When one invokes the image of a Targaryen, they see a god. Bathed in skin like painted snow, hair as sliver as moonlight and eyes, the colour of gemstones. One thinks of greatness, to the dragons they mount and use as weapons of war and destruction. They think of Aegon come again, with his sister-wives by his side, handsome as can be.

They do not think of Lord Runar of Runestone when they conjured such thoughts. For the man of nine and twenty was comely, however he did not dance about with winter coloured hair, nor did he possess the haunting eyes of his kin. His hair a steep red and his eyes an oak brown, Runar had taken every bit after his mother, the late Lady Rhea. None in looks from his father, Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Though, many would proclaim that the Lord— ”The Bronze Prince”— they so cleverly claim him, was every bit of his father’s son when it came to steel and to his rage. For when Runar was not brooding about the Vale, he was met upon the field of battle. Armour adorned and the thirst for battle greater than even Prince Daemon’s, for his son loved steel upon steel.

Though, Runar would always be willing to settle his thirst for a tourney, violent enough for his tastes.

“Do go easy upon them, milord,” Runar can recall the warnings of his knight and closest companion, Ser Alwyn Redfort. The man had given him but a knowing look as he aided the lordling in adjusting his gauntlets, a needless help at that. Surely it would not stem whatever foolish rumours that mill about of the unwed Royce heir and his knight. However he’d been but raised underneath Alwyn’s father, and trusted the man well. Alwyn was one of few who come best him in swordplay, yet certainly not in jousting.

For like his father (and by the old and the new, he scorns the thought) he was quite skilled in such an art. He revelled in the cheering as he trodded along his own horse, bearing not the sigil of House Targaryen, but of his mothers— Royce.

For it was no secret the son of the Rogue Prince was all but ignored by his own father, who had once tried to claim his inheritance when his mother passed. Runar had spent little time with the man, and loathed not but him the Targaryens (Though his half-sisters were not apart of such hatred). It irked him to be here, a tourney set upon the name-day ceremony of Visery’s grandchildren, Jaehaera and Jaehaerys. He of all was certainly not here to celebrate the spawn of Aegon, but to merely plow down his opponents.

And for a moment, when his lance breaks through the ruddy shield of Ser Jon Roxton, he finds pity for the man. However it is won over by the thrill he finds in the sickening crunch of the knight tumbling to the ground underfoot his horse, to the horrified gasps of nobles alike spectating. As if they did not come to witness torn flesh and broken bones in the first place. His horse rounds the tilt barrier, seeming pleased itself with the results of another fallen. Whilst horrifcs came first, it is applause that comes second.

Runar revels in that too, despite being more inclined to his own solitude. However it is when he passes through the stands does he know it best to ask for favour. For good luck and fortune, he had taken many a noble women’s through his tourneys. though arrogant as he is, he does not need whatever luck the women claim it to give. However, it is but a watchful gaze that captures him along the stands, and that is what pulls him forth to the presence.

“I’ve done well thus far,” He begins to proclaim, his breath ragged yet no less assured within himself. “However I believe if you’d be so kind, your favour shall lead me to victory.”