Chapter Text
It kept raining.
Grey and green fused beyond the window, and Valarr blinked a few times to clear his blurry eyes.
The ring on his thumb turned, brushing lightly against his skin. Valarr looked down – Baelor's left hand covered his right, the thumb idly caressing the black ring. Had it not been for that movement, one might have thought the Crown Prince asleep – his head leaned back, eyes closed, posture relaxed and still. Only his thumb moved in slow circles.
It was Baelor's habit whenever he was restless or concerned, Valarr knew. The ring should have been on the Crown Prince's finger as well – it had belonged to him before Valarr took it in the death chamber at Ashford.
The young prince had tried to return it to its rightful owner, only to be refused.
"It suits you," Baelor had smiled, taking his son's hand gently and slipping the ring back into place. It fit Valarr perfectly, the dark gem standing stark upon his pale skin. Valarr could feel it every time and everywhere, cool and firm against his flesh.
Its possession had changed, but Baelor's habit had not.
His father's thumb accidentally brushed over his skin, and the spot burned – was it strange to think himself becoming Baelor's stress relief, like some cherished toy –
Valarr's hand twitched, but Baelor's pressed down. Moments passed, and the young prince did not pull his hand back. Mayhaps he just needs comfort, Valarr thought.
The sly weather exhausted them all. Rain turned the world into a simmering pot with steam thick in the air, suffocating. But the night told a different story – heat dropped fast and cold dominated. Some among the entourage weakened under it, dragging their journey down. Feet grew heavy, and the roads became harder to travel.
The Crown Prince, being a good man he was, decided to stop.
Lord Astor Meadows greeted them in a warm welcome at his Grassfield Keep. Located near the town of Grassy Vale, yet the keep held its quietness as if House Meadows isolated themselves here. From the very first moment Valarr saw it, he thought it had nothing alike to the Red Keep.
The Grassfield was so green. Shades of olive coated its walls like a cloak of time and weather, thick and mushy. Vines grew freely, leaving strokes like forest brush across the stone. The bailey was a fresh emerald carpet of grass stretching endlessly beneath their feet. Banners and symbols of House Meadows hung proudly everywhere – green bordered with bright flowers.
Even on the dinner table green dominated – green grapes, and pears, and pond apples for dessert, along with lime candies and green figs. Green sauce flavored the salad while avocado gave the salmon another note of creaminess.
Within the Grassfield's cozy hall, finally Valarr's appetite was pleased. His roast lamb leg smelled richly of garlic and rosemary, tasting sweet and soft as the meat blessed his tongue. He might have enjoyed it a bit too much – the conversation between the Crown Prince and Lord Meadows escaped him entirely.
Valarr only realized his mistake when the back of Baelor's finger flicked over the corner of his mouth, wiping away a smear of sauce. Valarr almost dropped his fork, but Baelor's eyes only sparked with amusement. He even licked the back of that finger, and Valarr's cheeks heated instantly.
Lord Meadows either knew nothing, or he pretended so. The young prince could not tell. He just raised another toast for Baelor with an easy laugh. The Crown Prince drank with him, soon both men were deep in wine and talk again. Valarr forced his attention back to them, ignoring the tingling at the corner of his mouth when he replied to Lord Meadows out of courtesy.
Dinner ended in delight, and the cheerful lord promised to show the dragonbloods the wealth of his lands the next morning.
"Long live King Daeron the Good," he said before bidding the good night. "It is by his wisdom that our realm thrives."
Baelor seemed pleased to hear it, and pride swelled in Valarr. He understood the purpose of their journey to Ashford – and it pleased him to know they had fulfilled the King's wish.
That night, sleep came easily to Valarr. Relief occupied his mind and nothing else – even Baelor's untouched dish at the dinner. Again.
The morrow welcomed them with another rain.
A tour to Grassy Vale was impossible – Lord Meadows showed the royals around his keep instead. In the great hall, he turned his seat to the Crown Prince and introduced his small court – a measter, several knights, and counselors. His family was also present, led by Lady Sharah Meadows. She had a gentle beauty, with honey eyes and a small face. Behind her stood three daughters and a son by Lord Meadows.
The girls had inherited their mother's hair, which fell behind their backs like waves of autumn. They wore dresses of different shades of green, colorful flowers blooming on their bodices. From afar, they looked like lively trees turned upside down. But their brother, who must not have been more than ten, was not different from a mushroom – the little boy wore a yellow doublet with brown trousers, and a small cream hat perched upon his head.
He reminded Valarr of little Matarys at home, and the young prince could not help but smile at the kid. The ladies blushed and giggled quietly. Lady Meadows sent them a half-hearted glare.
Though Grassfield had nothing to rival the Red Keep, it held a different kind of beauty – quiet and delicate, like a maiden with a daisy crown wandering in the forest, her milky skirt swaying with the wind.
Lord Meadows also seemed to have a taste for art. Instead of shining armor and ceremonial swords glittering with gems, his gallery was filled with paintings and tapestries. Expensive utensils of silver, gold, and ivory were placed carefully upon velvet coasters. Vases and glasses stood tall, sparkling within the colorful rooms.
Statues and sculptures of young men, maidens, children, and even animals were everywhere – lining hallways and scattered through chambers. Flowers were often placed beside them, giving a breath of life to their smooth, cold skin. They looked almost alive, as if each might tell its own tale to any passerby.
Valarr noticed a large and beautiful tapestry hanging proudly upon the wall of Lord Meadows's solar. Vibrant threads had been woven into the image of a town, every detail rendered delicately.
"Is this Grassy Vale?" Valarr asked.
"Yes, it is, my Prince," Viola, the second daughter of Lord Meadows, answered. She seemed to be the prettiest and boldest of the three. She continued, eagerly to please the young prince. "My sisters and I spent a whole year making it for our sire's five and thirtieth nameday."
Viola then introduced each part of the town for Valarr – from the highest watchtower to the most famous tavern, from the great square to the smallest alley. Each place had its own story, and those reached every ear by Viola's sweet voice. Lord Meadows seemed proud.
"Let her join us on the tour, my Prince," he suggested. "My daughter is brave, and she knows her people. She can tell you anything you wish to know of the town."
At this, Valarr had no reason to decline.
"It is my pleasure to have you occupying us, my lady." He nodded, and Viola beamed.
Lord Meadows's son, Aster, pleaded to join with his honey-doe eyes. Valarr did not even think twice before agreeing – he could never refuse a child who reminded him of Matarys.
The next morning greeted them with warmth and bright light – a fine day for a tour of the town.
The fast had ended, horses were made ready, and spirits ran high. Yet there was a little change. The Crown Prince and Lord Meadows did not join them – they were holding a sudden court at the great hall, leaving the young prince and his companions to go by themselves.
"Be my eyes, Valarr," Baelor told his son before the court began. "See the wealth of this land for me. Tell me what of it when you come back."
Valarr dutifully nodded, standing still as Baelor fixed his black coat. Rough fingers brushed over his neck, making him twitch, but Baelor only smiled and left him with a pat upon the shoulder.
Valarr then found Viola and Aster at the stable. The girl was helping her brother climb onto his pony, though his thick, short legs did not comply much.
“You can ride with me,” the young prince offered, noticing the beads of sweat upon the boy’s brow and his tight grip on the rein.
"Truly, my Prince?" Aster asked in awe. "Can I ride with you?"
"Yes." Valarr reached out a hand. "Come."
The boy eagerly took his offered hand – one strong pull, and he was seated neatly on the saddle. He squealed with delight, and Valarr could not help but smile. Viola giggled at them upon her horse nearby.
They left Grassfield Keep with only a few guards, and the ride was not long. The main gate of Grassy Vale opened wide before them, welcoming them into a lively world of noise. Leaving their mounts at a stable, the three walked along the main street, blending into the crowd. Their guards followed at a distance, watchful from behind.
No one noticed that the second in line to the Throne was among them – with a dark blue doublet and dark hair, Valarr looked different from a Targaryen in stories.
It seemed some time had passed since Aster had last visited the town. The boy found wonder in everything – fragrant bakeries, hot blacksmiths, and crowded inns. Each time his finger pointed at something, Viola would tell its story. Valarr listened carefully. At some points, he even admired her knowledge – true to her father's word, Viola knew her people and her land very well.
Noise drew them toward a lively market. Sellers shouted welcomes and even sang of their goods. Children ran around, laughing freely. Maidens giggled like ringing bells, putting their baskets over their head to avoid rushing kids or wandering ducks. Goats bleated, and donkeys brayed. Horses snorted quietly while geese honked loudly. The butcher's cleaver chopped down hard, meat plashing against the thick cutting board.
More reds appeared here – onions, tomatoes, and carrots everywhere. Fireplums, cabbages, and peas were cheap, but blood oranges, pears, and apples – green and red alike – cost much more. There were no lemons, though Valarr noticed merchants selling olives and peaches.
The sweet smell of honey and butter reached them, and Aster’s eyes brightened at once as he spotted a stand selling roasted nuts. He demanded buttered almonds immediately.
"You broke your fast already," Viola scolded him.
"But it will be long until lunch," the boy argued with a pout. The sunny day had reddened his fat cheeks – he must have been hungry after walking half the town with them.
Viola was about to say more, but Valarr cut in.
"Let us have some," he said. "I have never tried that."
Valarr was used to hard candies or caramel apples at the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Fresh nuts and raisins were also plenty, but it was Matarys who had a sweet tooth, not him. Street treats like these were still unfamiliar to him.
He placed a coin into Aster’s hand, and the boy chirped happily before running off. Viola seemed a little embarrassed by it, but Valarr only smiled encouragingly at her. She nodded shyly, then hurried after her brother, her buttery skirt waving with each step.
A short, black figure suddenly appeared in his sight.
That startled Valarr, making him step back in instinct at once. The hooded woman in front of him raised her head, and he saw her now – an old and crinkled face, thin lips, braids of dry, white hair coiling tight at her neck. Chains of copper and black thread woven with colorful feathers adorned her chest. Her eyes remained covered behind the hood.
"You shall never be king," the woman whispered in a rough voice. "And you shall be gone with the spring. Black dread follows you."
"What?" Valarr blurted out, incredulous.
"No one will mourn you. No one can save you," she rasped quickly, leaning closer as if sniffing at him. " There is darkness in you."
Valarr took another step away from the mad woman. What did she mean? How did she even know him, a prince in line to the Throne? Where were his guards?
"Hey!" Viola's voice rang from afar. The moment Valarr turned to her call, the strange woman was gone.
The young prince blinked rapidly. Where had she just gone?
"Who was that?" Viola asked as she reached him, Aster hurrying behind on his short legs. "Are you alright? Did she offend you somehow?"
"No," Valarr said. "It was a…fortune teller, I think."
"Oh," Viola chuckled. "Don't listen to them, my Prince. They all speak of nonsense. Once I was told I would fly beneath a green sky. Can you believe that?"
"And I was told that one day I grew so large I could no longer move." Aster chimmed in. "It is really silly, my Prince. I cannot become a mountain, can I?" He puffed his chest, imitating a maester giving a lesson, and Valarr could not help but smile.
Mayhaps he thought too much of it. Her sudden appearance had startled him, and her riddles had confused him, that was all. He exhaled silently – worry loosened within him, fading by Aster’s bright smile as the boy proudly showed the trinkets he had bought.
The sky suddenly darkened. A great blanket of cloud rolled overhead, and the wind felt wet on their skin – rain was coming.
The young prince and the Meadows siblings decided to return –there would always be another day to explore. Rain poured down the moment they reached the keep. Bold as she was, Viola caught Aster’s hand and ran. Their laughter rang across the courtyard as they tried to outrun the drizzle. Valarr sprinted after them, a smile spreading wide on his face.
Servants hurried over with towels and ginger tea, taking away their wet coats. Aster happily pressed his bag of almonds into Valarr’s hand before Viola led him back to Lady Meadows. His little hand waved enthusiastically, and Valarr politely waved in return.
He watched them leave, hand in hand. His mind went to his beloved Matarys, and Valarr realized what it might feel like to have a sister, either. But now mayhaps he did – it was nice, and a sense of peace warmed his heart.
He then returned to his chamber. A table full of food awaited him – it was time for lunch. The smell of hot soup, roasted garlic, and creamy butter made his mouth water. Yet his eyes lit for something else – Baelor stood inside the room, waiting for him.
"My child," the Crown Prince greeted, one strong arm circling Valarr’s waist, drawing him in a cage of embrace.
"Father," Valarr shyly replied. He stood perfectly fit in his father's hold, blushing. Though he had no wish to resist Baelor's intimate gestures, Valarr still bore a sheepishness to it.
Father always watched him too closely – even a simple ride through a small town had somehow stirred concern in Baelor. Surely he knew his son was capable, and yet he could not help but be overprotective. His little lamb sometimes wondered if Baelor realized he treated him like a winter rose – too fragile and precious to let go.
"I hope you have had a pleasant day," Baelor said, his voice smooth like silk as he leaned in, purring to Valarr's ears.
"Indeed," the young prince answered. He did not even know where to place his hands – he settled them upon Baelor's shoulders instead. His father's breath now felt warm on his flesh. Was this normal? For father and son to stand so close? Valarr assumed it must be – he could not fathom Baelor being distant, not after the trial where he had nearly lost him.
"What did you see?" Baelor asked.
Valarr told him everything. He had to tilt his head to meet Baelor’s eyes, only to see the reflection of himself in those dark, gentle orbs. His soft voice lingered on Baelor's shoulders, their breaths mingling. Baelor hummed at each tale, even the one with the fortune teller.
"Her word worried me, I admit," Valarr said, eyes casting down.
A quiet laugh rumbled from Baelor's chest. He lifted Valarr's chin, thumb circling against the skin.
"Nonsense," he said. Rough fingertip accidentally brushed his lower lip, and those pink petals parted at once – so docile and obedient by instinct. Baelor's eyes darkened like black pearls. Mayhaps it was he standing against the bright window.
Baelor continued. "Your fate may be written in the stars, but the choice is always yours, Valarr. Even when it is a hard one to make."
The young prince considered that. His life was easy with few hard choices – the hardest one must be leaving his father and Matarys. In that, he would always choose to stay.
"Yes, father," Valarr agreed without doubt.
The royals remained at Grassfield for a while, allowing their entourage time to recover. The rain came and went like a game of hide-and-seek, unpredictable. Days passed between its playfulness and people’s annoyance.
On clearer days, Valarr and the Meadows siblings would stroll through the town again, discovering new corners. Soon enough, there was little left to see. They went to the forest instead, where even Viola and Aster's other sisters joined them. Valarr learned that the eldest, Rosa, was a quiet and graceful lady, while the youngest among them, Calla, had a cheerful and gentle nature.
Sometimes they stayed inside the keep. Aster would read beside Valarr, while the sisters painted or embroidered nearby. The young prince showed the boy places upon a map, telling him tales of distant lands. Sometimes they played chess. Viola was bad at it, and after losing three times, she refused to play again. On the other hand, Aster and Calla showed that they had potential, but none of them could win against Rosa, who was masterful.
Valarr did not neglect his training either. There were gallant knights among Lord Meadows’s court, and one of them soon became his favored opponent. Ser Jacob Pike bore his sword with fierce skill and fought with equal fire, offering a fine match Valarr had always desired.
Here in the courtyard of Grassfield, they gave all of themselves to the practice. Valarr grunted as he blocked a strike, but the brave knight was quick and bold. He shifted his whole body, and the young prince only had a flash to avoid an elbow to his head. That was also Valarr's mistake – he lost his step and his grip on the sword. Valarr fell to the ground at the same time with his weapon, and Jacob towered above him.
"Yield," the knight panted, the tip of his sword steady at Valarr’s chest. Hot sweat rolled along his sharp jaw to his chin, dropping onto Valarr's breastplate.
Valarr did not answer. His delightful laugh was enough. His blood ran hot, and his heart beat fast – he had lost, but his skills had been tested. His opponent was strong and brilliant. His sword could strike in full blows, no holding back. The tourney at Ashford was a shame compared to this.
The young knight's cheeks reddened. He quickly offered Valarr a hand and helped him to his feet.
"Your sword, my Prince," he said, placing the hilt carefully back into Valarr’s hand.
"Thank you, ser," Valarr said with a nod, taking his sword back. He gave the young knight a pleasant smile. "Next time, Ser Pike."
Outside the match, the knight was less fierce and more of a humble man. He agreed with a touch of shyness, as if receiving Prince Valarr's favor was not something to boast of, but to hold close to his heart.
The young prince left with sore arms, but his step felt light. Brave boys always delighted in a good fight, and he was no exception.
His eyes lit up as he saw Baelor standing at the entrance to the courtyard. His father often held court with Lord Meadows in the mornings – Valarr wondered how long he had been there.
"Father," Valarr greeted him with a smile. But the closer he came, the more a sense of wrongness rose in him.
Baelor did not look pleased – his brows furrowed, and his eyes darkened, fingers turning a golden ring restlessly.
"Father?" Valarr’s smile faltered. Even in the face of difficult matters, Baelor rarely showed displeasure. It was his calm against the storm that won people's trust, the certainty that he would bring peace.
The Crown Prince drew him close with one hand, the other brushing lightly through his hair. Sweat and dust had dulled the pale streak, though Valarr did not notice.
"I hope you have had a pleasant course," Baelor murmured, leaning close to his ear.
The words sounded familiar, but the tone was wrong – Baelor's voice was deep and rough like waves crashing upon rocks. There was no doubt. Something was bothering him.
"I have, father," Valarr hesitated, but he replied nonetheless. "Ser Pike is a fine knight."
Baelor said nothing, but Valarr immediately knew that he had made a mistake – Baelor withdrew from his son, posture straight and firm, all contact lost in an instant.
"I hope the court fared well also," Valarr hastily added.
"Matters of the realm are far from it, son," Baelor said coldly. "Rule will sooner give you a headache than any joy."
Valarr almost flinched at that. His father, who came back from a grave wound on his head, had already returned to duty, while Valarr had spent his days in pleasures and games. Gods be good, how foolish he had been. He was heir to his father. He should have stood beside him – shared his burdens, eased his mind.
Valarr was horrified to realize – days had passed since the last time they dined together.
"Father, I –"
But before Valarr could utter an apology, Baelor had turned away.
The young prince twisted and turned on his bed with unease.
Don't think too much of it, he told himself. Yet his heart disagreed, letting guilt gnaw at it in defeat. It had every reason to feel upset. His father had denied him – again – when his door closed shut, barring Valarr from entering.
"His Grace wishes not to be disturbed," the guard had said.
Valarr knew it was a lie. The truth was simple – Baelor refused to see his son. Was he truly angry at him? Or disappointed? Or both? Or mayhaps there was something else – exhaustion from bearing all duties alone. He had held court for days, while Valarr had been nowhere near him. He had been riding, hunting, trekking, and fishing instead. They had not even shared a meal.
Baelor had said none of it.
He had left Valarr in a maze of quiet ire, making him to find his way out. But the maze was twisted and foggy, and the path was long. Thornes pricked at Valarr whenever he scrabbled for a clue. Paths shifted whenever he thought he had found an opening. Rounds and rounds, and he was still lost in there, always coming back to where he began.
The maze followed him into his dreams. It dragged into endless, where Valarr wandered it tirelessly, searching for light. He did not even know how he moved. Did he run or did he drift? He just went along the way, lost within the mist of green.
Sometimes he used the statues for directions and markers. They seemed both familiar and strange. There was Aerion with a mace. Then little Aegon with a fish. Their eyes smiled, yet their lips wept. Daeron held a great black sphere – so vast and heavy it seemed ready to crush him. But Daeron the King – the old and great king on the Throne – reached down toward Valarr with an open hand.
Valarr took it, and the ground beneath him collapsed. His feet slipped. He fell with his grandsire. The King broke into pieces. Valarr ran – he was back at the maze again. Something followed him. It scraped along the ground, a harsh metal sound. He knew that sound. Knights who fell off from their horses always made it. It hissed loudly when it turned the corner, chasing him.
How? How? Grass lay beneath his feet. What was it grinding against?
Valarr did not have time to think. It screeched again, painfully loud. Then a heavy thud, as if it had dropped from above. Valarr might have breathed in relief, but the ground beneath him softened, thickened, then turned to mud. It swallowed him down, pressing him tight.
He could not breathe.
The dark, slick thing covered his mouth, trapping his scream. Then his nose, taking the last precious air. Then his eyes – his light – sealing him into darkness.
He was going to die –
Valarr jolted awake.
"Are you well, my Prince?" Viola asked with concern. "You seem to have a restless night."
Valarr blinked his bloodshot eyes, looking away. Clouds were thick in the sky, making sunlight grey – rain was coming again. Wind ran through the hallway where they stood, cool and soft, like damp brushes against the skin.
"I am fine," he said. Viola did not seem convinced.
"Well," she pondered, "the flowers in the garden are in full bloom. We have a pavilion there. If it pleases you, I could have tea and some books prepared for you."
Tea and books? Valarr tilted his head – an idea flicked through his mind.
Then suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. Valarr almost gasped at the sense of hot gaze piercing through his back. He turned around, and Baelor's dark eyes met his.
The Crown Prince was on his way to the great hall, his court following behind. Among those people, he stood out like a dragon between sheep – his black coat like folded wings, guarding the space around him. He looked at Valarr only for a moment. Then he turned away, his cloak sweeping behind like a dragon's raging tail.
Valarr did not notice Viola calling after him. He hurried toward the hall, something within him stirring even faster than his hasty steps. Inside, Baelor sat upon the floral throne, his court gathered in waiting. Valarr came to stand at the foot of the throne – his rightful place as Baelor's heir –
And the Crown Prince did not even spare him a glance.
Valarr bit down on his lip, lest a whine of 'father' would slip out. Baelor's sudden indifference frightened him. He wanted nothing but to curl upon Baelor's knees, to beg for the smallest sign of acknowledgement. He would apologize for whatever wrong he had done. He would make amends. He would be good – a good son, a good heir, anything – as long as Baelor was pleased. Just give me a chance, he wanted to say, I will do everything.
But Valarr did not dare. He feared those eyes might turn upon him with a coldness far worse than just passing him by.
The court began.
Valarr watched his father rule – just and fair, as the smallfolk always dreamed of. Farmers, widows, merchants, and thieves. Maidens and bastards, paupers and stepchildren. Different lives with different stories. They wept, and they cheered. They thanked, and they pleaded – but the justice they received was all the same. Firm, but laced with mercy. Baelor’s word was law, and none dared question it.
It was not easy. Sometimes Valarr saw Baelor discreetly massage his brow, and the ring upon his finger never stopped its restless turns.
People came and went, until it rained. The light dimmed, and the court was dismissed.
"I will be in my chambers," the Crown Prince then told Lord Meadows. "I am not to be disturbed."
The lord and his servants obeyed. They bowed as he left, letting him have his peace.
He never glanced at Valarr for once.
It kept raining. Everything was lost in the world of grey, vague and blurred behind a veil of falling drops. Water poured down without mercy, and thunder rumbled from afar. The day ended fast, and the shadow swallowed what remained.
The peaceful keep sank into a deeper silence. No voices. No birds. No clashing swords. No echo of steps. Nothing. All sound had vanished – as if the rain outside belonged to another world. Even a graveyard would have been livelier.
Valarr carefully moved down the stairs – a faint headache started to form at his temples, where silence weighed against his ears, stuffing them thick with heavy air. He regretted not bringing a coat – his nightshirt was thin, and silk felt cold on his skin. The heat from his candle was like a grain of sand against the shore – too little to matter. Even the light it provided was no better, forcing him to move with care, lest he miss the next step.
There was another hallway before he could reach Baelor's chamber. Valarr sighed in relief – at least a straight path was easier to follow.
But it was so dark, though. Valarr did not expect the Grassfield to be so careful in its expense. He missed the Red Keep – bright even at night, with torches and fires casting light upon chandeliers and shiny armors. There were no such things here. Only pale, cold statues glowed faintly – vague ghosts with hundreds of faces floating in place. Portraits hung silently on the walls, features hidden in the dark. But their eyes still followed, Valarr could feel it.
He gripped the book tighter, lifting his candle higher. Darkness was thick ahead, no light could come through. He was at that inn again, alone with an unknown shadow –
No. He was not alone.
There were many with him here. They were just silent. They only watched.
A child faced him, his smile wide and full of teeth. His hand reached out, almost caught Valarr's wrist. The young prince jerked back, his candle flickering dangerously. The child did not smile. He only smiled, features innocent and still, hand halted in mid-air.
VValarr’s headache worsened – his heartbeat thundered in his ears, echoing through his skull. He stepped aside to pass it, quietly cursing whoever put it here. He pressed the book against his chest as if that could calm his heart down. He raised the candle again and moved on, trying to shake the creeping dread off his skin. Behind him, he missed a faint crack.
And a smile stretched wider.
The hallway seemed endless, or mayhaps he was moving too slowly. Darkness stretched before him, and he quickened his steps. Why did all the statues look at him? They had not been carved that way. He remembered the maiden and the swan he had just passed – they should have faced forward, not twisted back, their necks bent at impossible angles.
His hurried feet made hasty thuds against the floor. Then he heard it – tiny cracks and hisses, like stone shifting by a tenth of an inch.
Valarr ran.
The sound grew louder and closer, heavy like a weight grinding bones to pieces. Cold fingers brushed over his silk, sending chills running down his spine. It was familiar. Was he back in the maze? Still dreaming? Was he going to drown –
Valarr crashed into something solid. His candle shut, and his book slipped from his grasp. It dropped to the floor like thunder in the dark. The grinding behind him fell silent. The young prince saw nothing. Cold, callous hand caught his, pulling him close. His heart jumped to his throat, and he jerked back –
"Valarr?"
The young prince froze.
Baelor's deep voice echoed from above him. He blinked rapidly, trying to see the dark figure in front of him. His eyes took in only vague shapes.
"My boy," Baelor cooed softly. Another large hand cupped Valarr's pale cheek, and the young prince shuddered – the ring was so cold against his skin. "What is the matter?"
"I saw – there were –" he stammered, turning instinctively to look behind him. No cracks. No hisses. No cold fingers reaching. Nothing but some blurry shapes of statues in the dark. He could not help but clutch at Baelor's shirt, seeking comfort. His father – a living being with warm flesh and hot breath – was real. He was here.
"Calm down, sweet Val," Baelor said, putting Valarr's hand to rest upon his chest. It rumbled gently beneath Valarr's palm by each syllable, and the young prince obeyed – familiar endearment soothed him better than any other word.
"What brings you here?" Baelor asked.
"I want to see you," Valarr admitted softly. "To apologize… and to make amends. I brought a book."
"A book?"
"I remember you often find peace in reading. You said those words eased your mind."
"My dear." A low laugh warmed Baelor’s voice. "You would read to me?"
Valarr shyly nodded, but he realized Baelor might not see it, so he added, "Yes."
The Crown Prince said nothing for a moment. Valarr then felt Baelor move. Papers rustled quietly nearby his feet. A familiar hand took his again, leading him forward. A door opened before Valarr could ask a question.
The young prince squinted his eyes – light brightened the room as a different world from outside. Candles happily flickered, mirrors and shiny ornaments reflecting their little yellow dance. The moon up there watched them in jealousy, thick clouds and the veil of grey hiding it away.
Baelor placed the book back into his hands and smiled. "I trust you chose something light for such a heavy night."
Valarr stared into those dark eyes – humour sparkled in them warmly like dancing candlelight, as if the cold distance in the morning was just imagination.
Mayhaps it was, Valarr thought. He made it up in his head. The dream of the night before just caught up on him, that was all – Baelor had not been there, and he always feared losing his father again. He longed for unnecessary reassurance, and he had thought too much of it.
Baelor would never leave him. He had promised that. Valarr trusted him.
He nodded, following Baelor to the large bed in the middle of the room. They settled together – Valarr sat on his father's lap while Baelor leaned back to the headboard leisurely, strong arms holding his son close. Such an intimate position, but it did not concern Valarr – his eyes stuck to the words the moment he opened the book.
"Once upon a time, there was the mighty beast named Balerion," he read. "The Black Dread, they called him. The greatest and oldest of the Conquerors’ dragons. The last living creature in all the world who saw Valyria in its glory –"
Valarr woke to the noise.
He blinked and rose slowly, taking in his surroundings. Everything looked familiar, but the room was not his. The bed was not, either. The rain had stopped, and the sun had risen, light pouring through the window. Blue sky kissed his cheeks with a good morning.
Valarr looked around, confused. What was he doing here? Where was Baelor?
A sharp cry pierced the air, startling him. Beyond the thick door, chaos grew – voices rising, footsteps rumbling. Something was wrong.
Valarr hastily took a coat and hurried out. He nearly tripped – the coat was not his, and it was too long – but he ignored that. Servants poured from everywhere, all moving in one direction – toward the garden.
It was not far from Baelor's chamber, or rather, Lord Meadows's. The lord’s garden was a beautiful one. Roses, violets, and marigolds bloomed beautifully in beds. Apple, plum, and pear trees stood tall, their branches heavy with fruit.
And there, beneath a great old oak, a crowd had gathered. They pointed at the tree, their fingers trembling. Their faces paled with horror. Gasps and murmurs spread among them while Lady Meadows's cries broke. Her daughters clung to her, weeping loudly. Their maids huddled together, sobbing with shaking shoulders.
But Viola was not among them.
Valarr swallowed instinctively. He looked up.
First, a yellow skirt – pouring down like a sad bellflower. Next, pretty small hands – pale and slack at both sides. And the last – Viola.
Her head hung in a loop, her body weighed down.
Valarr stared at her.
A wind stirred, and the yellow skirt swayed gently among the green leaves.
The branch creaked. The sound scraped against all ears, along with the cries below.
"Take her down," Lady Meadows wailed. "Take her down."
Guards rushed to obey. They climbed up there, but Viola was too high. One day I would fly beneath a green sky, she had said. Valarr remembered her laughing at it. The loop was loosened, and her neck broke backward, making a square, terrible angle. Sweet Viola faced him now.
Her soulless eyes were opened. And on her lips –
A wide, wide smile.