” he grins, puzzled and wanting to hear the line of thought with that one. Although Daeron didn’t have the Targaryen looks of most of Valarr’s other cousins, he had something much rarer. The dragon dreams. 

Even in the chaotic, bloody, scene of the trial, Valarr could tell when Aerion was fighting and that all attention was on him. He danced when he fought, he was incredibly skilled and there was no doubt in the young prince's mind that his cousin would have won. That he didn’t made Valarr believe the Gods truly did watch and pass their judgment to favour the hedge night. “Maybe there’s a possibility now that his pride is wounded after such a loss. I know him, he’d have loved the attention and thought it a historic moment he could have his name attached too.” Part of him was smug that Aerion lost although he had very little to do with it. 

“I thought that Keira would do it,” he sighs, trying again and this time moving much slower than before which made its own, new, irritation. And he knew it would be good for him to learn, to do something with his hands while he waited to heal and needed to keep his mind busy so he tried again, picking thinner strands. 

As he held his son close, Baelor considered his words. Rumours of dark sorceries had followed Lord Rivers for as long as Baelor could remember, but to his knowledge, he had been ever a loyal servant of the Crown. Even if such a thing were in his power, why would he? He refused to believe it. He had fought alongside the man. Yet, a kinslayer he is...

It was more than likely a vengeful septon was exploiting this new grief but that did not yet take a place in Valarr’s mind. Instead, he was searching his fathers face for any sign of belief or rejection. 

a simply royal hunt. a rare visit to the crownlands that should have been just some fun change from the usual daily life at storm's end. her father may never let her out of his sight, or gods forbid the house, the moment he would receive word of this.

it was over before her mind could properly understand what had just transpired, fingers still clutching the handle of a dagger barely drawn. something had felt amiss, a feeling of dread causing enough unease to have kept hand close to concealed weapon. yet floris had been too slow in taking action. it was undoubtedly the grace of the gods that the prince had been there to prevent what could have been a severe tragedy, slaying the rogue before ever having the chance to touch her.

she shouldn't have wandered off, too excited about exploring the kingswood and gathering plants. should've listened to her father about not going anywhere alone.

What he didn’t expect was to save someones life or to run into anyone. Soemtimes the hunting woods was the best place to practise any skills that were best done in private to save the mockery or looks of pity and disappointment from anyone watching him train with the master at arm.