Chapter Text
Soft strings and plucked lutes drifted through the Main Hall, mingling with the buzz of a thousand guests’ worth of chatter. Slowly, the music brought the vast hall to a hush. Valarr idly tapped her thumb against her goblet, mimicking the rhythm: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Her cousin and his new wife emerged from the crowd, Daeron leading Kiera to the center of the marble floor. His movements were smooth enough to fool anyone who had not seen him drain several cups of Tyroshi wine, and Kiera’s cool indifference to her husband’s antics impressed the young crown princess. She floated across the dance floor, smooth and elegant, a swan gliding through calm waters. Valarr wondered if she was getting a glimpse into her future, if, in a few years, she would not be watching from above but dancing with a new husband down below.
Her lips twisted into a grimace.
“Ah, your highness, it seems the drink might have begun to addle your wits,” the man next to her said, chuckling. “I did warn you! Our wine tastes closer to sweetened juice than Westerosi wine does, yet it is far more potent.”
Valarr had the sense to look abashed. She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Indeed, you did, my lord. It is a drink that goes down far too easily. I can see how your house made its fortune.” Valarr desperately dug through her memory for his name, but she came up empty. He had, of course, introduced himself at the beginning of the meal. She mentally kicked herself. Even one cup of the spiced wine was far too much; a loose tongue and a state wedding made for a dangerous combination. She could at least glean that he was Tyroshi, with his dark skin and midnight-blue locs. A member of Kiera’s retinue, then.
“I wanted to know if your highness would be joining the dancing. I have a son close to your age—he’s sitting there, towards the end of the table. His fifteenth name day was only a few weeks ago, but he is a fine dancer. Shall I call him over?”
She glanced in the direction he indicated and saw a young boy in the clammy iron fist of puberty. He was lanky and jittery, a leaf shaking in the wind. She peered down at the swirl of skirts and felt her stomach roil. Valarr was hardly in a state to dance, much less to be led by such a nervous lad. She gave the man an apologetic smile. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I need some time for the wine to wear off. I will dance, but in a little while. However, that girl right there, near my grandfather and my uncle Maekar, is my cousin Princess Daella. I’m sure your son will find her to be quite agreeable.”
To his credit, he was understanding. He bowed gracefully and headed off in Daella’s direction, leaving Valarr to her musings. Her father, seated next to her, was engaged in boisterous conversation with one of her grandfather’s councilors—he also seemed chattier than usual.
It seems the Tyroshi wine has taken no prisoners, she thought wryly. Valarr briefly surveyed the royal tables and found most of her relatives in some state of intoxication; only her staid uncle Aerys was left untouched. For the first time that evening, her eyes narrowed. There was an empty seat next to her Uncle Maekar, where Aerion should have been sitting. Valarr’s mismatched gaze quickly scoured the ballroom floor, and there he was, speaking with Leo Tyrell and his son, Anselm. He wore a dark, blood-red surcoat over a gray tunic. Silver thread edged the ensemble, highlighting the sword at his hip and matching the color of his hair. He was the very epitome of House Targaryen.
Valarr, clad in the soft purples of her mother’s house, fought another grimace. Her silver streak was as prominent as she could make it, nested amongst the rest of her dark brown hair. She’d accentuated the streak with the pearl-encrusted netting that held up her braided hair. Valarr and Aerion both had the same amount of Dornish and Andal blood, yet only her coloring betrayed it. Her single violet eye was a saving grace, set off by the hue of her dress. Targaryen black did Valarr little good.
Aerion, as if hearing Valarr’s thoughts, looked up at her. She stared back. Anselm Tyrell said something to grab his attention, and he turned away. She felt a small twinge of satisfaction, nudging it away with a few more bites of her meal. Pettiness, as Septa Carenna would say, did not suit a woman of her position. Valarr chewed on her roasted goose leg, grounding herself in the rich, buttery meat—something to steady the wine in her stomach. Soon, the horns would blow, signaling that other lords and ladies were welcome to join the new couple on the dance floor. She, too, would have to go down and mingle. The crown princess must be seen, and Valarr did not want to make a fool of herself.
The horns blared, and people began moving towards the center of the marble floor. Her father took her mother by the hand and guided her down the steps. Other seats around Valarr began emptying, and she felt several pairs of eyes looking up at her. Anselm Tyrell. Lywelyn Darklyn. Dagon Greyjoy. Only to name a few. Valarr sighed, knowing that in a few moments, those eyes would find other young heiresses to ogle. She rose once they had found other partners, and, after a moment of debate, Valarr took a quick sip of her Tyroshi wine, undoing any work the goose managed to accomplish. But, she reasoned, she needed a small boost of confidence before she took to the stairs. Her uncle Aerys had noticed her movements and came over to lead her down the steps.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
He grunted in response. Aerys was averse to any social events that included guests outside of his immediate family. He deposited her beside his wife—who stood conveniently next to the foot of the stairs—and immediately retreated to his seat. Valarr hid a smile. With a marriage alliance between House Penrose and House Targaryen already in place (several, if one looked a little further up her family tree), she breathed a little easier, making light conversation with her aunt Alinor and the rest of her Penrose cousins. She didn’t have to watch her every word, only her every other one. After a few quick pleasantries, her parents still busy twirling about each other, she made her way towards the Arryns. They were representatives of a Great House, yet deep in negotiations for a marriage between Lady Alys and her uncle Rhaegal. Safe territory.
“You look lovely tonight, Your Highness,” Alys said, curtsying. “The colors of your mother’s house truly suit you well.”
“My thanks, Lady Alys.” The woman was closer to her age than Valarr would have liked in a future aunt, nineteen years to her eighteen. Valarr gave her a warm smile, ignoring her discomfort. “Your lip rouge, what shade is it? It looks positively beautiful on you.”
“Oh, Your Highness, you’re too kind.” This time, the curve of her lips was genuine. “It is a paint I purchased from the Crownlands. I can’t recall the name of the shade, but I’ll be sure to send you a raven with the name as I return to the Vale. I think I may have another sample I can give you as well.”
“That’s very generous of you. I hope that, if you move to Summerhall with my uncle, your ravens won’t have to fly so far anymore.”
Alys’ cheeks reddened. She dropped her voice a few pitches. “If you allow me to speak plainly, Your Highness, I must say that it has always been a dream of mine to join House Targaryen.”
Valarr tilted her head, as if confused. “We are not known to be the most…” she paused, searching for the right word, “harmonious of families.”
Alys grinned at that. “Yes, that’s true enough. But I have always wanted to be a princess,” she said, lightly. “Are you in talks to join another house, Your Highness? Forgive my forwardness,” she added at Valarr’s startled look. “It is all anyone is talking about since your last name day.”
“If there are offers,” the princess replied cautiously, “neither my father nor my grandfather has made me aware of them, which I’m sure they would have if there were any serious overtures.”
“Well, surely the offers will be arriving soon, “ Alys said brightly. “Every man wants to marry a crown.”
“Hm. Indeed, they do,” Valarr murmured.
The strings started up again, calling the beginning of the next dance. Valarr caught the hazel eye of Lord Raymun Darry from across the great hall, and Alys curtsied, moving out of the princess’s way. She could stay on the edges of the ballroom for only so long. The swish of Valarr’s purple skirts did not go unnoticed. Dagon Grayjoy and Anselm Tyrell neared Lord Darry, as if Valarr could be easily distracted from her prey, convinced into choosing another. All this for a first dance?
She’d barely gotten the chance to speak to the man before another figure loomed into her periphery. Surely the others could wait. Valarr turned, annoyance prickling on her skin. She came nearly face to face with Aerion Targaryen, the crowd parting for him like a sharpened axe through wood. The silver embroidery of his surcoat caught the torchlight, as if he were silhouetted in pale fire. Immediately, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin. His handsome face was a pleasant mask, and his hand was held out to her in a silent proposition.
"Cousin," he drawled, his eyes tracing the mismatched features of her face. "You look flushed.” Aerion dropped his voice to a murmur. “I hadn’t thought the crown princess could be so easily undone by a goblet of wine."
Valarr felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she schooled her expression into one of indifference, if not outright boredom. She cast her eyes around. Aerion’s presence had managed to scatter her suitors, and a small group of people ringed them. He cocked his head, violet eyes trained on her face, waiting for her reaction. There were too many spectators to refuse him. Begrudgingly, Valarr put her hand in his. His grip was cool and firm, calloused from the tiltyard.
"On the contrary, Aerion," she whispered, loud enough only for his ears, "I needed enough wine to endure a conversation with you. It seems I should have indulged some more."
His grip on her hand tightened, but otherwise he showed no reaction to the jab. They moved in a circle, the music swelling. From afar, they were the image of Targaryen perfection, but up close, Valarr could see the jagged edge of his smile. She spotted Daeron twirling Kiera in her periphery, and for a moment, she was distracted. They seemed…happy.
"I saw you lurking up there," Aerion said, his voice still low as they drew close for a turn. The warmth of his breath tickled her cheek. "Watching these courtly displays.” He followed her gaze. “Tell me, when you look at Kiera, do you see a princess? Or do you just see another woman who’ll bow to the dragons?"
Valarr missed a beat, her heel catching slightly on the marble. Aerion’s grin widened. He didn't steady her; he simply watched her recover.
"I see a union that strengthens the realm," Valarr said through gritted teeth, ignoring the closeness of him. "Something you should ask your father to look into, if you ever tire of picking petty fights with squires."
“It appears it’s something your father is already looking into. Anselm Tyrell and his father are telling anyone who will listen that Anselm will have you wedded and bedded by next winter.” She stilled, almost stumbling a second time. Aerion gave her a look that nearly resembled pity—save for the amusement flickering in his violet eyes. “So, when you see Tyrell, do you see a king?”
“He would be prince consort,” she corrected woodenly.
Aerion breathed a soft laugh. “He is an Andal cretin, and you deserve a dragon.”
“There are no dragons, Aerion,” she hissed, feeling the last of her control slip from her grasp. “Which makes my task of keeping the Seven Kingdoms under Targaryen rule all the more difficult. Scaring away those suitors did not help.”
“Those whelps, you mean?” He sounded almost offended. “They scurried away with their tails between their legs.” Aerion clicked his tongue and led her into a graceful dip. “You are looking for consorts in the wrong places, cousin.” The music came to a close, and he released her hand before she could retort, Aerion bowing with a flourish that was technically perfect and entirely insulting. Valarr was left standing alone in the center of the floor, the aftertaste of the sweet wine like bitter tar coating her tongue.
She glanced up at the High Table. Valarr could handle embarrassment in front of some nobles, important as they were. It was the thought of her family watching that bruised her. Her parents were too involved with each other to notice, her grandfather similarly deep in conversation with his Hand and half-brother, Brynden Rivers. Aenys had disappeared, likely to the library. But Maekar, her favorite uncle—and father's favorite brother—had clearly seen the whole scene. He beckoned her towards him with a discreet gesture, his bushy brows knit in concern. Valarr hesitated. Anselm and her other suitors were still lurking in the crowd; fleeing to the safety of the High Table felt too much like announcing her cowardice to the court. And she was sure that, somewhere in the herd of lords and ladies, was Aerion, waiting to see what she'd do next. That thought sealed her decision. She met her uncle's eyes, giving him a tiny shake of her head, and set out to find Anselm. This night could be salvaged. She would prove it.
Valarr crossed the marble floor, her strides purposeful and confident. Snippets of whispered conversation floated towards her. She ignored them as much as possible.
"Did you see—"
"—rather close, no?"
“Princess Valarr—”
"Half-drunk, stumbling about—"
There was a dagger slicing into her skull, and each half-finished sentence drove it in, inch by inch. Rationally, she knew they most likely did not speak of her. At least, not all of them. Court was lively by design, and there were always scores of gossip and scandals for people to discuss. Valarr bit the inside of her cheek and gave Anselm a sweet smile. His returning grin was a bit more confident than she would have liked, the look of a man who believed Westeros was his for the taking. She set that feeling aside, and the two of them spoke, feigning interest in what the other had to say. Anselm's eyes would occasionally dart to his father Leo, always within a few paces of his son. Valarr wouldn't have been surprised if Lord Tyrell was silently coaching his son behind her back, mouthing replies and responses. Anselm would be a puppet for a consort.
Do you see a king?
She flitted about for the rest of the night, speaking to the Greyjoys, the Darklyns, the Blackwoods. Giving them a slice of her attention, a few follow-up questions, a practiced air of genuine interest. Her father joined her at times, and people looked from him to her. She was, after all, her father's daughter.
And they had matters to discuss.