Hiya! I'm Storm, a black writer here to fill the space!

The gentle glow of Oldtown’s sun stirred the city awake with such gentleness that it was nearly a true fantasy.  How the sun warmed your skin when it peaked through the drawn open curtains Gwayne had left open the night before.  Mornings were his favorite time of day.  With the world so far away from his very own, how she slept so beautifully next to him that his heart ached at the thought of moving.

“Ser Gwayne?” the maid called from the door.

He had heard her calling and the knocking, yet still did not attempt to answer it.  He needed no irritants this early, nor tight laces or dresses to shield him from you this day.  Perhaps he was a simple man who only desired simple things, to see you sleep so soundly or tug yourself closer to him when the draft chilled you.

And as he would eagerly assist in pulling you closer till your form engulfed his own without any protest or complaint.  He would suffocate under your gentle weight if he possible, as the slow morning dragged on and on.

His hands at the dip of your waist and crux of your knee as your leg draped over him. His own breathing is full of slumber.

The maid had stopped knocking, but a smaller fist seemed to rap at the door.  Quieter and more hesitant this time.  Once, twice, and a third before the heavy door was gently pushed open.  From his spot in the bed, Gwayne could see the small frame, the dark auburn curls lazily thrown into a stolen scarf, and bare feet padding across the cold floor till they stopped at his side.

“Is the room cold?” Gwayne asked, looking towards his nephew, who seemed half asleep where he stood.

And half asleep was true as Daeron yawed and nodded, wasting no time in pulling at the covers and joining you in using Gwayne as a warm mattress instead.  The boy finding place atop his uncle with a satisfied hum once the blankets returned and everyone settled in.

AERION-  Obsessed and Pathetic

You couldn’t have been more displeased at your current predicament here in the storm lands.  The weather was warm, but the air seemed to be heavy with humidity, and your brow came drenched in sweat as the sun beat down on you.  It hurt your eyes how bright the sun shone over the growing field of tents.

A small tourney was to be constructed, and as a friend of the Lady, she entrusted you with the more gentle details of the event.  Which flowers, the tent fabrics, the entertainments, all swirled in your head till you seemed swallowed by the work.

Your Lord Husband was less than enthused by it.  Having you leave for an engagement practically had him radiating with growing displeasure.  Aerion adored you, no, he worshiped the very ground you walked upon.  Not a day went by that he was not glued to your side or practically preening just for a glance from you.

He craved your attention as if he were a drunkard worse than his elder brother.  For if you did not smile at him nor have your pinky hooked 'round his during daily walks, he would think you’d thought you married a worm over a dragon.

When he set fires to the tapestries or replaced the salt with sugar, he needed you to laugh or smile the way he wanted, how you tuck your lips to stifle any laughter, or the curl of those supple lips when you smiled at him from across the dining table.

You, You, You, just you…

Filled his mind till he wore a hole in the floor from his pacing.  In his arms, Maegor clung to his chest, the chubby babe practically seemed over the moon from the movement.  Clinging to his sire’s growing facial hair while he watched through happy eyes.

But Aerion was far from happy, he couldn't care less that his growing stubble was being pulled and tugged, he couldn't care less about the diaper that hadn’t been changed.  He was waiting by the window for a raven, a falcon, Anything from you.  

It had only been four days since you’d been gone.  You’d sent a letter telling him you arrived safely, but other than that, nothing else had come.  

There was no requirement for your family to attend the festivities, with Maegor still only half to his first name day, there was no expectation that anyone of your family would go.  You were there simply to help and set up, then promptly go home.  

You were nearly done with the preparations, everything had been perfectly set up, and all the accommodations had been handled.  You drafted letters and ledgers of all the costs and materials till the night changed to dawn.  Practically exhausted till you saw the look on your friend's face and felt a growing sense of pride.

Your husband may have had a horrid reputation before; all of the Maekarlings seemed to be tainted by their eldest siblings' misdeeds.  But since you’d married into the family, all of that seemed to turn around with each engagement completed by you.  It didn’t stop Aerion’s behavior or wipe it all away, but at least now, when Maekar heard his son’s name, it was quickly followed by the loveliness and kindness of his Lady wife.   

You were kind and cruel to Aerion, and he loved you painfully for it.

When the guard announced you had arrived home, he was there to greet you as if he were a hound.  He pushed past your guard and flung your wheelhouse door open to see you for himself.  Your eyes widened with surprise when he gathered you up into his arms.  “My love…?” Gods, your voice sounded heavenly to him as he carried you along back to your shared chambers.

He didn’t speak to you nor falter in his step, simply carried you past the house staff and past your confused father-in-law. Your arms remained tight around his shoulders, and your eyes looked at his profile.  His stubble was growing, but his eyes were dark with circles and red as if he’d been crying and was about to do so again.  He carried you all the way down winding halls till the door to your chambers came into view.

Brought you inside and kicked the heavy door closed as if it were a normal one.  And still he carried you till he set you down on the freshly made bed as if you would shatter like a piece of precious stone.

You looked at him from your place on the bed, watched the thoughts race behind his eyes, and he kneeled to you.  Wordlessly pushing up your skirts to remove your shoes.  

It was better not to talk when he was like this.  To let him do what he needs and find the words he feels best to say.

So you let him undress you.  Watched as his pale hands shakily unwrapped you from the heavy garments and tossed them away.  You watched him tug every layer free till you remained in your shift before him.  

Still, he kneeled to you.

His hands pressed to the floor as he stared at your feet and ankles. And after a beat of silence…

“Do you still love me?” he said, but it cracked halfway through.  Desperate and almost pleading.

From your place on the bed, you could see the tremble in his shoulders and the wet droplets falling on the floor. He was crying and nearly shaking before you.  You opened your mouth to speak, but he was faster in his desperation, quickly closing the distance and wrapping his arms around your legs.  

"Please, Sweetheart, I'll do better, I swear," he says, burying his face in your lap. "Just don't leave me again."

His tears stained the fabric of your gown as he sobbed into your lap.  You had never truly been away from him, not really. Sure, he would get a little mopey if your tasks differed for the day.  But never had you traveled away from him like this before, and never did you think it would hurt him this much.  

And for a moment, you’re frozen as you watch your usually boisterous husband fall apart so truly in front of you. Through his crying, he hiccups. "Please, tell me I'm still yours,"  and your heart nearly breaks at the sound.

“Yes, my love…you never stopped being mine,” you assured him brining your hands down to entangle in his growing silver hair.  Scratching at his scalp the way he liked till his sobs quieted and his breathing evened out, raking your fingers through the hair till those violet eyes looked into yours.  

“You promise,” he mumbled with a sniffle of his nose.  You wiped his tears and cradled his face in your hands, rubbing your thumb over his cheeks with a soothing hum.  “I promise,” your voice a little firmer this time as he now rose to his feet.  How he looked down at you with a tear-streaked face and eyes still watering even now, “Can I hold you?” he whispered, finally reaching for your hand.

With a nod, you let him pull you to your feet, leading you to the hearth where the fire burned low and quiet.  He didn’t let you go, simply held your hand while he got the fire back to a steady warmth, asking if it was good enough for you.  Pokeing it alive till you approve.  

This is what he missed.  Having you, the fire, and the quiet until your babe cried.

Pulling you into his lap and buries his face into your neck and simply breathes you in.  He adores how you smell and how soft and smooth you are, how your coiled hair tickles his nose with each spiral.  How full his hands feel as he rubs his paler hands over your deep sunborne skin, how kissed by the fire itself you feel as he grabs at your waist and rear.  Just feeling, just holding your weight atop him to wash away every bad thought that possessed him.  

Some may call it weak or pathetic to be so enamored or bewitched.  But Aerion would rather be here under you than anywhere else in the seven kingdoms, here with his lady wife as she kissed and peppered him.  Rubbed at his hair and whispered her love to him and him alone.  He wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else but here.

AN: for a 4am quick write im pretty proud. This is very much crack and i dunno bruh hope ya liked it and don't forget your umbrellaaaaa

-Stormy

Aerion was no man a father should be proud to have sired. The brighflame prince had a reputation that would have had a man hanged if he were not a prince of the realm. Most ladies would have shuddered at the thought of being betrothed to such an unruly man, let alone truly committed to marrying him.

The first months leading up to your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, you could hardly believe the truth of words, electing to read the letter yourself as you snatched it from your father’s hands. Squeals of protest and shouts of frustration as you angrily paced the floor of the study. “Father! You would dare agree to such a thing!” Your voice rattles the poor widows.

You were beautiful, warm with the earth's purest colours and kissed by the sun itself. As if dripped in gold from golden rays or washed in the clearest silver from the soft moon, a prize if there was ever one to be won.

Your previous name-day demanded a feast and tourney that the royal family even attended, amongst other noble and smaller houses. You’d met Aerion then, when the summer heat shone down at its best, and the crisp wind blew the grass as if shimmering emerald. Sat under a glorious canopy with the tourney playing out before you, with knights eager to prove and gain favors.

It was your name day first, and scouting for suitors with your mother as she sat and pointed out each new face and figure.

When the dark banner of House Targaryen finally came to the center, her pointing stopped then. For the eldest son of the heir was already married, and the second surely out of reach to you. You watched them compete intently till your eyes grew heavy and the sun seemed nearly to lull you to sleep without much effort.

Half snoring till a shake to your arm woke you. Eyes snapping open to your mother, then to the center field, where a white-haired man sat mounted on a stallion. Armor decorated black with flames molded into its design. Unmistakable. You could have slept for hours, for it was no longer the Prince Valaar who rode when you last saw. It was his cousin now instead.

“Do I bore you?” Aerion yelled up to you as if offended. Still catching up, you fixed your posture and glanced around the now quieter arena with everyone’s clearly on you. If you were embarrassed, it didn’t show as you cleared your voice to answer him, “very much!”

Perhaps Aerion wasn’t used to being spoken to that way, especially not by you. Not even tolerate it from his own family. The way his brow grew darker, and his eyes narrowed at you as if you had committed a crime worse than he ever thought. The arena’s stands quiet with your eyes only narrowing to meet his violet ones.

From that moment on, he told himself he hated you, that your tongue should have been cut and delivered that very same hour if not faster. That the sun high behind your head should have been dragon flame that melted you, not a halo behind lucious coiled hair that blew with the breeze. That your skin swamp marsh and not glimmering like the finest bronze or strongest tiger-eyed stone. Your place in the sun and higher above should have never been or thought of; he was a dragon. And wyvern stood to challenge him anyway.

It wasn’t a good start and should have sealed the door to the idea of marrying a Targaryen off for generations to come. It didn’t feel real till you looked him in the face upon the altar as the ceremony began, and the rest of the realm fell away.

You were everything he despised in people and everything he despised in a wife. You did not coddle nor grovel at his feet when he spoke or spat. You left him in the corridors alone when his words grew unsavory, you spoke in opposition to him, and stubbornly continued with your days.

When he set fires to your embroidery, he swore a lesson would be learned that day. Instead, a new delivery of tools and thread would be in your hands, and before long, he’d find you sat upon your work again.

When he stood over you for what felt like half an hour, you paused and finally spared him a glance with a raised brow, “I want a roast and pie,” your words faster than his before the words even had a chance.

The violet eyes that never seemed to leave you looked at you harder than you’d ever seen them. His head dipped lower, and his lips parted, closer and closer still till you brought your forehead to his. Maybe it was defeat or weariness, but you felt a breath of exhale on your skin. He was silent for a few heartbeats, then removed himself from you.

You got your roast quickly after, and Aerion watched like a man starved when you brought the first bite to your lips, how they curved into a smile as you savored the taste. And when you held a piece out to him, you were sure he’d say something to ruin it. “A dragon can feed himself,” “you think me helpless!?” surely something said of the sort.

But he accepted the piece without argument.

From then on, it was like he never left your side unless truly necessary, your silver shadow through the day and late into the night. He was still a nuisance and caused trouble wherever he could, but each time he’d look to you If you smiled or rolled your eyes, that was all he needed.

He craved you and the attention you gave him, no matter how small or grand, and slowly but surely, you indulged him more and more.

That is how you found yourself here and now. Your belly is newly swollen with another babe as Aerion holds onto the three small copies of himself who tugged and prodded at his face and hair.

THIS IS THE END OF THE WIP.

Dunk "thick as a castle wall” The Tall already knows his own limitations in comparison to other people in the realm. The world is simple to him, and most of it goes over his head more often than not.

It’s almost expected for him to believe that everyone else knows more than him or just about the same, for better or worse.

But the way his water colour eyes sparkled when he first met you could have rivalled the seas of all the kingdoms. The giant of a man met you as he travelled along with Egg through the many cities, and the purple lilac of your shawl immediately caught his eye.

Matching the giant cover to a book you carried in your smaller hands. Your eyes alive with emotions, and the wrinkle of your forehead with each emotion. A small crowd had gathered around your seat of boxes, working men and women with small children, even pausing to.

Loudly telling a story of a sailor who seemed to fish for anything but. The crowd eagerly engaged.

“And up his line came!…and dangling from his hook…?” you said loudly, your eyes looking from the book to the crowd.

“A shoe!”

“Snake!”

And many other objects called out from the crowd.

“Salted beef!” cut through the noise and reached your ears, as you looked at the large man in the back with a small bald boy next to him.

The story continued on till finally it came to an end with the fisherman finally catching a small guppy for all his work. Slowly, the crowd filled your satchel with coins and thanks before dispersing, leaving you to count and close your story book until next time. You were nearly on your way before a cough stopped you. The man from before nervously stood nearby with a small wave.

“I liked your story- it was good”, he stammered out, motioning to your book. And with a smile, you rose to meet him with a hand extended, “thanks for helping with it”.

With shaken hands and names swapped, you looked over your shoulder nervously, “i best be going though- it was nice meeting you dunk” you said with a grin. And with a tilt of his head, he looked on with a puzzled expression, “Are you in trouble or something?” he’d ask.

“Oh, you know the faith is strong here”, you began with an eye roll, “not a fan of women reading and all”.

And as if the candle in his head gained a flame, Dunk looked to you, “Women aren’t allowed to read?” as if he’d never heard of that concept a day in his life.

Baelor expected you to have the basic education of a noblewoman from a decent or well-off family of the realm. It was one of the many things he loved about you. The intellectual conversations he could ramble about to you, and how you often rambled to him as well.

The heir and hand to the king was a tightly binding role that called for social and technical experience. The ever diplomatic man was never in surprise at how you continued to surprise him.

As he sat in his study with piles of papers at his desk, he would often steal a glance over to you as well. He’d had a matching desk commissioned for you that now resided in his own study. That desk now was covered in a mix of all your different interests, books and papers you’d written and wanted to publish. Embroidery thread and spools of thread in tow seemed to always be rolling around.

The prince was certain that if you were not a woman, you’d be a maester or join the House of the Red Hands as a healer or surgeon.

So while he was up to his ears in work, he still looked across to see you at work as well, your eyes glued to an old book that was filled with your notes and corrections. The men of the citadel would be horrified should they see you like that.

“What are you working on?” He would ask as the candle burned, as the night grew longer, his chair creaking as he rose to his feet with a slight groan. Rubbing at his salt pepper beard till he crossed the room to meet you. Peering over your shoulder to see the notes scribbled down onto the page.

“The records vary so much depending on the maesters who wrote them, so much bias”, you grovelled, leaning back in your chair and raising your eyes to peer up at him.

His expression was soft, and his lips curled into a smile.

He pressed one, two, three kisses to your lips till he resigned himself to the floor by your seat. Your fingers running through his hair and his head resting on your lap, he didn’t care for the firmness of the floor to his knees. Baelor just sighed and relaxed with each scratch of your nails over his scalp, “Your mind is ever beautiful, my love”.

Aerion is already the most boisterous and selfish son of his grandfather, the king. From the time he was young, the bright flame’s personality swept through Summer Hall like a hot fever. Boiled and boiled till he reached his elder years, and it grew into an ever-unavoidable flame. No one had to tell you what they thought about the second son of Maekar; their eyes gave it away when they searched for an exit to avoid him.

His own father seemed half drawn, taught at the very sense of Aerion if the boy was just a short distance away. It was a miracle anyone would have married the man if it hadn’t been you. It wasn’t a love match, but the best possible outcome considering you and he had reputations.

While his consisted of horrid pranks and an even worse tongue, you were far more tame.

Your father had grown tired of your freedom, “a curse from your mother’s line,” he groveled looking you up and down. Calmed down from his outburst at seeing you spend the small fortune you saved on a set of armour, and not the fabric and thread as you had said, instead. There was nothing else that could be done about it as the small court whispered until the whole meadow became alive with the story.

So finally marrying you off was the next greatest thought.

The day came, and your new ladies tightened your dress and pulled your hair till you approved the style. Lips dappled and skin washed till you were certain they scrubbed your skin raw.

You hadn’t yet met your husband to be, not yet.

But as you stood looking in the mirror, a thought occurred, one so bold you swirled your head around the empty room to make sure no one might have seen it in your mind.

You found yourself in the stables, dress be damned, as you worked quickly to ready a horse. You looked more like a very well-trained squire if the position were awarded to you had you been a son. With the heavy saddle in hand, you nearly stopped dead as a man stood nearby.

Dagger in hand with rubies that matched the red of his crimson coat. With stark white hair styled smoothly on his head. “Stealing my horse?” he mused, tapping the blade with his finger as he took you in through lavender eyes.

Your own orbs sneered at him, tossing the saddle with a thud to the ground in favour of pulling your blade from your dress pocket, armed and ready as you took a stance. “Ruining my chance of escape?” you sneered, your eyes trained on him.

He looked slightly surprised. Perhaps a woman with a blade, or that you were potentially the woman he was arranged to marry, stopped his usual cruelty in its tracks. A dragon didn’t need a weak woman to “tame” him; a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, and Aerion believed that fiercely.

But when faced with one who very quickly shattered the expectation of some silly, shy girl, his lips curled into a smile as if he’d found a rare gem to add to his horde. “Here to help, actually’ he said with his typical voice of cockiness, sheathing his dagger to instead grab the saddle from the ground.

“Let’s be on then”

Wellllll I hope ya liked! still tryna get back in the writing groove! i'll maybe do a part two!

The realm seen before new and unsullied eyes could be one of wonder and spectacle, with stories of knights and dragons.  Wolves taller than stones and stones greater than a castle or sept, it could truly be the world of wonders and dreams, as if gods and magic had made this land of golden fibres, seas of lapis, and emerald trees.  And alone in the Giant's palm, where the emeralds parted, and the sun spun of gold beamed down into the clearing below, peace could be found.

Blades of grass laughed as the wind blew fast and crisp, the dirt and rock piling higher still- in clumps and mounds, and the love of two echoed and filled the clearing with complexity.  

“This is how it should be…” 

One voice insisted as the wind carried on the others, “We could make it this way.” 

“We will.”

And as if the realm were alive with life, a quiet gurgle came from the wind, the dirt hardened and smoothed, the grass curled and coiled, and with the kiss of the sun turned gold.  The small held breath of the forest took its first ever one, tiny hands and louder laughs filled the Giant's palm, and for once, the realm was gifted again.  

The Day Valarr comes to you, he is not himself.

The sky smells of flame and the ground of blood and tears as the hands of dying men extend to the sky in hopes of something greater, or perhaps the mercy of something worse to come.  You stand amongst them, in damaged armour and a helm half gone.  A sword in hand, as your other flexed in readiness for another round, as the boy ahead steadied himself.  His horse is fleeing, and your brown mare is looming elsewhere on the ash-burnt field.  

“A small skirmish barely worth the time,” his grandfather told him.  “Good experience”, his brother said without much care.

Now standing amongst dying men and a man not keen on dying, Valarr gripped his shield tighter despite the pain in his side.  A true pain that made the blood rush to his ears and his heart beat with a steady fear.  That tunnelled his vision into a fury of disfoucs that none thought the diplomatic prince possessed.

The helm of his opponent may have been in pieces, but the blood on his? Face was nothing compared to the wound he? had inflicted upon him.  Upon him by his own sword.  

No one could say who reengaged first, as both forms charged ahead at each other and clashed in the middle.  Sword and Shield in a lock and determined fury.  With each swing of Valyrian steel you brought down, it was met with equal shield.  Unrelenting and growing as each stroke brought the boy back, knees buckling and arms tiring with each downward strike.  His guard was breaking, but the shield met each blow.  

Screams of fury and wild eyes.

Coiled hair and a bloodied face as the final pieces of your helm fell away, splattered and moved with you.  A visage of strength.

And with each glimpse of you from behind his shield, your face burned.  Burned into the Prince’s memory.  How you screamed with each strike, teeth bared, and eyes focused.  How the sword, too heavy for a normal woman, seemed like a small needle in your hands.  

Valarr wouldn’t forget it.  He wouldn’t forget you.

In the shaking nights, he arose from slumber with your face in his dreams, the shriek of his horse when it startled, nor the healing puncture in his side.  He was reminded of you constantly.

What would he say when the Maesters hurried over his weary form? What would he tell his father of Great Brickepear as he cried over his son's medicine bed?

Each time another battle came, or another small clash came about, the prince would ask, ask of a knight in smaller armour, or if a woman with coiled hair was seen nearby after each conflict.  Ignoring the eyes of his family and the curious eyes of council men.  

The moons that followed his recovery, Valarr did not dare don his armour nor wield his sword again.  The blood still dried upon it, and the brand of your hands still fresh on the hilt as he stared at it.  Ghosting his fingers were it pierced his flesh, then the handle, which he should have held tighter.  

“Was it really a woman?” Breakspear whispered from his place on the couch of his son’s chambers.  Deceptively relaxed with a leaned back posture.  Though the growing grey hairs, tear-stained eyes, and roating of one of his rings betrayed his otherwise outwardly calm demeanour.  

“I’m certain of it.”

The prince replayed the dark day every night in his sleep and could still see your face clear as day.  How the dark sky parted for just a moment behind your head to illuminate you as if the halo of life grew behind you.  And how it guided your will down with each crushing blow.  He could not forget you.

“I see her every night,” voice still weary and weak from night terrors as Valarr stared harder at his sword.  “I feel her even now…”

Even with the wound healed and closed.

Baelor looked at his son.  At his first babe, who now seemed smaller than that.  And how he, with the power of the realm and men, could do nothing to aid his boy, his baby.

Moons had passed and the seasons changed with them, but the haunting did not stop.  Even as Valarr physically healed, Baelor watched him stagnate.  Quieter and more weary with sleep, as dark circles gained more hoops.

How many more nights will he find his eldest curled in the bed with his youngest when the night became to dark?  Darkness brought him here to keep the boy company again as they stayed up late to avoid the terror of the dream.  

“There is a story of a man who gave his life to find peace in vengeance,”  Baelor began as he rose from the couch and walked over to his son.

Side by side, he looked to the small boy whose eyes bore into the cold steel, “Only to realise his death had already begun and happened the moment he chose it.”

With firm hands, Baelor brought his son to face him, jewelled fingers wiping away any stray tears that fell from brown and lavender eyes.  Holding his soft face with an uncertain hold that, if too tight, could hurt or cause his babe to disappear entirely from his world.

Those tear-filled eyes did not meet their giver’s own as Valarr stared at the floor instead.

With a deep breath, the elder heir searched for what to say, what to reveal, and what to shudder away.

“The hauntings never stop, never go away, nor fully yield.  But with time, they become less and less powerful till they only bother when your mind remembers them, if ever at all.”

Looking to the sword, Baelor gave a weary frown before turning his gaze back to the smaller heir.

Valarr’s eyes focused on him this time, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget her…”

The night continued slowly and quietly from there on and further on afterwards until Valarr stopped needing anyone else altogether.  Baelor need not keep him company when sleep ran from him, nor Matarys to help soothe him to sleep when awoken in shakes and sweats.

Maybe it had been an additional year and six moons, when spring was in full bloom with the rainy showers to help the world grow.  A knight, hopefully, soon.  His named on the lists as a tourney was thrown in addition to the spring festival.  He was stronger now and in far better spirits as the time passed.  Ever busy, but the spring festival was a welcome work distraction as he fixed his armour quietly.  

A deep inhale, then a slow exhale.  Again, again, and again till his nerves calmed to a more comfortable pace.

He’d be jousting in the final round after hours of work and effort; it’d be over.  Having beaten his cousin Aerion earlier in the day, there was only one other person who seemed to be of interest.  An unnamed boy who rode in modest armour and gave no other element to the crowd.  Even if Valarr spent his time resting and not competing, the mysterious newcomer was an intrigued favourite as the horn bellowed at the start of a round.  Valarr could hear the way the crowd cheered for him, but settled upon his horse, the prince felt nothing but a cold dread.  

Staring at the brown mare, Valarr lost his voice at the sight of the creature.  The black hooves and tightly braided mane and tail, the scar on the horse’s mouth and the little cluster on its leg.  He’d seen it, that same horse, once before.

The horn sounded, and thoughts of what could be faded as he charged forward.

Forward and forward again until the crowd held with uncertainty as each round passed and passed again.  As if the world held its breath as each rider remained mounted despite dented armour and certainly bruised bodies.

Four times it had been, and despite the pain, you felt your breath remain calm and focused, still ahead on what was to come.  Twirling the long lance as the new round was being prepared, the crowd was quiet, and spectators were on the edge of their seats.  Even the highborn lords and ladies watched intently, the royal family following suit.

The horns sounded, and the crowd leaned forward further till a gasp erupted from them and then cheers.  Alive with life and chatter, with a few sighs of relief from the royal box.

Picking yourself up from the ground with a grunt, you looked towards the crowd as strings of flowers were thrown, a few still in your direction, but the wave thrown towards the winner.  Valarr didn’t look to the flowers and loud cheers; he looked to you and then stood with you.  

Taking your hand with a firm shake as you stood amongst the growing pile of cheers and flowers.

When the crowds left, and the armour came from his skin, Valarr searched quickly amongst the stalls.  Taking in the stock of your brown mare and in quick search of the mysterious challenger.  With all the candles quiet and the tourney cleared, the prince had nearly given up hope, his legs tiring as they carried him further and further still.

Until the small flicker of light farther from the other tents caught his attention.  Pulling him closer and closer still till he stood just outside.  A nervous sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat as he heard the clanking of armour inside.  

Peering through the slit in the fabric till you came into view.  Tiny slivers of your coiled hair and plain shirt as you worked to pack your gear.  

Valarr stood there. Stood for however long before a shriek came from him at the feeling of a cold nose on his skin.  Stumbling back into a brown mare and then to the ground as the tent flap was thrown open.

And there you stood with sword in hand and eyes flickering wild over the landscape before landing on the stumbling prince before you.

And while he struggled with apologies and to stop slipping under his own feet, you stood and just stared as he resigned himself to the ground.  “Sorry, I was, I didn’t mean to shout,” he stuttered out as an embarrassed flush ran up to his face.

Rambling on until your hand extended to him with a soft smile.  

“You fought well, too,” you congratulated as you helped him to his feet, slightly taller than him now, standing so close.  “You’ll make a good knight one day”, taking a step back towards your tent. 

You cut and filled in the awkwardness that Valarr would have surely continued if not otherwise done, “thank you, it means a lot considering how tough the competition was”.

A beat passed before he clapped his hands together, then rubbed the dirt from his hands.  “You fell on purpose. I wanted to say you did not need to,” his voice steadier and voice cleared with a cough.  “Then you know there is at least one person truly able to best you,” your voice light despite the edge that perhaps could’ve been there.  

Valarr knew it, could sense it in the unsaid.  If it were in full truth, he had always known, since the day you bested him those years ago.  There was always you.  And in the frame of friendly competition and a gentle private congratulations, you seemed nearly human.  Not the figure from his nightmares that seemed to swallow him, the occasional sorrow.  Not the wound that throbbed and ached from its early days.  

You seemed just an air closer to something less horrifying than you could and have been before.

“How is your belly?” your voice plain as you motioned to him with your free hand, your mare sniffing at his hair in turn.  

“Better than how it used to be, itches when the rain comes ive noticed”, the prince said with a boyish grin as he tossed his hands with a used-to shrug.  “How's your head?” he asked, in kind noticing there to be no fully apparent marker of injury. With a relaxed shrug, you gave a grin as well, “better than how it used to be, felt the world would never stop spinning.” 

And for once, the memory was light.  The two of you chuckling about it now as if it hadn’t reigned a terror over hearts.  Like a silly squabble that seemed only so small now when truly face-to-face.  

The laughter subsided, and light air remained between you two for the seconds that passed, him looking to you and you back to him.  And with a breath, you looked back to your tent and then to the prince again, “Would you like tea?” a simple invitation that had his eyes widen just a hair.  

Standing up straighter despite his hair now licked and styled out of place by the horse's tongue as your mare licked at him, Valarr agreed, “I would like that, miss?”

“Miss ___” you replied hodling the flap open as you entered back into your tent.  Valarr repeated your name as he followed you inside and found it sounded perfect.  “I am Valarr”, he would introduce himself as he stood amongst your temporary home.  And as you moved to gather and prepare the tea, you too tested his name, “Valarr”, you said, “…nice to meet you”, and to him it sounded as if it were meant to be said.

Not by crowds or advisors.

But by you.  

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A/N: this is the first GOT/AKOSK fic ive ever done and first fic ive written in YEARSSSS so sorry its so shite. anyways love Valarr im delulu and was inspired by God of war Laufey soooo.