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Baelor stared at Valarr’s armor. It hung, freshly polished, in the room provided by Lord Ashford to serve as a makeshift armory for the Targaryen retinue for the duration of the tournament. It was a beautiful set, fluted black steel and enameled red. No expense spared, from helm to sabaton. Baelor picked up the helm. Ran his fingers along the crest, along the dragon’s likeness that overlaid it. Armor fit for field and tilt, though it had only tasted the latter.
He didn’t know what Ser Duncan would have in the way of armor. Had not given much thought to it, truthfully. Hedge knights rarely had full plate, and squires-newly-turned-hedge-knights even less so. Recalling the deceased hedge knight’s slight figure, he highly doubted there was anything of Ser Arlan’s the man could fit. As it were, he’d never seen Ser Duncan in anything more protective than a roughspun tunic. However, he reasoned, if Ser Duncan had intended to enter the tourney, surely he’d have prepared something sufficient. But where Baelor had hoped for surety, his thoughts only evoked a nauseating murkiness.
At first, the man had provoked no more than a little curiosity and pity. A poor hedge knight with none to vouch for him, armed with nothing more than a pair of beseeching eyes and a shield with a device he could not inherit. Baelor had been in a position to offer aid, and so did. An act that cost him nothing, but clearly meant a world of difference to the knight. That he would be called the “very soul of chivalry” in response was appreciated, but hardly unusual. He’d been called the like before, and put no stock into it. Was it generous to give when he’d not notice the lack? Or honorable to keep his word when his position meant none would compel him to oaths not easily fulfilled? True, the majority of his kin would not oft behave as he did, but they were not the Hand of the King, or the heir to the Iron Throne besides. Furthermore, to behave with the impunity owed to being of the blood of the dragon when none had seen hide nor hair of one for more than fifty years was naught but foolishness. A fair reputation was easy enough to maintain and useful when placating the ire of slighted lords, of which his family often left in their wake.
To inform Ser Duncan of his right to a trial by combat had seemed more of the same. A kindness, if it could even be called that, for a guileless man who had been dragged into affairs far beyond his ken by one of his foolish nephews. Another forgettable, bloodless alm that he would be lauded for giving.
Speaking to Ser Duncan, there was an immaturity to his arguments, easily parried by logic and politic, and yet the reminder of his knighting vow struck something within Baelor all the same. Perhaps it was because he had realized in but three minutes of knowing the hedge knight, and scarcely more knowing of him, that Ser Duncan truly believed and abided by his oath and that other knights did the same. He should’ve scoffed at it, that anyone could be grown and still cling to that naivete, but.
It reminded him of days spent as a boy at the Red Keep, peeking in on the Kingsguard’s drills, with a book of knights’ tales as company. Of dreams of honor and valor held long before he had ever been called “Breakspear”, and that had scarcely returned in the years since the Battle of Redgrass Field. When he was buoyed by all that could be, instead of shackled by all that was. For all that Baelor found no comfort in his lauded reputation, he could objectively acknowledge that he set a sort of standard. Yet, all of Baelor’s so-called generosity paled in the face of this man, he who was liable to lose foot and sword hand thanks to the actions of his squire, and still insisted Egg was a good boy anyway to save the child from a scolding.
Baelor could not afford to give that much grace.
But there should be someone out there who could. Who undoubtedly would, if he survived the morrow.
Baelor considered the repercussions, the rewards. That it could serve as political recourse, even as it pitted blood against blood. The Kingsguard were sworn not to hurt him, and neither his nephews nor Ser Fossoway would dare, so all that left was Maekar. His brother would be irate, surely, and his command of arms was fearsome, but neither he nor Baelor had any desire to be named kinslayer. So, his survival would be all but guaranteed.
In many ways, it should seem like another meaningless act of chivalry. Yet he knew, somehow, it was not.
He beheld the armor once more.
Slowly, he slid the helm over his head. Tested the feel of it. A little too snug. He doubted he could comfortably fit a padded coif under it. Perhaps he would go without.
He briefly allowed his thoughts to turn again to Ser Duncan. Perhaps his intervention would be unnecessary. He had a peculiarly inspirational charm, after all.
As he slipped the helm off and returned it to the stand, he amused himself imagining tomorrow. Riding into the tourney grounds on his fine steed, every bit the gallant knight from his storybook, off to rescue his maiden fair with auburn hair. Chuckling, he made his way back to his chambers.
There would be time for more flights of fancy after the trial.