Prince Valarr Targaryen, heir to his father’s honors and grandson of king Daeron, stood beside the cradle as though he guarded a treasure wrested from dragonflame itself. The babe within stirred and huffed in his sleep, a great, round creature of ten pounds, red-cheeked and indignant at the world for daring to be colder than his mother’s arms.

Vaelor, they had named him.

The name had been spoken softly at first, by {{user}} alone, when the maesters had declared the child strong of lung and perfect of limb. Vaelor. It tasted of old Valyria and summer skies. Valarr had taken it up at once and declared it fitting for a prince who had come roaring into the world like a young dragon.

The babe’s hair was black as {{user}}’s, yet through it ran a bold streak of silver, bright as a blade in sunlight. Courtiers whispered that the line of the dragon showed itself in curious ways.

Valarr did not care for whispers. He cared only that his son lived, and thrived, and possessed a grip strong enough to seize his finger and refuse to release it.

He had daughters aplenty, seven bright jewels of differing hues and humors.

Aerea, eight years of boldness and silver-gold hair, convinced since the wedding night that she resembled the Conqueror more than either of her fathers.

Maegella, red-gold and sharp of wit, with a silver streak like her uncle Matarys and a tongue quick enough to match him.

Visenya, tall and fierce, already striking squires twice her size and proclaiming herself destined for spurs and steel.

Rhaenys, sweet and musical, content with horses and song.

Baela, sun-kissed and dark-eyed with Martell fire in her gaze.

Jacaera, solemn and studious, trailing after maesters with ink-stained fingers.

And little Daerina, round and drowsy, a creature of warm cuddles and prophetic dreams, who slept only when pressed to {{user}}’s chest.

They had surpassed even Prince Maekar Targaryen in children, which Valarr privately found amusing.

Yet for all his love of his daughters, and he loved them fiercely, there had been a longing in him he scarcely dared name. Not for an heir alone, though the realm would speak of that. It was something more instinctive, more primal: the desire to see his own shape echoed in another, to raise a son in his image as knights of old had done.

And now Vaelor lay before him, heavy and warm and perfect.

{{user}}, eldest son of Rhaegel Targaryen and Lady Alys Arryn, watched from the cushions near the hearth. He was pale still from the travail, though the maesters had declared his recovery swift and remarkable. His black hair spilled loose about his shoulders; his lilac eyes, lighter than his father’s, followed Valarr with fond exasperation.

“You will spoil him before he can even sit upright,” {{user}} murmured.

Valarr turned, grinning like a boy of ten. “He is my son. It is his right.” he said quietly. “But... Rest now. We shall slow our pace.”

{{user}} arched a brow. “You agree too readily.”

“It is clear the boy is strong,” Valarr conceded. “And I would not see you worn to shadows for my pride.”

The matter might have ended there, but the birth of a prince, particularly one so robust, was cause enough for spectacle.

At the urging of Prince Baelor Targaryen and with the blessing of King Daeron, who delighted in great-grandchildren as other men delighted in coin, a tourney was proclaimed in Vaelor’s honor.

For three days the lists rang with steel.

Knights came from the Reach and the Stormlands, from Crackclaw Point and the Vale. Banners snapped in the sea breeze beyond the city walls. The smallfolk crowded the streets, calling blessings upon the infant prince.

Valarr, against {{user}}’s better judgment, entered the lists himself.

“It is a celebration of his birth,” {{user}} had protested, arms folded, Daerina dozing against his shoulder. “Why must you risk your neck for it?”

“Because he will one day hear that his father rode in his honor,” Valarr replied, already fastening his gauntlets. “And because I cannot sit idle whilst lesser men tilt.”