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“I’ll send Measter Yormwell to have a look at him, when he’s done tending to my brother,” Prince Baelor says. The sweat and blood on his brow glisten with the promise of a man with many years to live. His tasteful beard quivers with life.
Dunk struggles up to kneel before him. “Your Grace. I am your man.” Despite being stabbed seven to ten times, he’s also looking pretty healthy and pretty much good? Like he’ll probably be fine honestly?
“Please,” he adds. “Your man,” with a level of loyalty and affection that’s quite understandable.
“I need good men, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says. He sets his strong but gentle hand on Dunk’s shoulder, and then on his temple. “The realm,” he adds, to clarify, so it’s like pretty normal because honestly men do need each other and good men especially and these two are kind of the best? Even if it were more that would probably be cool.
He steps away as Dunk groans in pain; he’s helped to a seat by Pate and Raymun. Egg looks on, his bald head shining with concern.
“Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind,” Baelor asks with both honor and grace and the calm compassion expected of a great man. A very handsome and good man. “Visor’s…” He gestures to it, his son’s helm, a little tight but perfectly safe and adequate. “Visor’s cracked.”
“My fingers…” He sways, dizzy from the fight and probably from dehydration and nothing else. Raymun sets a hand on his shoulder, noting how moisturized Baelor’s lips look. “My fingers feel like wood.” Only because they're stiff from holding a sword, not for any other reason.
Raymun moves behind him and sets his hands on Baelor’s strong shoulders. “Goodman Pate. A hand.”
Pate joins them, abandoning Dunk who has been knocked out three to four times. “The helm, it’s crushed down the back, Your Grace,” he says, so Baelor knows to get it fixed later. “It’s smashed into the gorget.”
“My brother’s mace, most like,” Baelor says fondly. He leans over to Raymun and confides with good humor, “He’s strong.”
Raymun chuckles.
Dunk groans in pain.
Pate tears the helmet off Baelor as Raymun steadies him. For a moment, no one speaks. Baelor sways in place, eyes wide...
...Wide with the relief of having that helm off his head!
“Good work, this helm,” Pate tells him. “It saved your life, Your Grace.”
Baelor who is totally fine and actually feeling pretty good nods to them in thanks. “My son’s armor. I owe him for the pleasure.”
“Aye, ser. It protected you well,” Pate agrees. The armor is unbelievably flattering on his figure, accentuation his strong shoulders.
“We are all due for a drink, I suppose.” Baelor dabs at the blood on his face. It’s all someone else’s, none of it his. He is the very heart and soul of grace—and good health. “I will go tend to my brother’s pride. And you..”
He looks down at Dunk with a perfect mix of both pride and reserved affection. Anyone would be honored to serve him. “...I suspect you will need the maester before you need ale. I will go, see if he’s done tending Maekar.”
He nods to them and goes. They are honored to have fought with the man who will inherit the throne. And he does. He does inherit the throne. And nothing bad ever happens to another Targaryen and there are no more wars. Egg convinces his cool uncle to make reforms that go down great and really help the realm to progress. Eventually they transition to a democracy but they still keep the Targaryens around for flavor. Also the dragons are successfully brought back as an endangered species and are carefully cared for and integrated into the natural environment in a way that doesn’t hurt the native ecology of Westeros. Baelor is remembered as the greatest to ever do it and also the most attractive so that’s that.