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It had all begun well enough.
King Daeron II Targaryen had organized a tourney to commemorate the anniversary of the Blackfyre Rebellion’s suppression. It was Valarr’s first tournament as a knight — he had only recently been dubbed. Despite his father’s quiet but unwavering support, the weight of expectation pressed heavily upon him. He knew he would be judged more harshly than anyone else. This was, after all, the first true showing of the future heir to the Iron Throne. The nobility were eager to see what stuff the son of the famed warrior Baelor Breakspear was made of.
That, more than anything, unsettled him. Above all, Valarr did not wish to shame his father or prove himself unworthy.
He could not say his first appearance in the lists had gone poorly. He had not been given any truly formidable opponents and had won both his tilts. He felt both relief and shame in equal measure. It was hard to say which was worse — to fall flat in one’s first serious bout, or to feel like a coddled boy spared from real challenge. Surely no one had ever spared his father.
The following day he was matched against his cousin, Daeron. Valarr’s uncle, Maekar, had arrived at the tourney with his entire household, as was expected, but only Daeron was of age to compete.
Valarr did not see his uncle and cousins often — they did not live near one another — yet he knew Daeron well enough to understand he had little to fear from him. Daeron’s younger brother, Aerion, though still only a squire, posed far more of a threat. Valarr had never liked the boy’s temperament and, following his father’s advice, did his best to ignore his provocations.
Daeron, by contrast, was gentle and ill-suited to violence. Why he had been knighted — and so early — genuinely puzzled Valarr. It was plain to see the young man was not made for it. But Maekar, it seemed, was determined to hammer his son into a warrior, just as he himself had once been. Without question, it had been Maekar who insisted his eldest face the future heir.
Valarr did not entirely understand what had come over him when the match ceased to be merely a defeat for Daeron and became something closer to humiliation.
He had fought fairly — he told himself that much. It was hardly his fault his cousin was unskilled. And yet…
Fair, yes. But his motives had not been wholly clean. He knew he had wanted to impress his father and the crowd — and had used Daeron to do it. He might have ended things cleanly after unhorsing him in the second tilt. Instead, that had not been enough. He had demanded they continue on foot, despite Daeron’s obvious disorientation. He had drawn the fight out, circling, retreating, striking again — fully aware his cousin could not truly answer him. It ended with a dramatic press of steel to Daeron’s throat, where Valarr lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary for effect.
What was done was done. The crowd had delighted in the spectacle — all the more so for it being between blood kin. They roared their approval for the prince. Valarr felt none of their joy.
That evening he went to Daeron’s chambers to apologize for his excess. Daeron accepted without resentment and reminded him once more that tourneys held little interest or meaning for him.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Daeron said lightly. “You looked impressive. That’s what matters. You are the future heir to the Iron Throne.”
Later, Daeron confided that his visions had returned, and that his father had forbidden the servants from giving him wine and had taken away his coin. He looked so wretched that Valarr, wishing to ease the awkwardness and perhaps his own guilt, offered to show him a hidden passage out of the castle and treat him to wine in a tavern in the city.
As the saying goes — where there are two cups, there will be more. Daeron drank deeply. Valarr at first tried to restrain himself, but under his cousin’s influence and the warmth of the tavern’s revelry, he gave in. For a fleeting moment, the expectations, the fears, the dread of disappointing others — all of it vanished. Just as the visions vanished for Daeron. Valarr had never before felt the urge to drink so heavily, but this night felt different. He had not known it could be so easy — so comfortable — to sit beside his cousin.
Their small adventure ended in the city guardhouse. Neither prince would later be able to recount precisely how the scuffle had begun, only that they had awoken on a cold stone floor to the sound of shouting. It seemed they had stumbled into someone else’s brawl and been swept up with the rest. Dressed as common townsmen and lacking the distinctive silver hair of their house, they had not been recognized in the chaos. Only come morning did one of the senior guards realize whom they had arrested. Horror followed, then frantic apologies. Had they known, they would never have laid a hand upon them.
Baelor, fortunately, as Hand of the King, resolved the matter with measured diplomacy. No great harm had been done, he said. Young men had drunk too much; the guards had merely performed their duty. No one was injured, and if the princes bore a bruise or two, that was consequence enough of their own decisions.
Outwardly, Baelor appeared untroubled. As a future ruler, he had long mastered composure in public — unlike his younger brother.
As soon as Daeron appeared before Maekar, the latter immediately seized him by the collar and roughly dragged him away. As they went, he shouted curses about what sins the gods were punishing him for with such a dreadful son, and how Daeron would very soon regret yet another violation of his father’s command. Maekar showed no concern whatsoever for Daeron’s privacy, and Valarr silently thanked those same gods that, Seven be praised, Baelor had never treated him that way. In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all—only told him to come see him in the evening, once the young man had dealt with the consequences of his hangover.
In that sense, Daeron had a certain advantage, Valarr thought. At least he knew exactly what to expect. Valarr himself had never found himself in a situation like this before, and his father could sometimes be unpredictable, even surprising. For something others might consider a trifle, he could deliver a stern reprimand; yet for something arguably more serious, he might simply choose to overlook it.
Valarr liked to believe he had not caused his parents much trouble in his young life. His father was beloved by nobles and smallfolk alike; his sons revered him. Valarr had always tried to uphold the image of a responsible eldest son, worthy of the honor and renown of Baelor Breakspear.
He could only hope he had not disappointed him.
There was no tourney that day. Valarr spent the hours in uneasy reflection and tending to the lingering ache of wine. Toward evening he spotted Daeron in the hall and noted he had not attended the midday meal.
“It feels awkward to apologize again,” Valarr said, “but I seem to have dragged you into serious trouble. It was foolish and irresponsible of me. If you can, forgive me.”
Daeron coughed, set aside his plate, and looked at him in surprise.
“Forgive you? For what now?”
“It was my idea to go into the city and drink. I knew your father had forbidden it. I should never have suggested it.”
Daeron waved a hand.
“Don’t dwell on it. You helped me. I regret nothing. Even if I had the honor of reacquainting myself with my father’s belt in the finest tradition, it was still better than enduring those cursed visions another night.”
“Wait,” Valarr stiffened. “Your father—?”
“Don’t tell me you never noticed.”
And indeed. Valarr’s gaze drifted over his cousin’s tense posture, and only then did he notice that Daeron was not sitting on the chair directly, but apparently on a blanket folded in two or even three layers. Perhaps it was not the first time, but Valarr had simply never paid attention before. Daeron winced as he adjusted the crumpled fabric beneath him and let out a sigh.
“Yes,” he said simply. “He whipped me. Aerion and I take our turns. Aemon hides behind his books, and Aegon is still too young. For now it’s only us. Though I doubt Aerion cares much. At least he pleases father. He’ll make a fine warrior. I…” He shrugged. “I am a disappointment.”
Guilt tightened in Valarr’s throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know. Had I known, I would never have suggested it.”
“You apologize too much,” Daeron said with a tired smile. “My father would say it ill becomes a prince.”
Yet the hopeless exhaustion Valarr had seen before was gone from his cousin’s eyes.
Still, the guilt remained. In a single day he had failed Daeron twice. First in the lists, when he had taken advantage of his weakness. And then in the tavern, when he had led him into temptation despite knowing his frailty. He had not imagined the consequences would be so severe — nor that anyone would discover it.
As he walked toward his father’s chambers that evening, one thought settled heavily in his mind:
It would be wrong to escape with a lighter reckoning.
***
“Please, have a seat,” Baelor said, lifting his eyes from the papers he had been working on and gesturing toward the chair. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right, thank you,” Valarr replied politely as he sat down opposite him. He sighed and, not wishing to waste his busy father’s time, asked, “I suppose I should explain what happened?”
“Yes, that would be preferable.”
Baelor set the papers aside and leaned back in his chair, his entire posture signaling that he was prepared to listen attentively. Valarr had always felt that his father possessed some invisible aura that instantly put people at ease and commanded respect—whether one was a simple peasant or a high lord. And it was not merely because he was the future king. Not at all. Valarr did not know what exactly it was, but he sincerely hoped that one day people would look at him the same way.
He recounted his version of events without concealment. Valarr was not so naïve as to believe this was the worst thing he—or any of his living or dead kin—could have done. After all, drinking too much, even in the middle of the city, was hardly unusual, even if his outing with Daeron had not ended as they expected. He had heard plenty of stories about the exploits of various princes and kings in their line, especially in the days when they still had dragons. Yes, the Targaryens had been permitted much. However, he knew his father had his own standards, and Valarr usually wished to live up to them.
“I understand that I acted foolishly and irresponsibly, considering my position and Daeron’s. I’m sorry, father. I know I was wrong.”
Baelor nodded, and silence lingered in the room for a time. For a brief moment, Valarr thought he saw the shadow of a smile pass across his father’s face, which was confirmed when Baelor allowed the faintest curve of amusement to touch the corner of his mouth.
“I hope you understand that my primary concern is not that you drank too much on the eve of a public celebration or accidentally found yourself involved in someone else’s brawl. The Seven know that, compared to many things our House has done, this is far from the worst—some might even call it common.
“And yet, I do not think I need to explain why allowing matters to reach the point where you could not even tell the city watch that you are a prince is unacceptable.”
Valarr flushed.
“No, father, you don’t. I did not intend to drink that much. It simply… happened.”
“You know my views on complete loss of control in public. I understand that half the nobility—if not more—was out in the streets that evening seeking entertainments the castle could not provide. But you would not have found yourself in such an unenviable position had you retained even a measure of control.”
Valarr nodded. He had heard this lecture before.
“Yes. It is important for my reputation and for the reputation of our House, especially now that we no longer have dragons and must consider public opinion more than ever.”
“It is not only about reputation. Beyond the dishonor to our House, you must always consider not only the consequences for yourself but for others. Had you not been with Daeron, someone in his place might have demanded harsh punishment for laying hands on royal blood—even if done unknowingly. I do not forbid you from slipping into the city in secret—gods know, there were times in my youth when I felt the need myself—but you must be cautious and always think about what consequences your actions may have for others.”
Baelor absently turned the ring on his finger, as he often did when he was nervous or speaking on subjects he disliked. Apparently, reprimanding his son fell into that category.
“And first and foremost, yes, you should not have offered Daeron what his father had forbidden him. He is already dependent on drink and, visions or no, will never refuse it if given the chance. Maekar has asked me to ensure that you do not give in to Daeron’s requests for wine or any other alcohol. My brother is his father, and he has the right to forbid what he deems necessary. You have no authority to interfere.”
Valarr nodded gravely and lowered his eyes for a moment. Then he straightened, attempting to assume responsibility as befitted his station.
“I understand. It will not happen again, father. I promise.”
He dared to hope that would conclude his father’s efforts to make him blush, but Baelor seemed to be considering something else.
“I have another question for you. In truth, it concerns me far more than your excursion—whose consequences you already understand. What happened yesterday at the tournament with Daeron? It appeared as though you intended to humiliate him, to distinguish yourself at his expense. If I have drawn the wrong conclusion, then forgive me.”
“You have not drawn the wrong conclusion,” Valarr answered with a sigh. “I did not intend to humiliate him, but I did plan to use his weakness to make myself look better. I behaved unnecessarily cruelly toward Daeron and later apologized to him for it. It was my first tournament… I wanted so badly to prove myself worthy that I let my ambition take the reins.”
“Your actions were hardly worthy. I do not recall teaching you to exploit an opponent’s weakness in such a dishonorable manner. Especially after the match had already been decided in your favor.”
Baelor’s voice grew distinctly colder and firmer. He stopped turning his ring and placed both hands on the table, leaning forward to meet his son’s eyes—eyes of the same mismatched colors as his own.
“One thing is to win a fight. Against Daeron, you would have won regardless. That was never in doubt. But to humiliate an opponent after the contest is effectively over—that is conduct unworthy of an heir and unworthy of my son. My younger brother, fortunately, does not hold it against you. He believes his son alone is to blame. Still, I am glad you apologized to Daeron. Otherwise, I would have required you to do so.”
Baelor paused thoughtfully.
“Was that why you attempted to atone by taking him to a tavern in the city despite his father’s prohibition?”
“Yes.”
Baelor gave a short nod, as though confirming something to himself.
“Well. Your motives are clear now. I trust you have drawn the proper conclusions and that this will not happen again.”
“It will not. I promise,” Valarr assured him, and he truly meant it.
“In that case, I believe a few weeks of additional work will do you good. I am in need of assistance, and you must be increasingly involved in matters of governance. In all other respects, I consider the matter closed.” His tone softened. “I am glad that you understand your mistakes and draw the right conclusions. Unless you have something further to say, you may go. It is late.”
Valarr hesitated. It had gone well—better than expected. His father was not disappointed in him, and the punishment could hardly be called severe, if punishment it was. He had recently turned sixteen; in any case, more responsibility awaited him. And yet he did not feel lighter.
Baelor did not miss his son’s hesitation.
“Is something amiss?” he asked quietly.
Valarr sighed.
“Before coming to you, I saw Daeron in the dining hall. He looked better than he did when I first suggested we leave the castle, but it was obvious he had suffered for it. He told me his father… flogged him.”
“And now you think it unfair that you received less?” Baelor, as always, perceived the heart of the matter.
“Perhaps. Yes.”
Baelor paused before replying.
“Maekar has the right to discipline his sons as he sees fit. None will deny him that, though I did attempt to persuade him toward leniency with Daeron. In the end, he is not at fault for being plagued by visions. My brother loves his children deeply, but he also wishes to raise a worthy heir, and in that I understand him.” Baelor’s gaze lingered on his son.
“But equal does not always mean just. To Maekar, it may be so, for Daeron has broken this prohibition more than once. He is weary and feels compelled to take harsher measures. Fortunately for me, you are not inclined toward such behavior. Therefore, I decide what is just for you—not for anyone else.”
Valarr knew his father’s words were reasonable. It was not that he wished for harsher treatment. But a strange mixture of guilt, shame, and irritation at being overly protected weighed heavily on him.
“I know. But everyone pities me, father. At the tournament no one gives me worthy opponents. Even when I am clearly more at fault, no one is angry with me—no one seems to blame me at all. I was the one who behaved excessively at the tournament, yet Daeron is blamed. I was the one who offered to pay for his drinks, yet Uncle Maekar blames only him. I drank until I could not even tell the watch who I was, and yet everyone panics that I have been mistreated. And when I was younger… it has always been so. I understand why, and it is not that I wish things were worse for me. It sounds foolish, but perhaps…”
He hesitated, then forced himself to say it aloud, however awkward it sounded.
“Besides thinking it would be fair to Daeron, perhaps if I were treated the same as others at least once, I would feel differently.”
“I do not believe I have ever particularly pitied you or your brother. That would serve you poorly in the long term.”
Baelor raised a hand to halt the explanations Valarr was about to offer.
“But I understand what you mean. The life of a prince in King’s Landing often shapes itself whether we wish it or not. I will see what can be done so that you do not feel this way.”
“Thank you,” Valarr said sincerely. It mattered to him that his father did not dismiss his concerns as foolish.
Baelor studied his son. Rising from the desk, he paced the room thoughtfully.
“I could grant your request,” he said carefully. “I do not agree with it, and if we proceed, it will be solely because you desire it—not because I deem it necessary. You are sixteen, a knight, and in some matters entitled to judge what you believe best for yourself. I, however, have no interest in a son burdened by guilt or feelings of inadequacy. Are you certain in what you wish for?”
“I think so. It would at least be honest.”
“Well, in that case, I shall act as I know my brother would—no more and no less—since you want it fair and square.” He paused, considering, then turned toward a cabinet and began searching within it.
Valarr could not see clearly, yet he could guess.
His suspicions were confirmed when Baelor stepped away from the cabinet holding a belt. It was a standard black belt—not overly narrow nor overly wide, but substantial. One had to admit his father looked imposing holding such an instrument, though Valarr had never imagined witnessing such a sight. Had Baelor used such methods regularly, he would not have wished to see it often. Valarr swallowed but immediately rebuked himself. Men his age went to war. What was a mere whipping to him? Daeron endured it often enough. As did countless peasant boys. He forced himself to stand straight.
“I will ask you to come to the side of the desk and bend forward,” Baelor said. Then added, “And lower your trousers first.”
For a second, princely pride flared, and Valarr hesitated.
“Do you think my brother allows Daeron to keep his clothes?”
Baelor tapped the desk.
“Come now. It's you who deemed this necessary.”
In the end, Valarr had no choice but to obey. He had chosen this path of fairness himself, after all.
Once he had managed his clothing, he leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk. He had never felt so vulnerable. Perhaps that vulnerability was part of the punishment.
The first blow came faster than he expected. Unprepared, he jerked sharply and nearly struck his nose against the desk. Fortunately, he managed to avoid that humiliation.
“Stand steady and keep your balance,” his father said calmly.
“Sorry,” Valarr replied.
The next strike landed once he had steadied himself, and he bore it silently. The fifth and sixth fell precisely beneath the third and fourth—Baelor clearly possessed excellent aim even in this matter. Was there anything at which his father was not infuriatingly skilled? Another burning stroke seared his skin. A dozen had surely passed. He lost count somewhere in the second score.
It was more painful than he had anticipated. He had considered such punishments childish—nothing like a public flogging across the back. But the force his father invested in each stroke forced him to reconsider. Had he been a child, he would already be weeping and promising never again to err.
Baelor paused to change sides, and Valarr used the brief respite to grip the desk more tightly. He swore he would endure it without crying out. Prince or not.
When one stroke landed near his thighs, he nearly forgot that vow. His father seemed intent on finishing swiftly and struck harder for it. Valarr began to doubt his resolve. Poor Daeron. What would he say if he learned his cousin had asked for this? Likely call him mad. So be it. Better mad than a pampered royal boy.
His skin felt like a furnace, his knuckles white from gripping the desk. When Baelor switched sides again, tears threatened. Was he truly crying? Had Daeron cried as well?
Valarr began stamping his foot in rhythm with the blows, grunting through clenched teeth.
“Still think everyone pities you?” his father asked almost casually.
“No! I mean—not everyone!” Valarr shouted.
“Good. Then we are nearly finished.”
Something shifted inside him then, and he let go. The pain was sharp, but it was not only pain. Too many expectations, too much pressure. He allowed himself to cry out, to weep openly. And strangely, it eased him. Not physically—but inwardly. For a moment he stopped trying to be the perfect son, the worthy heir, the flawless warrior… and something broke loose. More tears followed, yet it felt right. Perhaps he had needed this.
Several more painful strokes to his thighs—and it was over.
For some time Valarr simply remained there, practically draped across the desk. Baelor did not hurry him. Eventually he straightened, attempting to compose himself, avoiding his father’s gaze.
Baelor approached quietly and gently lifted his son’s chin.
“There is nothing wrong with tears, my son. Even kings weep.” His voice was soft, free of reproach. “This was not only about yesterday, was it?”
“No.”
“Come here.”
Without further words, Baelor drew him close, one arm around his back, the other resting against his head. They stood that way for a while. Valarr absorbed the quiet comfort and felt ten years younger, though in that moment it did not matter.
“I thought I gave you enough attention and support. Perhaps I was mistaken. Forgive me."
Valarr gently pulled back.
“No, not at all. It is not that. You are not at fault. I just think too much about how much you do, how much I will have to do, and whether I will ever manage it. Wars ready to erupt, grievances, competing interests. My head spins just thinking of it.”
“Well, first we must live long enough to face it, must we not?” Baelor smiled faintly. “You are very young. These things come with experience. I am not yet king myself. You have time.”
He clapped Valarr on the shoulder.
“I am proud of you. More than you know. Whenever your faith in yourself falters, remember that mine does not. Now it is late. The tournament final is the day after tomorrow—and you are in it.”
Valarr winced at the thought. The last thing he wished was to sit a horse tomorrow.
Baelor noticed and merely spread his hands, as if to say, you chose this.
“Do you feel better?”
“I think so.”
“Then that is what matters.”
Valarr wished his father good night and left. He wondered whether Daeron might have advice on how to endure the next two days. He would have to ask.