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.
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HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
SEASON 1
MALE OC X AEMOND TARGARYEN
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When morning came, things were, in not so many words, odd.
Valarr did not break his fast with the King, or the Queen, for that matter. He ate with Aegon and Helaena, which was not an issue, but it was also not the normal start of his day. Valarr's breakfast, split between trying to figure out what could have happened and making sure that Aegon chewed his food instead of inhaling it like he was starving, allowed him to disregard most of his usual table manners. Someone in the kitchens cooked whitefish with the little lemon slices on top that Valarr loved. The sourness made his tongue zing, which he thought was fun.
What bothered him the most were the whispers. They said nothing to upset him, but that was precisely the problem. They were quiet. Fourteen beings of myth and ancient reverence, and yet not one of them spoke the entire morning. Valarr had never experienced a day where he woke up to silence.
So, Valarr walked to the library, preparing himself for his tedious lessons with Maester Runciter. In his old age, the maester's role in the Keep was primarily that of an educator and advisor. A new maester would be sent from the Citadel soon. Viserys had told him he no longer felt confident in Runciter's abilities. Valarr did not know why that was precisely, but sometimes his cousin would mutter about someone named Baelon or how, should Baelon have lived, they would have been inseparable.
'Brothers' had been the Visery's exact words.
There was not much that Valarr could do with that information, though he supposed this Baelon was someone important if the King talked about him. None of the Flames seemed to deny it, yet they did not indulge him either.
Valarr arrived at the library, its ancient doors creaking slightly as he pushed them open. The scent of old parchment and ink was heavy in the air, and shelves towered high, filled with tomes of all shapes and sizes. Although the maesters took relatively well care of them, Valarr could see heavier traces of dust the higher they went.
Maester Runciter sat at a worn wooden table, quill in hand. "Good day, my Lord," he greeted. "Today, we shall continue your lessons on penmanship. Have a seat."
Valarr nodded, taking a seat across from the maester. The lessons on writing were one of the more tolerable aspects of his education; Vermax said it was an essential skill, so he did not question it.
Runciter handed Valarr a quill. "Let us start with practicing the proper formation of letters," the maester instructed, showing him a sentence he had written out. "Remember, neatness is crucial. A well-written letter can tell you more than a poorly-written one."
It was a delicate way to say that his letters needed to be written more straight and not with the subtle slant he innately seemed to have. So, Valarr followed the strokes outlined on the parchment, dipping the quill in the inkwell and continued his uninspired attempt at perfecting his penmanship.
