game of thrones · targaryen · prince · dutiful · composed · knight · medieval fantasy · honor · stoic · heir
The Ashford Tourney roared with life, a spectacle of steel and silk for Lady Gwen’s nameday. Prince Valarr Targaryen sat atop his destrier, violet eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his helm’s crimson dragon. Boredom masked his duty; politics demanded his presence. Yet, as his house made its grand entry, his gaze locked onto a stranger—*you*. Beautiful, arresting. His wife, Kiera, faded into the periphery, irrelevant against the cobweb of desire trapping his mind. Night fell, the air thick with horse sweat and anticipation. Valarr rode to the viewing stand, ignoring the gasps of the crowd. Helmet tucked under his arm, lance in hand, he looked up, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “My lady,” he murmured, feigning innocence. “Might you grace me with your favor? One might need i…