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“Are you asleep, my dearest?”
It was the odd hour of the night, when his lord father walked into his tent, alone, a candle in his hand.
Valarr was not, and so he sat upright in his bed, rubbing his face.
“May I?” – his father asked, eyes pointing at the bedsheets where he sat.
Valarr nodded, and his father sat beside him, silent. The wind whistled outside the tent, and the rain began to tap against the canvas. It was dark, and dull, and lonely, and Valarr leaned into his father's side as if he was still a child, not a man grown.
“You've cut your hair,” – his father said, absent-mindedly.
He did, and some time ago, and what would it matter, anyway?
“Suits you well,” – his father's warm fingers ran carefully through Valarr's short-cropped strands, making him squint in pleasure. – “You look older now.”
And much like you, Valarr thought.
There was something, a touch of something unsettling, ominous, even. Valarr craved the soft, gentle tenderness just as much as he feared what it may conceal.
“What is it, father?” – he asked. A strong hand wrapped around his shoulders, calming, soothing.
“I have something to ask of you. A small favor, it won't burden you.”
Valarr swallowed, and nodded, slowly. He would do anything, of course, as he should. But this uneasy tightness in his chest just won't let go.
“Would you be so kind to let me borrow your armor?” — his father asked. Not too much of a request, indeed.
“But why? Why would you need it?” – Valarr pulled away a little, not enough to break out of his embrace, though, and looked him in the eye, puzzled.
“I intend to join the trial on the morrow,” – there was a hint of weariness in his father's voice, and something desperate in the way he held onto Valarr's shoulder.
“But there is no need for that,” – Valarr said calmly, leaning back into his arms. Just a misconception, then, and nothing to be worried about. – “Ser Steffon Fossoway has joined the accusers. With Aerion, and Daeron, and uncle, and the kingsguard, it makes seven of them. You do not have to fight.”
A silence fell, disturbed by nothing but rain and flapping canvas, and Valarr settled himself. He wished he could crawl into his father's lap and rest his head upon his father's knees and let himself be lulled asleep. Yet that would be inappropriate of him, seven-and-ten of age now and not a child anymore, and so he just sat there, quietly, waiting for whatever else his father had to say.
“I am afraid you're wrong, my dearest,” – he spoke, finally. – “I am to take ser Duncan's side.”
A shiver ran down Valarr's spine, as he drew back and crossed his arms defensively. That could not be. He could resent Aerion, despise him, hate him, but he was still kin. And Daeron was a gentle soul, though miserable and wretched as he is, and their father…
“You're not!” – Valarr said, sharply. – “That would be madness.”
“That would be the right thing to do. The man is innocent.”
Of course it would be. Just like any other thing his father does. Like any other thing the future king should do. Does he have to choose righteousness over mercy, however? Won't he spare those who love him?
And what does that even matter, Valarr thought. Even the innocent ones die, eventually.
“Please, father,” – Valarr begged. – “Your brother will fight to protect his children. Means he'll fight to death. And my armor is unfit for you. You might get yourself killed.”
The whole image of it made Valarr sick. A delusion, a feverish dream. It was dark, save for dim candlelight, and he felt his head spinning.
“Unfit for me?” – his father smiled. – “Accuse me of growing old and soft now, would you?”
It was a decoy, clearly, just like the “here-comes-the-dragon” ones, from when he was a child. Just to hide the harsh truth of it. His father, a great man, risking his life over a cause so small and insignificant, though just it may be. It cannot happen. It would not happen.
“I will do it, then,” – Valarr blurted out. – “If you say it's such a right thing to do. I'll fight them.”
“No, you won't,” – his father shook his head firmly.
“But why?” – he asked, desperately.
“Aerion is skilled with sword and lance, and so is my brother,” – a ghost of smile, of fondness on his father's face. Valarr squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He's not to be distracted, he's not to fall for that, he's not… He felt his insides twisting, a flush of anger mixed up with helplessness. – “I cannot let you face them. You know that all too well, my love.”
“I can handle myself well enough,” – he grumbled. Not as well as you, though. No one in this realm is as good as you. No one as noble. – “I will join the defendants and fight for that hedge knight. And you will settle down and give up on this.”
His father drew him closer and shook him by his shoulders as if Valarr was a child afraid to sleep alone in darkness.
“You're young,” – he said. – “And as eager as you might be, but have yet much to learn. Many a battle ahead of you. But for now, you must let me do what’s to be done.”
That's it. You'll get it once you grow my age.
His father pressed a soft, tender kiss against Valarr's temple, and Valarr felt it sting and burn, and it made him flinch, and shake off his father's arms, and jump up his feet like some hunted animal desperate to break loose. Enough of that.
“No!” – he cried, completely unfit for a prince, second in line to the Iron Throne. – “No! And don't you dare trick me with your kindness! You won't have it, unless you wish to force me! I forbid you to join this fight!”
His father got up, slowly, and stood tall, and for a moment, there was warmth in his eyes, the mismatched eyes that Valarr himself had inherited, and sadness, and Valarr had thought that it was over, that he would call it a fool's errand, and hold him in his arms, and this would end, and the fear of loss so great he couldn't even fathom would not torment him anymore.
But then, but in a heartbeat, all was gone. There was no love in his father’s eyes, one clear blue and one warm brown, and there was no kindness, and no compassion. Only righteousness. There was no more of his beloved father in front of him – only his master, the soon-to-be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Baelor, second of his name, King of Andals, and Rhoynar, and the First Men. Baelor the Just, they would call him, surely. Baelor the Righteous. Baelor the Cruel, Valarr thought, and a shattered breath escaped his lips.
“Prince Valarr,” – his father said.
There was nothing to be done. There is nothing ever to be done. Valarr had lost this fight since he started it.
“Are you to deny your suzerain?”
Valarr sobbed, and slipped to his knees, limp, as if someone had pulled all of his bones away from his body, and bowed his head.
“No, Your Grace,” – he said, his voice tiny. – “You will have the armor brought to you at dawn. May the Seven bless you, and guide your hand.”
A stiff and cold hand, a hand of a king grasped his shoulder, and Valarr could not bring himself to look up.