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 been declared on the Stepstones, 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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Oct 21 2017, 05:04 PM

Hola guys!

So I'm off to Ireland and I'll be gone all week. Expect snapchats of Winterfell though, I intend to be wearing a cape - they better provide them and swords.

See you all next weekend <3


Sep 22 2017, 08:55 AM

War had been a frequent state of mind for the Silver Prince, it seemed he’d spent more time engaged in battles than he had in Summerhall. Torn from his wife and unable to see Allara or the child that would no doubt have taken its first breath in his absence. Instead he’d been posted on a vessel, the sculpted figure head of a dragon breaking the ocean in a sharp split. It had been an encounter like none he’d faced to date, but he’d known of their ambush, he’d seen it in the midst of his dreams. So he’d informed Lucerys of a ‘feeling’ that had taken him and they’d come about the waiting fleet in a violent clash of reversed surprise. Ghiscar had led the charge, twisting through the clouds appearing like blue lightening in swift bursts. It had taken no longer than a moment before the shrill screams had sounded above the clash of metal and rush of water brushing the wooden sides. The smell of burnt flesh festered beneath the clouds of rising black, the men on both sides spluttering in the smoke. It was a sound the Prince was becoming familiar with, the decisive sound of men suffocating, choking on their own desperation to cling to clear air.

The first ship was conquered with ease, half the men had thrown themselves overboard to extinguish the flames nipping at their skin. Those that remained fell beneath an onslaught of blades, the varnished deck beneath smeared red. Valarr held no hesitation in disposing of those that opposed his bloodline, it was like hunting but it required less patience, more speed. The sounds were noises he’d become insensitive too, it was nothing more than white-noise humming under the crackle of rising flames, hidden beneath the groan of falling pine. Once seized the ship was driven into another, the roping intertwined in a tangle as the sails collapsed into one another. From there he’d leapt across, keen to fall into the frenzied mass of armed men riddled with doubt with the sound of Ghiscar bellowing overhead. The second however proved far more challenging than the first, the men more experienced or perhaps better trained struck with accurate cause and moved with a lightness which reminded him of Dorne. With each encounter his muscles ached a little more, his chest heaved a little harder and his heart pounded with a newfound fierceness.

It was the fourth boarded ship that brought the most resistance, the captain’s ship. He’d been identified in the distance, half-obscured within the smoke but clear enough to target. Lucerys had driven them towards it, as if the ocean itself rallied behind his decision. Both ships took more damage than Valarr could comprehend, for he wasn’t well versed in boats and he’d never taken much of an interest in their existence. Somehow he still managed to get them close enough, near enough so that the Prince and his men, soaked in blood both their own and of others, could climb aboard. Recalling all he’d learn in his childhood, all his training in youth, all the instruction he’d been given, the Prince weaved through each challenge. Wielding Dark Sister with silent pride, the weapon reminding him fondly of his father and reminding him of the reason he stood tempting the stranger once again. The Prince had embraced the idea of death once, opened it with the exposure of his chest, willing to sacrifice one life for another. Since then he’d not feared it. Since then he found himself grinning like some possessed madman at each strike from his opponent. Even in the midst of war, with his pale cheeks set aflame with streaks of borrowed blood, the Prince’s mouth curled into a cattish grin, as if executing some extreme exercise rather than engaging in war.

The foreign captain had time to analyse his challenger, watching as Valarr charged towards him with a wild determination. Perhaps that was the reason he interpreted each movement, guessing each style with careful consideration. He was fast, his movement fluid and his feet weightless. It would come as no surprise, and Valarr would find no shame in admitting, he suffered several painful blows. The jolt to his chest knocked the air from his lungs and the hilt driven into the crook of his ribs caused his muscles to spasm and his legs to groan beneath a sudden weakened shake. Twice the enemies blade almost caught his throat, but twice he escaped. It was once the sword was knocked from his fingers and Valarr was forced to absorb the impact of a downward strike forearm to forearm, that the Prince unveiled a dagger from his boot and drove it straight through the captain’s chin. It was a moment of relief, the quiet split of maimed flesh seemed louder in his ear as the blood dribbled down the metal, reaching to cloud against his gloved hand. With a rather grotesque squeal and a short violent tremor the man fell forwards and the Prince staggered back upon his feet, the pain in his side a persistent ache that urged him to bend forwards but he resisted the impulse.

Looking out against the carnage he raised his reclaimed sword, the orange light reflected from the flame caught like fire along the blade, “I Prince Valarr Targaryen claim this ship for —-“ Before he could even finish the sentence he found himself forced to look upwards, the shrill wail from Ghiscar snatching his attention in time to see the burning silhouette of another vessel barreling towards the one on which he stood.

Two choices.

He found his mind spinning with a sudden nausea, to go down with the ship or to go down without it. Ghiscar couldn’t reach him. In that millisecond of thought he’d become aware of that. But he detested the ocean. On occasion he’d dipped his feet into it, even swam when encouraged. For the most part swimming was reserved for lakes, small rivers in pleasant places where creatures didn’t lurk in the darkness. Where the waves didn’t wish to unleash an inhuman wrath on those that ventured too far. It didn't matter. He didn’t have time to think, to contemplate or consider what might be more beneficial. For in that moment he leapt with the others, chased the figures of fleeing men into the deep. The impact was perhaps the most pleasant part, the water wasn’t baltic but was cold enough to compliment the unusual warmth of his skin. But then the stinging. The pain like needles beneath the flesh struggling to escape. The constriction of his chest seemed to tighten as his side stiffened and his legs refused to kick, refused to push upwards and his lips split to inhale for air in a moment of panic. A moment that brought a sensation like grit being forced down his throat to force him to writhe within the emptiness. Dragons didn’t belong in water.

Sep 7 2017, 10:08 AM

Blistered flesh, pale white skin split ajar to expose a bloodless crater, ripe red beneath the surface. A hurricane of frost, blinding in its vast spirals, the white abyss consuming like white mist between the trees. It almost appeared pristine in its grandeur, spotless if one discounted the elms splitting wedges of faded green against the ice. He could see them, bound in thick fur, trembling with lips tainted a darkening blue with colourless cheeks puckering between trembles. There was a scream caught beneath the surface, silence under the pressure of jittering teeth and a numbing tongue. The Silver Prince could do nothing but watch after him, chase the imprints of his staggered steps as he trudged as fast as the weight he burdened himself with permitted. A glance across his shoulder. Then another. For a moment he couldn’t quite decipher what the man appeared to be waiting for, what terrified him beyond measure. But then it came. Skeletal, or perhaps almost skeletal, for the remains of what might have been flesh peeled back to expose worn ligaments and obscured tendons. First just one, but then another. Those violent eyes of the wildest blue seemed to emit a light of their own source, vibrant in the chill, but almost inviting.

Run rabbit run.

The thought tossed about his mind as he looked upon the man, observing the chase as if it was nothing more than an annual joust. He’d grown accustomed to finding them, to catching a harrowing glimpse at something he didn’t understand. No matter how much he watched, nor how long for, he couldn’t quite decide what was occurring, or how it had become fascinating. An impulsive coaxed him forward, to pursue the predators in their hunt, but one turned. One fiendish head twisted about its exposed neck to cast a single glance through his being and as if he’d been punched he found himself falling back upon his bed with nothing but the cold air thrusting itself through his lungs to comfort him as he sprung upright with a sudden jolt.

It was dark, what little of the sun still managed to penetrate the cloud had not battled for its right to the morning. Instead it suffocated beneath the brooding mass of assorted whites and bulging blacks. The skies engorged like some throbbing bruise. It took little time to dress, his torso wrapped in a paling blue while his legs fell into a light beige with black boots entrapped about his feet. “Alistair, fetch my flute. I’d quite like to play this morning.” The young lad with auburn curls and a crooked nose offered his crooked smile before abandoning the basin he’d been filling to scamper into the adjoined apartment. Since his return from the battlefield he hadn’t composed, hadn’t found delight in the music which had once entertained his wandering soul. It took a moment but after a considerable amount of noise and a string of murmured apologies the lad returned, polishing the instrument with an emerald silk flannel. “No need for that, now run along to the stables, inform them Prince Valarr has instructed you exercise his horse.” There was a moment the lad forgot himself, a fraction of an instant the sound of excitement caught within his throat and threatened to burst before simmering to a delighted squeak, “M’Prince.”

For a moment he looked upon the vacant space that the child had filled and for a moment he found himself grinning, the smile alight with such ease that it seemed to brighten the air around him. Since Aegon’s return he’d felt himself relax, he’d felt the tension ease in his muscles, but he’d known it would happen. He hadn’t seen Aegon perish across the sea, he hadn’t been disheartened with dreams of a Targaryen corpse. Instead he’d seen a cloud of ash, a smoke so thick it distorted the clouds. He’d found himself standing against a burning shore, listening to the thrash of biting flames and the faint echo of crumbling stone. Screams. But then he always heard screams.

Dismissing the thought he turned himself from his bed-chamber, turned again through a second apartment and cast himself into the corridors. In perfect synchronisation the guards charged with his wellbeing, some that had guarded him in childhood, fell into line. An ensemble of red against black, black against metal. Then a single Prince adorned in the colours of a pale winter morning, but aglow with the warmth of the brightest summer afternoon. Pressing the instrument against his lower lip he’d begin a simple tune, a soft harmonious sound that in turn became more complex as he lost himself in the music. It soothed him in the same manner that a mother’s whisper calms a child.

Sep 6 2017, 08:03 AM
[dohtml]<div class="n-site-template">
<h1><crownlands>Prince Valarr Targaryen</group></h1>
<h2>19 years old. The Silver Prince. </h2>
<div class="maincontents scroll">

<div class="genhead">May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and </div>
<div class="gensmall">the moon walks.</div>

A thousand stars upon an ivory landscape glistening beneath every footfall. The winter wind, cold and sharp, howling against ancient stone. Northern accents, voices so distinct and intrusive that they echoed within the warmth of the womb, so different to the voice of his father. The voice that had so often encouraged his limbs to kick and shake within the confinements of a shared space, demanding recognition, demanding freedom while a patient brother remained still. Born to the North, Valarr could not have appeared more out of place. Surrounded by dark features, raven stubble and eyes forged from the clouds above, the Targaryen twin held nothing of his Northern heritage. Silver hair and lilac eyes, a dragon by blood, a dragon by face. That of course didn’t deter the blood of his Mother from showering the infant with all the attention he deserved. For while Matarys slept peacefully, Valarr watched the world with open eyes. Nothing more than shapes and colours, strange voices that held soothing tones. Even so he wriggled in the arms of any who held him, and brushed his fingertips against anything that ventured within reach.
From the minute Valarr gained a sense of himself and discovered the use of those useless limbs that for so long struggled to hold him, he was uncontainable. The toddler would stray at any opportune moment, waddling here and there, reaching for whatever could be found. There was no shyness, no bashful quality to his boisterous persona. While his twin hid behind the skirts of his mother, Valarr remained two steps ahead. Keen to mimic his father, the Prince would offer his tiny hand to every stranger that paused to converse with them. He’d smile freely, his laughter light and soft like velvet from his tongue. There was an endless elegance about him, a magnetism that radiated from his very being before he’d even mastered the concept of speech. While Matarys remained close to the comforts and familiarity of family, Valarr accepted every opportunity to climb into the arms of a new acquaintance where he’d tug at their hair and bait them to chase him. Life was a game and Valarr wanted the world to play it with him. In the gardens he’d dig in the dirt, searching for the treasures like those in his bedtime tales. Flower beds were torn apart and the toddler relished the dirt on his skin. Every now and again a passing squire or visiting Lord would hide something for the boy to find, a pleasant surprise when he’d locate his prize and stumble with all the velocity he could manage to show his Mother and Father, waiting with bated breath for that look of pride he adored so much.
For some time it seemed as if nobody wanted to play, Visenya wasn’t one for rolling in the dirt. She didn’t tolerate the idea of running amuck. Matarys withdrew into himself, spending so much time behind the curtain of their mother that Valarr found himself creating a distance, a void that split them apart and would only continue to expand. Aegon, although boundlessly affectionate seemed occupied, something of which Valarr found himself continuously trying to correct, to no avail of course. It was Rhaenna that finally created a challenge, Rhaenna who combatted his cheekiness. He hadn’t wanted another sister, Visenya had never been interested in his games and Valarr had jumped to the conclusion that every girl would be the same. But Rhaenna corrected him, she poked at his childish theories and indulged his tall tales. Although they spent so often interlocked in a competition of who could shout the loudest, Valarr found himself appreciating their differences far more than he appreciated the difference of Matarys. Valarr had always been told their differences would make them stronger. But he couldn’t find it in his young heart to believe it. As every sun sank it seemed more and more as if he looked into the face of a stranger.
His attention however was easily swayed and he didn’t dwell on the solemnness of his twin. Instead he invested his time in watching the Knights, Viserys often told him stories and on occasion allowed him to attempt to lift his sword, promising that one day when he was strong enough he’d have his own. Of course that simply made the child wish to fast forward the hours, until something far more interesting diverted his focus from the attraction of swords and horses.The gift of an egg. Was it coincidence or destiny that he’d choose the reverse of his twin’s choice? Valarr would never be certain, but it felt right holding the sapphire oval with silver clouds between his fingers. There was something that drew him towards it, a faded feeling that tugged at his heart and refused to allow his gaze to drift anywhere else. From then on he slept with it, the strange ornament wrapped within his little arms, his cheek compressed against the cold, crinkled surface. In his dreams he’d see it so often. His treasure, frozen in place by the ice of the North. Snow pooled around it, so foreign and estranged. Forever he found himself trying to reach out for it, his fingers outstretched, but they’d never quite conquer the distance. Instead a heat would engulf him, the warmth of the flames lapping at his flesh, the inferno that swallowed his figure and burnt his cheeks. He’d often look down to see his hands alight, the beautiful orange swirls rippling across his skin, caressing the paleness until it too glowed a fluorescent gold. Then he’d wake, sweat against his chest, rolling across the white of his brow, breathless.
Valarr of course kept his dreams to himself, for they paled in comparison to the wonder of his twin’s imagination. Matarys dreamt of Dragons while he drowned in fire and ice. It was perhaps the first time in his young life he’d felt the heart wrenching pang of jealousy, everyone marvelled at his brother while he burnt in the night. For awhile he ignored it and returned to inviting himself to toddle along to the practice yard where he’d watch from the sidelines, a small thin wooden sword in hand as he’d mimic the movements. It was only when the first egg gave light to a creature of myth that Valarr felt the seriousness of his absent dreams. Aegon too had dreamt of the giant reptiles, so similar to the dreams of Matarys that there could no longer be ignorance to the wake of magic in the world. But Valarr still did not dream of such things. He still could not escape the fire. It was selfish, but Valarr couldn’t help but pray to whatever Gods that could listen that his brother’s egg would not hatch before his own. But alas it did. For a small amount of time his ignorant hopefulness drove him onwards, certain that his egg would hatch soon after his brothers, after all they were twins, they were two halves of one whole. But the night never came. The dreams didn’t change. The six year old so often curled up beneath the furs of his bed and pressed his lips against the shell, whispering soft words and restraining the tears that burnt his cheeks, “Why wont you come out? Don’t you want to be with me? Please come out…” But his voice earned no reaction and his bleeding heart could not penetrate the stone no matter how hard he wished, no matter how much he sobbed.
No matter how much it bothered him, once morning came and he was no longer expected to be alone, he swallowed his disappointment. It haunted him of course, seeing Matarys flounce here and there with his scaled companion drove daggers through his flesh, but Valarr said nothing. After all his brother needed a friend, there’d always been something absent about him, something recoiling in his soul. But even Valarr could see that whatever was missing was finally complete. Matarys smiled more often, seemed less alone. For that even Valarr was pleased. Instead of dwelling he continued to build his reputation, conversing with all that visited, his charm fluent, his smile infectious, there was a budding warmth that blossomed in the heat of his stare, something the made others forget about the forthcoming winter, unable to feel a chill in his presence. It pained him of course that as time moved on his siblings were blessed with creatures of legend, be it a dragon or a wolf, while he continued to burn. Sometimes, late at night, while he slept with the egg of nothingness he felt neither Stark nor Targaryen, something incapable, something lacking in whatever the rest of siblings seemed to have in abundance. But no matter his childish whims, Valarr fought the urge to allow jealousy to consume him and gladly found relief in his years of squiring.
It was rewarding to excel in something. To feel a freedom, untouched by the woes of unpleasant thoughts and foreboding notions. Arthur Dayne was no easy tutor, there was nothing to gain without pain. So often Valarr collapsed once the day concluded, his muscles aching, his bones fragile and his palms blistered. There were days he felt like giving up, when he slipped into a restless sleep and awoke with circles blacker than night beneath the violent violet of his Targaryen gaze. Days where bloodied cuts and bruised skin restricted his movement and yet he persistently trudged on. Incapable of accepting himself as incapable, as inferior, as a weak-link. Unlike others Valarr held no moral high-ground in his victories, there was no wrong way to win a fight. In war you wouldn’t respect your opponent, you wouldn’t wait patiently if they appeared injured or refuse to trip them because it would provide an unfair advantage. No. Valarr was a lethal opponent, willing to do anything to prevail, to gain success. The Prince was as fluent in trickery as he was in charm. Despite not having a Dragon at his side he had the volatility of one raging through his bloodstream. His pleasant smiles, sweet words and boyish laughter disappeared altogether when he stepped into a challenge as if they’d never before existed. It was no surprise to anyone that knew the silver haired Prince that he’d rather be beaten unconscious then ever valiantly accept defeat.
Acquiring his knighthood was perhaps the proudest moment of his lifetime. The look upon his father’s face, the sincerity in his mother’s pride, it couldn’t be duplicated, it couldn’t be replaced. But it could quite easily be disintegrated. Valarr for all his airiness had found himself aware of the renovations to his future home, but hadn’t quite expected the input of the Lannisters. It came as no surprise to the Prince that the aid would pay a price and repercussions would ripple through his existence. For the most part he couldn’t understand why Matarys hadn’t been promised the Lannister girl’s hand. Was he not more fitting? Less reckless? More likely to suit the position of a married man? Most likely they wanted better for him. It would be the Dragonless Prince subjected to settle a debt. For all his distaste for the situation it didn’t seem entirely negative, she wasn’t ugly, she wasn’t old or crippled, deformed or grotesquely disfigured. There was something pleasantly pleasing if not innocent about her countenance. At least that would make it easier to do his duty. But still he’d forever sleep with that egg at his side. Whether it be empty or dead, broken in some way he’d never quite understand, he’d keep it close. For he burnt less in his dreams when the cold stone slept against his chest.
Fate perhaps held the boy in ill favour, with the news of his betrothal came another enlightenment. Perhaps it was meant as a gift, as a birthright, something to be proud of. Summerhall would be his. What was once nothing more than a crippled relic, a ruin of ash and dust, had been rebuilt in his honour. A place of fire. Where flames had once devoured the air, choked the lungs of those trapped in its embrace, where his father had entered the world amongst an overcast of smoke. Destruction… At first Valarr could only imagine it personified his future, his dreams of raging infernos tightening around his skin a perfect reflection of those that had burned. It was almost befitting. Would his father have thought it such a good match if he told him of the images that had followed him with vehemence through his childhood and still sat soberly in his mind under the light of passing moons? It didn’t matter, for his mouth remained tight, his lips solemn in their worry. The move approached with an unstoppable haste, no sooner had it been completed that he found himself behind the walls, retracing footsteps long lost, following forgotten pathways like worn memories that didn’t quite belong to him. The absence of his relatives wore heavy on his heart, he couldn’t quite recall a time so far apart. There was an emptiness, something he’d felt internally for so long suddenly appeared to project itself around him. So quiet in comparison to the capital. Most assume that’s the reason the Dragonless Prince forever fills his halls with guests, those who’ve sought his love and council long before his relocation. The laughter forever present in fear that if the sound fades that it might disappear forever.

The Silver Prince had found love three times within his lifetime, the first honour of the Prince’s heart had been stolen in his childhood. It wasn’t the women of court who’d thrashed at each other for his notice, nor was it the quieter girls that blustered past in their beautiful gowns and rich silks. His first, for most things, came from a simple serving girl, beautiful beyond compare, so much so that he believed if she stood amongst the wealth of women at court each regarded face would pale in comparison to the wild prettiness of his youthful amour. In peaceful moments, when the whispers of court stilled and most fell to the hour of sin, Valarr bent himself over scrolls, scribbled letters down on pieces of borrowed parchment and taught the girl how to read, how to write, all the intricate details of the finer realms. It began with a letter, a simple note tucked beneath the base of his goblet. From there it became a pursuit, although the Prince was convinced her rebuff came from an attempt to disarm his affection and prevent both from suffering in the trials of a forbidden friendship, he continued nonetheless. It within time became a noose of passion, blind and timeless. Although the weight of his position pulled at his throat, tightening each time a meeting was almost overheard of exposed, nothing would deter him from his moments in her presence, each once cherished a little more than the last.
The second love came from his wife. Although he hadn’t expected to unearth romance in the weight of a betrothal, it blossomed without his complete consent. Upholding his honour he’d been respectful in the presence of Alea Lannister, he’d been polite, he’d been courteous and most of all he’d offered her his companionship. It surprised him when he found himself overcome with a sense of warmth about her being, it soothed him in times of uncertain apprehension and within time he found himself desiring it. Although it wasn’t quite the untameable lust ravaging his senses, the kind that had possessed him in the presence of Allara, it was something else, something sweet and soft. Something that in his pleasant moments of reflection he found himself in a state of unease at the thought it might disappear. She was everything a man could have wanted in a wife, everything that he hadn’t found himself considering when his thoughts had twisted about Allara and he’d felt his heart ache at the thought of bedding another. Without a doubt she became his second love, just as even as the first but different in a sense he couldn’t explain. Perhaps that was the reason he found himself torn when confronted with an announcement of his mistresses swelling stomach, perhaps that was the reason he found guilt in desiring her all the more.
The third came with a forcefulness the Prince had waited for his entire life, it came like a lightening strike straight through his existence. Ghiscar had been a love he’d dreamt of, a haunting dream calling in the dead of night beyond the fire of his estranged thoughts and the ice that wrapped about his limbs in the North he envisioned in moments of trance like states. Some say the creature brought the Prince back to life, a peasant’s murmuring after a single arrow pierced his chest protecting his Lannister bride. Valarr, although unable to admit it for fear it might hold truth, has considered such mutterings amongst a million more. A bond between the pair was forged long before the arctic blue hatchling cradled itself around his neck as he took what rest was required to heal his wound. Still she holds herself high on the pedestal of his life, unsure if it is she or he who worships the other more.

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