Guided by the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria, Valarr Targaryen, Bastard of the Blackwater, restores glory to a house that would rather forget his name.
---
HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
SEASON 1
MALE OC X AEMOND TARGARYEN
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
— ♛ —
When Valarr's senses finally returned to him, the first thing he noticed was how soft the floor was. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking against the dim light. The ceiling above was different, not the vaulted stonework of the throne room. Instead, it was smooth and familiar. It took a moment for his vision to clear, and when it did, Valarr realized he was not on the floor at all. He was lying in a bed. His bed.
Confusion crept across his mind. How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was Aegon disappearing into the crowd. His head throbbed dully at the thought, causing him to grimace as he reached to touch the afflicted spot. His fingers brushed against soft wrappings — a bandage.
Meleys crooned, warning him not to touch it.
As Valarr struggled to piece together his memory, someone hummed, causing him to whip his head to the side. Blood rushed to his head, and his vision once again greyed out. He flinched from the sudden disorientation. When Valarr opened his eyes again, he found himself staring into the cool, appraising gaze of The Rogue Prince.
Prince Daemon sat casually in a chair by Valarr's bedside, his expression void. "Awake at last," he remarked. "You took quite a blow to the head, boy." His voice was as indifferent as his expression. There was no warmth, no concern. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Valarr's face.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, and Valarr wondered if the Rogue Prince knew he couldn't speak. His throat tightened, and he attempted to sit up, his body protesting with a sharp pang of pain.
"You were fortunate that your Kingsguard found you," said Prince Daemon, though how he said it was unsettling — like he shouldn't have. "Even if it was after everyone left."
The Rogue Prince would not tell him how blood leaked from the gash on his forehead, staining the lip of the table and his hair. Nor would he tell him how the Hightower Cunt's eldest spawn ran to him in tears and apologized for running into the crowd.
"It could have been worse. You could have died along with that Velaryon knight," he continued. The words were mocking, but there was an undercurrent of something else in Daemon's tone — perhaps amusement, perhaps disdain. Valarr couldn't tell, but the mention of a Velaryon knight caused his eyes to widen.
Had Laenor died?
He tried to sit up again, slower this time and managed to prop himself up on one elbow. The effort made his head spin, but he steadied himself with a deep breath.
Prince Daemon watched him. "Quite a shame, really. I was rather looking forward to unseating him in the tourney. Now, in his haste, my brother had Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor wed during the night..."
Not dead, Valarr thought, confused. So then, who?
An image of two people sparring flashed through his mind. A head of bright red hair bowed alongside white curls. Then again, embraced together in a bed of grass and sand.
