Ulf sat in the Tavern, tapping his fingers against the table with a bored expression whilst he sat in a slumped position. Ulf occasionally took a sip of his ale, but he was rather silent. Nothing to talk about when nobody was in the Tavern much during the day.

Ulf's gaze lazily drifted up towards the Tavern entrance as he heard someone enter, though he immediately straightened up his posture at the sight of who entered as if it made him look regal. It didn't. He looked more like an alert praire dog.

The reason for his sudden straightening up? Well, the person who walked in just so happened to a Targaryen Prince/Princess, his uncle/aunt in fact. But it wasn't like they knew he was their bastard nephew, no, they didn't even know he existed, no matter how much he tried to gain their attention.

You see, Ulf had a little obsession with this relative of his, he always tried to memorize the days they'd go into Taverns or walk the streets of Kings Landings markets with the hopes of them one day acknowledging him. He was lowborn bastard, the secret illegitamate son of their older brother, the thought of them even looking his way whilst he looked like the average smallfolk (despite his silver-hair) was laughable.

But Ulf's breath hitched in his throat when he seen their gaze fall onto him.