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There was nothing like a tourney to make the blood pump.
The lists were full of red hot virility, the tents bursting with laughter and games, and the kitchens struggling to keep up with the lusty stomachs of the highborn.
The Prince Valarr had an appetite that was calculated this tournament. Not for Dornish Red or ham, but for a lady.
Baelor had told him on the ride to Ashford Meadow, that this tourney was a wonderful opportunity to find a wife.
His son did not take this lightly. He would one day be king, he knew his duty. Yet he was not being rushed to marry; only encouraged.
He felt that it was rational. He had his footing and his knighthood. It was time that he became a husband, he thought.
The words of wisdom from his father did stop rash decisions. "Do not pick for name, only nature."
The Prince was sat at the Baratheon's high table, having been sent out to be diplomatic and being swept into Lord Lyonel's festivities.
He sipped wine sparingly, never one to lose control.
As shrewd as Baelor's advice was, it went in one ear and out the other.
Mismatched eyes picked you not for name or nature, only beauty.
You were sat by the edge of the tent, a few rows away, slumped in your seat as you watched the men and women dance about.
The pout of your face made you even more captivating.
The prince had the wonkiest of sights, and squinted in an attempt to see you better. This was a fail, yet no matter, for clarity was not necessary to appreciate your ethereal face.
It was rare that Valarr felt anything other than duty or rigid politeness towards a woman. The sight of you had his heart pounding so loudly that he could hear it, his ear drums as powerful as the ones that were beaten to call a tilt.
Who were you? This lady dressed in purple silk — the costliest of dyes - with mixed gemstones whose names he knew not.
The lively music and open atmosphere of the tent emboldened him, and he stood, walking through the crowd with a purpose — indulging Ser Baratheon with a twirl — and then escaping the gathering of bodies.
He stood at the end of your table, and gazed at your seat. Empty.
Gone. Fleeting like winter sun.
A huff left him.
No matter! He would find you. His affections had already grown so that his ribs felt pressured by the enlargement of his heart.
In the morn, he was armoured and readied, sat outside his dragon-headed tent with intent. He sipped a cup of water in wine's stead, keen on keeping his composure and focus.
The sounds of metal clacking and horses whinnying, backed by cheers of the peasants filled the rows, but they were all ignored by the prince.
For his eyes were set on the Lord's box, even if they were useless.
The maesters had always said that his genetic incongruous gaze was the cause for his difficulty to see far away.
He could make out his uncle, his father, and his cousin, along with the Lord and Lady Ashford between them. But beyond that, he was feckless.
This tourney must be his, he decided. He must shove his lance through every man he meets, so that he might ride to the precious box and crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty.
There was no title more flattering, even though he thought it still fell short of you.
This day was the week's most important; the jousting finale. Today, Valarr would have five opponents. Ser Steffon Fossoway, the sly, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, the honourable, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, 'The Laughing Storm', and Lord Ashford's son, himself. Kevan, 'The flaccid lance'.
It seems like one is forgotten — on the contrary. For facing his cousin was in the forefront of Valarr's mind. "I will not embarrass you today", he said just moments ago, then drove his vengeance into a straight knight's horse. What joy it will be to see him fall.
The prince's strength was proven, as he knocked his first three opponents from their saddles.
Each time he rode to the high box, and gave a deep, respectful nod to Lord Ashford. Yet the only presence he really acknowledged was the lack of yours.
By sundown, he was restless, pacing in his tent with his hands on his hips, like a chained dragon.
In Lord Baratheon's tent last eve, he swore that he saw a sigil somewhere on your dress. Maybe he was mad and had just convinced himself, or maybe his eyesight was worse than he thought.
The likely offenders were held in his hands, figures of Houses Caswell, Crane, and Fossoway. Each minor houses of The Reach that the ever-calculated prince figured would be present at this small tourney.
Yet none of them sparked any remembrance in him. I fact, each seemed less likely than the last, even when he squinted.
Gods, he was never going to find you.
He resumed his pacing. So absorbed in his figurines that he barely noticed when the flap opened.
It was his father standing the the entrance, a huff of amusement leaving him. "A woman has caught your fancy." He murmured teasingly, taking a seat and watching his son walk in circles.
Valarr nodded, unashamed, only bothered. His hands waved theatrically. "I do not know her name!"
Baelor chuckled to himself his fingers spinning a bolt on the table. "You must not be the conversationalist I raised you to be, if she did not even give you her name."
The younger rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, messy from repeating that action. "I did not speak to her. I only saw her blurry images, and by the time I got to her place, she had departed."
Baelor hummed calmly. "Find her at the feast."
Valarr huffed, his face red from frustration. "I do not want to find her at the feast. I want to give her the crown!"
His father only chuckled. The sound was backed by hurrahs outside of the tent's small atmosphere.
"Fine, you wish to give her the crown. You may do it when you win." The coin rippled across the hardwood of the table as he leaned forward. "You are rather on edge."
"I am securing my future." Valarr countered quietly, relaxing his tone to be more childish and open.
His father nodded.
The sun seemed to have set instantly, and so the games began once again.
As The Young Prince shouted for his helm, his eyes were locked on his cousin. Every part of him felt like it was pulsing.
His horse lurched forward, the heavy weight of the lance on both its neck and its rider's forearm.
Valarr could almost see Aerion's expression through his gaudy helmet.
What a fool.
The heir's heir smashed the tip of his stick straight into the side of Maekar's son, and he fell out the side door like he was being pulled by an invisible force.
The screams of amusement and admiration rang through the rows, and the unharmed prince rode straight to the box.
His eyes focused with a squint, looking up and seeing you. He was enchanted, unaffected by the loud sounds or heated ambience.
There she was, the wondrous creature he had spent a day searching for. Even more beautiful close up, more radiant, more enticing.
The tone of his voice was confident, his gaze set on you in an unmistakable way. The grip he had on his leathery reins was so tight it was rubbing layers off of his metal gloves.
"My Lady!" He called up to you.
The slouched posture with which you sat was immediately remedied, inwardly questioning if he was even speaking to you. But by his unquestionable expression, and the way your sister tapped your hand insistently, it was a sure thing.
Valarr pulled off his helm, and threw it to the side, breath heaving as he rose his lance to lay against the wooden railing.
"Would you honour me with your favour?"
The taste of smoke filled your mouth as it opened slightly.
"Go." Your sister whisper-shouted.
You obeyed and pulled a ribbon of many free from your hairdo — blue, matching your gown, tied it into a circle, and slid it onto his lance.
His eyes met yours. Seven, the rumours were true. Their beauty was near-godly.
"I wish you luck." A meek smile was your expression, getting overwhelmed by his gaze and turning to sit back down.
The prince watched you do so with a hunger for ownership. Yes, you would be his.
There was a grin on his father's face. Oh, to be young and love-struck. Across the field, there was a pout on Aerion's. He would be whining all eve, amazing.
The final tilt seemed to come immediately, The Laughing Storm cantering circles, awaiting his opponent.
Valarr lined up. He knew that this would not be easy. Lord Lyonel was a practiced knight with control over his emotional impulses; his talent and prudence at the art of jousting were a challenge.
But they were welcomed. What better way to prove yourself a gallant suitor, and worthy man, than to knock the same kind of person from their horse?
After the seventh broken lance, The Young Prince was red all over beneath his armour.
He must have this. With a glance up to you, seeing your fuzzy yet unmistakable figure, he reminded himself that you were his prize. Not coin, not glory, not his opponent's horse; but you. You, the mystery lady of silks and lilting words.
Valarr spurred his horse, huffing so loudly that he could be heard over the beast he rode.
The clash was hard and strong, both sticks so strong in fact that it unbalanced the prince. But only momentarily! With a sharp jerk of his hips, he found his seating strongly once again.
Applause voiced itself loudly. He looked back. A hunted stag upon the mulch. He had a won.
A fire inside of him exploded, and he pulled off his helm — revealing his sweat-damped silver streak amongst brown — threw it into the air and kicked his horse into a gallop.
Most would enjoy a lap of victory, perhaps encourage even more boisterous celebration by the smallfolk; but not him.
No. The reflection of fire danced in his eyes, and accurate representation of the flames that nipped at his heart. He stopped dead in front of the lord's box, nodding at him respectfully, his swiftness a clear hint to wait to give his speech.
The Young Prince's squire ran to his horse's side, holding up both the coveted flower crown, and the ribbon that had been tied around the prince's lance.
The look on your face as he wrapped your ribbon around the weaved diadem was disbelieving.
The man was dripping sweat, confined in armour, with fatigue and ache racking his body, yet he kept his promise to himself, and decorated the privilege with your own self. Once he tied it off, he looked up at you, focusing the gaze with great effort.
"My Lady, you have bewitched me." He began honestly, his voice sure and genuine, the hand not holding the flower ring laid itself over the iron dragon's third head; above his heart.
"I would give you this crown, if only for your name."
The passion in his words made butterflies flutter in your stomach. The words came automatically, as you took it upon yourself to stand and walk to the railing.
"It is Tyrell, my prince."
He thanked your approach, for he could see the intricacies of your beauty far better than ever before.
Of course you were a Tyrell, you looked every bit the sweet flower they grew.
"My Lady Tyrell." The prince said reverently. "Would you descend, so I might crown you?"
With that, your heels clicked like a horse's shoes when it galloped, as you practically ran down the steps and entered the row.
Valarr dismounted uncaringly, delighting as you got even clearer. Within a moment, you were but a step from him, smiling up at him in a way you could not control.
How perfect you were. The prince set the crown upon your brow, where it belonged.
There were shrieks of approval from the crowd, yet they did not draw his gaze nor attention from you. He grinned back.
After, the pair of you went on a stroll together.
One that was definitely not reminiscent of the propriety he prided himself on, for it was in a far field without a chaperone in sight.
"I searched all of this day for you." He said with a shy smile, stepping over a large log, and offering his hand for aid.
You looked up through your lashes, took his hand and stepped over. "You did?"
The prince nodded, the whistle of night air backing this intimate moment. He could not miss the fact that you kept the hold of his hand.
"Tirelessly, in fact." He wisted, looking up at the moon, then down at you. "I have… famously bad eyesight. I spotted you last eve in the Baratheon tent — and was utterly enchanted — but could not recognise the crest on your dress."
A soft breath left you. "It is a complicated crest." Your thumb stroked his large hand, it took over yours.
The wind hummed like he did, his voice lightly self-deprecating. "No, it is not."
That made you chuckle, but you stifled it quickly, not wanting to mock him.
He caught this immediately. The rustle of grass backed his words. "Laugh, please. Chortle at my expense."
The giggles were gone from you, though you appreciated the sentiment.
You stopped walking, and decided now was your opportunity to be libertine, so you took his other hand as well.
The Young Prince looked slightly surprised, but stopped dead in kind, looking down at you with tender eyes, the moon glinting in them.
Targaryens truly are hypnotic.
The words spilled from your lips before you could filter them. "You are… fucking handsome."
He smiled and blushed. How perfect you were, a lady unabashed to speak her mind.
It immediately hit you, that you had just lashed your tongue in front of the future king. You bit your lip and looked down. "I apologise, my prince."
He shook his head, and released your smaller hand, only so he could cup your face and force you to meet his mismatched eyes.
"Nonsense." He murmured softly, tucking a loose strand of windswept hair behind your ear. "And call me by my name, if it please you."
The touch was unexpected but impossibly welcome, you shared his blush and leaned your head into his hand.
"Valarr."
It felt foreign but permanent, like trying something new and finding it to be a favourite above all else.
The sound of his name on your beautiful, tempting lips was like a siren's song.
"My darling." He whispered.
The moonlit darkness combined with his lingering scent of leather made you do something you would never on a usual day.
Your hand rose to his cheek, just as his was on yours. All of your weight was put on your tippy toes, and you halfway jumped to peck his lips.
The brief touch was like ascending, the already enraptured smile cementing itself onto Valarr's face.
The eye contact in pulling back made you both burst out into nervous laughter.
After that, he embraced you tightly, and rubbed your back slowly. Murmured about marriage.
What a man this one was, seeking you out to crown you the queen of his heart, then stealing you away so he might drip marital honey into your ear.
You could not wait for that to be a reality, and the prince was sure it would be, for when he returned to the castle that eve, he proclaimed to his father that it was you that he would marry.
It was you who would be his queen, who would bear his children, and who would be showered in his love.
It was you who would be his before any and all gods.