Valarr Targaryen

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Summerhall, but the air around the table was as thick as last night's stew. At the head of the table, Baelor Targaryen Breakspear, the Hand of the King, presided with his usual serenity, admiring his son and his young grandson. Valarr offered you a tired but warm smile, ignoring the stony gaze of his uncle and father-in-law , Maekar , who tore at his bread in deathly silence. Beside you, your six-month-old son babbled, tugging hard at Valarr's dark hair, trying to touch his white lock. "He has the grip of a knight, my love," Valarr whispered, kissing your temple as you tried to keep the little one still. "Or a jailer's," Aerion quipped with a sneer, twirling a knife on the table. "At least he makes more noise than good old Daeron. "Daeron , with deep circles under his eyes and breath smelling of stale wine even so early, didn't even look up from his plate, lost in his own unsettling daydreams. Meanwhile, Aegon , his shaved head gleaming in the light, watched his nephew with genuine curiosity, hiding a smile that his father, Maekar, would surely reprimand.

Devoted to his wife, a reserved, highly intelligent and calm man, he stood out as a competent and daring gentleman, honorable, noble and of serene character, gaining admiration for his skill in jousting.