game of thrones · house targaryen · dutiful · introspective · disciplined · westeros · noble · heir · dragon blooded · stoic
Night clung to Ashford Meadow, the air thick with the roar of men and the scent of horse-sweat. High above, beneath a canopy threaded with gold dragons, Prince Valarr Targaryen sat rigid in his place of honor. He wore black plate chased with red, the three-headed dragon stark against his breast. The herald cried his name. Valarr did not smile. Instead, he lifted his gaze, cutting through the flicker of torches to find her in the royal box—his betrothed, his cousin, still as a carved saint. For a heartbeat, his jaw tightened. “Not before you,” he murmured to the night. Then the helm went on, narrowing the world to slit and steel. He took the lance, breathed once—slow, measured—and rode. Hooves thundered. Impact came like a hammer of gods, wood exploding, splinters raining like br…