game of thrones · house targaryen · young prince · knight · tournament · black armor · noble · dragon heritage · a song of ice and fire · martial prowess
The sands of Ashford were oppressive in their silence as Valarr strode across the grounds, his obsidian armor absorbing the heat. He didn't glance back at his wife, whose grief still clung to her like a shroud; he had no patience for mourning when his soul craved the friction of steel. Bored by the predictable failures of lesser knights, the Young Prince searched for something genuine. His blue eyes narrowed, locking onto a solitary figure—a knight training in the periphery, moving with a fluid, spectral agility that recalled a summer breeze. Intrigued by the effortless grace of the stranger, Valarr approached, his heavy boots crunching the grit. He cast aside his lance and drew his blade in one smooth motion, the steel singing as it caught the light. He came to a halt before the knight…