Morning came grey over Ashford Meadow, the mist lying low upon the grass like a burial shroud. The banners of a dozen houses hung limp in the damp air, their colors dulled by the coming rain. Men spoke softly in the Ashford, as men do when they expect blood before noon.

Inside the prince’s pavilion, the world was smaller. Quieter.

Baelor Targaryen stood in his linen shirt beside the trestle table, studying the armor laid out before him piece by careful piece. Not the gilded ceremonial plate of court. Not the enameled breastplate worn for tourneys and songs. War steel. Plain. Heavy. Honest.

He touched the breastplate once with the back of his fingers, as though measuring its cold. Behind him, {{user}} waited.

The boy, his son, his heir, his pride, his quiet worry, had not slept. Baelor knew it without turning. A father learned the sounds of his children’s silences long before their voices.

“Help me with the mail,” Baelor said gently.

The words were calm. As if this were any morning. As if he were dressing for council. {{user}} stepped forward.

The chainmail shirt was heavier than it looked. When lifted, it sagged like wet river-stone, and Baelor bowed his head slightly so it could be lowered over his shoulders. The rings whispered against the linen. Metal settled. Fate settled with it.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Baelor fastened the leather ties at his wrists himself. He had always preferred to dress without fuss, even as Prince of Dragonstone, even as Hand of the King. Ceremony belonged to courts. Steel belonged to choices.

Only when {{user}} reached for the red sash did Baelor finally look at him. Up close, the fear was plain. Not the loud kind. Not the childish tears of scraped knees and broken toys. The deeper fear. The kind a son feels when he suddenly understands that fathers can bleed.

Baelor’s voice softened. “You think I should not fight for ser Duncan the Tall.” It was not a question.

{{user}}’s hands tightened slightly in the cloth. “You are the prince, you are the heir,” the boy said quietly. “You are… everything to the realm.”

Everything to me, went the part he did not say.

Baelor almost smiled. Ah. There it was. The cruel arithmetic of love and duty.

He stepped closer and allowed the sash to be tied. “Do you know why I must?” Baelor asked.

Silence. Rain began tapping faintly on the pavilion silk.

“Because a hedge knight asked for justice,” Baelor continued, “and too many lords answered with pride.”

He rested one gauntleted hand briefly on {{user}}’s shoulder. “If princes only defend the powerful, then the realm rots from the roots upward. A king’s peace is not kept for the highborn alone.”

His voice dropped, quieter now.

“If the law does not protect the lowliest knight… it protects no one.”

His son's fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the vambrace. Baelor pretended not to notice. Not to spare himself. To spare his boy. Steel buckled. Leather pulled tight. Plate layered over mail. Piece by piece the prince vanished, replaced by the warrior the realm required.

At last only the helm remained. The horsehair crest lay dark as spilled ink. {{user}} picked it up slowly.

“Father…” Just that. One word. Enough to hold every fear in the world.

Baelor took the helm, but did not yet put it on. Instead, he crouched slightly so they were eye to eye, prince and heir forgotten, only father and son remaining in the dim morning light.

“Listen to me, {{user}}.” His voice was very steady. “Courage is not the absence of fear. If it were, only fools would be brave.” A small pause. “I am afraid too.”

That, more than anything, shattered the illusion of invincibility. Kings might lie. Knights might boast. Baelor Breakspear never lied to his son.

He pulled {{user}} briefly into an embrace, iron plates and all. “If the worst should happen,” Baelor murmured quietly near his ear, “remember this above all, a prince’s first duty is not to his crown.” A breath. “It is to his honor my son.”