#misvos

More often than not, Arya had come to learn of men's hubris. Still young at eight-and-ten, she knew that most of the North at least knew if not begrudgingly accepted her place as her father's only child and how Lord Rodwell Stark had deemed it acceptable for his daughter to be raised as any young lord of Winterfell would be. Though she knew no one would dane to utter the word 'heir', that would be too blasphemous for the ways of old and tradition.

Though her time by her father's side and lessons, most notably her stint as a page then squire to the warrior women of Bear Island, Arya knew she'd proven her worth enough that if men were to whisper of their doubts and displeasure, they'd keep it behind closed doors. The best all could hope for was her father living a good, long life, and the title passing to her future sons. For now, she would simply appreciate that she had earned their respect enough for her father's men to obey her and trust her, especially after proven herself in scrimmages against the Ironborn.

It wasn't typical of her to come as far south as the Neck. But her father had insisted that it was imperative she establish the same trust with these Northern lords furthest from Winterfell, and it was on this journey where again men's hubris served as their folly. Some southern travel party had decided against traveling along the causeway and instead detour through the bog. The raven lacked details but Arya had offered to accompany the search party lead by Warrick Reed, not only because losing any traveling noble in the North would be less than ideal for maintaining relationships between the Great Houses and their respective regions but also she has never turned down a good adventure.

It was a day and a half's journey before coming across what seemed to be the stranded travel party. Upon a closer look, Arya had never been more glad to have stuck her nose in what some called 'unladylike' business. Those were Targaryen banners.

"Most Northern men know better than to stray off the causeway." Probably not the strongest opening, least she offend someone from the royal family. Fuck. What were they even doing so deep in the swamp?

these are all the qualities she is meant to be in this moment but is she? perhaps he sees only what he wishes to see, only what she should be, because kiera certainly does not feel even a glimmer of such lofty virtues. instead she feels a gnawing grief as well as a sense of bewilderment and disappointment.

'am I?' the characteristic joviality of her nature that so often imbues her words is nowhere to be found, replaced by a tone of weary despair. its true that she has attempted to keep a stiff upper chin in the wake of her, their loss, but she cannot deceive herself as to the true nature of her emotions. she may appear brave but it is only for show. instead, the young woman feels lost. unmoored.

and perhaps there is a small ember of anger too. an indignant rage that flares (however discreetly) at the sympathetic glances cast in her direction, at the obligatory words of condolences offered. the words are always the same: there will be more children. time will heal the pain. all sentiments offered with good intentions and yet irksome nonetheless. yes, she prays there will be more children but those future children will not replace the sons she has lost and does she even want time to erase her grief for will moving on not seem traitorous to the memory of her lost children?

What was honour anymore? A concept tainted by peoples ambitions and greed with them being easily selling their honour for whatever they wanted. “Honour died the day your skull was crushed,” uttered with bitter grief although with a firm resolution. “I watched honour and the very concept of it rise to the sky when the smoke lifted you up. There are no good men. No honour and nothing in this kingdom that deserves anyone seeking it out.” To have that way of thinking could doom someone, chipping away at them until barely anything remained. It could happen gradually or it could come all at once.  “They called you honorable and I always will. Even the ones that spoke behind your back and supported the traitors knew of your honor but what do we have of it now? Brother kills brother because his son was disillusioned with his own ego and a false knight had to be fought for,” a scoff carries the irrational words and Valarr knows his body tenses at the retelling of it. “I cannot see any honour on that day except you but even so I wonder if it was done to protect another or to teach a lesson?”

What was honour, what was grief? What was a man’s death worth, when it shattered the world of his son? All the things the spirit that was once Baelor wondered, half ghost, half memory.  Was the kindness of the Mother, to let his son hear him again, or the cruelty of the Stranger, to taunt them both with what they may never have again, a shade of the past that could not be reclaimed.

I wonder if it was done to protect another or to teach a lesson.

Guilt was a bitter draught even for the dead.

“Would you rather have a father who stood aside, when a man who had upheld the vows of knighthood was tormented? It would have rendered my own oaths hollow.”

He would not touch how it would have stung his pride. Better to die for honour and justice, than for pride.

Rhaenys had always walked a fine line with her stepson. Mothering Valarr as she mothered her own sweet Matarys, but without encroaching on Lady Jena's place in his heart or seeking to take it. Such was always the task of a second wife when the first had borne children and they were still young enough to need mothering.

Some no doubt whispered at court that Rhaenys resented Valarr's existence, as it put her own flesh and blood farther down the line of succession. That she wished his mother's ill health on the young prince so that he may pre-decease his father.

None of this was true.

So, when she happened upon Valarr sitting alone in the tent, crying, after Baelor's funeral, Rhaenys' reaction was the same as if it had been Matarys. Sitting down next to him, the new widow drew him into her arms and rubbed his back consolingly.

@misvos sent: ⤷ “you can’t keep me safe from everything.” For Duncan!

𝑫𝑼𝑵𝑪𝑨𝑵 𝑩𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑰𝑵 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑷𝑬𝑪𝑻 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑬. When he lifted his head, his eyes fixated upon Valarr, vibrant and determined. 

❝ Tis true, yer grace, that I cannot protect ye from every little thing, but it's a true knights duty to try, and I mean to try. ❞ 

Valarr is living everyone's dream

"Pr-prince Val-Valarr."

Rare was it that anyone caught Lord Rivers off his guard, but for all his secrecy he was only a mortal man, and he suspected nothing from the young prince.

So when he found himself pressed against the wall, Valarr's strong hands around his throat, it was surprise that prevented him from cutting him down right there. Now, that would have been a disaster.

Brynden's face turned even paler, the imprint of Valarr's hands already stark against his throat.

@misvos :: starter call ( accepting )

The training yard of the Red Keep was scorching, the sun beating down harshly on the backs of its occupants. Laeron let out a long sigh, wiping his face with the front of his tunic. The days had been sweltering, and even the luxuries of the keep did little to keep the heat at bay. He longed for the fresh salt air of the sea, desperate for some sort of respite.