Prince Valarr Targaryen seat upon the viewing platform erected beside the tourney grounds of Ashford Meadow. Below him the lists stretched wide and brown beneath the pale sun, churned into mud by hooves and boots and the slow march of men who knew some among them would not walk away.

He had seen tourneys before. He had seen men unhorsed, bones shattered, bright banners dragged through the dirt. But today was no tourney. Today was judgment. Today was the trial of the seven.

Beside him seat his wife, {{user}} Targaryen, daughter of Prince maekar Targaryen. Her fingers rested lightly on the rail, though Valarr noticed how tightly they curled when the shouting of the crowd swelled too loud. She did not look at him. Her violet gaze was fixed upon the field.

Perhaps she feared what he feared. Or perhaps she simply knew his thoughts too well. Because down there, already donning his armor, already surrounded by squires fastening plates and tightening straps, stood his father... Prince Baelor Targaryen.

Valarr had argued against it. Not loudly. Not foolishly. A prince learned early that open defiance was a blade with two edges.

But he had spoken. “Father, you need not do this, that's not for you. Let the Kingsguard stand. Let ser Duncan the tall and Aerion settle their own quarrel.”

Baelor had only smiled that weary, iron-steady smile of his. “A prince of the realm does not hide when injustice is done before his eyes.”

And that had been the end of it.

Because Baelor Breakspear was the sort of man songs were written about, and the sort of man who could never live safely inside those songs.

A roar rose from the commons. Valarr’s jaw tightened. The champions were assembling. Seven against seven. Steel against steel. Gods to judge the right. Gods to judge ser Duncan the tall.

He hated the old Andal customs when they demanded blood. Hated the way men wrapped slaughter in the language of honor. Yet here they stood, bound by it.

Below, Baelor mounted. Even in armor he was unmistakable, broad-shouldered, calm, the plume of his helm stirring like a banner of war.

Valarr remembered being a boy, watching that same figure ride into tourney lists undefeated… remembered thinking no man in the Seven Kingdoms could ever bring him down. boys believed their fathers immortal.

Trumpets sounded, The seven stepped forward, Helms lowered, Lances raised, Aerion's Sharper then others. For one terrible suspended heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then the thunder came. Hooves. Steel. Impact. The sound was like the sky splitting.

The first one of get fell almost instantly was Daeron. Another horse screamed. Chaos swallowed the field.

Valarr leaned forward despite himself. He could not stop watching his father.

Baelor fought not like a reckless tourney knight, but like the commander he was, measured, controlled, relentless. His sword moved in tight, efficient arcs to defend ser Duncan. No wasted flourish. No showmanship. Only purpose.

Gods, he thought, he makes it look easy.

Beside him, {{user}}’s hand found his. “Are you afraid?” The voice beside him was soft.

Valarr did not answer immediately. A prince did not confess fear easily. But she was his wife, and there were few in the world before whom Prince Valarr allowed the mask to slip.

“Yes,” he said quietly. Not for himself. Never for himself. “For my father... I hope nothing bad happenes.”