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Baelor knew what would be the honourable thing to do. To stand with Ser Duncan.
He could not take that decision lightly, however. Not when his family was standing on the opposing side. Even disregarding the personal ramifications, politically, they had successfully manoeuvred themselves into a corner. There was no clean way out of it for House Targaryen.
Should Ser Duncan lose, they would look cruel. The hedge knight’s defence of the puppeteer had endeared him to the smallfolk. Meanwhile Aerion had endeared himself to no one. With his maiming of Ser Humfrey Hardyng, he had even drawn the ire of the highborns. The force of House Targaryen’s reply to Ser Duncan’s actions, a battle of seven against seven, was disproportionate to the alleged crime. That was plain for everyone to see. Should it end in the accused man’s disfigurement or death, people would remember it as evidence of madness, not just in Aerion but in their entire family. Not that anyone needed the reminder. Still, in truth, this would likely be the best outcome their house could hope for, if only because people would believe the gods had deemed Ser Duncan guilty and the matter would therefore be settled. The injustice of it grated on Baelor, though.
Should Ser Duncan not find enough men to take up his cause and be declared guilty based on that technicality, it would look as though the royal family had manipulated the situation instead of letting the gods decide. They would look craven and weak for not allowing the matter to be settled in an ordinary trial by combat.
Should Ser Duncan win, should a hedge knight be deemed innocent in a trial by combat facing not one, but three Targaryen princes, their house would, additionally, look vulnerable.
And if Baelor joined?
There would be little to gain from it. Perhaps it could serve as an inspiration for young Aegon, who was still impressionable. Perhaps it would remind a few others, too, of the value of honour and chivalry. On the other hand, there would be much more at risk than if Baelor were to do nothing.
There would be the personal cost, for one. His brother would be furious at the perceived betrayal. And there was the possibility of any of their deaths to be considered. However safe they may presume themselves to be, combat with lethal weapons was always unpredictable. Baelor had sufficient experience in battle to know that for a certainty.
On a grander scale, the consequences of his involvement could be dire. The Crown would effectively be opposing other members of House Targaryen in defence of a hedge knight. It might sew division within the royal family. Were Ser Duncan to lose, Baelor’s support of a man deemed guilty by the gods would cast doubt on his judgment and suggest weakness. Given the existing controversy over his 'too Dornish' looks ... whispers would arise that another branch of the family might be better suited to inheriting the throne. And even in case of Ser Duncan’s victory, there would still be those who would seek to use any signs of strife or disunity within House Targaryen for their advantage.
The risk might be negligible if Maekar and both his sons survived the trial, but if even one of them died? Baelor dreaded the thought. There would be no forgiveness from Maekar, and Baelor doubted he could ever forgive himself. So, although he considered it dishonourable of Maekar to command the Kingsguard to fight — it should have been their choice, given that Aerion was the accuser, not the accused — part of him was glad that their presence would offer some protection to his brother and his nephews, at least.
Oh, how Baelor wished Aerion had simply withdrawn his accusation.
His political considerations were leading him nowhere. This was a dilemma he could not think or talk his way out of. All Baelor could do was what was right. He would uphold his knightly vows.
Decision made, he sent for his son’s armour. He hadn’t brought his own, not having expected to do any fighting in Ashford.
This was how he now found himself confronted.
Valarr had evidently followed the squire sent to collect the armour to Baelor’s chambers. His son looked as though he had just woken, eyes still hazy with sleep and hair dishevelled. He had his helm clutched to his side.
"Father. Do you mind explaining why you have sent for my armour in the middle of the night?"
Baelor should have expected this.
"Leave us," he told the squire, who had just finished laying out the rest of the armour pieces. Once the door had clicked shut, he turned back to his son. "You recall Aerion getting kicked in the face, I have no doubt."
"Wish I had seen it." Valarr sounded almost wistful.
Baelor huffed out a laugh. "Indeed. Ser Duncan, the accused, has demanded a trial by combat. Aerion has now turned it into a trial of seven."
"That seems ... excessive."
"It is to begin at dawn. Less than an hour now. Your Uncle Maekar will stand with Aerion. And he has commanded the Kingsguard to fight. And Daeron as well."
There was a beat of silence in which Valarr only blinked. Then his expression morphed into one of incredulity. "This is a jape."
"I fear it is not."
"Commanding him to enter the lists at a tournament is one thing. This could end in death!"
Baelor was taken aback by the force of Valarr’s words. The boy’s two-coloured eyes were ablaze, no more sign of his previous drowsiness.
"I do not need convincing, Valarr."
"Then why do you not try to convince your brother?" His son appeared on the verge of confronting Maekar himself, anger plain on his face.
Baelor pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have tried and failed, I fear. Daeron has even withdrawn his own accusation of Ser Duncan kidnapping Egg and admitted to it being a lie. I am glad he has done so. But Maekar remains unyielding."
"Fucking hells! Does he actually want to see him dead?"
"Careful with your words, Valarr." Baelor stepped closer to his son and pinned him with a gaze that demanded he consider the gravity of such an allegation. He only resumed speaking once his son broke eye contact. "Maekar loves him. He seeks to protect him by preparing him for the harsh and unforgiving reality of the world we live in. He hopes for Daeron to redeem his honour, and to take this as an opportunity for change."
Seemingly dissatisfied with the explanation, Valarr began to pace the room, shaking his head all the while. Before his son had the chance to pass him by for the second time, Baelor tilted his head in question. He received a scoff in response. "You cannot possibly support this."
"Maekar is Daeron’s father. The decision lies with him."
"Fuck that. You’re the heir to the throne. If you choose to turn a blind eye, you’re no better than your obstinate brother."
"That is quite enough!"
Baelor did not make it a habit to raise his voice. He found it did not lend his words any further weight; quite the opposite. Even rarer were the occasions when he lost his temper, as he just had.
It stopped Valarr in his tracks. He snapped his head back towards his father, lips pressed together and jaw set in stubborn defiance. The fire still raged behind his eyes. It might be the first time that he didn’t back down in shame when reprimanded.
Baelor was unsure whether to be offended by his son’s impertinence, or proud of the level of his protectiveness and devotion to his cousin.
Having already faced enough family strife tonight to last him a lifetime, he found himself in a conciliatory mood. There was common ground to be found here; he could understand the desire to protect one’s family all too well. Moreover, there was a matter concerning his eldest nephew that still weighed on Baelor’s mind.
"Let us sit," he said, voice calm once again, moving towards the small seating area by the fireplace to take a seat.
Valarr did not follow immediately, but let himself be prompted by his father's raised eyebrow. Sinking down into the armchair opposite Baelor, he placed his helm in his lap, his hands still curled around it tightly.
"When I spoke to Daeron yestereve, he mentioned a dream."
Valarr’s whole demeanour changed in an instant, tension draining away, anger replaced by shock. "Mentioned? Did he tell you what it was about?"
Daeron had merely told him of a dead dragon. Baelor had little doubt the dragon symbolised a member of House Targaryen. Hiding away from the tourney as he had been, Daeron must have feared the dragon was him. But with the trial of seven looming now, this was anything but clear.
Baelor began twisting the ring on his right hand. He could not tell his son any of this. Valarr would be unlike to forgive him for letting the trial take place if the dream came true.
Not that Baelor had any way to stop the trial from going ahead. Aerion was within his rights, and Maekar was unwavering in his belief that protecting the boy meant helping him win, rather than persuading him to withdraw his accusation. And Baelor ... Baelor held little sway over Aerion, who had not taken a second thought to maiming Ser Humfrey in front of his uncle. He could try again to change Maekar’s mind, but all he had were words. What would he do if his brother did not relent? He was a dragon without teeth where Maekar was concerned. Perhaps Valarr had the truth of it. Perhaps Baelor was no better than Maekar in this respect. His youngest brother was his blind spot, as Aerion was Maekar’s.
Baelor could only hope that Daeron’s dream, if true, was not a warning about the imminent trial of seven, and that the gods would be merciful today.
"He did not get very far before our conversation was interrupted, but it has made me wonder ... What are your thoughts on these dreams?"
Valarr searched his father’s face. "You mean, do I believe they are true?"
Baelor nodded.
"I don’t know. I must confess I’ve always had some doubts. Or, at least, trouble imagining it. Whenever Daeron talked to me about them, he painted a picture of fire and ice, blood and death. It sounded terrifying, really. Perhaps it is merely that I don’t want to believe such darkness is bound to come for us all."
Baelor hummed. "The manner in which your cousin spoke about his dream has given me pause. I have never placed much value on prophecy, I admit, but dragon dreams have saved our house in the past. Daeron clearly believes his dreams to be true."
"So he does."
Baelor was glad to learn that his son was more amenable to the idea of dragon dreams than Maekar was. There was yet another question on his mind, however. "Do you think they are the root of his drinking?"
"Aye." There was no hint of doubt in Valarr’s voice. "I’ve known him to avoid sleep for days whenever Uncle Maekar takes his cups away."
Baelor felt his heart break anew for the boy. Daeron had had night terrors, or what everyone thought were night terrors, since before his second name day. Intense fear, screaming, thrashing. Night after night. The maesters were of no help, Maekar had often raged. Valarr had apparently been terrified by mere retellings of the dreams. Fire and ice, blood and death. How could a child possibly emerge unscathed from constant exposure to such imagery?
So, Daeron had turned to wine. When exactly he had realised the effects of it and started down this path, Baelor could not say. But by the time his nephew was three-and-ten, he barely bothered to hide the depth and frequency of his inebriation. Baelor desperately wished he could find a way to ease his nephew’s torment. One that wasn’t as like to kill him one day. Ignorance certainly wasn't the answer.
"I think we must needs take the matter more seriously. It will be difficult to convince Maekar, but I should like to take Daeron to King’s Landing with me, for a while at least, and find out more about these dreams. See if there might be any way to help him. I think you should come along as well. Daeron might feel more comfortable talking about this with someone his own age present, someone he trusts."
Valarr hesitated, but there was a sliver of hope in his eyes. "I can accompany you to King’s Landing. But I ought not to be part of that conversation, Father. It would do more harm than good, I fear. Daeron has not confided in me about the dreams in years; the most I’m privy to are some ramblings whenever he’s too deep in his cups. He doesn’t trust me with this anymore. That is my fault, and I regret it. If he is granting you this trust, then I would implore you to be careful with it. You must needs truly listen. And believe."
Baelor gave a solemn nod and filed the information away for later, along with his resulting questions. They would have to address the guilt and shame Valarr seemed to be carrying, but there wasn’t sufficient time at the moment. Not with the day threatening to break with a cold fury. His gaze shifted to the window, where he could see the blackness of the night being chased away by a dull grey. Then it drifted back to the helm in his son’s lap. He needed to armour up for the trial.
Valarr must have followed his father’s eyes, for he was first to change the subject. "You haven’t yet told me why you have need of my armour, Father. I assume you do not intend to take Aerion’s side," he said with a hint of derision.
Baelor’s fingers twitched. He had to fight the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose again. "Indeed not. I will take Ser Duncan’s side. The man stands to lose hand and foot if he yields or admits guilt. The same applies if he fails to find six knights to fight beside him. All for the grave crime of defending an innocent girl. His cause is just, but he is not of great renown. I fear he will have trouble assembling his champions. I cannot stand by and allow injustice to prevail on a technicality."
"Is this a political play? Do you mean to prove that we are not all madmen?"
"No. I mean to do what is right. Let people make of that what they will."
Valarr’s brows were drawn together. He pursed his lips. "It would make our house look divided. Again. The Blackfyre Rebellion is still fresh in people’s memory. This is dangerous, Father. What if the hedge knight loses? The heir to the throne supporting a guilty man? You’ll look a fool. And what if Aerion dies? Will Uncle Maekar ever forgive you? What if he dies? Will you forgive yourself? You might not wish them harm, but the same does not go for whoever else will be fighting for the hedge knight. They might even join for this exact purpose. And this Ser Duncan himself, he needs Aerion to yield or die."
"These are all risks I will have to take. And Aerion will yield, when it comes down to it, he is not prepared to die for this."
"Well, what if you die? Have you considered that that is not a risk I am willing to take? And do not pretend there is no risk at all!"
Baelor could not deny the possibility. Despite having three Kingsguard, who were oath-bound not to harm him, and three members of his own family on the opposing side, battle was never without risk. Although he disliked contemplating his own mortality as much as anyone, he could not feign nonchalance in front of his son. It would be dishonest and likely unsettle the boy even more. "Life is fleeting, Valarr. Accidents, disease — any one of us could die at any time. We can never avoid risk altogether. Sometimes, we even have to head straight for it. So long as I draw breath, I cannot stand idly by and watch someone be punished unjustly. I will not."
"And then? What happens when it all works out? What message does it send if the hedge knight gets away with striking a king’s grandson without consequence? Others might dare to take action against us as well."
"They already have dared, not too long ago, as you have pointed out. Be careful not to sound like your cousin. He spins a tale of high treason by puppetry. We should be vigilant, yes. But it will do us no good to see shadows of treachery lurking around every corner." Baelor leaned forward, fingers interlaced, forearms resting on his knees. "This trial will have serious political repercussions whether I join or not. It is true, the greatest threat to House Targaryen is from within. The Dance has taught us that, if nothing else. Be it your cousin’s casual cruelty exacerbated by your uncle’s refusal to draw a line, or the treachery of the Blackfyres. It is all our own doing.
"However, it is not merely our house that must stand united, but the whole of the realm. Thus, we mustn't rule through tyranny. Even if we still had dragons, oppression is never the tool of someone secure in their position, but of someone afraid to lose it. The threat of dragonfire helps conquer, not govern. The notion that terror secures power is a lie. A mere illusion. There are more powerful things than fear. Anger and resentment. Hatred. They will take over eventually, and fear will lose its hold. The illusion of power will fade.
"All it takes is people banding together against us. There will always be more of them than there are of us. And were our reign one of terror, would they not be right to rise up? If we still had dragons, what would we do then? Burn them all, to the last? Rule over nothing but ashes? By the end of it, we would surely tear ourselves apart as well. I wish to see you safe, you and your brother both. Your cousins as well. And the safest you can be is through strong alliances, true loyalty. Your grandfather has been working on building that. As have I. And I will continue to do so. If we have nothing to gain from this, we can at least show people that we do not act with impunity. We show them that we respect them, not seek to oppress them. That we are not tyrants. Power is granted, not taken. I thought this was a lesson I had already imparted on you."
A long silence followed. Valarr was staring into the fire crackling in the hearth, a frown etched on his face. Baelor was glad he was giving his words careful consideration. Eventually, his son stood, helm in a tight grip still, and eyes locked where his armour was laid out.
"That is all well and good. And I do remember your teachings, to be clear. But must we truly risk this turning into more of a disaster than it has to?"
Baelor rose to his feet and strode over to stand beside his son, shoulders almost touching.
"Valarr. Every knight of the realm vows to protect the innocent. To be just. You know that, you have sworn these oaths yourself. I have sworn them, too. Our oaths have meaning. I intend to uphold mine. Ser Duncan is innocent. Justice is important. The truth is important. It is as simple as that."
Valarr wheeled around to face him. "But it is not simple, Father!"
"It is not easy," Baelor corrected gently. "That does not mean it is not simple." He took his son’s face in his hands. "I must do this. What value does power hold if we do not fight for justice? Trēsys, tell me you understand."
"I don’t."
Baelor sighed. Valarr may be a man grown now, but in many ways, he was still too young and inexperienced to fully comprehend the significance of duty and responsibility. To Baelor, he was still his little boy. He would always be, he supposed. As a father, he resented having to place such a burden on his shoulders.
Letting his hands drop back to his sides, Baelor took a step back. "It’s nearly dawn. I need to prepare myself. We will speak of this more later, I promise. It is important to me that you understand." He searched his son’s face, almost despairing to find his eyes still filled with betrayal and confusion. "Your helm, if you please," he added at last, holding out his hand.
Valarr hesitated for another moment. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow. "As you will, Your Grace. I expect it will be a tight fit." He handed the helm over, then bowed his head and left without another word.
Baelor felt his chest constrict.