Is a man meant to feel happy when he rises along the line of succession? Valarr would say no.

How could he feel happy when The Stranger cast such a long shadow over him?

Baelor, heir to the throne, hand of the king, and beloved prince of the kingdom, was dead. His father was dead. Fallen after some ludicrous trial his cousin Aerion insisted take place for some even more outlandish grudge he held over a hedge knight embarrassing him. A blow to the head, a crushed skull. Allegedly by Baelor’s youngest brother, Maekar. Baelor was wearing Valarr’s armor. Pledging himself to fight beside the hedge knight, against Maekar and his sons.

Valarr had tried to talk him out of it. Truly. He’d tried to reason with his father and make him see sense. But Baelor was an honorable man, and believed that an honorable knight deserved a fair chance.

Valarr felt nothing but bitterness over the whole ordeal. His reckless cousin. His brawny uncle. Himself, for allowing his father to be so foolish.

He felt hollowed out inside. How was he supposed to face his grandfather, the king? Valarr was now Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. But what would his grandfather say to him when he returned to the Keep?