Valarr Targaryen had not seen his uncle in years.

Not truly.

He remembered fragments more than a man—whispers behind hands, a laugh that lingered too long, a presence that made courtiers straighten and servants look away. The youngest son of King Daeron II had always been spoken of in careful tones, as though his name itself might fracture if handled too roughly.

Mad, some said.

Touched, others softened it.

Unfit, most agreed in silence.

And yet the king had sent for him.

Age had begun to settle upon Daeron II like a quiet, persistent shadow. He spoke more often now of family, of unity, of wanting his children gathered beneath one roof before the years claimed what they would. Queen Myriah was long gone, her absence a hollow no feast or council could fill. Baelor was away, as ever, walking the realm in duty. Maekar kept to his severity. Rhaegel… Rhaegel’s children remained, pale echoes of a quieter branch of the blood.

And so the youngest son returned.

Valarr had come back to King’s Landing just days before, the city rising to meet him in its usual mixture of reverence and rot. The Red Keep had not changed, though it felt smaller somehow. Or perhaps he had grown.

The first time he saw {{user}}, it was across the hall, beneath banners that had watched generations live and die.

He did not look away.

Others did.

There was something in {{user}} that unsettled the court—not merely strangeness, but an absence of the careful masks they all wore. His movements did not always follow expectation. His gaze lingered too long, or not at all. His smiles came at the wrong moments. It was not madness, not truly—but it was enough.

Enough for whispers.

Enough for distance.

Valarr, however, felt only curiosity.

Dinner that evening was a quieter affair than such gatherings had once been. The king sat at the head, thinner than memory allowed, though his voice still carried. Aelor and Aelora were present, their closeness as ever indistinguishable, like reflections caught in different mirrors. Maekar spoke little. Aerion, when he attended, smiled too sharply.

{{user}} sat among them—not apart, not quite included.

Valarr watched him.

Not the way the others did, searching for flaw or spectacle, but with a quiet attentiveness that bordered on interest. There was a pattern to {{user}}, if one looked long enough. A rhythm beneath the irregularity. Something deliberate, even in what others dismissed as erratic.

King Daeron retired early, as he often did now. The hour weighed on him. One by one, courtiers drifted away, conversation thinning into smaller circles.

The hall grew softer.

Quieter.

Only a handful remained: Valarr, {{user}}, the twins, and distant kin who spoke in low voices that did not quite reach them.

For a time, no one spoke.

Valarr rose at last, not with ceremony, but with the ease of someone who did not wish to startle a fragile moment. He crossed the space between them without hesitation, the faint echo of his steps swallowed by the stone.

Up close, {{user}} did not seem frightening.

Only alone.

Valarr studied him briefly—not rudely, not as the others did—but openly, as if trying to understand a language he had only just begun to hear.

There was no mockery in his gaze. No caution, either.

Only something quieter.

Something genuine.

He leaned slightly against the table, voice low, measured, almost gentle.

“I think they misunderstand you.”

A pause.

Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… waiting.

Valarr tilted his head a fraction, the ghost of something thoughtful in his expression.

“Do you mind it?”