As Valarr pulled open the heavy oak door, he was greeted by the imposing sight of a Targaryen man-at-arms standing alongside his personal guard, Ser Olyver Stokesworth.
Olyver was a young, capable knight and a nephew to the current head of House Stokesworth. He bowed his head respectfully as the young prince appeared.
"My prince, the retinue is prepared to move," Olyver reported, his posture rigid. "Your father has sent for you to arrive in the courtyard."
Valarr offered a calm nod. "Let us go then, Ser Olyver."
Descending through the winding stairwells of the fortress, they emerged into the outer courtyard. The broad ward was a scene of organized chaos, filled to the brim with polished carriages, gleaming knights, and rows of armored guards. King Daeron II stood near the lead carriage alongside his queen-wife, Mariah Martell. Nearby stood Prince Baelor—Valarr's father—talking quietly with his own wife, Jena Dondarrion.
Noticing his son's arrival, Prince Baelor's stern features softened into a warm smile. "Valarr, my boy. Come here."
Valarr smiled back, stepping forward to join his family. Today was a occasion of joy for the realm; the royal family was departing for Summerhall to celebrate the birth of Prince Maekar's firstborn son.
Before long, the horn sounded, and the grand procession began its departure from the Red Keep, winding its way through the crowded streets of King's Landing. Sitting beside the carriage window, Valarr peered outside, taking in the chaotic layout, the wretched odor, and the primitive sewage channels trickling through the cobblestone streets.
King's Landing grew too fast after Aegon the Conqueror laid its foundation, Valarr thought grimly, watching the struggle of the common folk. No ruler ever bothered to properly plan the layout or construct a modern drainage system. Why would they? The ancient Targaryens rode dragons through the sky; they rarely experienced the city from a horse or carriage. Even when Daemon Targaryen served as Commander of the City Watch and cleaned up the streets, the bloody civil war of the Dance erased whatever progress was made. Now, despite being the grandest city in Westeros, it is easily the filthiest.
His quiet contemplation was interrupted by the gentle voice of his mother, Princess Jena.
"Valarr," she said softly, smoothing his mantle. "When we reach Summerhall, ensure you make a good impression among the young nobles gathered there. Courtesy is a prince's finest armor."
"Yes, Mother," Valarr replied dutifully.
The journey south stretched over two full days. As the royal convoy traveled down the Kingsroad, its numbers swelled continuously. House by house, lords and landed knights from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and the Reach joined the procession to pay their respects to the royal line.
Finally, the grand towers of Summerhall rose against the horizon.
Situated in the scenic beauty of the Dornish Marches within the Stormlands, Summerhall was a breathtaking palace. Though smaller and far less imposing than the ancient, formidable fortresses of the Seven Kingdoms, it was light, airy, and exceptionally spacious—built for comfort rather than siege.
Upon entering the castle courtyards, the royal party was warmly greeted by Prince Maekar Targaryen. Valarr watched his uncle step forward. Maekar was a broad-shouldered young man with a powerful frame and a stern, formidable presence that demanded respect.
After formal greetings were exchanged, Maekar led the core family through the airy stone halls toward the quiet sanctuary of the bedchambers. There sat his wife, Lady Dyanna Dayne, looking tired but radiant, cradling a swaddled infant in her arms.
The newborn child possessed the undeniable High Valyrian features of his father—a fine tuft of silver-gold hair and pale, striking eyes.
King Daeron stepped forward, his eyes softening as he gently took his new grandson into his arms. The King smiled down at the small bundle, turning toward his youngest son.
"He is a strong boy, Maekar," Daeron said quietly. "What name have you given him?"
"I have named him after you father." Maekar replied.
"I have named him after you, father," Maekar replied, a rare, soft pride breaking through his usual stoic demeanor.
King Daeron let out a warm laugh, bouncing the quiet infant gently. "So he is young Daeron."
Valarr looked toward the tiny child sleeping soundly in his grandfather's arms, a dark chill running through his mind.
So this is him, Valarr thought silently. Daeron the Drunken. The prince cursed with dragon dreams, who will drown his foresight in wine to escape the terrifying visions of the future.
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