AERION'S NEGLECTED WIFE. (valarr targaryen x reader)
just thinking about how gentle valarr would be with you every time his cousin publicly showed how little he cared for your marriage. he knows how deeply humiliating it must be to stand ignored before all those gossipy nobles. he sees the way your eyes fall in shame whenever you try to speak to your husband and he barely looks at you, barely touches you, barely acknowledges your presence.
and valarr sees it all. he suffers it in silence alongside you. too calm, too quiet, too honorable to intrude on marital matters that are not his own. yet you — a lady of immeasurable beauty, sharp of mind and tender of heart — deserve so much more than to be a forgotten shadow beside a man capable of such cruelty.
if only you were his lady wife, you would forget the aching loneliness that gnaws at you day after day.
and he would make it so. for the feelings he had long repressed for you only smoldered deeper with every passing day, every week, every moon. it was only a matter of time before the fire grew too fierce, before the honorable prince finally surrendered to his own heart.
so valarr began visiting you whenever aerion left to train or to seek someone new to torment. what began as soft words of comfort soon bloomed into tender compliments and whispered promises, until they became kisses scattered across your face like blessings.
his lips would brush your temple like a feather, then the tip of your nose, your cheek, the corner of your mouth… until finally he pressed the softest, most tentative kiss to your lips — so gentle you wondered if you had imagined it. he would search your eyes, silently begging for permission, knowing full well how wrong it was.
you are his cousin’s wife. he cannot have you.
yet he cannot stay away. your soft, yearning gaze — silently pleading for more affection, more of him — left him utterly lost.
his lips molded to yours in delicate little pecks, each one lingering longer than the last. his hand cupped your cheek as he tilted his head, daring to part his lips and brush his tongue gently against your lower lip — first a tender caress, then with sweet, patient insistence at the seam of your mouth.
what he could not say in words, he told you with his breath against yours — how much he admires you, how unfair it was that you had to marry aerion, how he desired you. how he wanted to steal you from his cousin's claws forever.
valarr is today’s latest vogue 73 questions celeb, and the world can’t help but love to get a peak into the first gentleman’s life with the beloved madame president
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who opens up the door with a regal elegance, hair styled perfectly and outfit pressed exceptionally. he apologizes for his poor style choice, yet he is seen dressed in expensive black slacks and a deep green quarter zip, an outfit of pure wealth and class.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who answers the questions given to him with proficiency, walking around the white house like it’s not a place of history, but somewhere he’s been accustomed to letting loose.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who hypes you up so much to the interviewer, talking about your accomplishments and achievements at such a young age, getting all flushed and red faced when mentioned how you picked a westerosi prince over anyone in the states.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who talks about the hardships of moving from westeros to america, mentioning how culture shock was hard, but he adjusted because of his love for you.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who mentions how easy it was for him to say goodbye to the throne, saying how being a spare meant it was unlikely he’d be the king of westeros, and that he’d rather be here supporting your campaign.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who casually plays the piano as he’s answering questions, flexing his skills on the instrument that you will definitely jokingly poke fun at later when you both watch the interview.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who introduces the interviewer and world to his and yours shared cat, roosevelt. he picks up the tuxedo with efficiency, scratching behind the animals ears with a fond expression on his face. the little feline reminds him of you too much, for you both make the same scrunched expressions.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who reminisces on when he first met you, laughing at how you weren’t very fond of him, ending in major debates between the two of you.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who blushes even brighter when you walk into the house, slacks and button down pressed, heels clacking on the sleek marble. you smile and greet the interviewer, moving over to place a kiss on valarr’s red cheek. you wave shyly at the camera, making all of america swoon.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who smacks your arm playfully and laughs when you agree to how much you two hated each other, bringing up the infamous debate in your guys’ political science class back in university.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who becomes an internet sensation over the way he stares at you when you talk. the man basically has stars in his eyes, and people don’t skip the way his hand brushes your hair back when it gets into your face.
FIRST GENTLEMAN!VALARR who has a hand around your waist as you both wave goodbye to the cameraman, smiling brightly like the all-american couple that you are.
hello! could you write some headcanon or whatever you want about husband!valarr. sfw and nsfw cause hes such a good boy and prince but he's sooo needy for his wife, like...eager for her touch and kisses, perhaps he have an dominant side too but only when he's overstimulated by his duties idk
Husband! Valarr Headcanons
Warnings - Contains NSFW content, minors do not interact.
The Young Prince was a man before he was ever a boy.
The moment he gained consciousness the weight of his inheritance was saddled upon his shoulders without his leave.
But it was plainly his; his to deal with, his to be thankful for.
He treats his marriage with you the same.
The betrothal was quick — he's the heir to the heir, he needs a wife as soon as possible — and lacked true connection.
He didn't like to pester you with his presence, he figured you were uncomfortable enough being away from home, let alone awkwardly walking the gardens with your betrothed. Though he admired you silently, walked behind you in the corridors, watched from across the throne room and allowed himself a few stares at meal times.
The wedding day was a whirlwind, but not lacking tenderness. He said his vows and pecked your lips loyally— he even held your waist!
The bedchamber was a feat in itself. Thankfully, after a very passionate beseeching from Valarr, the king and his father decided there was no need for a maester in the room.
The prince was a dutiful one, he would do what must be done.
You shook as your maids took your hair down, and almost jumped when the door clicked shut. He had appeared right behind you.
"I wish not to frighten you." He spoke quietly, meeting your gaze in the mirror as he chanced to place his hands on your shoulders.
"You do not." You replied lowly.
He unlaced your dress and let it fall along with his clothes, and met you with a deep, fumbling kiss.
He was as much a maiden as you were this eve.
The intimacy was — uncomfortable in the beginning — slow and fumbling, but grew hot in its last moments.
After, he drew you into his arms, breathing heavily, and kissed your head.
What a match this turned out to be.
Valarr was a most attentive husband. It was often that you found little gifts on your pillow, like some new silken hair ribbons or a dainty bracelet.
He enjoyed spoiling you, but above all his language of love was quality time. He adored coming back to your shared chambers after a long day, eating a meal and chatting, reading, or simply lying about together.
Often you would sit on his lap as you readied for bed, your polished hairbrush in his large hand, the prince carefully smoothing and separating each strand. Once he finished, he would wrap his arms around your waist and assail your neck with kisses until you giggled.
You found yourself watching him often, and had his mannerisms, routine, and habits memorised.
Each morn he rose to train, then bathed, broke his fast with — an egg, a fatty slice of pork, toasted buttered bread — you, and attended council. Then he would stroll about with his father politicking, go for a peaceful walk of his own, and return to your chambers.
On his own promenade, he brought a small book and a sneaking, messy little bottle of ink. He hid on a discreet wall at the very cusp of the gardens, and traced the plants, often pressing them into his sketch book next to his lacklustre drawings.
You thought it endearing.
His face was a very expressive thing, too. A clench of the jaw meant that he was holding his tongue. A wrinkle of the nose was an attempt not to cry.
The interlacing of his fingers was often anxious, but it varied. In the presence of his father it was simply relation; Baelor often fiddled with either a coin, ring, or his own fingers, and your husband tended to do the same. It was sweet, how much he mirrored his sire.
It was clear to any how much he wished to make him proud.
The bedroom was a place you found yourself far more frequent and passionate than you had anticipated before marriage.
Valarr proved to be a perceptive lover; as he learned to please you he did not stunt, but endeavoured to do more and more until he had mastered your body. A twist of the nipple, a bite on the hip, a vibrating moan against your hot cunt…
As much as you enjoyed his eves of devotion, you preferred it most when he was frustrated.
He was most attractive when angry and bottling it, his veiny hands balled into fists.
The moment he spotted you — himself pent up after a frustrating council —, he bent you over the nearest surface, spanked and fucked you so hard that it was a miracle you had not lost consciousness. He could not help it, he craved to be inside of you with each moment that he was not.
After, he was the most apologetic man alive, embracing you and begging your pardon as he rubbed your back.
An occurrence as common as the aforementioned was your husband coming back tired, drained, and unable to put in the work. Though he was exhausted, his drive never dulled— it was not his fault, you were there, stalking about the chamber and making him think the most obscene of thoughts.
You would ride him slowly. How he loved the picture of you atop him— dare he say it was his favourite position.
Perhaps after you would suck his cock, but most certainly he would tug you by the thighs to sit on his face. That was his favourite way to unwind, tasting you. He was also partial to being commanded. There was something about the threatening tone of your voice when you tugged at his hair that made him hard whenever he thought of it.
In the afterglow you always embraced, front to front — Valarr disliked not being able to look into your "transfixing gaze " — though the way varied.
One thing about him is that he is desperate for your touch. He seeks it for its calming qualities, its gentle comfort, and its tolerant love.
Sometimes it was your head on his chest. The Young Prince always grinned at that one, it made him feel like he protected you. He enjoyed feeling useful.
Sometimes it was the opposite, his face nuzzled against the soft flesh of your breast, inhaling the scent of your bath oil as your gentle fingers rubbed the sensitive scalp beneath his silver streak. In that hold he felt safe and weightless, the pressure of the throne alleviated for a brief moment.
He did not need to be Prince Valarr, the future king, the son of the great Baelor Breakspear; but simply Valarr. The man who liked to sketch and appreciate a flower's form.
At the end of each night when candles were blown out, the embrace still did not cease
Valarr slept deeply in your arms, held you tightly, and dreamed silently.
Marriage with your sweet prince was peace.
Valarr Targaryen m.list ♖
i've never rlly written headcanons before, so forgive if it's not the right format. i js can't write in bullet points idk. also not proofread might be insane.
i hope this was what you were envisioning anon! i really enjoyed writing it. he's so cute.
if you have any requests or js wanna thirst pls hit my inbox <3
PLEASEEE i need some character hc's for valarr because i'm tryna write a fanfic for him but he has so little screentime it was hard to get a read on him. i admire the super complex pyschology your stories have and i've been eating up these little valarr snippets.
Keep in mind that I’m also shooting in the dark and this is just my personal read on him. HW-verse!Valarr is easier because I’ve thought about him more but:
He learns very early that softness can be used against him. Not because there’s anything wrong with him or his actions, but because he grows up in a court where every expression is noticed, judged, and interpreted however the other person deems fit. He becomes reserved on purpose, to protect himself from similar judgment his father had to face his whole life. People mistake that for arrogance, and sometimes it is, but mostly it’s just armour.
He’s far more dutiful than he is ambitious. Valarr def feels like someone raised to understand rank as a burden before privilege. He doesn’t chase attention the way Aerion does, but he also doesn’t inspire easy warmth the way Baelor does, either. But he takes duty painfully seriously, so much so that, much like his father, it can be to the point of self-erasure.
He loves his father deeply, but it’s not all rainbows and sunshine. Baelor is such a larger than life, admired figure that being his son is both a privilege and a quiet misery tbh. Valarr probably spends much of his youth trying to be “worthy” of being Baelor’s son rather than simply being loved. He respects Baelor deeply, loves him even more, but there’s probably a hard knot in him made of wanting approval he never feels he fully earns.
He inherits Baelor’s restraint, not Baelor’s ease. Where Baelor can command affection and calm a room, Valarr has the same instinct for discipline without the same social grace to go with it. He knows how to hold himself like a prince, knows how to speak like a prince, but not always how to put others at ease through natural warmth. This makes him seem harsher than he means to be sometimes.
He watches people constantly. Not in a scheming way, necessarily, but in a pure survival way. He notices who laughs too loudly, who goes quiet when certain names are mentioned, who is trying to impress whom. He spends much of his life reading a room for hidden intent/danger (it’s actually one of his strongest skills as a future king, but he doesn’t see it as such)
He’s harder on himself than anyone else ever is. Public criticism rolls off him better than private failure. If he makes a mistake, he replays it for days. If he disappoints someone he respects (read: baelor), it stays with him for years. He’s the type to appear composed while internally flaying himself alive.
He envies people who can be ordinary. Not peasants, exactly, but people with smaller, simpler lives. Hedge knights. Second sons without expectation. Men allowed to embarrass themselves and recover from it one day. Valarr would never say this aloud, because it sounds ungrateful, but part of him longs for a life where one misstep doesn’t become another disastrous chapter in his family history.
He and Matarys likely understand each other in a way no one else quite does. Whether they’re close in an openly affectionate way or not, I think Valarr has a fierce attachment to his brother regardless. A near-twin bond works especially well for him because he seems like someone who only fully relaxes around one or two people in his whole life.
He’s not cruel, but he CAN be cutting. Or maybe I’m just not buying the Disney prince fanon. When angry, Valarr doesn’t shout. But he does get precise and near surgical with his fury. He knows exactly which words will end a conversation or put someone in their place. Afterwards he may regret the damage, but in the moment he goes for control.
He probably has a dry, surprisingly sharp sense of humour. Not warm or charming, but the kind that appears out of nowhere, so deadpan that people are not sure whether he’s joking or not. The fun part is that when he’s genuinely amused, it makes him seem years younger.
He doesn’t forgive quickly. Not because he’s vindictive, but because betrayal confirms things he already fears about the world. Once someone proves false, he doesn’t really restore them in his mind. He may behave civilly to their face, but internally the door stays shut.
He finds public vulnerability unbearable. If he grieves, he does it privately. If he’s wounded, he does everything to minimise it. If he’s frightened, he becomes colder for it. He would rather be thought proud than be seen unraveling or weak.
He has a DEEP fear of becoming like the worst parts of his family. This is one of my favourite reads on him, and something I think about often. Not that he thinks he’s monstrous, but that he knows Targaryens can turn pride into madness, entitlement into brutality, and detachment into cruelty with startling ease. He’s always trying to stay on the right side of that line.
He’s actually gentler with children than adults expect. People who grow up having to master themselves early sometimes end up being just as careful around the young, because they know what fear feels like. I can imagine Valarr being awkward but unexpectedly patient with children, especially the quiet or anxious ones.
He’s romantic but in the worst possible way: privately and hopelessly. Not flamboyant, not poetic in public, not showy, but deep down he seems built for the kind of love that becomes loyalty and habitual choice of a person. The issue is that he struggles to say any of it aloud until it’s too late.
He carries grief like an eventuality. Even before Ashford, Valarr strikes me as someone shaped by anticipation of loss. Dynasty, succession, family conflict, public duty, all of it teaches him that any joy is fragile and temporary. So he holds himself apart, because he wrongly believes distance might make loss hurt less.
If he loves someone, it comes out as protection first. Practical things. Standing a little too close to danger instead of his person, remembering what they need, making arrangements before being asked. He’s not a grand declarations type of person. He’s the “I noticed and handled it” person.
valarr is quite conceited when it comes to his pretty lady wife. he simply wants to make sure he's the one giving you incredible pleasure. there won’t be a moment when he just lets it go. no no no. he will just eat you out like if this is his last supper and then look up at you asking “feels good?” knowing damn well it is!! even if the sex happens not so often as you both want, he always worships you the best way possible. and yeah he does it not only because he loves you (he truly does) but also to stroke his ego.
thoughts are being thunk about Valarr goody-two-shoes who is just sooooo uninhibited in bed.
Doing the things pretty princes like him aren’t supposed to, aren’t given a manual, and things that would downright scandalise everyone who knew you. If they knew what you had done with Valarr. What you let him do to you.
He is a relentless lover. Experimental. Attentive. Shameless when he pries his fingers inside your knickers in high-end clubs when you’re ordering drinks. You feel the cool metal of his ring against your clit and you have to bite the inside of your before even looking at anyone. By the end of the night you are a sensate, quivering mess, already leaking when you get inside his car and get on top of him, pulling at his belt and taking him right there, in the back of his car like a fucking hippie.
Valarr is attentive inside your bedroom. Methodical when he waits, waits and waits with your walls squeezing tight around his length and your voice reduced to a hoarse whisper—to hit that one place that makes you see stars in closed spaces. He's charting out his favorite sounds, he's making an inventory of your come-face.
He is experimental when he takes you in front of his heirloom mirror just after shower; You have to steady yourself on the frame of the mirror, watching the soft, effervescent clouds forming on the glass from your combined breaths. The silver strand is almost translucent when it's wet. Look at you, he gasps into your ear. His stubbles tickle your cheeks. He thrusts so deep you bulge forward, your cheeks red and your breaths all spent out.
Look at us, he groans. Mismatched eyes on you. So fucking perfect. Can’t fucking believe... His speech gets muffled when you really pick your pace though; you like watching the scarlet flush on the nape of his neck and your faces—contorted into helpless, relentless bliss. Moans like gasps. Your skirt gets bunched up—not taken off. And the moment you realise that you like it. You like the fact that he’s fresh out of shower and the sight of you in your work clothes makes him so feral he has to rush across the room and pull off his towel and have you this instant. You realise you like the hurry of it, the desperation, the animal-hunger you never knew you had in you—you come almost as soon as he enters you with a moan loud enough to be heard across the room. His hand sneaks in your shirt, palming your breasts, petting them like his favorite toy. He comes right after, ten seconds after. And the bashful, beautiful smile—this is the first time it happened. You make me hungry, darling. Make me needy.
