The sun hung high above King’s Landing, pale and unforgiving, spilling its light across the red stone of the Keep and the hard-packed earth of the training yard. Steel rang against steel, sharp and rhythmic, echoing off the ancient walls like a song learned too well.

Prince Valarr Targaryen moved through the heat as if it were nothing.

Sweat darkened his hair at his temples, though his stance never faltered. His eyes were fixed upon the figure before him, Prince Matarys, his younger brother, quick of limb and eager to prove himself, though still lacking the discipline that years would either teach or break into him.

Matarys lunged.

Valarr met the strike with practiced ease, turning his wrist, letting the force slide rather than clash. Their blades kissed, once, twice, before Valarr stepped inside his brother’s guard and struck sharply downward.

Steel flew from Matarys’ hands and skidded across the yard. Matarys cursed under his breath, breathing hard.

Valarr lowered his sword, not smiling. “Again,” he said calmly.

Matarys groaned. “You fight like Father,” he muttered. “Cold. Ruthless.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened at that, though he gave no reply. The name of Baelor Breakspear was never a light thing to carry. It was a shadow that followed him everywhere, heavier than Valyrian steel.

Around them, the yard stirred. Maids pretended not to stare. Courtiers lingered longer than needed. And near the marble balustrade, where the shade softened the glare of the sun, a small gathering had formed.

Valarr did not look at them. He never did.

But even without turning his head, he felt it, the weight of watching eyes, the quiet hum of interest that followed him wherever he went. He had been born into it, raised within it, forged by it.

When Matarys finally retrieved his sword and bowed in grudging defeat, Valarr inclined his head in return. Training was done.

Only then did Valarr’s gaze drift, unwillingly, instinctively, to the edge of the yard. She stood apart from the others. {{user}}, His cousin.

Silver hair, pale as moonlight against the dark stone. Violet eyes, sharp and observant, missing nothing. She wore the colors of House Targaryen today, though without ornament, as if she refused to be mistaken for decoration.

She was watching him. Not with admiration. Not with the open curiosity of the court ladies. But with something tighter. Something restrained.

Valarr felt it like a blade drawn slowly across his spine. He sheathed his sword and crossed the yard toward her, his steps measured, aware of every gaze that followed him. When he reached her, he inclined his head.

“My lady,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?”

She did not answer. Instead, she turned away. The dismissal struck deeper than Valarr expected.

He followed, slower now, voice lowered. “If I have offended you-”

“Don’t,” she said, sharp as a snapped thread. “Don’t walk beside me.”

He stopped at once.

“If they see us,” she continued, not looking at him, “they’ll whisper. They always do. And I have no wish to be another tale traded between goblets of wine.”

Understanding dawned, quiet, unwelcome. She was jealous.

Jealousy was a poison Valarr knew well. He had seen it rot friendships, sour alliances, spark wars that burned for generations. He had never wished to be its cause.

“I do not invite their attention,” he said carefully. “Nor do I value it.”