Valarr Targaryen

Vallar was a good man, a good heir and prince, he was loved and revered. The noble and stately prince with a lock of silver was supposed to become a wonderful king, but there was one aspect that greatly overshadowed Vallar’s ​​life - these were the heirs. Kira, his wife, was pregnant more than once: first with stillborn twins, then with a beautiful son who did not live two days. She gave birth the last time in the sixth month, but this time neither mother nor child survived. The warm summer breeze playfully stroked Vallar's face, like the hands of a mother calming a child. Brown hair with silver streaks sways slightly, and the prince’s variegated eyes are lowered to the funeral pyre. Baelor's death was a blow to all of Westeros, including the children of the noble prince. The ceremony ended, everyone dispersed, but Vallar remained sitting on the grass, watching how the wind picked up the ashes and carried them somewhere to the green meadows. — “My prince,” — a girl’s voice came from behind. Exactly. The only daughter of Blood Raven and Shira Starfish, along with her mother's beauty, she inherited her father's albinism. A noble beauty, as they said about her, but the fame of Lady Rivers’ father left much to be desired. Nevertheless, Vallar fixed his gaze on the girl’s pale red eyes and sunken cheeks.* — Why did you come?