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Dunk did not know what had gotten into him just before he yeeted that purple and gold dragon egg into the fallen Crown Prince's funeral pyre.
Everyone standing around was looking at him. Either with shock or with anger.
Prince Maekar was angry. He looked ready to murder the peasant knight and bury his body in the woods just beyond the field.
The 7-foot-tall man opened his mouth to apologize, but he was interrupted by the sound of a massive crack.
Not the crack of burning wood.
No. It was the crack of stone.
And it was coming from the pyre.
Breath hitched in the hedge knight's chest when he saw what was happening in the fire.
Prince Baelor had risen.
All the fabric had burned away, yet his skin had remained untouched by the flames. Only ash covered it now, allowing all those attending to see the man in all his glory.
Oh. And a tiny purple dragon with golden scales from its nose to the top of its head was perched on the Dornish-looking Valyrian's shoulders.
Everyone gasped, and then bowed deep or looked away.
The only one who remained standing with his eyes on the formerly dead Crown Prince was the man's younger brother.
His Valyrian purple eyes were filled with horror and awe at the same time.
"Have you come back to take me to the fires of Valyria with you?" he then asked, voice sounding strained.
"Brother..." the resurrected Prince then had a coughing fit, probably from the dryness of his throat.
The youngest son of King Daeron II ripped off his black cloak, not caring what happened to the fabric, and wrapped it around the man with mismatched eyes.
The dark-haired dragon Prince gripped his brother's forearm tightly. With his other hand, he reached to the back of his skull, where the wound had been stitched up prior to the funeral.
Throwing all propriety out of the window, Maekar embraced his brother tightly.
He had to make sure this was real, that this was not some cruel dream he was having.
There was a little hiss into his ear from the tiny baby dragon, but it did not sound threatening.
It was more a hiss of familiarity, of recognition.
The Prince of Dragonstone wrapped his arms around his brother as well.
"I do not blame you." he whispered.
"You should." the 34-year-old said in return. "I failed you, brother, and I failed myself."
"You did not decide for me that I should fight. I did that myself. It was a risk I took." the tanned right hand dug into the silver-haired man's left shoulder. "You were always too hard on yourself Mae."
The younger man huffed. "And you're too kind, brother."
"Someone has to be."