Valarr sat rigid upon the royal dais beside his wife, {{user}}, hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles ached. He loathed this, loathed the spectacle, the posturing, the waste of blood over wounded pride. A trial by combat, because his cousin’s arrogance had found offense where none worth remembering had existed. It was obscene. It was unnecessary. And yet here they were.

Below them, the lists rang with the dull thunder of steel.

Valarr’s gaze never truly left his father.

Baelor Breakspear stood in Valarr's armor like a living standard, broad, unyielding, already scarred by a lifetime of choosing duty over comfort. He fought not for himself, but for a hedge knight with no name worth singing. Of course he did. That was who Baelor was. That was who he had always been. Valarr felt that truth settle heavy and familiar in his chest.

He forced himself to breathe evenly, to sit still, to be the prince the realm expected to see. Beside him, {{user}} was composed, a steady presence at his side, though Valarr could feel the tension coiled just beneath the surface. He did not look at her, not because he did not trust her strength, but because he did not trust his own.

Then something went wrong.

It was subtle at first. A falter. A fraction of a heartbeat too slow.

Baelor staggered.

The world seemed to draw inward, sound dulling, movement stretching thin. Valarr watched as his father reached up and removed his helm. Dark crimson spilled down the back of his neck, staining steel and mail alike. Baelor’s fingers brushed the wound, came away slick, and for a single unbearable moment he only stared at the blood, almost curious.

Then he fell.

The stands erupted into noise, but Valarr heard none of it.

He was on his feet before thought could catch him, chair scraping back as instinct tore him free of ceremony, of rank, of restraint. He was already moving, already running, boots striking stone as he took the steps two at a time.

“Father—”

The word tore itself from his chest as he broke from the dais and ran toward Baelor’s fallen form, the prince no longer seated beside his wife, no longer watching from above, only a son closing the distance with fear clawing hard and merciless at his ribs.