𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

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“how kind of you,” valarr smiled, foot tapping as he looked out on the endings of the tourney day, lingering people and drunken stumblers across the tourney grounds.

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that aerion focused on. he did not really know.

“so, i would say yes. i am obliged. as my station demands it,” the prince added before watching aerion wave his squire off.

the prince shrugged as he raised his arms, letting his cousin help him unbuckle the fasteners on his armor. (…)

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“i can not dismiss them, cousin. i am the heir. it’s my duty to make nice and keep up appearances,” valarr explained, though he didn’t know why he even tried.

aerion was not the brightest, and certainly not skilled at all in the means of diplomacy. only focused on…whatever it was (…)

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shoulder to look at aethelstan. gods, he looked horrible. and making a drunken fool of himself in front of everyone at the tourney.

this is just what he needed right now.

“a bath and sleep would do you well. i can smell the alcohol from here.”

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lingering in the air of his tent.

gods, now they’d be stuck in ashford even longer as his father recovered. his worst nightmare was coming to life.

“i already saw him. the maester let me in. he said father will be alright in a fortnight’s time,” valarr said as he glanced over his (…)

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valarr continued writing the letter. he knew his mother would be in fits over this. she’d have a million and one questions, so he was trying his best to answer everything he could think that she’d asked.

“i am fine,” valarr grumbled. he dipped his quill again, the smell of the ink (…)

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up for the day, cousin,” valarr added as the squire began to help him loosen the straps and such.

“did my rounds with the other nobles. small talk and all. gods, it is tiring, truly.”

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second son of a fourth son, who is meant to do the fighting and entertaining,” the prince teased.

he looked around the tent area, finally spotting his squire and motioning for the young man to come and help him out of his armor as he spoke with his cousin.

“i am just finishing (…)

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his mismatched eyes rolled at aerion’s seriousness. always so serious. it was unnerving, really. no wonder the poor man had no friends.

“oh, you know they only bring me here for show,” he smiled, patting the chest plate of his own armor with the palm of his hand.

“it is you, the (…)

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sidelines. i preferred to not have every eye on me in the box, trying to catch a falter in my emotions,” he grumbled, briefly glancing to aethelstan as he raised his brows, a disapproving look on his face.

“can i help you?” he asked, his tone snippy.

the maester had already told him.

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ale that he could smell before he had seen aethelstan. gods, he looked horrible.

“i watched,” valarr said with a roll of his eyes, dipping his quill in ink before returning to his letter. the last thing he wanted to do was entertain a drunken bastard tonight.

“i was on the (…)

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valarr had not expected any visitors tonight, let alone drunken, stumbling visitors. he sat up a bit in his chair, where he was writing a letter to his mother. letting her know of what had happened to their father.

his brows furrowed as he noticed aethelstan, and the sour scent of (…)

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rolled in annoyance. these were childish games that he cared not to play, nor entertain.

“if you wish to fight like a child, run on and go ask aerion. i’m sure he would be more than happy to help you.”

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putting some space between them. his brows were furrowed.

well, that had only made him want to pack up for the day even more. he did not take kindly to being touched.

“of course you’d think that,” valarr grumbled, brushing his armor off in a dramatic show. his mismatched eyes (…)

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valarr did not like that. as he was hauled up, his hands instantly slapped at aethelstan’s to free himself from his grip.

did he have a death wish? laying hands on the heir’s heir like he was some green boy.

once aethelstan let go of him, valarr took a few steps back (…)

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squire, certainly they taught you to wear a tunic beneath your mail,” valarr teased, flashing his teeth in a smile.

as children, they’d been close, along with daeron. that had been before his cousins moved to summerhall. and before aerion had went mostly mad.

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tunic back to how it had been. his hand reached out again, splaying against aerion’s white hair. he ruffled the hair briefly, only wanting to annoy his cousin, before playfully shoving him away by his head.

“worried? no. but, i do believe your senses have taken leave. you did (…)

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aerion was small, he’d not hit the growth spurt that himself, matarys, and daeron had gotten. though, that did not dull his cousin’s ferocity in one bit. valarr had to give him that.

he smile slightly, a scoff leaving his lips as he shook his head and watched aerion adjust his (…)

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would not do it. no taunting or teasing made him sway.

“since i was raised to be a boring and doting prince,” he said off handedly. he had not even cared to speak with him this morning.

“go on and find someone else to spar,” he said simply.

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valarr had never been one to be easy to rile up. he could stay cool headed and brush everything off with ease. especially when it came to matters of family.

his hands raised as he shrugged again, resting them back against his thighs. if he did not want to do something, he (…)

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“your skin is surely rubbed raw by now, cousin,” valarr scoffed, shaking his head as his arms crossed again and returned to looking out at the joust that had now turned to a fight on foot.

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and the chainmail beneath his tunic. what an odd fellow his cousin was, prancing around with chainmail under his tunic like a king on murder watch.

his hand reached out, sticking two fingers beneath the collar of the tunic tank, pulling at it briefly before pulling his hand away. (…)

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just slightly. his boots sunk into mud, sticking and throwing up the bottoms of his trouser legs.

his brows furrowed a bit as he stopped beside aerion, looking out at the tourney’s current fight for a moment in silence with him.

out of the corner of his eye, he surveyed aerion (…)

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the prince approached the targaryen tent as the lists continued on. he’d had his fair share of viewing for the day, all he wanted now was a glass of wine in his tent and the comfort of his bed in the castle ashford.

he noticed his cousin when he approached, shaking his head (…)

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insisted, annoyance in his tone. he wanted home. wanted to see his wife and ensure she was alright.

but, here he was, stuck in muddy ashford.

“perhaps next tourney, brother. i do not wish to fight today. i’m in no mood for it, surely.”

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