The great hall of Summerhall, built not for grim warfare but for noble light and summer elegance, was transformed into a glittering sea of silks, heraldry, and political ambition. Vaulted ceilings echoed with the clash of silver goblets, the soft music of harpists, and the low, constant hum of the realm's grandest lords whispering in dark corners.
For the celebration of Prince Maekar's newborn heir, the high nobility of the Seven Kingdoms had answered the royal summons. Banners hung from the high rafters, showcasing the proud sigils of the realm's most formidable powers. Great Houses were present in full force: the golden lion of Lannister, the falcon of Arryn, the sun and spear of Martell, the stag of Baratheon, and the golden rose of Tyrell. The Crownlands had emptied its keep-lords into the Marches, joined by a substantial gathering of Dornish nobles whose presence still drew cold, uneasy glances from the Marcher lords of the Reach and the Stormlands.
At the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais, sat House Targaryen. King Daeron II occupied the central high seat, his gentle, scholarly demeanor balanced by the presence of his Dornish queen-wife, Mariah Martell. To his right sat Prince Baelor Breakspear, the Hand of the King and the shining hope of the realm, looking noble and composed. To the King's left sat Prince Maekar, stern-faced and powerful, watching the room like a commander surveying a potential battlefield.
Valarr was seated beside his father, Baelor. To any observer, he was merely a quiet, well-behaved six-year-old prince enjoying the feast. But beneath his calm face, his mind operated with the cold precision of a veteran strategist.
As the feast hit its stride and roasted meats, spiced wines, and course after course filled the tables, the real game of thrones began. Whispers were exchanged, ancient rivalries simmered just beneath the surface, and loyalty to the crown was weighed against the rising legend of Daemon Blackfyre.
Valarr decided it was time to move. He unclasped his linen napkin and stood up from his chair.
Prince Baelor turned his head immediately, his dark eyes—so unlike the traditional Targaryen violet—softening as he looked down at his eldest son. "What is it, Valarr? Is the food not to your liking?"
"Nothing is wrong, Father," Valarr replied, forcing a bright, innocent cadence into his tone. "I just thought I would go make some friends among the other boys."
Baelor smiled warmth radiating from his weathered face. He reached out, patting Valarr gently on the shoulder. "A fine idea, my boy. A prince must know his people, but a ruler must know his peers. Courtesy and friendship forged in youth become the iron pillars of a peaceful reign. Go on then."
"Thank you, Father," Valarr said with a polite bow before stepping off the dais and into the milling crowd of nobles.
Navigating the bustling hall, Valarr bypassed the older lords who were already deep in their cups or arguing over border taxes. His target was a cluster of young squires and noble sons gathered near one of the large hearths. They were playing a game of finger-dance with carved wooden swords and rolling bone dice, their laughter echoing above the harp strings.
Among the group sat key figures of the future generation: Abelar Hightower, the crisp, smartly dressed grandson of the current Lord of Oldtown; a young Lyonel Tyrell, bearing the haughty posture typical of Highgarden's ruling line; alongside several sons of influential Marcher lords from Houses Caron, Swann, and Dondarrion.
As Valarr approached, his silver-gold hair and pale violet eyes immediately gave him away. The boys halted their game. Abelar Hightower was the first to react, quickly scrambling to his feet, followed closely by Lyonel Tyrell and the rest.
"Your Grace," they greeted in uncoordinated unison, bowing deeply to the crown prince's son.
"Please, keep your seats," Valarr said smoothly, offering a warm, accessible smile that disarmed their sudden anxiety. "There is no need for such formality away from the high table. May I join you?"
Abelar Hightower, a sharp-eyed boy a few years older than Valarr, straightened his tunic and gestured toward the velvet-cushioned bench. "Of course, Prince Valarr! We were only rolling dice and discussing the upcoming squires' melee tomorrow."
"A melee?" Valarr asked, taking a seat among them with deliberate ease. "I take it House Hightower intends to field a champion, Abelar?"
Abelar's chest puffed up with pride. "My elder brother is riding in the squires' tilt, My Prince. He boasts he will unhorse any boy from the Stormlands before noon."
A young heir of House Caron scoffed from across the table. "Let him try! My cousin has been training in the yards of Nightsong since he could hold a wooden shield. The Reachmen always talk grandly until a Stormlander lance hits their breastplate!"
Laughter broke out among the young nobles, breaking the remaining tension. Valarr laughed along with them, but his keen eyes were carefully taking measure of each boy at the table.
This is where loyalty is built, Valarr thought, watching Lyonel Tyrell smirk quietly into his goblet. Not in formal audiences when they are grown lords bound by duty, but here, in the casual warmth of shared youth. Daemon Blackfyre wins the realm with grand displays of martial skill, but a kingdom is held together by personal bonds and quiet allegiances.
"The Marches have always bred the finest lancers," Valarr chimed in, leaning forward to look at the young Caron boy. "My mother is a Dondarrion, so I know full well how fierce the Stormlands can be. But we cannot discount the chivalry of Oldtown or Highgarden either. The real trick to winning a melee isn't just a strong arm—it's knowing who stands beside you when the line collapses."
Abelar Hightower looked at Valarr with newfound respect, surprised by the young prince's sharp insight into martial tactics. "You speak like a seasoned warrior, Prince Valarr."
"I listen to my father and my uncle Maekar," Valarr replied modestly, waving a small hand as if dismissing the compliment. "They say a knight who fights alone is just a target. A knight who fights with brothers is a wall."
"Well said!" young Lyonel Tyrell piped up, eager not to be outdone by a Hightower. "When I am old enough to hold a real lance, I intend to form a guard of the finest young knights in the Reach!"
"And when you do, Lord Lyonel, I hope you'll invite me to watch you ride," Valarr said, fixing the future Lord of Highgarden with a warm, approving look. Lyonel beamed at the recognition from the King's grandson.
For the next hour, Valarr skillfully guided the conversation. He didn't brag about his royal blood, nor did he attempt to command them. Instead, he listened intently, validated their childhood boasts, asked smart questions about their home keeps, and subtly sowed the seeds of camaraderie. He made Abelar feel valued for his intellect, Lyonel for his status, and the Marcher boys for their martial pride.
To these young heirs, Valarr Targaryen was proving to be neither an arrogant prince nor a soft scholar. He was charismatic, attentive, and down-to-earth—a natural leader whom they found themselves wanting to impress.