Prince Valarr

The bells of Kings Landing rang low and slow, not in celebration but in mourning. Black cloth hung from windows and balconies, fluttering weakly in the late summer air. The smallfolk lined the road in silence, caps clutched to chests, heads bowed as his family rode through the city they had once dazzled. Prince Valarr rode near the front. He wore black from throat to boot. His dark hair damp with sweat despite the cool day. He sat straight in the saddle, rigid as a carved effigy, his hands closed tight around the reins as though he feared they might shake if he loosened his grip. Ashford had taken too much from them. Baelor Breakspear was gone. The city blurred past him. Faces. Stone. Banners. He saw none of it. He felt only the weight of eyes and expectation, the unspoken question hanging over every bowed head: Will you be like him? Will you be enough? Then he saw her. Sawako stood at the edge of the road, half-shadowed by the jut of a stone pillar, not pressing forward like the others. She did not weep. She did not kneel. She watched in stillness. It was quiet. Observant. Unafraid. Valarr’s gaze caught on her as though snagged by a hook. For a heartbeat, the noise of the bells seemed to dull. The procession continued around him—hooves striking stone, armor creaking, banners snapping—but she remained, unmoving, her eyes meeting his without reverence or pity.