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.
[x] Site's Most Wanted has been updated! Get em while they're hot!
[x] SURPRISE! Please enjoy our new skin, and let the staff know if you find any bugs! (Shelbs accidentally overwrote the old skin and posted this too soon so it's entirely possible the dumbass she forgot some things!)
[x] THE FATE OF TYRION LANNISTER HAS BEGUN! Mass thread HERE! If you play a character that has been selected as judge, please join in asap! Otherwise the thread is open to all wanting to participate!
[x] Keep an eye out for a new mini-event we have been planning! The bloodshed fun is never over!
[x] As always... we are in need of MALE characters!
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Alias: Shelbs
Age: 19
Sworn To: House Targaryen
Born to: House Rosby
Location: Summerhall
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Joined: 17-December 15
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Local Time: Jul 17 2018, 10:50 PM
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Sep 16 2017, 05:02 PM
She was not used to this. She would never be used to this. By the time she was old enough to pick up a broom, Allara had been on her feet, always moving from one task to the next, one lord, lady or ser to the next one behind them. For as long as she could remember she had served in the royal family's shadow, fed and clothed by their coin as she, in turn, brought them their meals to eat and freshly washed linens to sleep upon. Had she flown too far since then? Traveled too close to the sun, too close to a dragon's flame? For she felt as if her very muscles were melting from her bones, sloughing off as if plagued with some sort of necrosis, ready to send her plunging back down to the hard ground below any moment.

"Back to bed with you," urged one of the nursemaids, a woman thrice her age with a permanent frown on her papery lips coming to shoo her away from the mirror. Since the King had brought her here, since he had summoned her from her safety in the Stormlands and back to the Red Keep, Allara was never alone. Never without those assigned to her since His Majesty was told the truth. The truth. Glancing at her reflection, ignoring the old woman nagging from nearby, she had to wonder. What was the truth? That she was not just a maidservant any longer? That she was not someone who could be sent from room to room with chores at hand and privy pots to empty anymore? How she wished it was still so simple.

"My lady, you are to be abed." Allara felt her brows raise so high into her forehead that she could feel her hairline adjust to the expression. "I am no lady," she chided, reaching up to wipe the light sheen of sweat from her cheeks. Though the few women who shared in her confinement donned mantels of fur and poured over warmed cups of mulled wine, Allara felt nearly impermeable to the cold spreading over the closed windows. The babe inside of her, fierce and like its father, made her feel hot, sweltering, even, at times worse than others, and no longer could she stand to lie beneath the blankets and coverlets that lined her bed. Was this the sun she had flown too close to? The seed swelling in her womb, larger now than ever, was this the dragon's flame that would finally come to burn her? "Why is it so hot," she complained, desperately wishing she could shove open the chilled window panes, break their metal locks and breathe in the frosty air outside. No one bothered to answer her, of course. Their duty was not to her, some bastard-born maidservant, but the half royal babe in her womb, and she felt she did not have the strength to resist the nursemaid when she reached for her arm and ushered her back into bed.

What felt like hours did she lay there, hiding her grey-blue gaze behind apparently sleeping lids, listening silently to the other women move about the room. She listened to them turn the pages of their books, prick their needlework, sip their wine and play their cards. They cared little for Allara and only for the final day where they could pull her child from between her legs and at last leave these dreadful chambers. Could she blame them? She would feel the same, were her position reversed, were she trapped here on the King’s orders to deliver a royal bastard from a lowly maidservant. Alas… she remained herself the lowly maidservant, and rousing as quietly as she could from her bed, Allara could not remain here another moment. Stepping over the dozing bodies of the others, she donned a heavy velvet robe, one large enough to conceal the giant swell to her womb so long as she avoided torchlight, with a hood that draped over her features with ease.

Escaping her apartments, a set of rooms more luxurious to her than she had ever experienced, felt like escaping some sort of prison, so relieved was she to breathe the air that moved freely down the hallways. She had lived in this palace her entire life, had navigated its corridors, its twists and turns and passed through its shadows so unnoticed and undetected that it was almost a surprise how easily it returned to her. Of course, she would have to return to her chambers before dawn, before the others noticed her absence and the King was alerted, but if she could just have a few hours of respite…
Oct 12 2016, 12:19 PM
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<i>"My Prince."</i>
18. Palace of Summerhall.
One would not think to find a Prince of Westeros in the wanted ad of a maidservant... however, these two are, for better or for worse, intertwined more than anyone would know. Best friends, companions and lovers, Allara Waters has been a servant in the King's household her entire life. She is the unknown bastard daughter of Lord Gyles Rosby, who may or may not have had a little tryst with a servant (her mother) years and years ago during a visit to the Red Keep. He has no clue of her existence, and it will likely stay that way - BUT - that's irrelevant. MOVING ON...
Valarr first noticed Allara when she was about 14 years old, and her entire application is basically about him and their developments. You can read that HERE! Over the months he taught her to read, eventually how to kiss, and, well, the rest is history. Though he is married now to the Princess Alea, that has not stopped him from furthering relations with Allara, and the three of them actually ended up in bed together, as well. *Sexy music ensues*
BUT DUN DUN DUN. Allara is pregnant now with Valarr's child, and literally she has no idea where or who to turn to. Not even his wife is pregnant yet and that b l o w z. It's safe to say Allara is shitting bricks and isn't sure if the Lannisters are about to kill her, or if Valarr himself is going to have her sent away, or if she's just going to run away entirely and hopefully make it to Essos oh my god she's panicking. Obviously I won't go into all the other side plots/needs that we have for his character, as you can find him also in the SITE'S MOSTED WANTED, but he is most definitely needed for this personal one... omg... P L E A S E HELP ME FIGURE OUT ALLARA'S LIFE LOL.

</div></div><div class="rig"><div class="bigup">Valarr Targaryen</div><div class="smup">play by - clark bockelman</div></div></div></div><div style="width: 336px; font-family: calibri; font-size: 8px; text-align: right; text-transform: uppercase;">thanks!</div><link href='' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'></center>[/dohtml]
May 22 2016, 07:57 PM

It was the ninth (or tenth?) day in a row. The ninth (or tenth?) morning she had to travel to the sewers of the palace, emptying her privy that she had just vomited into. It was easy, at first, to attribute it to a rotten meal, or sour wine fermented badly. But it would not stop. Sometimes it was twice, if not three times a day, and the most subtle of scents suddenly seemed thick and overwhelming - churning an already uneasy stomach. When she could eat, it was peculiar foods she found she had an undeniable craving for, like poached quail eggs and savory red beetroot. Appetite aside, Allara found that, though her breasts were swollen and painfully tender, though she at times felt bloated and fatigued, if not irritable, her moonsblood did not come... and after a fortnight, it still did not come. Then, the sickening and quite miserable vomiting began... and one of the Red Keep's many maesters was quick to confirm that an illness did not plague her, but rather, a pregnancy. A child. One that perhaps had already been growing inside of her for the past two moons.

Her heart felt cold as she turned away from the sewers, journeying back through the palace and into her simple, single-room chamber. She had told no one. Would she tell anyone? Perhaps the maester could help her with getting rid of it, had she not heard highborn nobles speaking of such a thing once before? How lords would have their paramours drink copious amounts of moontea if pregnant, if only to dislodge the unborn child from her womb? Allara shuddered at the gruesome thought, but what choice did she have? She would be scorned, ostracized, perhaps even jailed... or worse, executed alongside her poor son or daughter. Though the Princess Alea claimed to be fond of her, though she enjoyed her affection and welcomed the girl into her bed with their Silver Prince, Allara was hardly confident she would welcome a royal bastard. And before she herself could bear an heir? It filled Allara with dread, so much dread that she had actually managed to avoid Valarr as much as she could, and when she couldn't, she had urged as much gentleness from him as possible. Which, she had no doubt, had only annoyed him.

Allara had not even joined Alea again in her passions, so afraid had she become of the babe growing inside of her. So afraid that if, the longer she went without turning to a maester for help, the more she might feel the desire to be a mother -a mother to the Prince's child- getting all the more irrefutable. Though she was no woman of worthy education, she knew enough about House Blackfyre that the idea of bearing the first Targaryen bastard since their rebellions only made her fear for her own life. For her child's life. Who would protect her? Them? The maidservant quickly washed herself with a damp, soapy towel, having stripped free of her simple clothing... if only to pull on another once she dried. She did not yet dare lower her stormy eyes to the possible, ever slight roundness to what was the usual flatness of her stomach. Pinning the long locks of her hair above the nape of her neck, the maidservant did not even bother to glance in her small mirror, turning to leave her chamber with the haste due her station. Still, her mind reeled. Who could she go to? Who would understand? Who would take her in, hold her, assure her safety? Valarr. It was the only thought she had as she felt her legs taking her to his apartments, the cavernous hallways of the palace nearly empty in the twilight hours of the morning.

She knew she should feel guilty. Valarr was grieving, deeply and painfully, and the Seven Kingdoms openly mourned their Queen. And yet here was Allara, thinking only of the tentative life blossoming within her womb. It was selfish. It was wrong and maybe even treason. But still she kept walking, her gaze fixated on the floor in front of her. The guards posted outside of his door recognized her, but they did not at first move aside to allow her entry. Allara's heart dropped; did they know? Had word somehow gotten out, had they told the Prince? The girl paused, her breath caught in her throat as she looked to the trio of armored men that stood looming before her. "Do not wake him, girl, if you find him still sleeping. Be quick in your work." The word of caution was relief to her ears, letting the bubble of air finally pass her lips in a small sigh. She nodded her angled jaw, lowering her gaze as she passed between their hulking metal forms to gain entry into the apartments they guarded. The apartments were dim, the torches and candles long since dead, lit only by the eerie dark blue of the morning encroaching outside. Still, she knew her prince. She knew he would loom in darkness until he had no choice but to rouse to face the world and its public. With quiet footsteps she padded across the floors, entering his bedchamber with little more than a whispered breath across her lips. "My Prince," she spoke softly, coming to stand closer in the center of the great room.

Mar 9 2016, 08:58 PM
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<h1><storm>allara waters</storm></h1>
<h2>17 years old. maidservant. red keep now summerhall. iliana chernakova.</h2>
<h3>shlebz. 76. cst. snail mail.</h3>
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rungs of a totem pole

There were a lot of you, many of you, tons of you, born within the Red Keep to all those that served the Iron Throne. With their tears, blood, sweat and very own lives, they attended to the royal family throughout the decades. There is little honor for a maid or servant to uphold, and any child begotten between the two simply learn to serve, as well. Many of you are common bastards without even a surname to call your own, a drop of noble blood nonexistent in their veins. But not you. Though you serve, though your head is bowed and your intellect only fair at best, you are still different in a way. Your mother never forgets to remind you that as you attend the royal family together. "A friend of the King's," she's told you, "a good, sweet man. Had a tender heart." She helps you with the Princess Rhaenna's linens, fitting them over the large bed. "Fell ill with a terrible cough while he was here for the King. I helped him." Yes, yes, you have heard it many times. That your father was known for having frequent bouts of illness, that he is a friend of King Rhaegar, and that your mother helped nurse him back to health before he returned to Rosby.
Rosby. Though your mother has repeated the story to you many times, a longing clearly still in her eyes for the man she created you with, you never ask her if he knows about your existence. Lord Gyles Rosby, you hear, has not aged well and remains ill now more than not, and is on his second wife. You know you are his only child, though. You just wonder if he knows it, too. Servants of the Red Keep are provided their essentials, but things like acceptable education, finer clothing and warmer foods, they are luxuries to someone like you. You smell the scents of the magnificent dishes of the royal family, sometimes you even help cook them, but never do you steal a taste. You hear their tongues form articulate syllables and sing beautifully-worded tunes as they sit at their silk-lined tables, and for a long time you only know bits and pieces of their meaning. By watching them you learn to posture yourself, by listening do you learn to speak at least marginally better, and in secret do you attempt to practice how to properly hold silver cutlery, how to walk like you see noblewomen walk, how to curtsy and where to hold your hands. As a little girl you do this almost nightly, a precious routine not even your mother is privy to. You think, if your father Lord Gyles is to ever come to the palace again, you will not be a disappointment to him.
He never comes, though. Not when you are five, not when you are ten or twelve or thirteen. You know he must be too sick to travel, but still, you keep your hopes up for him. You have seen dragons in the skies but you have not seen the man your mother speaks so fondly about in private moments. She reminds you, though, that waiting for his appearance is a waste of your time, as she would know, and that your duties as a maid to the royal household cannot be shunted in a stranger's favor. Noble bastard or no, you are still a bastard, an unacknowledged one at that, and you are still a servant. It is not such a harsh truth, for you enjoy your life in the service to House Targaryen, their members all vastly different from the other that there is not a single dull moment for you even as a maid. But you continue to wish for a family like theirs. A father to be proud of you, a brother to protect you, a sister to confide in. The royal family has all of these in multiples, and you truly find pleasure in your work as one of their hundreds of servants. Still, you just wish for a single day, you could have a family as large and as loving as theirs.
a sign of more

You soon learn the smallest of things can lead into the biggest of changes, and it scares you at first. Though it is not exactly the change you had so long hoped for, it was still nothing you could imagine. A single jest, a simple overheard laugh, and he notices you. He looks like the King, if not exactly like him, and for a brief moment you forget to look down from those swimming purple eyes. The Prince Valarr is with his younger sister, and you were unable to keep a laugh from forming in your throat as you listened to their sibling banter. The sound brings his eyes to you and you feel on fire. You feel stupid and vulnerable and he even smiles at the redness rising to your cheeks. You are barely four and ten, yet newly flowered and you feel an unfamiliar flush in your lower abdomen at the intensity of his gaze. He is kind natured, however, and he offers another jest in which you again cannot help but laugh at. Perhaps he likes your laugh, as he makes you do it a few more times before you at last have to excuse yourself to your duties.
That was not the last of him, though. You have served he and his family your entire life, and at the very least, you have grown up with them. Not with them, but you have grown where they have grown, and their faces are as familiar to you as your own mother's. But Prince Valarr's becomes more and more frequent, as you seem to be catching his gaze more times than you care to admit. You move silently around them as you bring them their meals, fill their chalices with wine, carry away their dirty clothes and bring back fresh ones. You empty their chamber pots, you tidy their beds and keep their bedchambers clean. But now the Prince's eyes follow you almost everywhere when you are near, and he holds your gaze for an extra moment each time you chance a glance at him. He continues to make you laugh and giggle, for he has a bright sense of humor and you wonder how all of the noblewomen at court withstand his charm. Or do they?
You should have known to hold your tongue. Prince Valarr's lingering stare does not grant you permission to speak, and yet, you do so anyway. Like a stupid girl who does not know her place, you interject when you have no right. You speak your mind when you should have burnt your tongue on a skillet instead. "I do not think so," you tell him, overhearing the Prince detail the superiority of a dragonrider over that of a knight on horseback. Being the only son of the King who did not have a dragon of his own, something in your gut forbade you from letting the Prince berate himself in such a way. Even if the Prince's own comrade did not do it for him, you, a lowly maidservant, do not hesitate to share what you thought about him; all in just a set of five simply-spoken words.
fight or flight

You thought you knew fear. You thought you knew embarrassment. That one evening when you managed to drop an entire platter of the royal family's food, you thought you could never be more humiliated. But then the Prince Valarr leaves you a note, pressing it into the confused flat of you palm and forcing you to clench your fingers around the yellowed parchment. He leaves without a word, leaving you clueless, helpless and absolutely lost. You cannot read. No matter how elegant his script looks to your untrained eyes, you cannot make out a single letter... and you dare not ask another to read it for you. There is nothing you can do, save resume your duties and pray you are not missing anything important. You keep the note, however, tucking it safely inside your pillowcase. One day, you think, you will be able to read it. One day, perhaps you might even be able to write a response.
He looks disappointed the next time he sees you. It is in his very chambers, and you are there to replace carafes of wine and sticks of incense. For a painfully brief moment you are alone with him, and he asks you why you did not follow his letter and meet him the night before. You find his displeasure almost intimidating, yet you cannot look away when he steps closer, waiting for an answer. "I cannot read, Your Grace," you say to him, fighting to keep from fiddling your fingers. Suddenly, he smiles at you. Another smile so warm you nearly want to evaporate before him. Disappointment fades from his features and you notice something else, something else entirely, and still you cannot look away. "I will teach you," he says, kindly and almost affectionately, and for once, you cannot help but smile back. Before you return to your duties, he takes your slender hand in his and kisses it. You feel the burn of his lips on your fingers for days after.
Your lessons start soon, however. It is almost every night that you find yourself in his apartments, under the guise of performing your routine as his maidservant, but doing little else other than poring over texts and letters that make little sense to you. He is patient with you, though, and in between learning one letter from the next, you find yourself talking to him. Truly talking to him. In under a fortnight he knows about your mother, about your father Lord Gyles, and he can even name your favorite foods. You tell him you think him more tangible than his dragonriding siblings, that you find a knight armored by earth's steel to be more true than a man riding a magical beast high in the sky. He entertains your beliefs and probes you for more, and you find yourself all too willing to deliver them to him. Though you cannot speak as eloquently as his sisters, much less even read, he listens to you as if none of that matters. And, in turn, you listen to him.
a friend in me

Nearly five moons pass before you can master your first book. By then you and the Prince are impossibly close, drawn together by your trusting nature of each other and the need of each others' safety. You do not judge Valarr on what he reveals to you, and he does not judge you, either. You are there when he needs counsel late in the night, and he even takes some bit of solace in listening to you read aloud to him. Your skills grow and so does your friendship, and the Prince knows you will not betray him or his secrets. You are but a simple maid, after all, and the company he offers you becomes much more valuable than anyone ever wanting to bribe you for information. They never do, though. Part of you wonders if you and Valarr are the only ones who know about your friendship, and the other part is still too bewildered that someone such as you has even garnered the Prince's attention at all. For whatever reason, he continues to ask to see you, to teach you and to talk to you, and you cherish every moment of it.
It is not quite yet your fifteenth nameday when he kisses you. The palace is asleep and you are due for your nightly rounds with the laundresses, but the Prince keeps you from leaving. You have spoken for hours, about nothing and everything at once, and his lips suddenly on yours feels like a perfect ending. You are inexperienced, though, and you do not know what else to do but stand there as he presses his mouth against yours. You feel yourself reciprocating, at the very least, but what else? He frightens you as much as he charms you, for he is the Prince, and you are just a maid. You are certain you do not even close your eyes as he kisses you, so shocked and pleased at the same time that you can do nothing but waver there on your feet. Is this what he meant, when he once explained the word swooning to you?
It ends nearly as quickly as it began, the rest of your night collecting linen bins as if in an absolute trance. You'd always taken the Prince for a friend, the past year with him garnering an honest companionship that maids and servants are rarely allowed even with each other. Had you ever considered something more than his friendship, though? Or was it only his unexpected kiss that suddenly filled your mind with things you dare not admit? These thoughts cloud your head for days, while Prince Valarr continues to glance your way whenever you are there to serve he and his family their meals. It is not long before your resolve fades, however, if you ever had any, and you find yourself once again in his apartments with open books and texts spread around you both. Except this time, you eagerly share a kiss with him after every page you master.
to maid or not to maid

You do not know how to think if what you're doing is wrong. All you know is how to serve, and do only what asked or allowed. Prince Valarr allows you to be somewhat freer when in his company, and it is not so much of a guilty pleasure as it is a need. As much as you enjoy the only life you've ever known, you can forget about your mother or your nonexistent father when with Valarr, learning how to read and now learning how to kiss. You trust that his unspoken permission and willing affection is what makes your actions right and true, for could the gods possibly judge a girl simply following her royal charge's lead? Your friendship continues to blossom now with an extra budding flower, one that starts growing with all of your shared secrets together. Alas, now matter how beautiful, you soon learn some flowers in the end will be plucked.
Your fifteenth year nearly goes by unnoticed, but the Prince remembers. You wake before the sun to help the cooks down in the kitchens, like every morning, and once the royal family is breaking their fast, together or not, you begin your daily routine. Nothing is different about the day than the days previous, and when it is finally time to serve the royal family's supper, you notice Valarr is not there. You dare not ask about him, of course, but you fear his younger sister Princess Rhaenna notices your lingering glance to his empty chair. The Queen's Mistress of Keys dismisses you and your mother once the plates are set, and though your mother insists she has sewn you something back in your room for your nameday, your room is not where you go. You have chores to attend, you say. The royal apartments need tidying, you say. Without question, you quickly disappear into the maze of hallways and corridors until you reach the Prince's.
It is easy being a maidservant. The guards let you come and go without question. Noblemen and women do not so much as look your way when you pass. You can move freely in and out of Valarr's chambers, like you would any other member of the royal family, and you are relieved when you find him inside. He is waiting for you, but this time without your books and other texts you're learning, and breathes out a recognition of your nameday before pulling you into his arms and kissing you deeply. You are not sure what happens or how it happens, but suddenly you are naked and exposed and then so is the Prince and suddenly you are in his bed and he is on top of you and suddenly your flower is gone and your maidenhead is his and you are not sure if you are crying from the pain or the preciousness of the moment but you cry anyway and stop only when he shushes you with his lips. You are not sure how long you are with him but you know the torches are all but embers in their sconces when you travel the hallways back to your single-chambered room, a maid but no longer a maiden. The rawness between your legs, cold and hot all at once, stays with your for days, and a bittersweet soreness from his lovemaking, as well, settles in the muscles of your legs and abdomen. You cannot think of a better sensation.
remember who you are

It is almost aggravating, when your position as a maidservant keeps you more busy than the Prince's own duties. Sometimes you go an entire week without seeing him, and you miss him through every moment. At times you do not recognize yourself, for you find yourself hurrying through your chores and even making small mistakes you otherwise would never make, caring only to have time to see Valarr. By now he knows nearly all of your secrets, and he continues to share his own with you even as he parts your legs again. You do not stop. You cannot stop. You will not stop. He cares too much for you, and you for him. Perhaps you know too much. Perhaps he knows too much. But you know it is not enough and you wonder if it will ever be. You do not consider an end because you do not wish there to be one, for you feel at times you have sworn an unspoken vow to be his friend and his confidante for as long as you can. And, of course, his lover, if he will have you. And he most certainly has you. The Prince of Summerhall.
Summerhall. Your gut drops at the news of his ascension. You praise and congratulate him when you see him next, but he knows you are afraid to lose him. Summerhall is dozens and dozens of leagues away, through the Stormlands and nearly to the Red Mountains of Dorne. Or so you have read. But the distance is not what frightens you most, not at first. He is newly betrothed to Lady Alea Lannister, a noble girl you know you will never be able to emulate. Gold hair and purple eyes, you hear. Impossibly rich, too. As beautiful as his own sisters. As beautiful as him. It has been almost a year since he first took your maidenhead, and this night is no different than the high number of others that precede it. But this night you cry again, and this time, not from any physical pain. You are afraid you will lose your best friend, to a place you will never be able to follow him to, and to a pending marriage you will never be able to be apart of. It is not jealousy that fuels your tears, but pure fear of loss. You never want to lose Valarr's friendship... but you are just a maid, powerless and helpless against the tides of those that rule you. For the first time in your life, it is a harsh truth.
He is gone almost before you can say goodbye. You are apart of the group that has been ordered to pack his things, and you do so in silence. The night before was spent in his arms, but today is tense and he can do little but glance your way before he mounts his horse and leads his retinue from the Red Keep. Though you return immediately to your duties, perfectly pretending to remain unfazed by the Prince's departure, you spend the next number of nights falling asleep with tears in your eyes. Though he taught you to read, he does not send you any letters, he simply cannot, and besides, he left too quickly before he could teach you how to write. Lonely and without your friend, you simply can do nothing other than what you have always known. Servitude.
dreams and reality

Months pass and you think life has returned to what you know is normal. Bitterly adjusted to no longer having a companion to share your nights or your innermost thoughts with, the announcement of Valarr's return nearly falls on deaf ears. Not because you do not care, but because it is not a sound you are prepared to hear, and it takes another moment or two for you to comprehend the gravity of the news. They are all returning; Prince Valarr, his siblings Aegon and Visenya, even his aunt Daenerys from her new home in Highgarden. Dragons flood the city and with them the royal family is whole again. You are apart of the welcome entourage that greets Valarr and his retinue as they ride on their horses up into the courtyards of the palace, and you watch with a smiling gaze as he moves to greet each of his family members. He passes over you, of course, as he does with any other of the servants, but still you clap your hands and cheer along with the rest of the commonfolk as they herald their silver prince's arrival.
It's as if not a day has passed between you. He takes you into his arms as soon as there is a most opportune evening, and strips you of all that you thought you had healed from. You no longer care for his match to the Lady Alea Lannister, accepting duty and the King's word above all, and caring only to reconcile the companionship you knew never faded. With the rest of the household you travel behind the royal family all the way to Lannisport, beneath the massive shadow of dragon wings and to the golden tournament held in Valarr's very honor. You serve them there in the magnificent Casterly Rock as you would in King's Landing, and though you waver in the face of his betrothed's beauty, it does not stop you from going to gather his worn clothes for the laundress that night. You are there when he wins the joust, and you applaud with the rest of the crowds as he crowns Lady Alea as his Queen of Love and Beauty. It is romantic, you think, and somehow you are actually happy for him. You are but a maid, and the Lannister girl is all that you know he deserves in a wife.
He does not forget about you, though. Not even with his future wife traveling back with them to the Red Keep. You keep your distance for the journey, keeping to your own camps behind the finer tents and accommodations of the royal family, the noble houses and their guards. It is not until you all return to the palace do you see him again, serving supper to both he and his purple-eyed betrothed. You are as silent as you are cordial; nothing but a simple maidservant. There is a brief moment where you manage to smile at him whilst the Lady Alea is looking to her food, but you quickly depart before he can smile back. Like all the times before, you are there when he needs counsel late in the night, wondering how to best appeal to his new betrothed, wondering if his brother Aegon could have truly beaten him at his own tourney, wondering again about his dormant egg that he sometimes brings out to let you touch. You would not have it any other way, you think, and begin wondering if there are ways you will be able to go with him once he is married and returns to Summerhall.
You are there to congratulate him when his twin sisters are born. You are there when the lords and ladies of the realm flock the city to celebrate their birth and you happily serve them all their magnificent dishes, even though you keep a sharp eye out for any appearance of your father. You are even there when the household prepares the court for their long trip to Dorne, where you find yourself in a place you never thought possible. You hate the heat and the Dornish servants wear less clothes than you do but, of course, you enjoy any time you are allowed with the Prince. It is not long before you realize you just very might well do anything for Valarr and for the sake of your friendship with him, and though it is not something you can publicly share as much as you wish, it remains just as precious. Life as a maid is, well, life as a maid. There is little color or description to it, but the Prince changes all of that for you.
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Dec 20 2015, 01:50 PM

Dark Sister. She could not believe her ears when the King announced the blade, much less her eyes when she actually saw the glint of its sharp grey steel. There was a small something she'd once learned to read with Valarr about the weapon, and she'd heard him muse over its legend enough that she could not help her jaw from unhinging and falling to form a shocked O as the King gave it to him. From her spot far in the back, separated by dozens of other bodies and granted only a singular glimpse of the scene, Allara knew the sight was still enough. Shield of the Marches, her mouth formed the silent syllables, wondering what that meant, wondering if that meant an entirely new list of duties that would take Valarr away from the palace sooner that she'd anticipated. Peering through the gaps in bodies and in between shoulders, Allara saw the Prince embrace his father the King, and a brief smile passed over her lips. She could not wait to see his new weapon up close later in the evening, and ask about his new title. Her heart lurched in excitement for him, and she feebly hoped that he could hear her clapping for him above all the other cheers filling the throne room.

Needing to be one of the first to leave so that meals did not go uncooked or rooms uncleaned, she'd left the ceremony before any of the other nobles or commonfolk, stealing one last look at Valarr's elated face before filing out of the throne room in silence. The day was long after that, monotonous and uneventful, and she ate her simple supper of bread and meat soup with the other household servants in relative quiet. Her mother had retired early with an ill stomach, making it easier for Allara to slip away unquestioned to her "chores" in the royal apartments. In truth, the Prince could use his candles replaced, and oil lamps refilled. Perhaps he even needed some carafes of wine brought up from the palace's cellars. Confident in her routine, she was sure to go to the King and Queen's apartments first, leaving only when the two sovereigns retired together to their bedchamber, before traveling to the Princess Rhaenna's and then finally to Valarr's. By then the hour was late, most of the other servants and maids having gone to their own beds, but not Allara. Without word she passed through the Prince's doors, the single Kingsguard hardly glancing her way as she dipped by him.

"Your Grace?" She called quietly, reaching her hand into a leathern satchel to pluck a few long sticks of wax from inside. Replacing the first candle that burned low, she slowly made her way further through Valarr's chambers, each shelf and each corner soothingly familiar to her. Especially the smells, she thought, inhaling hints of his aromas through her nostrils. One after the other, like she'd done in all of the other apartments, much of the room's candles were replaced, and she turned to set aside the emptied bag. For a brief moment her bright colored eyes surveyed the interior for any recent sign of him, but shook her head when she saw nothing. The wavy locks of her brown hair had been pulled into a half-messy swirl above her neck, exposing the slender nape until she'd reached up to slip a few pins from the thick tresses. Letting it tumble free over her shoulders and down her back, Allara continued to move quietly into the adjoining chamber, no longer paying mind to any duties that otherwise needed her attention. For now, she could only give her focus to Valarr until she was ordered elsewhere. "My Prince?"

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