Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Everything in Dunk’s body felt wrong. Each thunder of his pulse sent enough pain through him that he had to clench his jaw to keep from screaming. Every breath was a gasp, knocked out of him like he had fallen off his horse, or had been struck. Steely Pate and Raymun heaved him onto a bench, and when he sat he let out a cry like a wounded animal, feeling everything that pierced him dig further into his flesh. 

Steely Pate was saying something to Raymun, the both of them nervously looking at each other. The world was echoing and ringing. His head lolled forward, hearing something about boiling oil. He heard a voice break through his haze, all cool, soothing tones.

“Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.”

Dunk glanced upwards with the eye of his that hadn’t swollen shut. Prince Baelor was standing before him, hastily pushing his sword into the mud.

“I’ll send Maester Yormwell down to come look at him. When he’s done tending to my brother.” 

Baelor was staring off into the distance as he said this, as if he himself had not just come off the tourney field. As if he, like Dunk, had not just barely crawled away from death. Dunk felt Steely Pate and Raymun lift him beneath his arms again, probably to prepare him for whatever wine or oil they were going to use, but he wrenched himself forward. 

With a grunt of barely restrained agony, Dunk gracelessly brought himself down to his knee. Raymun hopped awkwardly on one of his legs behind him. 

“Your Grace,” Dunk said, his voice wretched and trembling with exhaustion, adrenaline, and pain. 

He felt gratitude swell in him, remembering his rush of relief and awe when Baelor announced he would take his side in the tourney. How the gloom of certain death seemed to lift from his shoulders as he had taken off his helmet. With that action alone, he had saved his life. He would have been dead before the trial began. 

Baelor looked down at him as he spoke, but not in the way so many men did. Everyone looked down at Dunk, not literally, due to his towering height, but with an obvious mix of disgust and pity. 

There was none of that to be seen in Baelor’s two-toned eyes, and what of his face shown from his son’s helm. A whisper of a smile held his mouth, softening it.

It rattled him, the sheer admiration he held for this man, this prince whom he had met only two days before. Who did not have to show such kindness to him, but did with every opportunity. Before, this man was nothing but a story to him, a familiar one that Ser Arlan would always lean upon, speaking of his valor and bravery. To know the man was something else. Dunk sucked in a breath. He was everything, now. 

The words that fell from his mouth gave him something to focus on, to whittle away his pain and work his tongue to form them. He would bleed out into the mud to say them, if he must.

“I am your man. Please,” Dunk felt dried blood and dirt crusted his ears, fresher blood making his chainmail sticky, and the throbbing of his swollen eye. “Your man.” 

Baelor’s eyes remained on him, still with the faintest hint of a smile.

“I need good men, Ser Duncan.” 

Baelor brought a hand to rest upon his shoulder. Dunk tried not to wince, or shiver. Dunk looked up at him, his lids nearly closed. He nodded, stupidly, hoping that he was such a man. He would become that man. His ears continued to ring, the wounds in his sides and ribs searing as they mingled with sweat and mud. 

Dunk’s breaths came out all wrong, and nearly stopped altogether when Baelor brought a hand to rest at his cheek. Despite the cold of the metal, the touch set something in Dunk alight. He shuddered.

“The realm.” Baelor said, somewhat clumsily.

Baelor held his hand there for a moment before pulling back. Having said what he needed, Dunk felt all of his willpower snap and escape him, his body lurching forward. Steely Pate and Raymun caught him, preventing him from passing out again. He wasn’t sure if he’d wake up this time. Steely Pate and Raymun pushed him against the bench again to sit, and Dunk let his anguish loose from his throat.

He felt Egg in his peripheral vision somewhere, silent and watching with wide eyes. He didn’t want him to see this, for him to see Dunk like this, more wound than man.

“Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind.” 

“At once, Your Grace.” Raymun left Dunk’s side and went to pull back Baelor’s helm. 

Dunk felt his vision darken, and he threw his head back against the wall, forcing himself to breathe. In and out. He kept his eyes upon Baelor. Something to ground him. They removed Baelor’s helm, cracks in it making themselves known as they pulled, the helm bent and shattering. He heard the two men muttering something, but Dunk’s ears still rang.

Baelor’s steps landed awkwardly upon the ground. His eyes looked dazed. He spun around slightly before falling to the ground, and Dunk leapt up from the bench, despite the unbearable weight of his body. Egg let out a small gasp beside him, wherever he was. Dunk caught him, lifting his arms to lift Baelor’s head.

“No, no, Your Grace, Your Grace! Your Grace, get up, Ser.” 

Baelor’s eyes closed, his body sagging. He’s not bleeding, Dunk’s thick skull repeated, ringing out like so many weapons had upon his helm. He wasn’t bleeding, so what was wrong? Dunk was no Maester. He didn’t know how to fix this. His hands gripped at his chest, pawing uselessly at the dragon at the center. He saw Egg’s feet before him, looking down at his uncle, unconscious in Dunk’s arms.

“No, please,” Dunk’s voice was no more than a whimper, and again he was as bloody useless as he had been when Ser Arlan had died. 

When he had to bury him with the rain coming down around him. Targaryens weren’t buried in the rain, they were burnt in fire.

He couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Dunk felt sounds coming from his mouth, but he could not hear them. Arms grab at him, another pair attempting to wrench Baelor from his grip. He felt his mouth widen, something coming from it. In a frenzy, he clenched his fists, holding on for dear life, as if that would do something. 

He felt his head sway backwards. The world went dark, leaving him behind.

—

Dunk woke with a gasp, his head lifting from a pillow as he thrashed awake. He whirled around, feeling hands steady him. 

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, lad. The whole world will come crashing down if you carry on like this.” 

Dunk saw a salt-and-pepper beard, and curls of the same color. He smelled spices he could not name. Lyonel. 

His sides burned, feeling strange. He dragged a shaky hand along and felt stitches, sore and sharp.

“Lyonel? What, wh–” 

Lyonel leaned back slightly, keeping a hand upon his chest, like he was about to thrash about again. He even began to shush him, like he was a startled horse.

“They brought you here. Ashford’s castle. Maester Yormwell’s looking over the others. Well, the ones that are left.” Lyonel said.

Dunk continued to breathe, furthering away from the darkness that had engulfed him. Dunk scanned over Lyonel, and saw that he looked fine. There was a huge antler propped up against the bed, which he seemed to reach for as he backed up slightly. He had a few cuts upon his face, a black eye, and he held his arm awkwardly, but he was whole. Dunk felt relieved. Then he remembered everything else. The ones that are left. 

“Baelor! Is, is he…” Dunk’s words fell clumsily from his tongue.

Lyonel’s brown eyes remained upon him, and he nodded, catching his meaning. 

“Yes, His Grace, he had a big fall.” Lyonel said this with a dismissive air.

Dunk felt compelled to thrash again. His body was so heavy, all he could do was lift his upper half. 

“Is he dead, Lyonel? Has he died?” Dunk hated his voice, made hoarse and pathetic.

Lyonel frowned, shaking his head. 

“No, he’s down the hall. The maesters are doing something with him.” 

Dunk felt a loud sigh, nearly a sob, escape him. He sagged against the pillow, his gaze tracking slowly about the room. He saw curtains, candles, wood, bookshelves. Looking at the items and knowing that Baelor, somehow wasn’t dead, slowly brought him back to his body. His mouth felt dry, his face stung. His eye was still swollen shut, but he could touch it and not feel quite the same mass as earlier.

“Lost Hardyng and Beesbury.” Lyonel said, taking a swig of wine. 

Dunk nodded, guilt and shame making him want to shrink into the bed. Two good, honorable men. Gone because of me. 

“They say something’s amiss with the prince’s head.”

Dunk nodded, the motion more of a weak jerk of his chin. 

“Although, if you ask me, that may have been the case anyway, considering he’s of the dragon brood—”

Dunk sucked in a breath roughly, his throat cracking in protest as he spoke. He felt prickly and defensive immediately.

“Fucking gods. He nearly died for me, could you speak of him with a little respect, please?” 

Lyonel looked down at him, blinking as he leant upon his antler. For the first time since they had met, real anger flashed across his face. His dark eyes burned with it, much like the storm clouds of his namesake. He jabbed a finger at himself before directing it back towards Dunk. 

“Fuck that, and fuck you! I fought for you, I—Harding, Beesbury, the fucking apple boy! We fought for you, your prince fought for you, against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing.” Lyonel said this last part with distaste, swinging his good arm for emphasis. 

He tilted his head, sardonic. 

“And the gods don’t favor a fraud.” 

Dunk felt the full weight of the trial sinking into his bones. His words followed a ragged breath.

“Then why have they favored me?” 

For all he knew, Baelor was still gone to the world, because of him. Two honorable men, gone from this world, all because of him. Lyonel shook his head again, making a gesture at his entire being. 

“This is not favor, this, this is mockery.” 

Dunk couldn’t entirely disagree, so he said nothing. He stared at the ceiling. His ears still rung. Distantly, his mind recalled their first evening in the Baratheon tent. All drink, music, and laughter. Wanton touches, both of them full of heat and drink and wild intention. That felt as distant as another life, now.

“There’s a war coming. We could be a force, you and I.” Lyonel looked at him squarely, his eyes charged, alight with some thrill Dunk could not reciprocate. 

Dunk felt his muscles sag even more. War. He had barely survived this tourney. Lyonel dipped his chin slightly. 

“You’ll consider it?” 

Dunk cast away his eyes, not knowing what to say. He knew Lyonel had helped him in ways he could not repay, and that he yearned the same easiness of their first night. It could not be that way, not again, not now. He had become a dead man and a sworn man within two short days. How could he leave and pretend that the world was an endless revel? 

“You know, you’ll always have a place at Storm’s End.” Lyonel said, reaching out a hand and squeezing his injured leg. 

Dunk bit back a yelp of pain. He nodded, grateful for his kindness despite the dizzying nature of it. Lyonel seemed to take this for some sort of answer. 

“Good! Caravan departs—” 

Dunk did not catch the end. His vision began to blur, and grow fuzzy, and then dark again.

—

Dunk did not get to see Lyonel off, which disappointed him. He fell in and out of consciousness for another day or two. Whether Lyonel came to see him during that time, he did not know. For a few days, time became a foggy road, rather than a thread that pulled him along. Soon he was well enough to leave bed and take in his new mangled scars and stitches. He had to lean heavily upon a crutch. 

Egg explained to him in a rush that Baelor was awake and talking again, but he was being forced to rest so as not to aggravate his condition. They would be off back to King’s Landing as soon as he was able. Dunk wasn’t able to wrap his head around all this. Does that mean I’m going to King’s Landing too, then? 

“I’m glad you’re alright, Ser.” Egg said, hovering nervously around him as he hobbled. 

Dunk smiled down at him, warm and fond as he reached out and rubbed his bald head. 

Dunk had been wandering the halls of Lord Ashford’s castle with Egg, unable to process that he had stumbled into this very castle a few days earlier. Maekar was stalking about, cloak swishing behind him, and when he saw the both of them his frown deepened. 

“You,” Maekar said, his eyes honing in on Dunk. “Come with me.”

Dunk shot a nervous look down at Egg, thinking he was like to be nearly killed again. Egg nodded at him, and he cautiously went after Maekar. His crutch knocked loudly against the stone beneath. 

When the door shut behind them, Dunk recognized this room as the solar he had spoken in with Baelor. Maekar sat before the desk in a huff and frowned until Dunk sat down, wincing. He began, brusque and without a preamble.

“What did you say to my brother?” 

“What?” 

Maekar scrubbed a hand along his face. 

“After the bloody tourney. You said something to him. What did you say?” 

Those few minutes after the tourney resurfaced in his head whenever his eyes closed. The pain, his knees in the mud, the sting of chainmail, the iron tang of blood. Baelor’s hand upon his shoulder, his cheek. Baelor sinking to the ground.

“I told him that I was his man. He said,” Dunk felt foolish now, saying these words in the light of day before his brother. “He said that the realm needed good men.” 

Maekar grunted, nodding with visible agitation. He stood, pacing with his cloak again swishing behind him. The movement and red material beneath reminded Dunk of a fox’s tail. 

“Bloody sentimental prick,” Maekar said, continuing his pacing. 

Dunk remained still in his chair. 

“My brother says that we’re to take you with us, now that you’re his sworn man. I didn’t know what he was talking about, thought he was talking nonsense, but it seems like this…” Maekar lifted a hand and gestured at Dunk, and said nothing, dropping his hand with a frown. 

Dunk did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing, staring at some tapestry on the wall. 

“We leave as soon as he’s able to stand. I’ll make him sit in the carriage if I have to, pride be damned.” Maekar said, looking at Dunk accusatorily. 

An awkward beat passed. Dunk tapped a foot.

“I don’t assume you have any belongings to fetch.” Maekar said, by way of a question. 

Dunk shook his head. 

“Just my horses, and whatever’s back at the camp.” 

Maekar grunted again, nodding. 

“I’ll send some men to fetch them. My foolish brother would like a word with you. He’s abed down the hall.” 

Maekar strode towards the door, leaving it open, and Dunk followed. Talking to Maekar made him dizzy, and he wondered if Egg felt similarly. His conversations with Egg could be like that as well. 

The halls of the castle were shadowy and cool. Darker than it would be, were Dunk sitting beneath the shade of an elm. Maekar stopped abruptly before a door and jerked his head towards it. Dunk went in, and Maekar clicked the door shut behind him. 

—

Dunk entered the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn, with only some candles to give light for his eyes to follow. There was a large bed, and upon it, he saw Baelor. Something in Dunk’s chest unspooled, and he exhaled. The prince looked tired, dark lines beneath his eyes, but he was alive. He was sitting against a mountain of pillows, dressed in loose clothing, Targaryen black. He blinked awake, and straightened slightly. 

“Ser Duncan,” Baelor said. 

Seeing him like this felt like a trespass of some kind, but Baelor motioned for him to enter. Dunk fell to his knee, belatedly, gripping his crutch hard enough that the wood could have snapped. Baelor smiled. The same soft, kind smile he had given him when he was trying to enter the lists. The only kindness in that stiff room of lords and highborn men. 

“You are still injured, Ser, please. You may rise.” 

Dunk wanted to say that he did not mind, that he would take these and many more, but he did not.

“Your Grace, my apologies if I woke you. I can—” Dunk hovered awkwardly at the door, ready to leave. 

He felt out of place, as he had this entire week. Perhaps that would always be his lot. Baelor must have sensed his flightiness, even in the dark, for he raised a hand slightly. 

“I assure you, Ser Duncan, I was only resting my eyes. I asked my brother to summon you when you were able. Please,” Baelor motioned towards a chair before a desk.  

“I am glad to see you are well,” Baelor said once Dunk had sat. 

The chair creaked and groaned beneath his weight, which it was certainly not meant to hold. Dunk prayed that it would not break and send him crashing to the floor. Then Dunk processed what Baelor had said after a moment. Thick as a castle wall.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am relieved to see you.” Dunk said, lifting his eyes from his feet. 

Baelor smiled deeper, and then Dunk quickly corrected himself.

“To see you well, I mean! I did not know what happened to you; everything was a mess, and I just remembered you falling into my…” Dunk cut himself off here, chewing on his lip. 

Baelor rubbed at his brow. 

“The tournament is hard for me to recall. The maesters say this is common, after a head injury.” 

Dunk nodded, fiddling with his hands. Now that he was facing him, the man who had nearly died because of him, the shame was unbearable. His throat felt thick, and he hated that he was able to move about when Baelor was still here, in bed and cut off from the world. So many people needed him. This must have been plain on his face, for Baelor readjusted, turning to Dunk with a sympathetic flash of his eyes.

“What troubles you, Ser?” 

Dunk propped his crutch against his chair, and leant upon his elbows. His joints creaked and ached, muscles alight with pain. But it was not enough. He’d take it all, to bring back Beesbury and Harding, to get Baelor out of this bed. Why did this man, with an aching head, care about his troubles? Why did he even call him Ser, when it was him who had caused this disaster? How could Baelor wish to comfort him, an oaf who had caused a heap of trouble for everyone? 

Even so, when he thought of Tanselle’s cry of pain, her finger cruelly bent beneath Aerion’s relentless grip, he could not say he regretted what he had done. He remembered her puppets, painted and crafted so beautifully by her and her brother. All burnt to ash. When he recalled Aerion slumped in defeat in the mud, the swell of satisfaction affirmed that he had done right. 

It didn’t take away the pain, deaths or disaster. 

“You are a man of honor, Your Grace, and I…” Dunk trailed off, gesturing vaguely at himself and hoping that was sufficient.

Baelor’s mouth flattened into a frown, telling him this was not so. Baelor pushed himself forward with a slight wince. Dunk’s hand twitched at his side, and he squashed the stupid urge to adjust his pillow. What was wrong with him? 

“Ser Duncan, do you think I would be lying here at present if I did not have faith in you and your integrity?” 

Dunk felt his mind halt as he opened his mouth, hoping that one of the gods would intervene and grant him a proper reply. He felt his ears burn, a habit of his youth that he still could not shake. The gods said nothing, and so, he plowed onward. 

“Your Grace, I do not know what I have done to deserve it.” 

I don’t deserve you, Dunk thought. 

“Not only did you defend an innocent, as your knightly vows hold you to do, but you did so against a prince of the realm. Despite the dangers of such action.” 

Dunk dipped his head slightly, letting out a wry chuckle despite himself. 

“Now that’s the cause of all this, isn’t it?” 

Baelor surprised him further by laughing in return. It was as pleasing and as melodic as his voice. Dunk felt something loosen in his chest at the sound. 

“Maybe so, but this incident, in the very least, has helped my brother understand the depth of Aerion’s faults.” 

Dunk remembered Aerion in the mud beneath him, defeated, and felt some satisfaction there. He felt sharp words of agreement rise in him, but he held his tongue. This was an uncle reproaching his nephew. He would be a hedge knight speaking ill of a prince. They had a similar conversation only a few days before, and Baelor had made that fact plain. Their positions, even when the same, were different.

“If I may ask, Your Grace, what will be done?”

Baelor sighed, rubbing his brow absently. 

“My brother speaks of sending him to the Free Cities. I must agree that may prove better than more time spent at Summerhall.” 

Dunk nodded and cleared his throat. Fidgeted. 

“May I offer you some wine, Ser Duncan?” Baelor looked towards the table beside the bed, where there was a pitcher and a few cups that were certainly worth more than everything Dunk had ever owned. 

“Oh, thank you, Your Grace. I don’t know if such drink should be wasted on the likes of—” Baelor gave him a disapproving look here, so Dunk stopped talking and poured himself a cup. 

The wine was a dark Arbor, vastly different from the watered-down ale and cider he was accustomed to. It tasted similar to the wine Lyonel had continued to pass him in his pavilion. He didn’t have the words to describe it properly like Lyonel, who could describe a wine and its taste much like a bard reciting a poem, or a sailor sharing his tales of the sea. 

Dunk had expected to be dismissed by this point, but Baelor seemed to be in no rush to do so. Dunk took a meager sip, reminding himself this was not something to drink by the tankard like ale. 

“Did my brother tell you of our departure? We are to leave Ashford whenever I am able to ride, which the maesters say is not far off. I may need to rest my eyes for another day or so, but I would rather not cause unnecessary delay. My father expects me. I also fear we have burdened Lord Ashford more than intended with our presence." 

Now that, Dunk could agree with. He had only seen snatches of Lord Ashford, and every time he looked more haggard and worn. Hosting the Targaryen royal family with a now injured prince would not be kind to anyone's nerves.

His father, the king. Dunk nodded, feeling out of his depth, the wine sloshing in his cup with the force of it. He placed it back on the table, not wanting to spill it. 

“That is, if you would like to accompany us.” Baelor said, his voice adopting a tone Dunk could not parse. 

Dunk blinked in surprise.

“I meant what I said, Your Grace. I’m your man. I’ll follow wherever you want me to.” 

Baelor dipped his head and met his eyes again, smiling. The warmth of his gaze made Dunk feel clammy, pinned. Dunk shook his head, remembering what he had meant to ask of the prince.

“Your Grace, I was wondering if I would be allowed to keep Egg as my squire. With Aerion being sent away.” 

Baelor nodded, like he was expecting this. 

“I must speak to my brother on that matter. He will not be thrilled at the prospect.” 

Dunk frowned, deeply. Egg was still a boy. He wasn’t cruel like Aerion, or drunk and tortured by dreams like Daeron. He had heard little of Aemon, his brother training to be a Maester, but he knew that wouldn’t suit Egg, either. He needed to see the Seven Kingdoms, live amongst the smallfolk, with the earth beneath his feet and the stars above his head. 

If he went with his family to Summerhall, they would crush his spirit. They would drill customs and politics into him, shut him inside castles, away from the world for the rest of his life. Dunk was uncertain about many things, but he was sure about this. 

Dunk knew nothing of what a princeling would be taught, but he knew what Ser Arlan had taught him, and what the world could teach him. He was the only one who could treat him like a normal boy. Egg wasn’t like his family, at least, not yet. He felt guilty thinking this, standing before his uncle, a man who was so unlike what he feared Egg would become. Baelor was truly an exception, and he couldn’t leave Egg to chance. 

“I know you care for him, Ser.” Baelor said, eyes upon Dunk’s face.

“Would you trust me with him, if it were your choice?” 

His words were frank, but Dunk had to know. Baelor did not remove his eyes from his. 

“Egg is fond of you, and I know you are more than able to keep him safe, were it to come to that. Strong as you are.” Baelor said this while dragging his eyes along his frame, eyes not quite catching the candlelight. 

Baelor’s eyes could hold a heat of their own. Dunk felt warmth flare inside him at the praise and attention. Baelor continued, breaking Dunk out of his stupor.

“We cannot protect him from what is expected of him, but you could prepare him for it, in your own way.”

Dunk nodded vigorously.

“That’s what I wish,” he said firmly, adding after a moment, “Your Grace.” 

“I will do what I can.” Baelor said, and some of Dunk’s anxiety was dispelled, for now.

Baelor nodded, rubbing at a spot along his temple.

“What do the maesters say of your head, Your Grace?” 

Baelor brought a hand through his short cropped hair. 

“They say I need rest and fluids, and that the headaches will eventually pass. My son’s helm bore the brunt of the blows I sustained, but the skull is delicate. He is cross that it is broken, among many other things.” 

Baelor paused and waved a hand at the dim room and flickering candles.

“I am a bit sensitive to light, as a result. I am averse to taking milk of the poppy, despite my brother’s insistence, so I will let my body do the work.”

Dunk felt shame rise in him anew, and Baelor fixed his two-toned eyes upon him. The candlelight now flickered at the edges. It wasn’t often he was able to meet someone’s eyes and not feel caught, nervous. With the prince he didn’t feel this way. 

“Tell me more of this Ser Arlan of Pennytree, if you wish, Ser Duncan. You spoke of him with great fondness.”

Dunk had been readjusting in his chair, his wounds itching beneath his tunic. Would he ever cease being surprised by this man? He smiled and he blew out his cheeks in thought. 

“The old man—Ser Arlan, I mean. He lost his nephew during the rebellion, at Redgrass. I was all he had, and he was the same for me.” 

Baelor nodded solemnly, eyes closing. “Many souls were lost that day.” 

At the mention of the battle, Baelor had begun to dim slightly, as if he were fading from the room. Dunk swallowed and continued. 

“He never made me feel lesser than, because of where I came from.” Dunk said, scratching behind his ear.

“Flea Bottom, is that right? I gathered from your accent when we met.” Baelor said, eyes opening again, his voice soft in recollection. 

Dunk nodded. 

“Not so far from the Red Keep,” Baelor said, again speaking in a tone that Dunk could not identify. He sounded thoughtful. 

“Aye, Your Grace, with location being the only thing they have in common.” 

Baelor dipped his chin, going quiet. Dunk paused here, trying to gather the right words.

“Ser Arlan treated me like his own, taught me everything he could. Took me with him all over, to places I never would have dreamed of. Wasn’t no master-at-arms, but he taught me valuable things. Things no one else could. What it means to be a knight, and a good man.”

Dunk let himself savor the memories for a moment, remembering the old man’s laughter, his proud smile he’d get when he’d done something right. The tranquility that came with riding alongside each other, looking at marvelous hills or the sunset. Dunk felt his smile deflate. 

“He only needed me since his nephew had died. Sometimes I wondered if I deserved it, but one smile and a word from him made me forget all that. Now I’m thinking like that again, after this trial. Whether I deserve to be alive still.” 

Baelor sat up, blankets shuffling with the movement. 

“Whether we deserve to live or die is not something for any man to decide.” Baelor’s voice was firm, and at once Dunk was reminded that this was a man who could command a room, even in silence. 

“I know that may sound strange coming from someone in my position, who must make such judgments, but it is how I feel. That, I believe, is not in the hands of men.” 

Baelor sank back into his pillow.

“I do not think you are here by accident, Ser Duncan. I’m certain that Ser Arlan would feel the same. The men that died for you went of their own volition.” 

Dunk felt his shoulders sag. Guilt had crystallized within him long ago, made a home deep within his bones. To feel it lessen, even for a moment, was a relief. 

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Baelor’s eyes remained closed, but he smiled. It was looser than the polite, princely smiles Dunk had seen so far. Dunk wanted to see his eyes again, see how the darker and lighter pupil held his smile, the candles. He felt foolish about the strength of that desire. You’re starting to sound like a poet, hedge knight. 

“It’s strange,” Baelor said, voice soft enough that Dunk wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. 

“What is, Your Grace?” 

There was a pause, and Baelor’s breathing grew quiet, but then he continued, words breaking through the veil of sleep falling over him.  

“Members of the Kingsguard flank me always, but now I find I am only at ease when you are near.” 

Dunk felt his face burn, and was grateful that the prince’s eyes were closed. He opened his mouth to speak, and heard Baelor’s soft breathing. He had fully fallen against the pillows, asleep. Dunk stared for a moment, wondering how long it had been since he was able to sleep, undisturbed. His face bore lines that indicated many restless nights, and early mornings. 

Carefully, Dunk walked to the door as quiet as he was able with his crutch. He turned before he closed the door to catch another look of Baelor’s face, peaceful and still. The prince’s words flickered inside him, his own candle. 

—

The travel back to King’s Landing was uneventful, if a bit awkward. Prince Valarr remained as far from Dunk as he could. He’d only seen glimpses of him, his silver streak of hair amongst the brown. He rode beside Aerion, who sat in some sort of cart or chariot and looked worse than Dunk did. Dunk bit back a smile. Egg avoided all mention of Aerion, and did not look at him. 

Egg rode upon Chestnut beside Dunk, despite his father’s protests. You’re a fucking prince, Aegon. You should at least look like one! Even so, he let Egg do what he wished. Egg only had to dig in his heels a little to get his father to bend, it seemed. Dunk knew he had to be more stern with his squire than Maekar was. Egg wore the Targaryen colors, stark red and midnight black, to appease his father, most like.

Maekar rode at the front of the procession with Baelor, who insisted he ride despite the offer of a carriage. Dunk had heard a conversation between the prince and his brother before their departure. 

He had been checking on Thunder, Chestnut and Maester in the stables. He felt a pang as he remembered Sweetfoot would not be there, but he knew she deserved to live amongst the Fossoway orchards and the sunshine. He idly let them nibble at oats from his hands, trying not to look obvious as he listened.

“You nearly died, Baelor, you should—” Maekar had frowned and cut himself off, clenching his jaw as something like guilt flashed across his face. 

Baelor placed a hand on his shoulder, and Maekar drooped a little. 

“I do not want the people to think their prince and Hand is weak,” Baelor said, his eyes flicking across the mud of the stables as he spoke. 

Dunk looked at him now, some feet ahead, with the rest of the procession. He chatted with his brother, keeping a loose grip on the reins. His rings flashed in the sun. Dunk wondered if the light hurt his eyes terribly, if he was bearing it so as to not look weak. He thought of the weary lines upon his face, how quickly he had fallen into sleep. Had that been his only snatch of true rest? 

Egg was watching him curiously, and kicked at his foot. 

“Ser, did you hear me?” 

Dunk blinked and kicked him back. Thunder grunted, and he ran a hand along his mane, untangling a knot with his fingers.

“What?”

“I said, where would you like to go after we arrive at King’s Landing?” 

Dunk frowned. 

“I talked to Prince Baelor, and he said he’d speak with your father about you being my squire still.”

Egg groaned. 

“Can’t we just—?” Egg jerked his reins and motioned to the roads behind them, and Dunk scoffed.

“I’d like to keep my head after nearly losing it, thank you! I don’t think running off with the likes of you will help me with that.”  

Egg’s frown deepened, his shoulders sagging.

“I trust your uncle.” Dunk said, his eyes drifting in his direction.

“My father’s the issue.” Egg said, glumly. “He won’t let me out of his sight after Ashford.” 

Dunk looked at him, meeting his eye and hoping his sincerity was a comfort. He would not let him go back to Summerhall. He would do anything he could to prevent it.

“We’ll figure it out, alright?”

Egg looked at him, the purple of his eyes drenched in sunlight. A beat passed, and he nodded. They rode for some time in silence before he spoke again.

“We could just sneak off after—”

“Don’t start, or you’ll get a clout in the ear.” 

“You keep saying that, Ser, but you still haven’t—” 

Dunk swatted the air around his head lazily, and Egg dodged with a laugh, Chestnut snorting beneath him. They rode for a moment in comfortable silence, the sun warming them.

“It’ll be strange going back there after all this time.”

“Where, Ser?”

“King’s Landing.” He said, dragging a hand along the light stubble forming along his jaw. 

“The Red Keep may be a bit different from Flea Bottom.” 

Dunk felt a sarcastic response form, but he bit his tongue, sour memories making him quiet.

He thought of the crowded, stinking alleys of Flea Bottom with a grimace. When he had left in pursuit of Ser Arlan, he never thought he’d see it again. Rafe’s face flashed in his mind, her blood spilling into his hands from her open neck. 

He recalled cold nights, sticky mornings. The smell of death, thick as tar, never any easier to stomach. The feeling of rats sniffing at him in the dark while he tried to sleep. Checking to see if he was alive, sometimes taking a bite anyway. Dunk swallowed thickly.

“Spring is soon, the maesters say. It won’t get hot for some time.” Egg said, and then he broke into a chatter about the Red Keep, which hallways led where, what time was best to sneak into the kitchens, and a million other things that Dunk only half-heard. 

He glanced towards the prince again and tightened his grip on the reins. This was different. He was returning with a purpose, a duty. He had sworn himself to the prince, and he felt firm in his vow. And, with luck, he’d keep Egg as his squire.

Sooner than he was expecting, he began to see the beginnings of Blackwater Bay glimmering in the sun. It was beginning to fall, dipping into the water with the skies around tinged with orange, red, and pink. He steeled himself, ready to enter his new life, which seemed to barrel towards him with an unstoppable force that week. 

—

When their procession arrived at the stables of the Red Keep, the castle burst into a flurry of activity. Before Baelor and Maekar had even dismounted from their horses, they were swept away by people Dunk didn’t recognize. 

Dunk had eased Thunder to a halt when he saw the prince look about, casting his eyes across the dirt until they landed upon him. Dunk sucked in a breath. There was too great a distance between them for Dunk to read his face, to understand what flickered across his features. I am only able to be at ease when you are there. 

He wondered if Baelor remembered saying those words, whether exhaustion or his injury had brought him to say it. Baelor looked for a moment longer, before he turned, following his brother and the men who ushered him inside. Dunk felt the air return to his lungs. 

Egg and Dunk were approached by stable boys the moment they stepped down from their stirrups. Dunk flashed a look at Egg, who nodded. 

“They’ll take care of them, Ser.” Egg said, sensing his trepidation. 

He was used to handling everything himself when it came to his horses. As well as everything else. Dunk brought a hand to Thunder’s neck, and turned to Chestnut. 

“You all be good, now. This is the finest stable you’re like to be in.” 

One of the stable boys cleared his throat behind Dunk, causing him to jump. He muttered an apology as he followed Egg, who was already leading him out of the stables and into the castle. The Red Keep was larger than any castle he had stayed in with Ser Arlan, when they travelled and joined the households of other lords for a time. There were constant bursts of movement, with attendants, septons, members of court, and others fluttering about the winding halls and staircases. 

Dunk, as usual, felt out of place, constantly moving aside to let one person by. He gave the members of the Kingsguard firm nods, hoping they didn’t feel as odd about his presence as he did. 

Dunk didn’t see much of the prince after they arrived. He had been gone from the Keep longer than expected, and as Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King, there was surely a lot to do. Even so, he always found himself looking for him, which he cursed himself for inwardly. The prince has more important things to do than fuss after you! 

Dunk had just left his barracks, his sleeping quarters for the time being, and larger and more secure than anywhere he’d ever slept. Having a proper place to lay was new to him, but it certainly eased some of the pain of his healing injuries, not having to lean against something and put stress upon his back. He had just begun to round the corner when Egg leapt upon him from the shadows. 

“Ser Duncan! You and I are to train with Ser Arthal Dayne!” 

Egg’s eyes flashed with enthusiasm, and Dunk felt his grogginess slip away. He was still used to sleeping beneath a tree, or in a stable with horses and animals snuffing around him. Sleeping in the barracks, spacious as they were, had been an adjustment. He missed the sound of leaves in the wind, the feel of grass against his skin. There were sounds of servants and others shuffling about in the night, which made him reach for his sword reflexively. 

Dunk processed Egg’s words, and immediately felt uneasy knowing that Maekar had been involved in this decision. 

“Train? Ser Arthal—?”

“The Sword of the Morning! He’s our Master at Arms, since the last one—” As Dunk let himself be led, Egg chattered about their past Master at Arms, and how he had played a hand during the Blackfyre Rebellion, certainly much louder than he should have as they walked out to the yard.

When the morning sun hit their faces, a breeze passed through the air, and Dunk breathed it in gratefully. Egg headed over to a rack of wooden swords, where a man Dunk assumed was Ser Arthal stood. There were blunted swords as well that Dunk would likely be using. 

Dunk hadn’t been trained by anyone but Ser Arlan, and he wondered what this master-of-arms would think of his swordsmanship. He’d held his own against a Targaryen, he supposed. The training yards were large and felt a lot more connected to the sky than other parts of the Red Keep. 

He had just begun to follow his squire when he heard him chirp, “Oh, hello, uncle!” 

Dunk’s stomach dropped.

“Good morning, Aegon.” 

Dunk stared across the sun-filled training yard to see Baelor, standing behind one of its fences. He was dressed in black, as was expected, with rich red material peeking beneath. 

“Ser Duncan.”

Dunk fell to a knee, dust flying about as he did so. He willed himself not to cough. 

“Your Grace.” Dunk said, sleep fully gone from him now.

“My brother’s acceptance of Egg remaining your squire was on the condition that your training be rounded out here, by Ser Arthal. After that, he said he would consider it.” Baelor gestured towards Ser Arthal, who nodded in thanks at the prince.

Egg brightened at those words, giving Dunk a hopeful smile. Maekar not being present did not give him much confidence, but Baelor wouldn’t have told either of them this if he did not believe his brother would eventually agree. It did not take much genius to recognize that Maekar did not like Dunk, which he supposed was fair. 

He had turned Aerion into a bloody pulp by the end of the trial, and his brother had nearly died in defense of him. Dunk felt relieved to see Baelor up and well. He could not shake his memories of Baelor abed, of the prince laying in his arms, eyes eerily vacant and blood dripping from his head, staining Dunk’s skin and chain mail. 

“Your Grace, thank you for convincing your brother to consider Egg remain as my squire. I won’t let him down. Or you.” 

Baelor smiled, a princely one, tighter than the one he had seen in the Ashford Castle, but no less kind. 

“I have faith in you, Ser Duncan.” Baelor’s lighter eye glinted in the sun, and Dunk’s head swam with his words. 

He stood, brushing the dust off his breeches. I have faith in you. There may have been some humor in his expression, but Dunk couldn’t discern that from this distance. He expected Baelor to depart, but he simply leaned against the boards surrounding the training yard. With abject horror, it dawned on Dunk that Baelor planned to watch. He swallowed, some of his nerves tightening his throat.

“Does His Grace not have…other matters?” Dunk said, as politely as he could. 

Baelor looked amused by this. 

“There is some time before I am expected at council.” Baelor said, going so far as to lean an arm against the fence, languid as a cat in the sun. 

“Alright, let’s have a look at you,” Ser Arthal said by means of introduction, stepping up to Dunk and giving him a once over. “I’m going to have you spar with whatever Kingsguard I can drag in here.” 

Dunk nodded, feeling Baelor’s eyes searing into his back. 

“What about me, Ser?” Egg said, Dunk feeling much relieved by his presence. 

Ser Arthal looked down at Egg and raised his brows. 

“Are you looking to spar with a member of the Kingsguard, my lord?” Ser Arthal said, his voice dry but Dunk could spot the humor glimmering in his eyes. 

Egg straightened up and tried to do a flourish with his wooden sword, which fell from his hand, but he caught it just as quick. He flashed them both a smile. 

“Right,” Ser Arthal said, turning back to Dunk. 

Dunk saw two flashes of white behind Ser Arthal, and recognized them as the members of the Kingsguard he met at Ashford. Ser Donnel of Duskendale and Ser Roland Crakehall. 

Egg bent towards him as Ser Donnel of Duskendale approached, whispering “Look, it’s the son of a crabber,” making Dunk’s ears burn with embarrassment at the memory.

Dunk had to remind himself that he could not clout Egg here before a prince, a master at arms, and two members of the Kingsguard. He would later. Dunk was given a blunted sword, after a few attempts, with Ser Arthal muttering about how he was a big bloody bastard under his breath as he sought for one that wouldn’t sit awkward in his grip. 

“You’d have me fight two men at once?” Dunk said, looking to Ser Arthal.

Ser Donnel stepped forward and gave an easy laugh, which eased some of the tension coiling in him. 

“No, lad, we’ll just switch off, if need be.” 

Ser Arthal then focused on Egg, immediately correcting him on his footwork. Egg, not one to be corrected often, frowned but continued to readjust his stance.

“I thought we were sword fighting, Ser, not dancing,” Egg said, with some petulance. 

Ser Arthal laughed and used his wooden sword to straighten up Egg’s leg. 

“Dancing has less at stake, my lord.” 

As Dunk was still healing from his injuries, no longer needing the crutch but leaning awkwardly on his leg at times, Ser Donnel did not spar with him at full capacity. Even so, Dunk had to remain focused on Ser Donnel, who was surprisingly lithe for a man of his size. The both of them studied each other’s movements, falling into a rhythm of strike, parry, block. 

Their blunted swords scraped against each other, Dunk depending on his strength alone to drive Ser Donnel back to the defensive. He certainly didn’t move as smoothly as one of the Kingsguard, but Ser Arlan had always advised him to use his sheer size and strength as an advantage. The sun continued to rise in the sky, and Dunk felt beads of sweat drip down his face and along the shells of his ears. It felt good to stretch his muscles, sore as they were. He did feel the sting of some of his stitches, so he made sure not to overextend. 

“You’re not bad,” Ser Donnel said with a grunt, dust flying as he abruptly stepped forward to strike. 

“I’ll take that,” Dunk said, feeling some of his focus fade as Baelor came into the edges of his sight, still watching with a small smile. 

“He’s a true knight!” Egg said, always eager to come to Dunk’s defense. 

Ser Arthal used a quick swing to return Egg’s attention to the task at hand. They continued in this way, clangs and whacks echoing across the yard. Ser Donnel jerked his head to Ser Roland after some time to switch off, Dunk wiping sweat from his brow. 

Baelor had left while he was occupied with Ser Roland, who began to use some flashier moves that made Dunk laugh as he made to block them. The heat of his attention lingered. Later, when he stood in a wash tub to clean the dirt and sweat, he thought of his gaze again.

The slow movement of his eyes, taking in every inch of him like he were something worth looking at. Worth savoring. Dunk looked down and saw that his cock was at half-mast, clearly interested. Face burning, he harshly scrubbed with soapy water, willing himself to soften. He thought of Baelor's face, softened by candlelight. He nearly tripped exiting the wash tub. He still preferred washing in the current of a river.