Chapter Text
Duncan
Dunk could not breathe.
He was aware, dimly, of something hard and heavy welded into his chest. A deep dull throb had settled in below it. If he looked down, he might see a burgundy stain, or a great hole, like a second mouth had opened in his flesh. He did not look down.
Something was squirming in his right arm. He jerked his head down, hitting a plate of white hair stained with dirt and mud. It thrashed against his torso, drawing a chorus of pain from too many places to count. He could not breathe.
The shape thrashed and thrashed again, but his arm stayed locked in place, so its movements seemed like hiccups in the hollow of a great throat. Dunk wiped his left eye with his free hand. He thought the leather came away red, but it was so drenched in mud that he could not tell for certain. A pair of deep violet eyes leered up at him, rimmed with dirt and blood. Two bruises, Dunk thought.
There was a distant, whining roar all around him, like that of an approaching storm. He searched for its source, but saw only clusters of pale faces and writhing stacks of silver and bronze, scrambling in the mud. The world whirled around him, and for a moment, he thought he might rise tall enough to stand far above it all. Then it steadied, and the shape shoved vainly against him once more.
He could not breathe, but breathe he did, and yanked Prince Aerion’s head up to his. “Say you yield.”
The prince’s eyes burned with hatred so sharp that Dunk wondered if the fire in his limbs was actually real. He only thinks he’s a dragon, someone had once said. Aerion’s lips moved; Dunk could not hear him, but he read the words clearly enough. “I yield.”
“He yields,” he felt himself say, though he heard nothing but that same awful roar. He loosened his grip on the prince, and found quickly that had been a mistake. Aerion made a dart for his morningstar, which lay coiled on the ground after an earlier grapple had thrown it from his grip. But Dunk was faster, and had not let go of him yet. He flung his arm back across the prince's waist, though it hurt like the seven hells, and squeezed. Something high and rough stabbed his ears; Aerion might have screamed.
Dunk exhaled in a great sag and forced them both to their knees. They hit the mud like twin thunderclaps, rattling every inch of Dunk's bones. Aerion’s right arm was locked within his. Dunk moved before he thought, throwing his left arm around to entrap its counterpart before the prince could use it. He could wrap both arms tighter, just a little tighter, press hard against this dark armor and let it be Aerion’s tomb. Instead, he lifted him off the ground and turned to the spectators.
Rows of faces stared down at him, all locked into a single great gasp. One of them was Egg’s, but Dunk could not tell which. A wave of fury rolled into his chest, and then up his throat, until it finally broke through his mouth. “Say you yield!”
The prince lurched forward, shoulders heaving. His head lolled. Just when Dunk feared he might have slipped into unconsciousness, it snapped up. “I withdraw my accusation.”
Something odd flashed through Dunk at that moment. Things suddenly seemed brighter, like he had stepped into a sunlit forest from a deep black cave. His arms seemed to have minds of their own; they loosened before he thought to do so, and Aerion stumbled out of his grip into the mud.
The roar broke into hundred of voices, though Dunk could not make out a single one. Some spectators shot from their seats, raising their fists, while others sat still with their hands clenched around their knees. Dunk looked for his boy, his squire, but still could not see him. Or perhaps he had, but his left eye had grown wet again, and his vision blurred. He bent his head to wipe it, saw the great shuddering of his chest, and looked up and away again.
Not a single man who had entered the trial was still ahorse; the beasts had long vanished in clouds of dust and shattered wood. Where was Thunder? Dunk hadn’t seen him since Aerion had flung him from his saddle. He remembered the terrible gout of blood bursting from Ser Humfrey’s horse when the prince’s lance smashed through it, and it was all he could do not to vomit.
There came a terrible moan, like that of a dying beast. A bulbous brown mass rose to his right—a horse so drenched in mud that Dunk may have mistaken it for more of the same had its limbs not been flailing vainly for purchase. For a moment, he feared it was Thunder, but it was not. A man lay half-pinned below its torso, his gloved hands pressed taut against its back. His armor, too, was so caked in mud that Dunk could only see the white in scattered dots, as if that had been the color to stain it. He tipped his head to the sky and gave another groan. “My legs! I can’t feel my legs.”
Duncan stepped shakily toward him, but a flash of red entered his vision. “No, ser!” Raymun Fossoway gripped his arms, steadying him against a fall he had not known he would take. His beard was dappled in sweat, and a thick red band wrapped beneath his right eye, but he seemed well enough otherwise. “Come now. We need to get you looked over.”
“He’s trapped,” Duncan said. His voice sounded distant.
“They’ll help him up. Don’t you worry, boy.” That was Pate, Dunk thought. The man appeared over his left shoulder, coming around and squinting up at him. He exchanged a quick glance with Raymun, and both nodded in tandem. “To the stables.”
So they went, Pate with a thick warm hand on his back and Raymun with a slimmer arm around his waist. Dunk felt like something huge was barreling toward him, a great thundering beast hitting every inch of his body at once. “What of the others?” His voice was a raw wound.
“Don’t worry about that now, boy,” Pate said, bringing him to a wall five footsteps inside the stable mouth, but Raymun glanced behind him for a moment. “I saw Beesbury on the ground. He wasn’t moving. Not sure what's happened.”
“Enough. Come.” Pate gestured to him. The two lowered Dunk against the wall, until he hit the ground with a groan. All of him burned, and his armor suddenly felt too tight. He lurched forward, heaving, but nothing came out.
Two pairs of hands steadied him. “Easy now. Just lean back.” Pate pressed a careful hand into his shoulder, setting him against the wall. “Take a look at him.”
Their entrance had disturbed the horses, and they paced in their stalls. Dunk could hear the frantic fury of their clattering hooves, and the strain in their whinnies. A group of people he did not recognize clustered at the entrance. Some pressed their hands against their mouths, while others stared grimly.
“Gods be good. The lance point drove the rings into his skin,” Raymun breathed. “It will mortify unless—”
“We’ll get him drunk, pour some boiling oil into it,” Pate said. “That’s how the maesters do it.” He rubbed his hand in a broad circle against Dunk’s shoulder.
“Duncan! Ser Duncan!” A shriek pierced the air. The crowd stirred, and something small flew in, scattering dust and hay. “Are you alright, ser?” Egg might have slipped, had Raymun not put out a hand to steady him. “Easy now.”
“Egg,” Dunk whispered, stretching an arm out. The boy’s eyes widened, but Raymun kept his hand up. “Careful! Your wounds, you don’t want to open any—”
“The maesters. I’ll get the maesters,” Egg said.
“Might be I have some oil in my stores. I’ll get it, but don’t you move him until then.” Pate stood.
“Wine, not oil,” came another voice. “Oil will kill him.”
Egg had needed to squeeze his way through the crowd, but now they parted easily as a butter-stack, their taut chatter falling into reverent silence. A man in a black helm came through, his breastplate inlaid with a three-headed dragon. Dunk’s vision blurred, and he blinked furiously, fighting to clear it. His left eye was wet again.
Raymun pressed his lips together. “His eye’s cut.”
Pate turned back, eyeing the black-helmed man as he came to stand behind Raymun. He removed his helm; Dunk thought he saw him wince, but it was getting harder to tell anything.
“Egg, if you would?” Prince Baelor asked. The boy took the helm and clutched it to his chest. “Will he be alright?”
“I’ll have Maester Yormwell attend to him when he’s finished with your father and Ser Willem.” Baelor knelt carefully before him. His face was dusted in red, and a cut patched the corner of his lip. “Ser Duncan, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Dunk strained to hear his own voice. Had he spoken at all? “I am your man. Please. Your man.”
“My man. Careful now.” Baelor set a firm hand against his shoulder, and Dunk realized he had been falling forward. “The gods have spoken, Ser Duncan. You are innocent.”
“Innocent,” Dunk murmured.
Egg’s face was pale. “He needs a maester now, Uncle. Please, please.”
“I can get wine,” he heard Pate say. “Gods know folks would be willing.”
“Yes, quickly.” Baelor’s voice was calm. “Ser Duncan, look at me. Listen to my voice.”
Dunk swayed his head, looking in the direction he thought Baelor might be. He saw a pair of eyes, one blue like water and the other a deep brown. But perhaps they were both brown, and his own eyes were just watering.
“We can get him to our tent. Or I can bring our maester.” Raymun’s voice was distant. Had he walked off? “Might get him started before yours comes.”
“Go, then.”
“Your Grace,” Dunk whispered. He could not tell if the prince still gripped his arm.
“Ser Duncan, you need to stay awake! Please.” That was Egg.
Awake. Yes, he needed to stay awake. Egg’s frightened face burned into his mind, and a bolt of something hot and prickly flashed through him. He inhaled, forcing his eyes open. For a blessed moment, three things came into focus: Baelor's eyes, Raymun's lips moving in rapid bursts, Egg's fingers clenched tightly over his uncle's helm. But they blurred away just as quickly.
“Ser Duncan! Ser Duncan!” someone was shouting. Dunk could not tell who. I am innocent of the crime, he thought, feeling something hard and flat press the back of his head. He heard his name once more, then it all gave way to nothing.