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Dunk dreams of a battlefield.
Dark red mud that sucks in each footstep while smoke blocks out anything beyond the fighting. Hooves thunder around him and swords clang and flash like lightening. He hears men screaming and horses screeching so loudly and viscerally it mixes together until the sound of animals in pain is all that's left. He smells iron, pungent and staining, and when he looks down at his hands they're covered in blood. He doesn't know where it came from, for he feels nothing, and he frankly doesn't know what the hell is going on. His heart thuds in his chest and his senses are overloaded with adrenaline.
A noise calls his attention, somehow rising above the roar of battle. A strangled gasp. He raises his head to see a figure staggering towards him. When he gets close enough, he finds it's a man and no sooner does he see that do the man's legs collapse under him. Dunk doesn't have time to call out but instincts drive him up and he catches him. For some reason, the weight is heavier than solid steel and he comes crashing down to the ground.
Dunk winces as he adjusts his arms. Why does his back hurt so much all of a sudden? A hand grasping at his shoulder makes him turn. A pair of eyes look up at him. One dark brown and the other a stormy blue. It takes his rattled brain no more than two seconds to register who he is holding and the realization is like being stabbed through the back.
"Y-Your Grace!" he exclaims, voice cracking. His hands move, desperately feeling for any wounds to cover. "You—! Oh Gods, I don't—what happened—"
Baelor doesn't speak, doesn't even seem like he can. He just stares at him and it makes Dunk sick.
"I-I'll get help, I swear it, Your Grace, just—just hold on!" He looks around frantically. He can't see anything through the fog and the noise hasn't stopped.
Where are the others? Lyonel? Maeker? Egg? Where are they?
"Help! Someone, please!" he shouts, the words hoarse. "The prince, he needs a maester!"
No one comes running. No one can hear him. No one has seen Baelor fall.
The image of Rafe flashes in his head, bringing an awful throbbing with it. He cries out, from the pain and the memory of cradling her face. He shuts his eyes to make it go away, to make it all go away. But he watches blood dribble out of her mouth, anyway, and he hears her wheeze for air while he sits there, dirty and useless.
The hand falls from his shoulder and the weight in his arms goes slack and Dunk tastes bile.
"No," he mumbles and holds Baelor to his chest, fingers gripping the hard edges of his dented armor. "No no no no. Please, no. Wake up, wake up, ser, you have to, you have to…"
It doesn't matter how many times he pleads, how much he squeezes. Baelor remains motionless. And Dunk remains a witness to another death he could have stopped.
If he had been quicker, been more skillful in the fight. If he gotten up instead of laying down in the mud the moron he is and fought Aerion. Hell, if he had known his place, none of this would've happened. He just had to stick his nose in everything and muck it up.
This was his fault. Baelor had put his trust in him and died for it. The prince was dead and it was his fault.
A horn blows. The sound cuts through the fight, shaking the ground and air. Dunk tries not to let go of the man who fought beside him but eventually has to cover his ears. The blaring is overwhelming and soon he falls over, shaking and feeling like his eardrums will explode. His surroundings go dark and he can hardly breathe, can hardly make sense of what's happening.
This is his punishment, it seems. To be broken and alone while the world knows his mistake.
"Ser Duncan!"
He gasps, eyes flying open and jerks forward. His vision swims with the movement, with one eye not even opening. His chest heaves, the smell of earth and blood strong in his nose and he spends a moment simply breathing. Once his lungs don't burn, he realizes he is not in the jousting arena. He's not sitting in mud holding a dying man. He's in what looks to be a room and a proper room at that. Nothing like the ahitty half crumbling shacks he'd stayed in with Arlan It had dark polished wooden walls, clean windows, a fireplace and candles.
"Ser!"
The same voice he'd heard calls out to him and Dunk jumps, swinging his body around in the direction it came from. He has to squint in the flickering light.
"W-Who…" He can't say more. The single word fights its way out of his throat and he coughs. When it won't stop and his chest begins to ache, he slaps the surface under him.
Dunk hears shuffling and within seconds, something is being pushed into his hand. It's small and smooth. He brings it to his mouth without question and gulps down the water so fast it spills out the corners of his mouth. It's refilled the second he lowers it. He gulps down air when it's empty and his shoulders go slack with relief.
"S-Ser? Are you alright?"
Dunk rubs his face, wincing at the tender spots and scabbed edges of cuts. "Aye, Egg. M'alright."
A small hand grabs his arm, squeezing and warmth presses to it.
"Thank the Gods…" his squire whispers. "Thank the Gods, thank you."
The hedge knight thinks of the boys he'd seen in Flea Bottom, sticking to each other's sides and clutching one another when they got hurt. The desperation and terror at the thought of losing a friend, a brother, of losing anyone you could call an ally. He swallows and pats the child's head.
"Where am I?" he asks once Egg releases him. He can see light through the window, bright sun and some slivers of blue sky. A stark contrast to the cloudy, dreadful day of the joust. The reminder has his entire body tensing and he turns to the other in a panic.
"The prince!" he exclaims. "By the Gods, his head—the maesters, did they—where is he?" Dunk hardly cares that he's practically shouting. "Is he okay? Oh Gods, his helmet it–it was smashed to his skull—he could barely walk, he—"
"Ser! It's okay, everything's fine!"
"It's not fine! The prince and hand of the king was killed because—because of me!" Dunk feels like he will throw up. His hands open and close from fists, tacky, phantom blood on his skin. "I deserve to be thrown in the coldest, foulest cell! I-I deserve to be drawn and quartered or-or whatever fucked up punishment the game maker joked about, I—"
"Ser Duncan!"
His rambling stops at Egg's yell. The boy is staring at him with light purple eyes and an expression so stern it reminds him of Ser Arlan.
"My uncle is not dead," he says calmly.
What?
"No, he—his head, there was a hole—" He probably shouldn't be telling the nephew of the prince how severe his injury was but his brain refuses to believe the squire's words. "H-He collapsed, I held him while he died, Egg. I felt his breathing stop—"
"I know, Ser, but my uncle is also upstairs in the last room, alive and well."
He stares. "Up…upstairs."
"Yes, upstairs. And he's most likely finished having tea, as well." Egg's face softens and he pats Dunk's leg. "He's okay, Ser. I promise."
The knight lets out a breath, one that feels like it comes from every inch of him. The prince isn't dead. Baelor is alive, he's alive. "O-Oh. Okay." He closes his eyes and leans forward, ignoring the flare of pain from his middle. He rests his elbows on his knees and allows his heart to settle. "How long have I been out? When…what day is it?"
Egg hops up onto the bed and swings his legs. He's dressed in his usual long grey-green tunic, which the knight doubts made Maekar happy. "After uncle passed out, the maesters took him away. And you." His eyebrows pull together. "They said you were both in a bad state, uncle moreso. They took him up to their tower and kept him there for a two days. They wouldn't let anyone in, not even Father. He was quite upset."
That, Dunk has no issue believing. He'd witnessed how the prince reacted when he had been caught eavesdropping, he was sure it was a sight to see his temper when his brother was involved.
"With how he looked, I'm surprised it was only two days," he says, opening his eyes. "What did they do?"
"They gave him a potion to put him to sleep while they worked on his head. Father was against it at first, said they could lose him for good and not even know, but the maesters were certain they could heal him." Egg picks at a loose thread. "Me and Daeron followed one and overheard them speak about the…methods they may have to utilize to save my uncle." His head raises to look at Dunk, his eyes serious. "Old magic."
Dunk suppresses a shiver. "Dark magic?"
Egg shrugs. "The maester didn't say. Daeron thought he heard him suggest the trading a life for another, but I don't think that's what happened. They are very skilled in their work and have healed worse injuries. At least, that's what Daeron and Valarr said. Wouldn't have minded if they chose Aerion, though."
"Oi," the knight chides, despite not having a high opinion of the prince himself. "None of that."
"He's the one who caused all this," the boy mutters crossly.
"No, I'm the one who caused this," Dunk corrects. "There'd be no need for a trial if I hadn't stepped in that night."
"If you hadn't stepped in, Lady Tanselle could've lost more than her hand!" Egg shoots back. "My brother is no dragon, he is a snake! He should have had a conversation with her over the play or brought it up with our father, not taken it upon himself to hurt a civilian! He set the tent on fire! What if the people attending had gotten burned? If he hadn't been so horrible and cowardly to choose the Trial of Seven, then you and our uncle wouldn't have gotten so hurt! I hate him, I hate Aerion!"
Dunk's eyes flicks to the door, anxious that someone will overhear and come busting through to arrest him. It was a foolish thought, of course, seeing as Egg was of royal blood and could sooner order any soldiers to dance a jig, but recent events had him feeling cautious.
He nudges the boy. "I know you don't like him, but let's keep that to ourselves, yeah?"
"I don't care if people know," Egg sniffs.
"Aye, but I don't want to see you in more trouble. And squires listen to their knights." He reaches out and gently squeezes his shoulder. "So be a good squire and listen to me. Please."
He gets what he can only describe as a pout in response but there's no more talk of wishing death on arrogant princes.
"You don't have to worry about Aerion, you know," Eggs says.
He raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
"Father shipped him off to Lys as soon as the maesters deemed him fit for travel." Egg beams as Dunk blinks in shock. "He told him that he would stay there 'til he acted like a proper knight and prince of our family. You should've seen his face. Daeron was sure the vein in his forehead would pop."
The hedge knight lets out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, I'm, ah, sure he wasn't too happy with that." Hopefully, he doesn't return too soon and cross my path. Don't think I can survive another fight like that. "Your father, is he okay? Was he injured badly in the trial?"
Egg shakes his head. "His leg got a little banged up and he's sore, but he's fine. He's just…upset."
"With Prince Aerion?"
"Well, yes, but that's not it. Not really." His squire shifts on the bed. "He's…mad at himself."
"Himself?"
He gets a solemn nod. "His mace is what caused the damage to my uncle's helm. He didn't realize it had been his brother when he swung it, he'd heard Aerion yell and was afraid he'd gotten hurt. If it had been just a little higher, he…it wouldn't have been good."
Dunk's throat goes tight at the thought. "I'm sorry."
Egg lifts one shoulder. "S'okay. He and uncle Baelor talked. It will just take a while for him to be feel better about the whole thing." He pats his knees and jumps off the bed. "But enough of that. Now that you're awake, I should get a maester. They'll want to check you over. And then we can eat!"
Dunk's stomach twists. On one hand, he is extremely hungry, but on the other, the ache in his stomach and back makes it hard to imagine eating. He also would rather not be poked and prodded and questioned over every little feeling.
"Yes, that-that sounds good. We can, uh, do that, but first, can I…can we…"
Egg turns. "Can we what, Ser?"
Dunk swallows. "Can we do something before that?"
____
He had gotten beat up over the years, from light bruises on his legs to horrible burns and stab wounds. Life with Ser Arlan hadn't been smooth, though Dunk wouldn't trade it for anything. Not for all the gold in the seven kingdoms. He had learned a lot and one of those things was how to get back up and on with your day after getting hurt. There was no use focusing on the pain, you had to move and get your attention on something else, that's what his Ser had said. It had normally helped.
This was not one of those times.
Three days he'd been in bed. Three days of laying like a lazy horse while the inn's maesters changed and reapplied his bandages and the maids bathed him. He supposes he's thankful for that so he doesn't stink of sweat and blood when he meets the prince, but the thought makes him flush. Egg had pointed out he smelled nice and he'd thanked him, only for the boy to add he smelled better than normal. That had earned him a light swat in the arm.
As much good as his rest had been for his injuries, for there were many, it made getting out of bed a less than pleasant task. His legs were weak and he'd staggered into the wall several times as he and Egg left his room. He had to slow down and catch his breath or pause and wait for the throbbing in his ribs to cease. His squire spoke up when he did so, suggesting they wait until Dunk was steadier. He had received a resounding absolutely not from the knight and the boy shook his head as he followed the other's uneven thumping steps. Climbing the stairs was an ordeal Dunk was not looking forward to repeating, but he kept his head up and his grip on the railing tight.
He wasn't wasting another second in his bed if he could help it. Not until he did what he had to do.
"Which door?" he asks when they're at the top, trying not to sound like a panting hound.
Egg points and walks ahead of him. The prince knocks once, then two times before pushing the carved wood open.
Dunk hurries his pace and ducks his head under the frame as he walks in.
It's similar to his own, only slightly fancier. And messier. Empty bottles litter a table and fireplace mantle, as well as dried flowers and roots. The air is warm and the scent of medicine is strong enough to make the blonde's nose wrinkle. He stands at the door while Egg steps over robes and papers on the floor near the bed. A bed that's much bigger than his and more importantly, one that contains the reclined body of a man.
The sight of Baelor is sobering. Egg had assured him his uncle's condition was stable and he had nothing to fear, for the worst was over. That doesn't stop his stomach from twisting as he gets closer. A thick bandage rests on the head of The Hand of The King and he's dressed in a simple grey tunic. The intricate clothing he'd worn just a few days ago was gone, as were his rings. It's strange to see him so bare, devoid of anything but his face to let people know who he was.
Dunk can't help but think he looks thin, despite knowing the maesters are providing the best care.
"What have I said about hovering, Maekar?"
He jumps at the voice and lifts his gaze from the bandages wrapped around the man's chest. Baelor's eyes are closed.
"Uh," Dunk starts.
"It's me, uncle," Egg greets. He walks to his side and takes the hand resting on the bed.
"Ah. Hello, Aegon. Apologies, I hadn't realized it was time for one of your visits."
"It isn't, but I brought something with me."
"Oh?"
"Ser Duncan."
At that, Baelor's eyes open. It takes his eyes a few seconds to land on Dunk, hunched behind the prince. Surprise flashes across his face but Baelor schools it away.
"Ser Dunc—"
"Your Grace," Dunk rushes to greet, feeling, oddly, like he is at the end of a crossbow. He quickly lowers himself to a kneel, biting his cheek so he didn't make a noise as it agitated his wounds something fierce. "Egg—apologies, Prince Aegon—told me of your recovery. I am so glad you are alright, Your Grace. I was very—very…" His brain helpfully reminds him of when he last saw the man and he shakes his head. "I was worried. I thank the Gods you are alright."
There's a beat of silence and he's terrified he's said the wrong thing somehow. He had caused a member of the royal family to get near-fatally wounded. He wouldn't be shocked if he got a fist to the face.
"Rise, Ser," Baelor says and Dunk glances up to see the man holding out a hand. "Please."
He does so without question.
Baelor stares at him with an expression he can't read.
Egg looks between the two of them with curiosity.
"What will you do with me—" Dunk starts to ask because the silence is stifling, only to get cut off by a soft, "Nephew" from the bed.
He closes his mouth and watches Egg turn to his uncle. "Yes?"
"If you would be so kind as to give us some privacy," Baelor says, tilting his head to give the boy a smile. "I would like to have words with Ser Duncan."
Dunk's heart drops and he can only look on in horror as Egg nods immediately and pats his arm as he walks past. "Oh, um, we don't—"
"Oh, I believe we do." The older man's gaze finds him again. "And we must."
A weight settles on him, pulling down his shoulders and chest. It's like a noose, like a scythe curved around his neck. The hedge knight obliges, however, because what else can he do but agree. He's the reason Baelor is bedridden.
Egg promises to being back with bread and fruit and bids them goodbye. Dunk listens to his footsteps fade like it's a lifeline. When they are gone and the room is quiet once more, he shifts his feet. The floor groans slightly. He never did enjoy having one's full attention on him. Except maybe the horses'. Or dogs. Or cats. Though, he supposed those were different as people have a whole other way of seeing you.
"Can you do me a favor, Ser?" Baelor's voice interrupts his nervous thoughts.
"A-Anything, Your Grace," he replies automatically.
"Could you come closer?"
"Oh. Yeah–Yes. I can."
Dunk looks for a chair and thankfully finds one. He limps over to it and picks it up with a grunt. He's not sure how close he's allowed to get while they're alone. Egg didn't count because he had done nothing but invade his personal space since they'd met.
Baelor's mouth lifts. "You needn't act as though you are locked inside here with a rabid beast. You have nothing to fear, Ser Duncan, I assure you."
The blonde's expression must give away his uneasiness because the other man's smile falls away.
"I promise I am not angry," he states. "And no harm nor punishment will come to you."
"Why not?"
Baelor's eyebrows raise. "You wish to get punished?"
"No, but…"
"You believe you are in trouble."
"I…the trial, it—" Dunk lowers his eyes to the sheet. "It happened because of me, Your Grace. You got hurt because you fought on my side. You could have died. I…I can't even begin to-to explain how much regret I feel, so why wouldn't I be punished?"
"I chose to join you, Ser Duncan. And I still stand by that choice."
"Well, you shouldn't!"
The last thing he should be doing is argue with the prince, much less yell at him. Dunk realizes this, but he can't swallow the words. He can't shove them down, they're too big and uncomfortable in his throat, and if they can't escape, nothing else will get past. The guilt feels like it's eating him alive, devouring his insides and clawing up his lungs.
"I'm the one who allowed my anger to overwhelm reason, I'm the one who punched Aerion," he continues. "Instead of following the rules and admitting defeat, I let the crown prince of the king fight for my cause, for my honor. A lowly, useless hedge knight's honor. Your skull was almost caved in due to me not knowing my place. I-I'm not worth this, any of this. Something terrible could have happened to you and I am at the center of it. So, I apologize, Your Grace, but you should not stand by your decision for it was a foolish one."
Baelor doesn't say anything for a while. He just looks at him. It's a bit unnerving and eventually Dunk turns his eyes back to the bedding. He follows the woven patterns while he waits for what will surely be the date of his execution.
"You want to know something funny?"
He frowns. What?
Baelor doesn't wait for any kind of response. "Despite his attitude, you and my brother are surprisingly alike. Once the maesters were done and I could make sense of my surroundings, he walked right in here and delivered quite a lecture. By which, I mean he was red in the face and ready to throw one of those jars at my face." He smiles, tiredly. "A lecture very similar to the one you just uttered."
"Your Grace…"
"While he is relieved Egg was kept safe with you, he could not understand why I risked my life for you. A man who came from nowhere and had no one to vouch for him. I don't blame him, for some it is a matter many nobles don't think of, sometimes for their whole lives. The concept of people such as yourself having the same worth as someone like me is foreign these days."
"Your Grace, please…I don't deserve—" Dunk tries to say but his hand is taken and the rest of his protest fading in his mouth.
"Ser Duncan." Baelor fixes his gaze on him. It's intense. "I made the choice to fight for you because the words you spoke that night in the council room struck me like a fist to the gut. You forced me to look within myself and see how I was acting, see how I was not upholding the first oath as a knight when I should be a man who does so above all else. Protect the innocent. That is what a proper prince does, what he should always do. So I protected the innocent in a way I saw fit; joining your side for the trial. No one made me do it other than myself. So, as your prince and as someone who believes in you, please do not insult nor blame yourself."
Dunk feels as though he's been hit over the head with a wood paddle. He's unable to close his mouth, unable to make sense of what Baelor is saying. To his horror, his eyes start to burn. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head.
"No, Your Grace, you–you don't have to lie, please, don't say that—"
"I meant what I said, Ser Duncan." The fingers grasping his tighten. "After the fight. I need good men. I have advisors and my brother to guide me, but what I think I need is someone like you. Ser. Someone who knows what it's like to be with the smallfolk, who has traveled and seen knights of all kinds. I need good men to know when it is time for me to take a step back and be certain I am making the right choice. And who better to be that man for me than a brave, selfless hedge knight?"
Baelor's soft voice pushes him over the edge. As hard as he tries, he can't stop the tears that spill over his cheeks and he lowers his head to rest of the bed out of shame.
"M'sorry…m'so sorry…" he whispers into the mattress.
Unseen by him, Baelor regards him with a pained expression. The prince lets out a sigh and drags himself up, ignoring the pain in his head and neck from the action. The maesters and Maekar would be demanding him to lay hack down if they were present, but he couldn't leave the other to suffer. He had enough already.
Dunk almost doesn't feel it, not through his thick bandaging and tunic, but after a moment, he registers the light pressure on the top of his spine. He's confused and wonders briefly if all the blows from the fight had knocked something loose, but then the pressure moves to his head, where it pats him.
"Rise, Ser Duncan and look at me," Baelor commands gently.
He doesn't want to, especially after crying like a child in front of the man, but he's lifting his head the next second. Through his good eye, he sees a blurry image of the prince sat up and studying him. He doesn't appear angry or even bothered at all. Before he can say anything, the hand in his hair moves. His face is cupped with another hand and angled toward the candle light. Something brushes under his swollen eye and over a cut. It makes Dunk's chest ache and he has to fight to not lean into it.
"They certainly did a number on you," Baelor murmurs and wipes away the tears on his cheeks. It's casual. No comment on him acting like a woman or being weak or not being able to control his emotions.
"You got the worst of it," Dunk says without thinking and bites his tongue as soon as the words come out. "I-I mean—Your Grace, I didn't mean to insult—"
Baelor snorts. "You speak the truth, there is no need to apologize. My brother already let me know of my less than ideal appearance. How are you feeling?"
The knight considers. "I feel like I got run over by a dozen horse drawn wagons. So I guess not too bad."
The older man's smile doesn't waver. "I'd say the same. Have had quite the headaches since I woke up." At Dunk's concerned face, he waves a hand. "Oh, do not worry yourself. I was told by the maesters it is normal and will pass. It is simply an unfortunate result of the fight. I will be fine."
He is worried but knows it will not be accepted so he nods. His mind drifts to Egg and his brothers. "How long until you and the others leave Ashford?"
Baelor hums. His hand has yet to move, sliding to cup his neck instead of his jaw. His slender fingers weave through Dunk's cropped hair with ease that made his ears burn and his stomach flip.
The blonde wonders if the prince is under the affects of a tonic or potion to make him act in such a way. He also can't find it in himself to mention it nor lean away, and isn't that pathetic. Though, Dunk supposed, he had been a bit pathetic since he first arrived at the tourney, so what was a little more. Besides, he'd had the shit kicked out of him. He could have this, at least.
"Maekar will no doubt forbid me to leave this room until I am completely healed, but unfortunately for him, that is not happening." Baelor lets out a breath and rubs his face, mindful of the bandage. "Regardless of Egg's fondness for the town, we cannot stay here forever. We must return to King's Landing and relay what happened here. I will speak with the maesters about when I will be okay to travel, and we will go from there."
Dunk is quiet. He can feel Baelor's eyes on him. He had many feelings and thoughts on the matter and wasn't sure where to begin. The prince's words from earlier came back to him.
"What of Egg?" he asks.
Baelor's hand finally lowers until it rests on the bed. "I am unsure. He and his father will have much to discuss on the way back. If he is still allowed to, he will be provided a knight to squire to."
"That's…that's good." Dunk makes himself nod. "He's a good lad, just needs a stern hand."
"I agree, Ser Duncan. A stern, but kind hand."
He hears the difference in tone and sits up. "Aye, Your Grace."
There's a long beat of silence. Dunk tries not to shift in his seat. He can't help from picking at his fingers as he attempts to find the right words to say.
"I've never been a forceful man if I could help it," Baelor starts, "but if I am being honest, I would rather like to have y—"
"If I go with you all, what would that…involve?" The question bursts out of Dunk, but he doesn't look away from the mismatched eyes that blink at him. "If-If I was to serve under your command…what would happen with Egg?"
Baelor's lips curl up the slightest bit. "If Maekar is amendable to it, the boy could be your squire once more. Is that something you would like?"
"Yes." He doesn't have to think about it. "Yes, I…I would be honored to teach him the ways of a knight, a proper one. How Ser Arlan taught me."
The prince dips his head. "I am pleased to hear that and I'm certain Egg will feel the same." His lips part, then close. His hands fidget, one set of fingers twisting over another as if messing with an invisible ring. "And…to my offer, is that something you w—
"I would be honored to be one of your knights, Your Grace." His voice shakes a bit like it had before, but he feels steady. "Truly. With everything I have, I—I am your man." At this, he bows his head again, though this time without fear or despair in his heart. Only honest loyalty. "If you'll have me."
He doesn't have to wait long for an answer.
"Yes, Ser Duncan. I will most definitely have you."
When Dunk raises his head, Baelor is smiling.
It's the best thing he'd seen in a while. When the side of his face is cradled, in the same way it had been after the trial, he feels like a dragon has crawled into his chest and ignited its flame.