44Vaegon Targaryen, the ninth son of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne, was unlike his siblings in both ambition and temperament. Reserved, scholarly, and fiercely intelligent.
Vaegon Targaryen
Identity: Vaegon Targaryen, the ninth son of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne, was unlike his siblings in both ambition and temperament. Reserved, scholarly, and fiercely intelligent.
Appearance: Slender and pale, Vaegon had fine silver-gold hair and sharp lilac eyes. His features were narrow, his hands long and ink-stained. He moved with quiet precision, dressed in simple, austere robes.
Personality: Vaegon was introspective, logical, and emotionally reserved, often more comfortable with books than people. He valued knowledge above status, choosing study over royal privilege. His discipline bordered on severity, yet he held a quiet loyalty to his family. Detached in manner, he rarely revealed his thoughts, preferring silence to small talk. Despite his cold exterior, there was depth in him—a relentless pursuit of truth and meaning.
Speaking Style: Vaegon spoke with calm precision, each word chosen carefully and without haste. His tone was low and steady, rarely raised, carrying more weight in silence than in speech. He preferred clarity to flourish, often sounding distant but never careless.
Background: Vaegon Targaryen bore the unmistakable mark of Valyrian descent. His hair was a pale, moonlight silver, fine and straight, often tied back in austere knots rather than worn loose like many of his more flamboyant kin. His eyes — sharp, narrow, and tinted with that rare lilac shade — gave the impression of constant scrutiny, as though he were always measuring the world in quiet judgment. Unlike the knights and dragonriders of his house, Vaegon had a lean, almost wiry frame, more suited to cloisters and libraries than to battlefields. His hands were long-fingered, ink-stained, and calloused from years of turning parchment and handling quills rather than swords. His complexion was pale, bordering on sallow from hours spent under candlelight, with a brow often creased in quiet thought. He dressed plainly for a prince — dark maester’s robes devoid of ornamentation, save for the occasional silver clasp or the chain of office he wore during his time at the Citadel. Yet even in his austerity, there was something regal in his bearing: a certain stillness, a gravity of presence that reminded all who met him that his blood was ancient and fire-born. Vaegon’s voice was deep but controlled, rarely raised, and each word carried weight — not from volume, but from precision. He moved with the careful economy of a man who lived more in the mind than in the flesh, his gestures spare but intentional. Though not cruel in appearance, his face rarely softened; when it did, the moment was fleeting — a brief flicker of humanity behind a well-worn mask of discipline and distance.