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Valarr's fingers are quick, tying his own armour to the arming points of his father's gambeson. It's not been too long since he had squired for him and so the movement is still familiar and he tightens the straps of the cuisse with precise movements.
The floor beneath his knees is cold as he shifts towards the second leg, attaching the armour there, too.
"Do you think this is wise?"
It's the first thing Valarr has spoken since his father had called him to bring him the armour and revealed his plan of joining the tourney on the hedge knight's side. He glances up briefly but it's not enough to read his face which he keeps carefully blank. Father always does this. Keeping every one of his thoughts close to his chest, letting anyone see only exactly what he wants them to see. It doesn't matter if it was a political foe or his own son, Baelor Targaryen does not let himself be read easily.
"It's the right thing to do, Valarr."
Even his voice is measured, reminding Valarr that he is not talking to his father right now but rather the Heir to the Iron Throne. He bites the inside of his cheek and tightens another strap, then rises to his feet.
"Is this tight enough?" He asks as he reaches for the arm pieces.
He hears him move, the soft clink of the metal as he tests his range of motion, followed by a satisfied hum.
It's not Valarr's place to criticize his father but he doesn't like the idea of him putting his life at risk for a hedge knight. The whole trial is ridiculous as it is and if Valarr had seen his cousin, he would have had a few choice words for him. But he hadn't. Partly, because he had avoided facing his uncle at all, unwilling to be in the way of his foul mood and partly because it doesn't concern him.
Or it didn't, until his father had decided to join.
He tries to emulate his father's blank face as he turns back around to face him. His arm is already stretched out, his posture slightly slumped so Valarr has an easier way to reach his shoulder, tying the armour to his body.
"If you get hurt-"
"It wouldn't be the first time, son. I am no stranger to battle and I won't be facing an enemy today."
Valarr bites his lips and pulls the arm straps tight.
He does remember him coming back from the Battle of Redgrass Field, holding onto his mother's hand as father rode into the courtyard. He had picked up little Matarys who had just started taking his first unsteady steps and spun him around with a laugh before ruffling Valarr's hair. Only later had he found out that more than one of his ribs had been broken, his shoulder dislocated and put back into place by Uncle Maekar in the rushed, not quite correct way that was necessary on a battlefield.
Valarr had never seen a battle. Nor a proper tourney. Even here, he had only faced old knights or fresh-faced ones, neither who even tried to be a challenge to him. He is neither a commander nor an experienced fighter to judge his decision.
But he is his son.
Father's hand is cool on his cheek, gently turning his head so their eyes meet. There is a soft, reassuring look on his face now, emerging from the indifferent mask he presents to courtiers as he leans in and presses their foreheads together.
"I will be facing the Kingsguard. Men that are sworn to protect me. They cannot harm me, they have taken a vow." He reminds Valarr. "Daeron doesn't want to participate at all, he will not put up much of a fight and do the most to not face anyone at all.
Valarr makes a vague noise in response. Not agreeing, just letting him know he is listening. He doesn't want to argue with his father. He rarely does, never really finding something to disagree with him on. It makes it easy to forget how stubborn he can be.
"Aerion might be a good fighter but he will be too preoccupied with fighting Ser Duncan to mind me. And whoever their seventh man is, he too will be hesitant to fight the heir of the throne with his full force."
Father presses a dry kiss to the top of Valarr's head before he pulls back and telling him to go on with a quick nod with his head. He keeps holding their eye contact, searching for something in Valarr's eyes. He doesn't know if he finds it because Valarr turns around to fetch the chest plate.
"Uncle Maekar is also fighting." Valarr says, his voice low.
Valarr doesn't know his uncle well, only really hearing from him from his father or the people at court and only one of those holds him in high regards. Of course, he knows the story of the rebellion, when Maekar had held the shield wall to allow Valarr's father to smash the rebel army up against. Outside of that, his uncle seems like an unhappy, sour man and his anger is something to behold.
He doesn't seem like a man who would hold back in a fight. Even against his own brother.
When he looks at his father again, there is a wry smile on his face.
"Maekar's love for his sons might blind him right now but he is my brother. We have sparred hundred of times together, I know his fighting well."
"And he yours." Valarr says as he helps him into the chest plate.
His words aren't angry despite the tight coil of it burning within is chest. How is Valarr supposed to be his father's hand in the future when he can't even stop him from this nonsense? It's a risk he should know better than to take, especially if it's only some hedge knight's life that is at stake. What is his life weighted against his father's, the heir to the throne?
He doesn't want him to fight. He wants for the tourney to continue as it had been planned. It doesn't even matter that he won't get any acclaim from it. There would be other tourneys.
Valarr tightens the chest plate with shaking fingers. Before he can step away, his father catches one of his hands in his own.
"Do not worry so much, Valarr. You are much too young for that."
It's meant to ease his mind, Valarr knows. It does no such thing, only tightening the tight knot of worry that has settled into his stomach. Still, for his father's sake, he nods once.
"Promise me to be careful."
It's a soft demand but a demand nonetheless.
Father's hand finds its way into Valarr's hair, pulling him close to kiss his forehead three times, just like he used to do when he had been little. The last one lingers for a few seconds and Valarr waits, unwilling to pull away first.
"I swear to you, I will be careful. Now please fetch the helmet."
Valarr does as he is told while father mounts his horse. With the helmet, he makes an impressive sight, tall and strong and unafraid.
"You will be in the stands?"
Through the helmet, his voice is slightly muffled. Valarr nods again, not trusting his voice. He will be in the stands. Where else would he be.
"Good. I will see you after the tourney."
And with that, he gives his horse the spurs, trotting out of the stables and breaking into a gallop to reach the tourney grounds in time. Valarr's eyes follow him until the morning fog swallows him up.
Daeron's words come up, an unwanted whisper in the back of his mind.
A fire and a dragon. A great beast with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen onto the hedge knight. But the hedge knight was alive, and the dragon was dead.