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The night was cool enough for Valarr to step out on a balcony on his way back to his chambers and savour the gentle breeze on his skin. Ashford was a modest castle, and the great hall quickly grew stuffy with this many people eating there. Keeping the fireplaces lit at all times, even when the weather was nice enough to wear little more than a tunic, did not help much either.
Valarr could make out a few constellations in the dark sky, but his attention was diverted by the sound of someone running in the hallway.
“Aegon.”
Valarr grabbed his cousin. He could see the mud splatters on his doublet in the low light of the torches. Gods know what Aegon had been doing in the short time since Aerion had demanded a Trial of Seven.
”Haven’t you caused enough trouble for today?”
”Ser Duncan needs good knights to take his side. How else is he supposed to win against my father?”
Aegon's eyes searched Valarr’s and he sighed, letting go of Aegon’s shoulder. There was no hair to tousle and his cousin wouldn’t appreciate it either way. As soon as he stepped back, Aegon dashed off into the darkness of the corridor.
Valarr continued his way to his chambers and was not very surprised to find his father waiting for him there.
“Maekar will take Aerion’s side, as will Daeron, and he already ordered the Kingsguard to his side.”
The Trial of Seven troubled his father, too. The entire affair had been blown out of proportion and while Aerion had a penchant for outdoing himself, this time even Valarr didn’t know what to say after hearing about his cousin’s latest exploit.
“Will you lend me your armour?”
Valarr choked on his water and set down the cup, turning around to his father, whose expression was as serious as his voice.
“Father, the hedge knight assaulted Aerion. My cousin can be monstrous, but slaying a dragon is hardly a wise thing to do with Targaryens in attendance, and Daeron accused him of abducting Aegon.”
”That is true, but Ser Duncan defended the innocent, as all true knights should. I cannot let good men die because of some misguided sense of pride.”
The tone of his father’s voice made it clear that he would not be convinced to let the matter go. However, Valarr could not let his father enter a Trial of Seven with an armour too small for him. Sympathisers of the Black Dragon were still around and if they caught wind of his father taking part in the fighting, they might use it to avenge their bastard king.
”I shall fight for the hedge knight,” Valarr said after a while. He and Aerion were well matched; they still sparred together whenever Valarr was at Summerhall or Aerion in King’s Landing. It had grown less friendly over the years, much like his cousin.
“Valarr-“
”It’s alright, father. My armour fits me best and you are right. We need good men.”
The embers in the fireplace were dying, hissing every now and then. He didn’t call for a servant to light it up again. Dawn was close and Valarr doubted he would find any sleep tonight. It was the first Trial of Seven in almost 200 years after all.
“Jena would have my head for this if she were still here.”
At that, Valarr smiled. His mother had forbidden them to participate in melees.
Wars need to be fought, but why kill each other in peaceful times, she used to say.
Valarr met his father’s mismatched eyes, a mirror of his own. When he was a child, courtiers joked that Valarr could’ve been his father’s younger brother, for he looked more like a Dornish Targaryen than one with blood of the Stormlands.
“It will be fine, the Gods favour those who speak the truth.”
Valarr prayed he would feel as confident tomorrow as his words were now. The Kingsguard and Uncle Maekar cared little for the truth in that regard, and unless Ser Duncan found five knights who held a strong dislike for the Targaryens, the sunrise tomorrow might be the last he’d ever see.
His father stepped forward and tousled Valarr’s hair, something he had never stopped doing, despite Valarr being almost as tall as him now. The familiar gesture eased the pit in Valarr’s stomach a bit.
“I’m proud to call you my son, raqirzy.”
“I’m proud to be your son, kepa.”
It was indeed a sleepless night and by the time Valarr was in his armour and walking across the courtyard towards the stables, a premonition of disaster had taken root. The High Septon preached that no war was as hateful to the Gods as war between kin, and yet Valarr had made sure that his sword was sharp after getting up.
Baelor was already waiting next to Meraxes, Valarr’s black mare. who was tacked up and prancing. She was a tall destrier with the temperament of a sand steed thanks to her sire.
”Stay on Meraxes as long as you can, Ser Duncan must only force Aerion into yielding.”
And avoid being killed by Uncle Maekar and the three Kingsguards, Valarr thought, but he held his tongue. Instead, he accepted the advice with a nod and mounted Meraxes. His father took her by the reins and waved off the stableboy.
“I will accompany my son to the tourney field.”
The walk there was quiet, save for Meraxes’ occasional snort and the sound of Valarr’s armour. A couple of late spectators rushed past them, casting curious glances, but no one stopped to ask what the Prince of Dragonstone and his heir were doing.
Once they reached the gates, his father let go of the reins and ordered the guards to open them. They scrambled to do so after a quick bow and almost dropped their spears out of surprise.
Meraxes fell into a brisk trot when the gates opened, carrying Valarr towards the dais, where Aerion and Ser Duncan were. The spectators had fallen silent, and he could feel the eyes of the commoners and the nobility alike on him. Meraxes snapped at Aerion’s destrier when they came to a stop next to the pair.
“I will take Ser Duncan’s side,” Valarr called out after he took off his helmet.
Several lords and ladies stood up on the dais, clapping and cheering. Someone yelled something about the young prince and Aegon looked at Valarr with the hint of a smile on his lips.
“What do you think you’re doing? He attacked my son, your cousin.”
Uncle Maekar was less pleased, his silver brows furrowed. He wore his armour with the shoulders fashioned after dragon teeth and the three-headed beast roaring on his breastplate. The infamous flanged mace was strapped to the saddle of his pitch-black destrier, who nudged Meraxes playfully.
“He kept his oath, uncle. Ser Duncan had been more virtuous than any of us yesterday.”
Valarr gave a curt nod to Ser Duncan before urging Meraxes towards their side of the tourney grounds. The five remaining champions were already up on their horses, the mist of dawn swirling around them. Lord Baratheon and Lord Beesbury were easy to pick out in their bright colours. Upon riding closer, Valarr’s brief relief dissipated into thin air. Ser Duncan’s side didn’t look very promising. Hardyng was injured, Rhysling was a religious fanatic, Beesbury was a mediocre jouster, and Valarr could not remember the Fossoway cousin being a knight. The Laughing Storm was the only experienced fighter on their side and Ser Duncan himself looked as green as the surcoat he wore over his mail.
However, the six looked at him expectantly and Valarr racked his brain to find anything to say that was not outright discouraging. Valarr could hardly suggest avoiding the Kingsguard and his uncle; it was the majority of Aerion’s side.
“Try to stay in formation and on your horses and out of range of my uncle’s mace. It was not the singers who made him a war hero.”
Fossoway answered by puking, followed by Ser Duncan. Ser Hardying began to laugh.
“What of the Kingsguard, Your Grace?” Lord Beesbury asked a question Valarr had seen coming.
“Do not worry about them, they can’t hurt me as I am the king’s grandson.”
“Is it gallant, Your Grace? Fighting people who swore to protect you?”
Valarr regarded Ser Rhysling, who wore chainmail around his head and rode a horse with nothing more than a chanfron made of leather to protect it.
“As gallant as ordering the Kingsguard to fight against you six,” Valarr eventually said and brought Meraxes in line between Fossoway’s and Baratheon’s horse. He could see his father sitting down next to Lord Ashford. He surely would’ve been able to lift up the team’s morale with a few words.
“Prince Maekar must’ve hated having you at Summerhall. Even his brother’s son upholds the illusion of perfect chivalry.” Lyonel Baratheon grinned and took his stag helm from his squire.
Valarr didn’t deign to answer that, but he found that he wouldn’t mind if his uncle dealt a couple of blows to the knight clad in gold and black. His own mother was of the Stormlands, but Valarr never understood how they could be so crude with their jokes yet have such thin-skinned pride.
“Have you ever done this before, Your Grace?”
Fossoway’s voice was shaky and Valarr couldn’t blame him, not when the man’s horse was better armoured than its rider. Most likely a courtesy of the Laughing Storm, judging by the golden crinet and peytral.
“No, but neither has Aerion, nor anyone here for the matter.”
A moment later, the septon stepped out on the tourney field and recited his text. Meraxes whinnied, ears turning back and forth, waiting for Valarr to give her the reins. A steward blew the horn three times and a flock of birds dispersed, fluttering away in the mists. Lyonel Baratheon gave his horse the spurs and dashed past Valarr, a blur of steel and gold. Meraxes followed and Valarr lowered his lance, aiming for the approximate height of Ser Roland’s shoulders. Mud splashed up and by the time Valarr was within reach of the Kingsguard, the coat of Ser Roland’s white destrier looked fleabitten. The Kingsguard hadn’t lowered his lance at all, instead, he had positioned his shield to protect his left abdomen. Valarr had no intention of killing his sworn protector, though. His lance hit Ser Roland in the shoulder and splintered, sending the Kingsguard reeling, but he quickly regained his composure.
When Valarr reached the end of the field and reined Meraxes around, he saw how Ser Roland impaled Hardying with his lance. The knight clad in red and white was lifted out of the saddle and his destrier charged ahead in panic, sealing his rider’s fate.
Perhaps he should’ve aimed for Ser Roland’s abdomen, Valarr thought with a twinge of guilt. Not that he was arrogant enough to believe himself capable of killing a Kingsguard in the first charge, but had he shown no restraint, Ser Hardying might’ve lived a little longer.
Valarr had no such restraint when it came to Ser Steffon and urged Meraxes on, unsheathing his sword. Be it Ashford or King’s Landing, he had never liked those with loyalty as fickle as a banner in the wind. The rotten apple knight realised too late what Valarr was planning and tore harshly enough at his destrier’s reins to make the stallion rear. Meraxes rammed into them at full speed and Ser Steffon lost his seat before his stallion even crashed into the muddy ground. Valarr had half a mind to make Meraxes spin on her hind legs and put an end to Ser Steffon but making sure Ser Duncan survived this trial was the priority.
Valarr galloped past Daeron lying in the ditch and he hoped his cousin was only playing dead. After all, he was one of Valarr’s more pleasant cousins, granted he was not ten horns into a Dornish wine already. The least pleasant cousin was ahead of Valarr, dealing out one blow after the other with his flail to Ser Duncan.
However, Uncle Maekar charging at the tall knight in a full gallop was more of a concern. If that swing with the mace hit home, it would mean the end of Ser Duncan.
“Idākos, Meraxes!”
His mare lay back her ears and Valarr let go of her reins, directing her with his legs. Her large strides carried them across the grounds towards his uncle and Valarr gripped his shield with both hands, praying to the Warrior that the plan would work out.
The flanged mace hit Valarr’s shield and he almost dropped it at the force of the swing, but it got stuck in the wood and Valarr grit his teeth and held onto his shield. The moment of surprise was on Valarr’s side, and the recoil combined with the horses running off in different directions lifted both of them out of their saddles.
Down on the ground, Valarr struggled to his feet and unsheathed his sword. There was nothing he could do in a direct fight against his uncle, but he could try to buy Ser Duncan enough time to force Aerion into yielding. His uncle didn’t put all his strength behind the blows, that much Valarr could tell by the fact that he was still standing, but even so, he could barely hold himself against him. He almost pitied the traitors who had to stand their ground against him in the rebellion.
Lord Baratheon joined their fight and Valarr had never been more glad to see the man. The scale tilted in their favour and suddenly, Uncle Maekar had to take more blows than handing out. It was going fairly well until something must’ve happened between Ser Duncan and Aerion because Uncle Maekar’s hits came with more force. He could see them, while Valarr had his back to his cousin and the hedge knight.
“My boy! My boy!”
Valarr hesitated when he heard the desperation lacing his uncle‘s cry. Uncle Maekar had not always been so stern; it had been he who had played a destrier without a grumble when Valarr and his cousins pretended to be knights on rainy days in Summerhall. Valarr had learnt fishing, fighting with a mace and the names of the dragons from Maekar. After Aunt Dyanna’s death, Maekar seemed to have buried all his warmth with her. It rarely reappeared, and while Valarr could never understand why, it was often Aerion who rekindled some of his uncle’s warmth.
The moment of hesitation cost Valarr the opportunity to deflect his uncle’s mace further left and it hit Valarr in the chest. All air left his lungs, beaten out by the impact and while stars danced in his vision, pain exploded in his chest. Valarr doubled over and sank to the ground, knees deep in the sloshy mud. Maekar had long pushed past him and run off towards his son. Lyonel had gone straight after him.
It could’ve been hours or minutes until Valarr heard the horn, announcing the end of the trial. Had Aerion killed Ser Duncan? He rolled onto his back, groaning in pain when a pair of bright sabatons and a white cloak, stained with dirt and blood, moved into his field of vision.
“Your Grace.” Ser Rolan Crakehall helped Valarr up and he held onto the hand for a heartbeat, trying to regain his balance. His head spun.
“Ramming Fossoway to dismount him was rather ingenious.”
Valarr dipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, unable to speak. The pain in his chest had not subsided yet. His uncle had gotten him good with that last swing.
Ser Roland’s comment reminded him of Meraxes and he looked around on the tourney field. Ser Duncan, Uncle Maekar and Aerion were gone, presumably to treat their wounds. Lyonel Baratheon was talking to Ser Rhysling and Ser Willem and Ser Donnel were leading their own and Aerion’s destriers off the tourney grounds.
Valarr staggered through the mud towards Meraxes, who came trotting in his direction. Her crinet was dented on the left side, but other than that, she seemed unharmed.
“Glad you made it, girl,” Valarr murmured, testing out his voice.
His mare snorted and he caressed her muzzle. Knights ought not to name their horses, but Valarr found it easier to build trust if it was not just some horse he happened to ride. Trust worked far better than fear, if Meraxes running into another horse was anything to go by. Apart from that, he doubted anyone would dare kill his destrier in a joust, and Kiera liked Meraxes best of all the dragons. The name choice was natural.
He looked up towards the dais and started walking to the gates when he saw that his father was no longer sitting there. He must’ve gone off to handle the consequences of the trial.
Valarr handed Meraxes’ reins to one of the squires and headed towards the gate. He probably should see Maester Yormwell about the pain in his chest. Stepping through the arch, Valarr finally managed to take off his helmet. His hands had grown cold and clumsy.
“- then we’ll pour boiling oil over it. That’s how the maesters do it.”
Valarr only caught the end of the sentence, but it was easy to figure out what was going on with Ser Duncan propped up against the wall, surrounded by Fossoway, a sturdy bearded man and Aegon. They must’ve won, Ser Duncan must’ve won. Aerion would’ve killed him even if Ser Duncan had yielded. That might still happen, judging by the countless wounds the tall knight had and Aegon’s worried expression.
“Not oil, that would burn Ser Duncan alive. Use boiling wine,” Valarr said between two coughs. Bloodied spit mixed with the slosh of mud and grass when he spat it out. Aemon had a phase where he read all the books on healers accompanying armies and he spent the mornings in the training yards telling Valarr about what he had read in the night instead of picking up a sword.
“Our maester shall tend to your wounds. Yours as well.”
He made a vague gesture towards Fossoway, who sat on the other side of Ser Duncan. The latter tried to stand up but ended up kneeling in the dirt before Valarr.
“Your Grace. I’m your man. Please. Your man.”
”You are a true knight, Ser Duncan. My father needs men like you,” Valarr answered, taken aback by the raw emotion in Ser Duncan’s words and put one hand on his shoulder. Up close, he could see the damage of Aerion’s flail and Uncle Maekar’s mace clearly. It was a wonder Ser Duncan was still conscious.
“My prince, are you unwell?”
Fossoway had taken a step towards him, but Valarr could only hear his own racing heartbeat. His lungs seemed to beg for air despite it being a perfectly fresh morning in Ashford. The words died on his tongue and with them his sense of balance. As the world tilted, Valarr distantly registered the clatter of his armour when he hit the ground. A hand hovered above him. Valarr grasped the hand, surprised by how big it was. His vision had turned blurry, but he could pick out a mop of reddish hair above him. He knew that hair.
“Matarys?”
His brother answered, but Valarr couldn’t make sense of his words. His body felt oddly cold, yet his innards seemed to be on fire. Perhaps the armour did not sit well and squeezed a nerve. He would need to take this up with their blacksmith later.
“Brother, you have grown so much,” Valarr rasped, the pain flaring violently in his chest, and squeezed Matary’s hand, “Tell father I’ll come shortly, I need a moment to catch my breath.“