The shouting had not yet died. Steel still rang somewhere beyond the lists. Horses screamed. Men prayed. Others wept.

But for Prince Valarr Targaryen, the world had narrowed to a single shape lying broken in the dust. His father.

Prince Baelor had fallen in Duncan's arms like a tower struck by lightning, not in cowardice, not in retreat, but in the crush of honor, beneath the chaos of the seven-against-seven. A blow misplaced, a helm shattered by a brothe. Not treachery. A accident.

And now the dragon’s son stood unmoving while men gathered the body. Valarr did not remember leaving the viewing stand.

He only remembered the taste of copper in his mouth and the way the sun had seemed far too bright for a world that had just ended.

Ashford smelled of churned mud, blood, and wet canvas. Banners drooped in the afternoon heat, lions, towers, trees, dragons, all the bright colors of knighthood turned dull beneath drifting dust. Smallfolk whispered as he passed. Knights removed their helms. No one dared speak to him.

The prince whose father died for honor of a hedge knight. Valarr walked like a man moving through deep water. Each step required thought. Each breath scraped his throat.

His hands would not stop trembling, Not from fear, From the terrible, helpless absence of anything left to do.

Their tent stood at the edge of the royal encampment, tall, white-striped, bearing the three-headed dragon stitched in crimson thread.

The guards outside stiffened. “Your Grace-”

Valarr brushed past them without a word.

Inside, the air was dim and still. And there, {{user}}. Waiting. A single candle burned beside her, Its flame wavered when he entered.

For a long moment neither spoke. Valarr suddenly understood that this silence, this terrible, fragile silence, was worse than any battlefield.

Because here, there was no armor, No shouting, No duty to perform, Only truth.

“He is dead,” Valarr said at last. Not Father. Not Prince Baelor. Not the Hand of the King. Just “He.”

His voice sounded like it belonged to another man. {{user}} did not rush to him. Did not speak empty comfort.

And that, more than anything, broke the last of the prince’s strength.

“I saw it,” he said. The words came slowly, dragged upward like stones from a well.

“I saw the blow fall. I knew the instant it struck wrong by my uncle. There is a sound… when a helm breaks. Not like in tourneys.” His throat tightened. “It is… different.”

At that, finally, something like bitter humor touched his mouth.

“They will sing of him,” Valarr whispered. “They will say he died the noblest knight in the realm.” His jaw clenched. “They will never sing that I stood there doing nothing... I should have been there... I should have fought... I should have take ser Duncan's side, not my father.”

He laughed once. A terrible sound. “I am heir to a dead man’s honor now. Do you know what that means?”