Chapter Text
When his grandfather died, Valarr Targaryen didn’t weep. He wished he was able to, but the fearful eyes of his uncle Aerys were bearing down into him as the news was delivered, it was not the time for weakness. His entire life had been building to this moment, years and years of preparations and lessons - and yet now it was here, he felt nothing but panic. People would die, had died for a chance like this. A seat on the iron throne. But in that moment Valarr wanted nothing more than to hand it away. A sickness brewed in his stomach, the nerves clawing at him as he tried so hard to maintain his composure. You are ready, you are strong, he told himself, repeating the words over and over again in his head as his uncle continued to watch in anticipation. They provided minimal comfort, however. He wasn’t ready, how could he be? It felt like yesterday he was third in line, the weight of the crown upon his head only a sense of looming dread, rather than an imminent threat.
His father’s death had unsettled things first, thrusting him into the life of the heir while he muddled through trying to grieve with his family. Everyone looked to him now, he could not crumble and crawl into his chambers for a week as he wished to. Not only did the realm need him - his family needed him. Matarys had barely left his side for a week. Sweet, soft, Matarys - just thinking of him threatened to destabilise the Prince. His brother had passed only a few days earlier, it was quick at least, but the way his frail hands had clasped Valarr’s as he promised to make him better had felt like knives pressing into every part of his body. It was a mercy, he supposed, that the sick did not know they were dying. He could not have looked into his little brother’s eyes as they watered with fear, he had already lost so much in his four and ten years on earth, at least he did not know he would be taken as well. But now was not the time to think of his brother: the mere flashing memories had brought a lump to his throat. He coughed, covering up what may well have come out as a sob. All the emotions tightened his chest, even taking a breath felt like a struggle.
“Vala- Your Grace.” Aerys’ voice broke the harsh silence that had fallen across the study, his eyes still fixed on the Prince, “We must act quickly.” Valarr struggled to comprehend what he meant for a moment, his brain not quite catching up to the morning’s events as quickly as he would like. “Of course. I don’t-” He stumbled over his words, he didn’t know what had to be done, he had been so prepared for his duties - what was expected of a king, but not how to become one. “I’m so sorry, forgive me uncle.” He regained his composure, head still spinning but able to form at least a coherent sentence, “I do not know how these proceedings are meant to happen. No one- I was not informed of what follows in the immediate wake of a King’s death.” Aerys seemed to soften, his uncle’s usual stern expression replaced by one of care and concern, “Do not apologise, Valarr. I was only a boy when my father became king himself, you have never seen such matters.” The way Aerys referred to the late king as his father filled Valarr with a deep, churning, guilt. Here he was asking about matters of procedure, of how exactly he would assume power, when his uncle had lost his father. Aerys deserved space to grieve, he was no heir, he should not have to bear responsibility for any of Valarr’s failings at matters of succession. His uncle did not stop, however, continuing to fill the space with talk of official business, “Things will be different this time though, I imagine. There can be no grand funeral, no grand coronation - you understand.”
And understand Valarr did. King’s Landing was in no state to hold any event. Plague ravaged the streets, two people dead for every group of five, bodies piled up on carts, stands, roofs - wherever could hold them. Body snatchers and looters roamed the streets, stealing what they could from the dead and killing those that tried to stop them; the goldcloaks couldn’t discern what was murder and what was the plague these days anyway. Just the carriage ride to the Sept would be too dangerous, not to mention the risks of leaving the Keep. If the air inside the castle was bad enough to transmit the sickness, what would the air be like in the streets? No, they could not risk a grand ceremony. “Then what is to be done?” Valarr asked, spinning a quill between his fingers absent mindedly. His tendency to fidget was not kingly - as he was often reminded. But when the choice was between a minorly impolite habit or losing his head in front of Aerys, he would always choose the former. “We will hold a small ceremony, here in the throne room. You will be presented the crown, and the smallfolk will be alerted by criers.” Aerys spoke so matter of factly, as if the world as they knew it were not crumbling before their eyes. “And what of the funeral? Perhaps we could have one for my brother too, as I know the King’s sickness had stalled efforts for that.” Valarr replied stiffly, holding back a sob or cough that threatened to burst from his throat. “Your Grace, forgive me-” Aerys seemed suddenly uncomfortable, and Valarr noticed his hands shaking slightly. “We cannot safely hold funerals at this time. The burning of the bodies it-” He took a deep breath, stroking the beard that he had begun to grow out, “The air would not be safe. We risk the entire Keep’s health with such practice.”
Valarr felt his heart skip a beat, the idea seemed so absurd to him he had not even considered it - how foolish. Though there was no condescension in Aerys’ voice, even such a small oversight on his own part stung Valarr. He had not even entertained the idea that he would not be able to give his family a proper funeral, one in Targaryen fashion. “So there will be no way to send them off?” His voice was weak, choked by the same tears that were pricking the sides of his eyes, but if his uncle noticed, he was unphased by it. “Not yet, Your Grace. A small service may be held in the sept, a closed one, but we would both be unable to attend. The journey-” He seemed to trail off, noticing the way Valarr had shifted in his chair. He had not meant for his discomfort in discussing the matter to show - but clearly it had. Another thing to add to the list of his failures this morning. “The priority is the coronation, nephew. The realm needs a King right now, we must show them the Crown is strong in these times. They are mourning enough already, let them celebrate something.” Aerys was right, he knew that, but the sickening feeling wouldn’t go away. How could he stand there, sit atop the throne, celebrate his own rise to power when his grandfather would not even get a proper funeral? When his brother’s body still lay cold and lifeless in the crypts, succumbing to the hands of rot by now?
“Let it be as small a ceremony as possible,” he stood from his chair, pushing against the desk as his head span, “I cannot in good faith have anything more. Let whatever family here attend, that is all.” Aerys nodded solemnly, Valarr could console himself that at least someone understood. “Of course. There is just one more thing I must ask, Valarr.” His pale purple eyes connected with Valarr’s, and he noticed they were faintly red rimmed. Though before he could dwell on that, his uncle continued, “The crown, Your Grace, what crown do you wish to wear?” The question seemed so silly, such a trivial thing to have to decide at such a time. It occurred to Valarr that he had never even considered such a thing, he always assumed he would simply inherit whatever crown his father had worn - and once Baelor had died he had stupidly been so wrapped up in himself he had never even considered whether he would take his grandfather’s crown.
He thought of the golden crown King Daeron had worn. The crown of his father, Aegon: ornate and golden with elaborate dragon heads and gemstones. He tried to imagine it upon his own head, how ridiculous it would seem. Such a grand thing on such a plain King. It would be ridiculous, in fact it was almost rude of him to assume he was worthy of such a crown. Aegon had been a cruel, vile man, but his grandsire had made that crown a symbol of unity and peace. How could Valarr ever assume he would live up to that? Most other crowns of their family had been lost to time, but one remained. A simple, golden circlet, worn by Viserys II and his brother Aegon III. Such a crown had come after a time of war, given to a King so deeply scarred by loss that he would never truly recover. Valarr could never understand how such things could change someone, he had believed himself better than those who gave in to emotion over duty. But as he stood there under the gaze of his uncle, shaking as he tried to hold himself without the support of the table - he finally got it.
“The golden circlet. The one King Viserys last wore.” His legs felt weak, the nerves were not leaving him as time continued to pass, he only hoped he would be able to kneel for his own coronation without slipping. Aerys nodded, “As you wish, Your Grace.” He turned to leave, but Valarr called out to him, “Uncle, wait-” His hand gripped the doorframe, pale and shaking, Aerys was only a few paces outside but he still seemed to do a double take, as if he couldn’t quite hear Valarr beckoning him. “You understand you are my heir now, correct? By default as I have no living sons, if anything were to-” Aerys waved a hand, cutting Valarr off before he could finish. It took him aback a little, but he listened nonetheless. “It will not. But I understand. The ceremony will commence as soon as I can arrange, I would recommend you make haste at getting yourself ready.” With that, he left, his footsteps pattering down the stone hall as he pulled a book from beneath his robe, flicking through it hurriedly as he disappeared around a corner.
He intended to do exactly what his uncle had asked, but his legs were not quite moving him down the hall to his chambers. Such anxiety symptoms weren’t entirely new to him, but he had learned over the years to mask and overcome them. Once, he had been matched against Aerion in a training fight when they were children - he knew he was no match for him, no matter how much his father tried to pretend. All he remembered before he had bolted for the stables was his legs completely freezing up, his chest tightening and the world feeling as if it were spinning around him. His father had been stern with him after that, freezing and running away was no way for a Prince to behave, he should have fought Aerion and lost with honour if he must. From that day forward, Valarr had always pushed through it, no matter how much it felt like he was about to die every time he made a small slip up. Slapping a polite smile on his face in public, while at night he collapsed onto the floor of his chambers racked with guilt at all the mistakes he had made. Even that was not an option now, he had no idea when Aerys would come calling, and he must be ready when he did. He could not show up to his own coronation snivelling and shaking.
His legs were numb all the way back to his chambers, but he made it. The world had not stopped spinning, and the churning of his stomach still unsettled him, but it was enough that he was back. If he looked presentable it mattered not what he felt. The fate of the realm didn’t rest upon his feelings, only his actions had to be perfect. He had been so wrapped up in his own head, he barely noticed his wife - Kiera - perched upon their bed, pink hair braided into a crown, and wearing a bright pink dress with ornate golden embroidery. She looked every part the Queen that she was about to be, her dark skin making the pearls around her neck stand out, her beautiful brown eyes staring at him with a mixture of pity and relief. As he entered, before he could even speak, she thrust her arms around him, pulling his head against her body. Valarr settled into it, burying his face in her shoulder and drinking in her perfume. The way she held him felt like being grounded. Everything else had changed, but she had not. She was still Kiera, his Kiera. Her fingers traced along his white streaked hair, he had begun to grow it out, his duties as heir meant he had little time for fighting or training in the yard, and therefore little need to keep it short. Kiera had been thrilled, she loved to play with it, and threatened to dye it when he displeased her - not that he did often. It soothed him a little, the repetitive motions of it all.
“I’m so sorry.” Kiera whispered, her breath warm against the side of his face, “You must be exhausted.” That felt almost putting it lightly, it was not yet midday and he felt as if he had lived years in this one morning. “I’m okay.” He attempted to reassure her, but the words were hollow and empty. “It’s okay if you’re not.” She let go of his hair, bringing his eyes to meet hers, “There’s no one else here. You can relax.” He wished he could believe her, but shaking his head he put a hand to her cheek, “I cannot, my dear. My uncle is finalising preparations for the coronation as we speak, I must be ready as soon as I can be.” A look of shock passed over Kiera’s face, her lips parting and eyebrows furrowing as she studied her husband’s weary expression, “So soon?” Valarr nodded solemnly, stroking her flushed cheek softly, “Unprecedented times, the realm needs to see we are strong. That I am ready to lead them through this.” She nodded, bringing her hand up to wipe his eye. He had not realised he was tearing up, but her hand returned wet. Kiera also seemed a little puzzled, taking her hand back for a moment before placing it against his forehead, “You’re burning up, Valarr. You must rest before the ceremony, this stress cannot be good for you.” He brought her hand down, kissing it softly as he did, “I am fine, I assure you. It is all nerves. Once I am in my finest dress and ready for my uncle’s knock, I am sure I will feel better.” His voice was reassuring, and he attempted to give his wife a matching smile. But from the way her eyes remained seeped in concern, he imagined the smile came across sadder than intended. “Are you sure?” Kiera questioned, “I’m sure.” Valarr replied, kissing her cheek before retreating to the small room next door containing a bath and his clothes.
In reality, Valarr was anything but sure. What little breakfast he had eaten was threatening to expel itself, and his chest was practically burning. This was worse than any anxious reaction he had had before, and it was falling on the worst day. He and the servants muddled through assembling an outfit. A black tunic, embroidered with the sigil of house Targaryen, along with an elaborately embroidered cloak - fastened with a silver chain. It was simple, but then he had never been one for dramatics. He wished he could have appreciated it more, but standing for so long as they dressed him had made his legs feel as if they would give out from under him. Every beat of his heart felt like it was punching through his chest, every breath felt as if he was gasping for the final bits of air in the room. There was something nagging at him, a sinking feeling that this had gone far beyond his usual anxious sickness. But that could not be allowed to be true, not today. Determined not to dwell on that, he pushed through, and went to stride towards the door back to Kiera, ready to greet Aerys whenever he arrived. But as he tried to put one foot in front of the other, he suddenly felt himself falling towards the floor.