kismet (part one)
Egg is missing, more or less.
A missing cousin, a patched-up rescue mission, and fateful meeting in a spring afternoon reminds Valarr that try as he might, some forces are beyond his help.
This is not set during the Ashford Tourney. Likely 2/3 years before that where he meets his future wife :) doomed lovers is my favorite my pillow my cup of tortured tea. I wanted to explore that and also the dynamic in this fucked-up, interesting family. It’s in the same universe as
palindrome
first light
[part one: HIS] [part two: HERS] [part three: HIS]
Egg is missing, more or less.
At the breakfast table, Valarr quietly looks over his family. To his right his lord father is sipping his morning tea, nodding solemnly at Medgar Tully. The lord of this castle, sitting beside his father, is staring at the man with simpering gratitude Valarr has seen countless times before. His uncle Maekar has his usual disgruntled expression as he cuts through his meat. Sitting by the side of his father, Aerion is breaking through a heap of walnuts, looking faintly bored. Daeron’s body is collapsed on Valarr left, hunch-backed and face down on the table. A faint snore makes his bread stir—a welcome sign to consider he is not dead. Valarr stares quizzically at the width of the empty Great Hall in the grey morning light and taps his spoon against his porridge. Unsurprisingly, he is the first to notice.
“Aegon is missing,” he says as a matter-of-fact.
Suddently, the table around him jostles with life.
“What?” his uncle Maekar spits out, dropping his knife on the table. It bounces off and falls on the floor with a loud, disarming clang.
His father straightens up, quickly reaching for his brother. “I am sure it is nothing,” he says, turning to Valarr. “Was he not at the stable this morning?”
“No,” Valarr replies. “He was supposed to be, but he was not.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Aerion move in his seat. It is a light movement, a flutter—nothing more, but Valarr knows his cousin’s eyes are on him now.
“Last night.”
His father’s eyes are intent, seemingly apprehending something. Likely the very thing Valarr has not said. “And did anything unusual occur last night?”
“No,” he lies.
“Daeron!” Maeker bellows. He gets up from his seat with such force that it sends the chair over. The sound of it is deafening in the otherwise unassuming Great Hall. He walks over to his eldest with the determined expression of an executioner.
“Maeker, take heed,” his father says, but his uncle does not seem to be taking anything very well at all. He goes over to Daeron’s seat and thumps his fists on the wood; the half-filled wine goblet clinks.
His cousin stirs from his slouch. In the sluggish few seconds Daeron’s clouded eyes look over the room and then at his father, still unalert.
“W–what?” he stutters.
“Where is Aegon?” Maeker demands.
“Not here?”
“I thought I told him to squire for you.”
“Oh, the tourney’s not till—” He stares quizzically at Valarr. “What day is it?”
“Oh, seven hells!” he snaps, leaning down to look menacingly at his eldest. Valarr watches almost appreciatively as Daeron does his bravest attempt to look nonchalant. Almost succeeds. His bloodshot eyes are anything but apprehensive. Lord Tully moves in visible discomfort, and for the umpteenth time, Valarr Targaryen considers the ironic actuality of these brands of strange animals being his kin.
“Maeker,” his father speaks, and his voice is heavy and careful enough to stop his uncle from strangling his son. “We are disrupting our gracious host’s home.”
“Oh, no, your grace—” Lord Tully starts weakly, but stops as his father shakes his head.
“You are kind,” he says decisively. His eyes turn to Valarr. “You saw Aegon at night? Before you went to sleep?”
“Yes, father.”
He nods. “We shall have to speak to Ser Donnel, but I doubt he shall be of any help. In any case, I do not think he left at night, we have kingsguards all over. If he went away it would have to be in the light when the guards are at more ease. In that regard, I do not think he has gone too far, Maeker. Take heart.”
Valarr has always admired his father’s ability to take an incomprehensible situation and somehow mold it to a more palatable shade. There is something in his voice, it seems, that makes people want to believe in him. Most days, it is the only thing that makes his uncle not lose a vein.
“I shall head out to search for him,” his uncle is saying.
Lord Tully coughs.
“No,” his father says. “We musn’t miss the ceremonial opening. The tourney cannot be started without us.”
“You aren’t suggesting I do nothing, are you?”
“Of course not. Valarr shall go out with Ser Donnel and search for Aegon.” His eyes find Valarr’s again and the sharp and steady command there almost takes him out. He stares at his lord father in disquiet. His eyes—one sea-blue and one onyx—identical to Valarr’s, are fixed on him. And most days Valarr loves his father’s eyes, loves the strange bit of dissonance there, how it seems to pull through his words and always settle on some truth he would not admit out loud. He stares at his father and knows in the pit of his stomach that his father hasn’t believed his lie. And somehow it puts an even heavier weight on his shoulders.
The words come out of him with strange emptiness, “I shall, father.”
Baelor Targaryen smiles. “Come back before nightfall, or we shall have to make an excuse to your betrothed about your absence at the feast.”
Aerion laughs stiffly. “Perchance I shall have to give her some sweet company in your absence, cuz. I hear Lady Arryn’s an excellent dancer.”
“Insolence!” Maeker snaps. “You should be lucky to have a cousin such as him.”
“Yes, yes.” Aerion rolls his eyes. “We are all lucky to have Valarr. I myself thank the heavens the day uncle Baelor and aunt Jena decided to—”
“I dare you to finish that sentence, boy.”
Aerion laughs cockily, but does not dare to defy his father. Valarr sighs as he stares at the large window just south of the Great Hall. Outside, he sees the branches of the Dogwood tree bent across the archery ground, its white petals swaying in the wind. With the soft waft of the river chill, it smells divine.
It is a beautiful spring morning. If Aegon had not decided to vanish like an erratic rabbit, it had the potential to be an unremarkably good day. As Valarr had learned from his lord father, unremarkable is a terribly unappreciated virtue. An unremarkable day as a Targaryen is often the most you can ask for.
But still, it is not the worst timing, all things considered.
Valarr sighs as he thinks about the feast. About the inevitable meeting with his betrothed. He is fairly confident that he can find Egg and make the time stretch beyond the evening, just a little, just to defy his fate for some terrible stolen moments.
comments are super-appreciated!! hope you enjoyed :)
[part two: HERS]
