A/N: I know you guys are waiting for it. And many of you should be disappointed that this story is dropped but you are wrong. It is now back though regular chapter is not possible. I will try to upload at least 1 chapter per week.
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The heavy oak doors of the Small Council chamber closed with a thud that felt less like the conclusion of statecraft and more like the dropping of a portcullis.
Valarr Targaryen remained standing in the dimming light of the outer gallery, the cold impression of Brynden Rivers's fingers still burning like frostbite through the heavy velvet of his sleeve. The Red Keep was always cold when the sun began its dip toward the Blackwater, but today the chill felt deliberate, as if the castle itself were holding its breath, waiting for the first drop of blood to hit the rushes.
"A game of shadows," Valarr muttered to himself, the words tasting like copper and ash.
He walked slowly down the Serpentine Steps, his boots making no sound against the stone. He had learned early that a prince who wished to survive the court of Daeron the Good needed to move like smoke. His father, Baelor Breakspear, walked with the thunder of a knight; his boots rang out with honor, duty, and the heavy, reassuring weight of a man who believed the world could be mended with a fair tourney and a just law.
But Valarr was the son who watched from the dais. He had seen the way the lords of the Reach looked at his father—the subtle, tightening twitches around their mouths when they beheld Baelor's dark, Dornish hair and the swarthy cast of his skin, inherited from Queen Myriah. The Black Prince, they called him in the taverns of Oldtown and the taverns of Lannisport. Not out of malice, always, but as a reminder. A reminder that the conqueror's blood had been mixed with the sand of the South.
And now, there was a new brother. A namesake. Another child of the Dornish line to secure the succession, or, as the Blackfyre loyalists would undoubtedly whisper over their sour wine, another nail in the coffin of the true Westerosi nobility.
Valarr reached the courtyard, where the evening air was thick with the scent of roasted capons, turned earth, and the distinct, metallic tang of the smithy. The castle was already transforming. The King's decree had barely cleared the council chamber, yet the machinery of the royal household was already grinding into motion.
Lords and hedge knights were arriving daily for the tourney that was to accompany the feast. The banners of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon, red on black—snapped smartly in the wind atop the White Sword Tower. But beneath those red folds, Valarr could see the invisible threads his uncle Bloodraven had spoken of. The threads were tightening.
"You look as though you're calculating the cost of the beef, nephew."
Valarr didn't flinch. He had trained himself not to startle when a voice drifted from the shadows. He turned to find his uncle, Maekar, standing beside a rain-streaked stone gargoyle. Maekar's face was a crag of hard lines, his silver-gold hair cut short and brutal, unlike the long, flowing curls favored by the court's dandies. He looked like an anvil that had survived a hundred hammers.
"The beef is the least of our expenses, Uncle," Valarr said, bowing his head slightly. "I am more concerned with the guests who will be eating it."
Maekar snorted, a sharp, humorless sound. He stepped into the torchlight, his massive chest expanding as he crossed his arms. "My father Daeron thinks a full belly breeds loyalty. He forgets that a stuffed wolf still has teeth, and a fat lion can still crush a skull. This feast is madness. We should be gathering the spears of the Crownlands, not opening our cellars to every disgruntled lordling from the Mander to the Red Fork."
"The King wishes to show strength through magnanimity," Valarr replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "He believes that if Daemon Blackfyre sees the splendor of the throne, he will understand the futility of rebellion."
"Father sees only what his mirror shows him," Maekar spat. "A king's face on a bastard's shoulders. And Aegor Rivers stands behind him, blowing into his ear like a blacksmith at a forge. Bittersteel doesn't want peace, Valarr. He wants the throne for Daemon, and he wants Bloodraven's head on a spike. If he comes to this feast, it isn't to look at our tapestries. It's to count our guard changes."
"I know," Valarr said softly.
He looked at Maekar, seeing the bitter honesty that made his uncle so unpopular at court. Maekar was the fourth son, the overlooked warrior who lived in the shadow of Baelor's grace and Daeron's wisdom. Yet, in this matter, Maekar's iron-hard cynicism was closer to the truth than the King's desperate optimism.
"Then do something about it," Maekar said, leaning in, his violet eyes boring into Valarr's. "Your father is too noble to see the rot in the floorboards. Bloodraven sees it, but he plays his own games with spiders and whispers. You are the heir's heir, Valarr. If the Crown falls, you fall furthest. Don't let your grandfather's kindness blind you to the steel in the dark."
With that, the Prince of Summerhall turned and strode away, his heavy cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a great, dark bat.
Valarr stood alone for a long moment, the wind tugging at his hair. He reached down, his fingers tracing the pommel of his dagger. It was a modest weapon—no Valyrian steel, no dragon-bone hilt—just good, castle-forged iron with a grip wrapped in boiled leather. It was a tool meant for work, not for show.
"A game of shadows," he whispered again. "Then I had best start finding the corners where they hide."