Chapter Text
It was a hot day.
Dull and damp like a rag after cleaning, but hot nonetheless. The sun had already set, but the heat still seeped through even the thickest stone walls, soaking everything with the scent of grass. It smelled too rotten to be the freshness of green. Beneath his velvet doublet, thick air clung to his skin sticky, and yet Valarr felt a chill crawl over him.
His father had died on a day like this.
They placed his body in the death chamber, where light was little and warmth scared to enter. The wind seemed frozen there, as though time itself had stopped. Valarr had only minutes before the maester and the silent sisters would crowd the room.
They had not cleaned his father yet.
"You may see him for one last time," they had said.
One last time.
He stared at his father's body upon the stone. From the morrow he would never see him again – a foreign notion he could not quite grasp.
Baelor lay there, quieter than the night and calmer than the moon. Unmoving and cold. The black armor wrapped him tightly, red specks smeared across his face. Bruises marked his skin, and a golden ring adorned his finger. His broken helmet and gloves rested on a table nearby, never to be used again.
This would be the last image of Baelor in Valarr's head.
It felt wrong.
He never imagined how Baelor's last image would be. Why would he? Long live King Daeron the Good – Prince Baelor of Dragonstone still had many years ahead of him.
Valarr had never expected this day.
The body before him looked more like a puppet without strings than his mighty sire. Valarr could not help but touch it, only to be burned by the cold.
Cold and stiff and dead.
A corpse.
Baelor was dead.
Valarr's chest tightened, and his throat closed too fast – he choked, and a sob forced its way out. The sound echoed around the room, but no one listened. He laced his fingers with Baelor's, hoping his father would grasp back as he always did.
But Baelor did not.
His fingers were rigid like sticks put together. The cold burned, and Valarr pulled his hand back too fast. Jagged armor bricked his skin. A drop of blood welled up, adding another red smear on the grey metal. The ring slipped, following his movement. It fell to the floor, rolling and gleaming. Then it stopped.
Valarr picked it up at once. It was of Baelor – precious and treasured – which should not stay on the dirt. He turned around to give it back to Baelor, and his father would thank him –
Valarr halted.
Baelor was dead.
Before him lay only a corpse. No one would gently murmur thank you and kiss his hair for such simple thing.
Suddenly he could not breathe. His vision darkened. It was cold here. Creaking sounds echoed from far away, and a narrow beam of light slipped through the door.
He ran toward it by instinct, too suffocated to stay.
Valarr barely recognized his room before throwing himself in, shutting the door with his back. The heat of the outside world attacked him like an ice bucket pouring down his head. His legs weakened, and Valarr slid down to the floor.
His father was dead.
He tried to breathe but it was hard. Cries fought with air in his throat and chest – one urged to go out while the other demanded to come in. Tears blurred the world away, twisting his sight into a blending palette.
His mind showed him something else instead – a man in armor laying quietly, blood painting the back of his head darker than the night. His breaths stoppe, and his eyes closed. His skin went cold and his fingers grew stiff.
Baelor was dead, and Valarr would never see him again.
But Baelor had promised – when Valarr fastened the last strap of his armor – that he would return and he had asked for his son's blessing.
What had Valarr said?
"May victory find you its champion," he remembered, "no matter which side you choose."
Baelor had smiled, soft and pleased.
Then he died.
Plenty of sons had died in their father's armor. How many fathers had died in their son's?
They said it was his uncle's mace. But Valarr knew better – it was his helmet. It had not fit. It had not given Baelor proper protection. It had been useless. It had not been enough.
Just like its rightful owner.
Valarr should have been there in Baelor stead. Even if he died, his death would not have cost the realm as grave as Baelor's did. But the Gods were not kind – now Valarr sat alone, suffering a torture enough to shatter any soul, paying the price for his own cowardice.
The Young Prince, they called him. His father's wings had been firm and strong and loving, and Valarr had slept peacefully beneath them for too long – safe and secured and easy – like a little lamp held little worry to the world. They had all believed there would always be more time.
But the wings had collapsed and the fire gone shut. The little lamp now went his way alone – Valarr now was an orphan.
The world tilted. The floor beneath him was firm, and yet his soul had nothing left to anchor it. It driffed away, trying to follow something had already gone. But he was lost anyway.
He had no where to go. His mind wandered further and further. From memories to fancies, from fancies to dreams. He traveled through worlds, and everywhere he looked for his father's face.
In there, Baelor stayed. In the real wolrd, he was gone.
The numbness of his arm woke Valarr.
He groaned as he rose from the floor, shoulder sore and arm tingling as blood rushed back into it. His fingers opened, and a golden ring rolled out. It left a pink circle pressed into his palm, and Valarr stared at it.
It started to fade away, like many other traits of Baelor's existence in this world. He picked the ring up immediately, just as he had done the day before – but without a childish expectation of his father smiling back at him.
Valarr put it on his thumb – as his helmet was small for Baelor, his father's ring was large for his other fingers.
Theirs seemed not fit to neither of them, and Valarr tried not to think about many other shoes of Baelor's that he would now be expected to fill – a painful reminder that his father was gone, and he was a child who might never live up to Baelor's name.
Valarr exited his room with changed clothes and red eyes. His dark hair was tousled, almost covering his silver streak. Not a proper appearance for a Prince, but Valarr did not have the strength to pretend everything was fine.
The heat came back and wrapped him in its rotten embrace. Valarr felt terrible from both inside and outside. His feet carried him forward by sheer instinct, heavy and slow. The empty corridors of the castle seemed to stretch into endless, even though his room and Lord Ashford's chambers were close.
He got there, eventually. All roads had their end.
The guards outside bowed at him, their faces solemn as statues. The oak door creaked open, and Valarr stepped inside. Sunlight poured through the colored windows, brightening the room with rainbows. Valarr squinted as those vibrant rays stabbed his eyes. Maekar's figure blurred for a moment.
"Uncle," the young prince called.
The man in the middle of the room startled, turning toward him with wide eyes. Valarr did not understand the joy shining in those violet orbs.
"Valarr," a voice replied. It did not come from his uncle. It sounded painfully familiar, like–
Valarr turned.
A man in black stood near a window, his figure glowing in the blazing sunlight. Valarr stared at him, tired mind coming to a screeching halt.
"My boy," the man said gently, his voice smooth like silk. He stepped closer, out of the sunlit zone of the window. The harsh light softened, and Valarr could see him clearly now.
A small smile graced Baelor's face as he addressed his beloved son. "You seem not to have slept well," he said. "You must have been worried."
Valarr heard nothing else. "Father?" he asked dumbly.
"It is me," Baelor said.
"But you – the day before –" Valarr stammered. He did not understand. He turned to his uncle for help, but Maekar just stared at Baelor with awe.
"I thought I had killed you," the prince whispered. Grief and guilt carved lines on his face, and yet joy brightened his eyes while relief softened their corners.
"I strongly believe you do not have it in you to be a kinslayer," Baelor said, raising an eyebrow. Maekar almost flinched.
"But fret not, brother," the Crown Prince added with a faint smile, voice light with humor as he jested. "You are strong, but I am pleased to prove myself stronger."
Stronger? Valarr thought, baffled.
Who could be stronger than the Stranger when he took one's hand and led them to his quiet realm? Even a dragon could not cheat death. No such strength could raise a man after a mace breaking his head–
"The Gods may have shown me mercy," Baelor continued, as if reading Valarr's thoughts. "They sent Maester Nergal, and he has those blessed hands."
"And he cured you?" Maekar asked incredulously. "Where is this Maester Nergal now?"
"I believe he is attending to the wounded from the tourney," Baelor said. "Such a humble man he is. He asked nothing from me after performing such a wonder. When his work here is done, he intends to continue on his way."
"He is not a maester of Ashford?" Valarr blinked. He had never seen the man. Baelor just shook his head, amusement curling his lips.
Maekar grunted. "What the fuck is it with you and those hedge knights and hedge wizards?"
At this, Baelor laughed.
The sound vibrated in the room, sending warm waves that cracked Valarr's numbness. He surged forward by instinct, and hugged Baelor tightly.
At such closeness, the rumble came stronger from the firm chest under his cheek. Steady pulse sang along, lively and wonderful. Baelor's arms curled around him – the warmth felt so different from the rotten embrace of the Ashford's heat – strong and loving and safe.
He is alive.
Pure joy flooded Valarr, lightening him with relief. Baelor was right here – standing tall and talking and joking – as if nothing had happened.
As if the trial was just a fading nightmare.
The floor creaked as Maekar shifted, clearing his throat awkwardly. He left the room rather quickly.
"I apologise," Valarr said, cheeks reddened as he stepped back from Baelor's space. But Baelor pulled him close again, hands settling firmly on his waist.
"There is nothing to apologise for, my child," Baelor said, "It is I who owe you that."
He brushed the back of his finger along Valarr's pale cheek, pausing beneath the red-rimmed eye – a dark and warm eye, so much like Baelor's own. When Valarr blinked, his eyelashes could meet his father's finger in a fleeting touch.
"I was afraid," Valarr admitted.
The word came out easily. Though Valarr knew his father expected much more of him, Baelor had also treasured honesty and encouraged the trust between them.
Valarr trusted Baelor with his heart.
"My son," Baelor sighed. He did not apologise with words but with touch – his fingers combed through Valarr's soft hair, stroking his white streak.
The young prince shuddered. He felt like a child again – loving hands patting his head had once been a silent love language of his mother in his younger days. But she had died long ago. Now Valarr had only Baelor left.
The black, giant wings spread again, and finally the little lamb found his shelter back.
They left Ashford the same day.
The tourney had ended with an unexpected result, but no one dare to wish another way – the Trial of Seven had been brutal, but the realm had not needed to mourn a great loss yet. Their Crown Prince still lived and stood strong among his blood. His very presence commanded respect among mortals – people found the red dragon flying upon black banners just as fearsome as the old stories claimed.
Pride and joy swelled within Valarr. He almost floated upon lightened steps – closely behind Baelor, of course – wearing a smile that made maidens blush and turn away to whisper among themselves. From this angle he could see the back of his father's head – whole and full of hair, not even a scar visible. Valarr was still amazed.
He had searched for Maester Nergal, yet the man was nowhere to be found, and none of the servants had heard of him. Mayhaps the man was already on his way, as true to his father's word. What a shame, Valarr thought. The King himself might have wished to see what such miraculous hands could do.
The mysterious maester was not the only one departing. The nobles were preparing to leave as well. Tents and banners were folded away, horses saddled, and guards formed into lines while carriages were loaded. The entourage for the Tagaryens was no different.
Valarr found Baelor standing beside his stallion. The Crown Prince seemed to have a tug of war with his own horse – his hand holding the rein firmly while the animal tried to pulled away. Its front legs stamped restlessly against the ground, and the white streak in its mane tossed wildly as it shook its head.
It whined. Baelor gripped the rein tighter.
"Father." Valarr came closer, speaking with concern. "Mayhaps the carriage would be the better choice. You still require rest from the trial."
Aerion had no grave injury abeit the bruises and cracked bones scattering his body, and yet he slouched on a cart, unfit to ride. Baelor with a fixed skull should not be different.
The man was silent. Standing behind him, Valarr could not see his face. He leaned forward to have a better look. "Father?"
Baelor turned to him, smiling. "You are right," he said. "My head is still ringing. A carriage would be wise." He brushed the horse's white strand then released the rein.
Valarr reached out a hand to take his own mount, but Baelor caught it mid-air.
"Sit with me, son," he said, fingers seamlessly laced into Valarr's, pulling him his way. "Silence would bore your old man without you."
The young prince followed him without hesitation. Baelor's stallion immediately moved back, staying away from them.
It was comfortable inside the carriage. Fur and cushions softened the seats, making the journey kinder than riding a hard saddle under the hot sun.
Soon, the entourage began to move. Guards rode ahead and behind, banners stirred in the wind, and wheels creaked upon the road as the royal escort carried the dragons back to their nest at King's Landing.
Valarr looked out through the small window. His uncle Maekar and his cousin Daeron rode ahead, flanking Aerion on either side.
"Where is Aegon?" Valarr leaned forward instinctively, wondering whether the boy was placed in another carriage. But his was the only one among the lines of guards and servants, and the boy was nowhere to be seen.
Valarr started to worry. Had they lost him again?
"Fret not, son," Baelor said. "He is going with Ser Duncan."
"Ser Duncan?" Valarr turned to his father in surprise. "Why?"
"Your uncle let him." At Valarr's widened eyes, Baelor continued. "I know, such an unexpected decision. But your uncle has his reason, and Ser Duncan has proven himself an honorable knight with a good heart. Your cousin will come to no harm under his care."
Valarr nodded, trusting his father's judgement.
Despite what Baelor had said before, the two of them did not talk for long. Mayhaps it was the constant rocking of the carriage along the road, worsening the Crown Prince's headache. Baelor leaned back and closed his eyes to rest, and Valarr had no wish to disturb him.
The young prince looked outside again, watching the road pass by in the same scene of green. The wind started to blow with cooler breath, and the quiet peace caressed his senses. Valarr's eyelids could not help but glue together.
His father was right – silence could bore a man to death. When had the great heir to the throne ever been wrong? Baelor was always true to his word. He had promised to return, and he had. He was not dead. Not by a mace. And certainly not by boredom. He was just resting. He sat right here, and Valarr sat next to him –
The young prince jolted awake, blinking. It was dim inside – somehow the windows had been closed. The wheels had stopped turning as well.
A hand on his waist tightened, startling Valarr.
"Father," he nearly squeaked as he realized the position he was in. Baelor was holding him on his lap like a child, with a strong arm secured around his waist.
"You slept soundly," Baelor said. "I feared you might fall. My arm is quite sore now."
Such blatant teasing heated Valarr's cheeks. He quickly moved to aside as Baelor's quiet laugh filled the small space. But the Crown Prince said nothing else. He stood up instead, opening the door.
The rain was pouring outside – not heavy, but fine and thick enough to blur the world into mist. A rain of spring. No wonder they had to stop. Fortunately, there was an inn nearby.
Baelor stepped out first. Before Valarr could follow, the Crown Prince turned back and offered a hand. Valarr blushing cheeks reddened. He was a prince, not a princess.
And yet he took that firm hand nonetheless.
Baelor did not release Valarr's hand, even after the young prince stood steady on his feet. Servants brought coats for them at once, and the two of them quickly stepped inside the inn. Guard dogs barked loudly as they passed, but they paid them no mind.
The innkeeper – a thick, short man with a ginger beard – stared in awe at the sight of Baelor Breakspear and princes of the realm standing in his humble place. Valarr looked around. The inn was large but old, every inch of it smelling of cheap ale, sour wine and roasty food – not suited for the royals but it would do for the night.
The kitchen was overwhelmed by the sudden surge of demands, so they all had to wait before dinner could be served. The bread was a tad too dry and the beef did not meet his taste, but Valarr managed. Next to him, Daeron was already deep in his cup. Aerion was not even here – he had been helped to his room for a proper rest, and his meal had been sent to him there.
Across the table, his uncle Maekar chewed steadily at his beef and refilled his goblet from time to time, trading casual words with Baelor.
Valarr glanced toward his father. Baelor had not yet touched his food.
"Father?" He asked quietly, but the Crown Prince heard him nonetheless. "Is the meal not to your liking?"
"I'm simply not hungry," Baelor said, giving Valarr a small smile. "Don't worry about me." Then he turned back to the conversation with Maekar.
Valarr queried no further. When he finished his dish some time later, Baelor's remained untouched.
The night was cold and dark.
Rain still fell outside. Raindrops drummed patiently against the window, deep and dull like a mantra in a sept– the only sound in this quiet place.
Valarr twisted and turned on his own bed. Mayhaps it was the sleep he had taken earlier in the carriage – he felt restless, yet sleep did not come again so easily.
Valarr rose from the bed, and put on his shoes. He took the candle on the table, and opened the door. Breeze rushed into his room like an untamed horse, flicking his candle.
In the dim light, he located the nearest stairs. Mayhaps the kitchen was still open, and he could find some milk or even porridge. Valarr was not hungry himself, but his father had eaten nothing for the night.
The wood creaked under his steps as he moved downstair, one hand carefully trailing along the cold stone walls. Candles burned everywhere in the inn, but those were just flickers struggling in the dark – as weak as mortals against a hidden monster.
Valarr quickened his pace – his small candle burned faster than he thought. He would need to return to his chamber before it died completely.
He crossed the empty hall to the empty kitchen. How strange. Such a large place with overruns of people, and yet it was quiet like dead. Even the fire crackling sounded tired like a man awaiting his grave with dragged breath.
Valarr shook his head, ignoring the eerie coldness that shadow breathing on his skin. He should have brought his coat, but surely a prince would not fall ill from a single cold night.
Later, the young prince got what he wanted – a cup of warm milk. He held the tray carefully with both hands as he returned to his floor. His candle had shrunk into pitiful little piece dying on the wooden tray – it was so weak that he could not see more than a few steps ahead.
Shadow stretched the corridors to endless. Quietness followed his steps, swallowing every creak beneath his shoes. Valarr kept his eyes fixed ahead, yet the darkness there quickly exhausted them. There was nothing to see but the waiting unknown.
He blinked a few times to clear his blurry vision. A cold wind brushed over his cheek, a whisper touched his ears. Valarr turned instinctively. There was nothing behind him but darkness – the same darkness that waited ahead. Candles on the walls barely flickered, as if frozen in time.
For a moment, Valarr felt like he was in the death chamber again, only with a different sense. Something different from grief. Something worse.
Another whisper brushed his ears again. Valarr's candle flicked dangerously as he whipped around. It had been too faint to trace, but Valarr knew he had not imagined it. It sounded real – as if someone standing nearby just an inch away, breathing softly against his side.
Valarr moved forward. His steps slowed, but his heart beat quickened. Darkness licked greedily at his shadow, eager to swallow him whole. His back sweated as if feeling it thickening behind him, following him closer and closer–
A curled figure suddenly blocked his path.
Valarr nearly jerked backward, his heart skipping a beat. The milk almost spilled from the cup, and his candle flickered wildly, throwing uncertain light upon the silhouette.
A man sat upon the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, trembling hands wrapped tightly around himself. Even his shoulders shook. Soft whimpers mixed with ragged breaths escaped from behind disheveled silver hair that fell across his face.
"Daeron?" Valarr gasped. He shifted the tray into one hand and reached out with the other. "Are you alright?"
Daeron flinched away. Something flashed in the dim light, bright and cold. A knife gleamed in the prince's trembling hand. He stared at Valarr with wild, bloodshot eyes.
"Daeron," Valarr said gently.
He crouched down carefully, keeping a respectful distance from the blade. A faint smell of wine reached his nose.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"It's coming," Dearon whispered, staring somewhere behind Valarr. His violet eyes trembled with panic. "It's coming."
"What's coming?"
"The black death. It's coming, it's coming." Daeron stammered. "I dreamed of it. The black dread."
"The black dread…?" Valarr did not understand. He frowned. "You mean Balerion?"
"I don't know," Daeron muttered. "I don't know. It's a shadow. It's coming. It's hunting. I saw–" He swallowed a sob, as if recalling something terrible.
"You saw it hunting you?"
"No, no, not me," Daeron shook his head, squeezing his glassy eyes shut. "It hunts everything and everyone. A bright flame shut first. Then the others. One by one until none remain. I thought – I have to try–" His shaking hands gripped the knife tighter. Valarr feared that he would cut himself.
The young prince did not know what comfort he could give, but he knew better than to say 'it's just a dream'. Not when Daeron suffered for it.
"Come," Valarr said softly instead. "Let us get you back to your chamber."
Daeron stared at him for a long moment, recognition flashing in his violet eyes. Eventually, he nodded. Valarr sighed in relief, helping his cousin get back to his feet. Only then did he notice the door Daeron had been leaning against. It was Aerion's.
Valarr asked nothing.
Daeron's room was not far. It was as simple as Valarr's – a fireplace, a table, a few chairs, and a bed. The sheet was crumpled, and the blanket lay on the floor. Daeron's nightmare must have been a terrible one.
Valarr watched his cousin making himself a cocoon with the blanket, as if hiding from the whole world. Before leaving, the young prince lit a candle for him.
The room no longer seemed quite so dark.
Valarr looked down to his tray – his own candle had only a few more minutes left, and the cup was already beginning to cool. He quickly moved to his next destination.
Candles on the wall flickered, their light painting the stone in warm gold. The corridor seemed to be shortened. Or mayhaps it was his quicker steps.
"Father?" Valarr knocked the door gently.
There was a brief silence before a deep voice answered from behind the thick wood. "Come in."
Valarr did as he was told. Baelor was inside, standing near the bed. His shirt was open, and under the candlelight, Valarr saw something.
He forgot the tray on the table at once, quickly coming to Baelor's side. From this distance, the marks from the trial looked angrier – bruises scattering across the Crown Prince's skin, making it a palette of pain.
"Are you still hurt?" Valarr asked with concern.
"I am sore, yes," Baelor replied calmly. "But fret not, my son. This is coming better."
His eyes flicked to the tray. "And what have you brought me at such a late hour?"
"You did not touch your dinner," Valarr explained. "I was worried you might be hungry."
"Thank you, Valarr," Baelor gave him a small smile. "But I had some bread and cheese before you came."
"Oh," Valarr blinked, suddenly unsure what to do. Baelor had no such problem. He took the warm milk and placed the cup into Valarr's hand.
"You drink it instead," he said. "It seems you could use a little help sleeping. It would be a shame to waste it."
"Thank you, father."Valarr hesitated, but he raised the cup to his lips nonetheless. Warm milk went down, and the apple of his throat moved slowly. Baelor watched him, unblinking.
When Valarr finished, a small white moustache of milk remained upon his upper lip. His tongue darted out instinctively to wipe it away, brushing lightly against Baelor's finger as his father reached to do the same.
Valarr blinked.
"Would you stay?" Baelor asked.
He took the empty cup from Valarr and placed it upon the table with an easy grace that briefly distracted the young prince.
"It is late," Baelor continued, voice deep and soft like a luring melody. "And the bed is large enough for two."
The milk must have worked faster than Valarr expected, because his eyelids suddenly felt heavy. The light in the chamber dimmed as his own candle finally died. Baelor's brown and purple eyes seemed darkened into black pearls.
"Yes," Valarr answered without thinking. His mind felt distant already. He followed Baelor to the bed like a puppet. The last thing he could register was the solid warmth of his father's chest behind his back, and a strong arm settling firmly around his waist.
Valarr blinked awake as the carriage jolted violently.
After the whole night of rain, the road had turned into thick mud, which did little to make the journey smoother. The carriage rocked harder than it had the day before, and the motion left Valarr with a faint headache. At least he had a full sleep last night, Valarr comforted himself.
He looked out the window. The sun had returned in full strength, bringing the heat with it. The scene of green was still the same. Ahead of his carriage, there was no sight of Aerion's cart and two horses flanking him – Maekar and his sons had departed with their men back to Summerhall. It was closer to Ashford, after all.
Something suddenly touched his lips, and Valarr startled. Baelor pushed a chestnut gently between them at once.
"Just a few more days," he said.
Valarr chewed the nut his father had fed him and nodded. Only a few more days, and they would be back in King's Landing.
Behind them, Ashford Meadow slowly watched the line of black banners fade into the distance. Tall grass swayed softly, as if bidding them farewell. A single hand lay among it, unmoving.