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It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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 LIONS AND DRAGONS AND BLOOD OH MY, Tag; Valarr
ALEA TARGARYEN
 Posted: May 10 2018, 02:37 AM
Quote
SOLACE is Offline
18 years old
STORMLANDS
House Targaryen
Lannister
SUMMERHALL
Royal


It was the early hours of the evening when the small boy was sent running to the Princess's apartments. He was a young thing, with stringy hair that was pushed back behind his ears and wore a simple tunic. She realized he was a kitchen boy, and she had frowned at his first appearance since she had not ordered anything from the kitchens. Alea had been sitting in her chambers, writing another letter back to Summerhall and new instructions on how matters now that Valarr was even more indisposed. She had ravens coming daily and while she was at Court, she still had matters to deal with back at home. Farmers who held disputes held off for weeks while their rulers were gone, merchants who wanted to set up shops or lords who were waiting for their lords to return so they could pledge loyalty or gain favor. It was so long sense Alea had been home she almost forgot what Summerhall looked like. How did it look now that winter had come and was frosting everything? Even as she dressed warmly in thick velvet and a cloak, there was a hint of a chill that could sneak up in her bones.

But the young boy didn't seem bothered by the cold though as he came in quickly. He seemed a little out of breath, but as he stood straight, Alea stood up in alarm. What could be so important that he couldn't quickly come here - but rather run as fast as his eleven-year-old feet could carry him?

"The Maester Pycell said that His Royal Highness is ready to receive you. Not any other visitors, just you, your Highness."

Alea's heart stopped in her chest and she rose from her chair, her letter to her steward left on her desk as she put her pen away, and she gave the letter to one of her servants to save for later. Alea nodded to the boy as she quickly left the room, purple eyes bright as she moved swiftly down the halls, her ladies trailing after her until she reached her husband's room. She felt her stomach twist at the sight of the guards who had held her off for so long. Now, however, they stepped aside as Princess Alea moved forward and pressed the door open with a careful hand, coming into an oppressively warm room. The fires were burning brightly, the curtains were drawn, and there was the smell of old must, sweat, and blood. A single window had been opened on the opposite side of the room to let in fresh air but not too much, and Alea welcomed the cooling breeze in the stuffy room as she entered. The boy remained outside and Alea saw the old Maester rise from his bow to the Princess. He rose, and his eyes shifted between the bed, that housed her husband and the Princess.

"Please keep the visit short, Your Highness. The prince is still weak, but he is much better then he was when he returned to us." He stated before Alea nodded simply to him and he left the pair alone.

Alea wasted no time in leaving her cloak at the door and coming beside Valarr. Her hands shook a little as she didn't bother sitting in the chair that had been set for her, but rather on the bed beside him. "Oh, Valarr." She whispered as she looked at him and swiftly took a hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss.

"You had me worried so much. They wouldn't let me through the doors to see you. How are you?" She inquired, her eyes wide as she looked at him and pushed some of his hair with shaking fingers away from his face. How long had she waited to be with him? Longer than she wanted. Especially once she confronted both Allara about her bastard and Rhaegar about...everything. She had thought that she might get to see Valarr not long after that, but it was over a month that he was locked away in this room. So much had happened.

"I know I must be careful with you. Forgive me if I am too eager. I have been so worried - deathly worried- about your recovery." She said, her eyes eager to look upon his face and drink him in, to be the wife she was denied being for months.

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VALARR TARGARYEN
 Posted: Jun 12 2018, 06:09 AM
Quote
N/A is Offline
20 years old
STORMLANDS
N/A
Targaryen
Summerhall
Prince




Baron wastelands of Arctic white had accompanied him beneath the pale spotlight of stars streaming through panes of frosted glass. He wasn’t sure if his imagination had cast the room into a reflection of his dreams or if in fact his breath had begun to expel itself in brief bursts of calm grey cloud from his mouth. All about him the world wore white, the dresser adorned in shimmering flakes, the stone floor beneath his bed a reflective sheen of ice-glass threatening to crumble with weakening vines entangled beneath the surface in a floral correlation of intricate patterns. As he rose to stand the emptiness expanded, the silence solemn as the desolation of abandonment wept from pillar to post, not a single sound broke the quiet calm, not a single voice or murmur, not even a distant bird beyond the towers offered a feeble croak. It felt strange to walk, no longer did a pain burden his throat, there was no inexplicable need to recoil in discomfort against the strain of tight skin binding his stomach-wound closed. In fact he felt exceptional, rejuvenated as if he’d never faced an affliction in the first place.

Familiar corridors welcomed him despite the cast of pale blue washing against the walls, a strange mirage formed between moonlight and frost. Where he should have trembled the Prince felt a becoming warmth, as if the heat swelled within his chest and drifted beneath the skin like hot leather basked in Dornish sunshine. A flame flickering in the dark. Where torches had once promised a safe path there now stood nothing, baron candles extinguished to the bone leaving nothing but an overflow of wax toppling against itself and down the white-washed brick. Where men had once busied the corridors with conversation and purpose there was now an infinite emptiness, a deafening silence, a slither of dust beneath the blizzard’s remains. Quiet footsteps led him onwards, led as if lulled within a trance, following a feeling, caught on a strange forbidding knowledge to press towards his father’s throne.

The room stood as it always had, imposing and impressive. Without light it held itself as a cavern carved in ice, the moonlight soft almost seeming to float in thin strands from the ceiling - casting a sombre silver halo to dance atop the throne. It seemed to him to be a vague imposter, a shamble of memories corrupted in his mind, for it didn’t quite look right against the grandeur he recalled when full of men and women cast in warm orange from a tender sun. Yet he continued on, one foot before the other towards the figure perched against the iron, the silhouette curved at the hip with hair far longer than that of his father. To Valarr he could almost see himself, feel himself moving without the permission of his mind as if he stood a mindless piece upon a board pushed along to stand atop another square. As the distance diminished and the figure leant into the cast of limited vision Valarr found his heart thundering within his chest, the sound so loud it filled the room with an incessant drum. As his mother’s hand extended towards him he felt inclined to take it, to reach the strange shade of pale purple and encase it within his own whitening hand. “Don't look so surprised Valarr, you’ve seen this all before.” Despite himself he found absolute warmth in the voice, the cold tone like wild fire upon his heart, the estranged detachment more alluring than discouraging as he felt himself leaning forwards, lowering his head towards her chest whilst his knees collapsed between her feet. Reclining his head he expected to look upon her once more, the expectation providing a euphoria he couldn’t quite explain. But to his inexplicably saddened disbelief he found himself staring bleakly into the worn weathered face of his grandfather, the sudden electric blue of his own gaze reflected in the older man’s scornful purple stare, “Burn them all you fool.”

“Valarr.” His mother’s voice, distant, half-remembered, fading like a morning haze retreating to the sea.

“Valarr!” Luce’s voice, maimed against the ocean, choked and spluttered, determined but heard as if whispered against his ear.

“Valarr…” That small child, perched against his bedside, hand extended to reach his cheek with such cold it blistered his skin with a single touch.






“Oh Valarr.” As if impaled upon a spear the Prince found himself lunging forwards, his chest accusing itself of suffocating as he gave a sudden defiant heave, grabbing with greed for the air around his head. With a suppressed shudder he found himself quietening, his head turning steadily to observe the vibrant orange of the growing fire, the pale skies and clear glass before falling with bemusement upon his wife. It took a moment to recollect her delicate features, to distinguish the smooth outline of her cheek and the plush swell of her lower lip reaching towards the gentle arch of the upper. Just a moment before the child had sat where she sat, his pale hair cascading against his face, his small hand flat against his flustered cheek. “I’m..” He found his voice sounded strange, the grog surrounding it almost harsh against his throat as he coughed to clear the gathered husk. “I’m getting better, Pycell said so himself. I should be out of here before that trial begins. I should be there with you.” Of course he hadn’t quite said that, but the Silver Prince had awoken with the decision he’d begin the process of ridding himself of the bed he’d been drowning in. It was time to be alive again. “You shouldn’t be worried, I promised I’d come back. I promised you so much I haven’t yet given — I couldn’t leave this world without keeping my word first.” Tilting his head he’d find himself leaning towards her hand, the sensation considerably cool against the raging warmth of his skin, not quite cold but almost refreshing, “Tell me how you’ve been. Tell me of Summerhall, are our people well?”

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