Chapter Text
“It is not cowardice to not wish to see family beat each other bloody, or watch good men die for nothing.” Father’s face had been calm, but his tone made very clear what he thought of Aerion’s latest foolishness.
Valarr’s cousin had long become a problem—one Valarr himself had been rather pathetically grateful was not his problem, but rather Father’ and Uncle’s. Which was the argument Father had used to forbid Valarr from joining the Trial himself, as soon as Father had requested to borrow his armour and Valarr offered to go himself instead.
Father had put a hand on his shoulder with a smile. “Aerion is not your headache to solve just yet. I will welcome your thoughts on how he may be dealt with after this Trial, of course; mayhaps as his cousin you have some better ideas.”
Then he had gently flicked the silver streak in Valarr’s hair like he has been doing ever since Valarr could remember. “Do not worry, tresy—this will be over soon enough, one way or another.”
And then he had left.
“Not cowardice,” Valarr murmurs, and reaches for his wine cup with a shaking hand. It was a kindness by Father he did not deserve. He had not spent a single thought on Aegon’s hedge knight, worrying instead only about Daeron being wrapped up in all of this when he knows very well his cousin is not made for the lists, much less real fighting—not until Father came striding into his tent and demanding his armour.
Then he had thought about it a great deal. His own knight’s oaths are the same as Father’s, and yet.
And yet.
His hand still shakes.
This entire thing really is great foolishness all together, Aerion invoking Maegor of all things with this Trial of Seven of his, Uncle making Daeron fight and then commanding the Kingsguard to fight as well, and Father… Father, he thinks bitterly, is only doing what the Realm might expect of him.
What the Realm does not expect of Valarr.
He sighs and rubs at his temple. If Matarys had come with them, he would surely say something startlingly insightful, followed by something funny to cheer him up. His brother is always good at that.
Well, there is some correspondence he can turn his attention to while he waits, and he can think some more on the matter of Aerion.
Valarr hears a commotion outside just a moment before Ser Donnel rushes into his tent. The knight’s white armour is dented and muddy, his face hastily wiped clear.
“You must come at once, my Prince,” he says as soon as Valarr looks up at him in alarm, “your father is injured—”
“Injured?!” Valarr echoes, surging to his feet. The word makes little sense.
“Yes, a blow gone awry. Come quickly, my Prince, please.”
Valarr has to keep himself from running.
But the Kingsguard knight is frantic, shoulders tight and face ashen, and the other guards in Targaryen livery who joined him are drawing in too close to Valarr, all of them acting like he is in danger, like they have to assure themselves he is still there—
Valarr suddenly cannot breathe. His mind is spinning, the guards are too close why are they so close what is wrong with their faces why won’t Ser Donnel meet my eyes what is wrong what is wrong what is wrong?!
In truth he already knows even before they usher him into a room guarded by many people with pale downcast faces, Lord Ashford and his Maester wringing their hands and the guards are so very close and Ser Roland, also still in dirtied armour, seems both relieved to see him and guilty, and still no one is looking at his face.
Uncle Maekar is standing beside a bed. He is the first to actually look at Valarr and meet his gaze, and he immediately wishes he had not. What he sees there is too terrible.
“No,” Valarr says before his uncle can open his mouth, because what else is there to say when the greatest man in the Realm must have somehow come to lay dead, his father, at a stupid tourney by some stupid Lord in a stupid trial, “no, Uncle, they must have all heard wrong, surely the Maesters can do something, tell me he is just resting—”
Maekar’s face is as ashen as the Kingsguards knights’. He is also yet in armour as well, dented and bloody. He has however not wiped his face and Valarr can see the tear stains right there across the dust. “I am so sorry, Valarr,” he says, and in the bed behind him lies a still form in black and red that Valarr cannot stand to look at.
His father.
“It was an accident, my mace… my mace breaking skull when I did not mean to, and—”
His father.
Only then Valarr realises what Maekar has been saying.
“Your mace?” he echoes. “Your blow?!” His hands are grabbing at Maekar’s shoulders before he knows it, knuckles going white as he struggles to find purchase on the metal of his armour. He hears the two Kingsguard knights stepping closer, but Maekar holds up a hand to make them pause.
“I do not recall the blow—I was trying to get to Aerion, I… he was walking from the field afterwards, he raised a hand in greeting, I—I did not know.” Maekar sounds like he needs to convince himself as well as Valarr.
He fails at both. Valarr shoves his uncle away, suddenly sick of his devastated face. “Away with you, then,” he hisses and turns to the room at large. “Out with you all! Now!”
The servants all scurry outside quickly enough, but Ser Donnel and Ser Roland are both slow to turn, hesitation clearly written on their faces.
“Listen to your Prince of Dragonstone,” Maekar tells them, and those words startle Valarr so badly he cannot make himself move or even speak while the two Kingsguard knights bow and finally trudge away.
Maekar turns towards the door too, but lingers. “If you need anything, Nephew—”
“As if you have not done enough already,” Valarr snaps at him because his chest feels like a gaping chasm has opened right in the center of it, dark and endless. To his credit, Maekar simply steps back and hints at a bow, even though Valarr can see by the tension in his jaw there are things he wants to say.
“Uncle,” Valarr calls after him with as much steadiness as he can muster, just before Maekar steps through the door. “Send a Raven to the King then, if you wish to be of use.”
“...Very well,” Maekar says, voice only wavering a little, and is finally gone.
Thank the Seven that Matarys is not here, and Mother long dead too. His brother will have to be told by someone else, the King most likely, but by the time they see each other the initial shock will have dulled and they can grieve together. Matarys will take this hard, he knows. He has wept more than Valarr himself for his and Kiera’s stillborn boys, and this is Father.
Valarr takes his first shuddering breath in what feels like an age and turns towards the bed.
…Father looks like he is merely sleeping. Someone has washed all blood off his face, his expression nearly more at ease than Valarr has ever seen him. He reaches out gingerly and turns Father’s head to the side so he can stare at the gaping wound that killed him. Here the cleanup has clearly failed: he can see pale bone, dried blood and the grey-and-red of something fleshy he does not want to name.
A great man felled by such an ugly wound. Even future Kings need their skulls whole.
Valarr’s armour. Valarr’s helmet.
There is a thousand things Valarr should think about, a hundred more he must do, a dozen he could name immediately, Prince of Dragonstone Prince of Dragonstone Prince of Dragonstone, but if he goes to do any of them right now he is just as likely to find his fool cousin or even his uncle and draw his sword, and besides—
He sinks to his knees, lays his head on the bed near Father’s hand, and weeps.