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"there ought'o be more lemon cakes," Valarr's stuffed little cheek's strain with the effort of talking with his mouth full. "I think."
"Do not speak with your mouth full, son, it is unbecoming of a prince." Is his father's only rebuttal, but the slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes allude to amusement. Jena would not share his sentiment, the boy should have been in bed hours ago. Baelor simply did not have the heart to interrupt his sweet child's rants.
"sorry," Valarr says after swallowing the food in his mouth. "but do you think so? that there ought to be more lemon cakes?"
"now? you've had three already."
"not now, all the time, I mean. I think there ought to be more lemon cakes all the time. They are my most favorite sweets." He makes a slight face at the idea of eating another lemon cake now. Even at his young age of seven, Valarr knows better than to push his luck, he's already up past his bedtime and he's eaten two more lemon cakes than he'd normally be allowed.
"Favorite already implies there is nothing put above it, there is no need to say 'most'." His father sets down the parchment he might have been attempting to read. Valarr could not say for certain what it contained, the sheer amount of numbers were lost on him.
"Okay." he nods what he believes to be a serious nod. "do you have a mos— a favorite sweet? Mama says her favorite is chocolates."
"You are old enough to call her mother now." Baelor says, much without thought, and does not answer Valarr's question.
"Okay," Valarr nods again, what he has dubbed his listening nod. Father always says it's important for others to know you listen when they speak. He remains silent for a moment longer. hoping his father might remember his initial question and answer it, when Baelor does not, he moves on.
"I want to be a knight, when i am older, can I do that?" He does not wait for an answer this time, his father does not seem to be interested in giving them. "Be a prince and a knight, I like to think perhaps I can. I could ride a horse, and I could wield a sword, oh! or a mace like uncle Maekar—"
"You could not wield a mace." His father interrupts, gently but firmly as if he's already decided this is one thing he would never allow. Valarr does not want to let it make him upset, he understands Baelor only wants the best for him, but still he cannot help it.
"I could too! If I were strong, and if I could practice— If you'd let me." Valarr quiets as his father's attention is turned fully on him. He thinks perhaps he might have said something wrong, perhaps he has said many things wrong. His father does not scold him, though, nor does he move to discipline.
"A mace is far too dangerous for a boy so precious as mine." He says at last, once the silence has properly chastised Valarr into holding himself with tension. Baelor had not meant to wait so long, but it has been done, and he will not change it now.
"Okay," He does not nod this time, but Baelor does not seem to mind, simply waving his hand, an urge for him to keep talking. "I learned of Balerion the Black Dread today."
His father does not say more, but he does not stop him either. "He was Aegon The Conqueror's dragon. They say he was the largest dragon to be in Westeros."
"They?"
"The dragonkeepers wrote it in their books, which the maester had me read from." His father hums, and Valarr is not sure whether it is good or bad. Baelor is more and more like this as of late, indifferent.
When he was younger, Valarr would talk and talk for hours, his father would be more engaged. He half wonders if this is how it is to grow up, to become less and less engaged when children speak. Perhaps it will happen to him as well someday, when he has children of his own.
"I wrote a letter to Daeron today as well. The maesters say it is good writing practice." Valarr frowns, "but it is not just practice! The writing is real, even though Daeron has yet to write me back. I do not know how far Summerhall is from here by raven."
"I asked the maester today if the ravens at Summerhall do not know their way back here, and that is why I have not received his letters, but he only smiled at me and did not answer." He's not quite sure what the smile had been to mean. Father has been teaching him too, that smiles could not always be trusted. Perhaps the maester could not be trusted?
Father clearly understands, for he too smiles a sort of sad smile, like he knows something his son does not. If he does, he does not share it, and so they move from there as well.
"When will I start riding lessons? A prince should know how to…" His words trail off softly as a mighty yawn wrecks across his rounded face. A quick peak out the window reveals a pitch black sky. He had not realized how late it had gotten, too entertained by his own tales.
"I believe it is high time we've gotten you to bed, Valarr." His father says as he stands from his seat, towering above as a mountain. "lest you find yourself falling asleep here."
"but… there is still so much to say," he attempts to protest his father's arms, but Valarr is many years yet from fighting Baelor off. Scooped up to his father's chest, he can find no reason worthy enough to keep fighting.
It is only when he is being laid underneath the covers of his own bed that Valarr has truly realized how masterful his father had been. To lower his guard with a gentle touch only to bring him back to his own chambers where he will have to spend the night alone.
The feather-light kiss laid upon his brow does not remove Baelor of all sin, but Valarr supposes it does help. "sleep well, my son."
He will not remember it in the morning, and he surely will not care to, but somehow his mouth half forms around a good night to his father. If the shape of his well wishes fit around papa and not father, it will have been lost to the wind.