Chapter Text
Dunk rose as soon as he was able, and was on horseback by dawn. He rode hard, Thunder’s hooves pounding against the earth in a rhythm that still wasn’t loud enough to drown out the rushing in his ears. He felt sick, a malingering nausea. His heart was tight in his chest. He did not know what was happening to him. He did not know why the gods had decided upon such an affliction. He had never been a pious man, but he found himself muttering prayers, the words whipped away by the wind as soon as they left his mouth. The Mother, for peace, and mercy upon him; the Crone, guide and to grant him wisdom; the Stranger, for Dunk felt death chasing at his every step. His hand once more pressed into his side, into the wound-that-was-not. He could still feel the lance splitting open his flesh, driving inwards, the pain so immense that upon first receiving the injury he had not felt it at all. He was a babe reborn, without a hair of injury upon him. He shuddered, a cold touch down his spine; unnatural.
His injuries were not fatal, in his– he still called it a dream in his mind, for to say it was anything more than that was– would be– his thoughts were fragmented, split and flung apart like a book with pages scattered about the room. He was scattering, tearing, ripping into himself. His wounds had not been fatal. He could not be dead. Then, this was not some manifestation of hell, but it was of no comfort. What then, could all of this possibly be.
He urged Thunder onwards, even as he felt his flank ripple with exhaustion, head ducking and champing, white-flecked foam at the bit. He could not think of what else he could do. Behind him was death; was the endless; was a nightmare. The wind whipped its cold palms upon his face, slapping at his cheeks until they were red and his lips chapped; but still, he rode.
He was being a coward. He thought of the disgust he had felt for Ser Fossoway, riding jauntily to the other side of the field; of Aerion sneering from atop his horse before his gauntleted hand came down upon the spikes of his helm; of the boys back in Flea Bottom who would only strike you once your back was turned.
It was not what Ser Arlan would’ve done. He could see his cragged face in his mind's eye, creases running deeply across his face like rivers through a valley, disappointment writ into each part of his expression. What would he have done, Dunk thought, desperately. What would he do, when faced with a fight that could not be won with just strength or force.
As the sun sunk low into the horizon, stretching itself in deep reds and oranges across the clouded sky, Dunk half-slid half-fell off of his horse; Thunder whickered his disapproval and went promptly to graze in a neighbouring patch of grass, ears flicking back and forth irritably.
”Sorry Thunder,” he said, and his eyes were already heavy with sleep; his body felt as though there were iron weights sewn into his sleeves, into the seam of his trousers. He was a corpse, bloated and puffy being dragged down to the bottom of the ocean floor. “I’ll— I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. All the apples you want. I—“ A yawn overtook him, jaw-cracking.
He fell heavily to the ground, to one knee first and then the other. As his head hit the earth, he dreamed. Shouting, crying, footsteps in the dirt; the prince, a voice, screaming, the prince is dead—!
A clap like a thunderbolt; Baelor lying prone and Dunk stood above his corpse— or not stood at all, for when he looked down he had no body. As though he were only a pair of eyes, or a bird frozen in flight, beady eyes fixed downwards upon the tableau. The prince looked oddly peaceful, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes shut; herbs framing his body, his face, his face clean of any blood and dirt. Then from beside him, a woman— or a man— or— or someone for Dunk could no longer say whether they were young or old or a person at all— stood and looked unerringly toward him, a long finger, pointing, and—
His stomach, dropping and his heart shivering in his chest–
He fell—
He fell back—
And the darkness was around him and he was fighting, fighting to the surface—
He woke, and was staring up at the old oak tree, the low susurrus of its familiar branches, shifting against one another. And the day began once more.
He fought, again. Running away hadn’t worked– had been worse. The prince was fated to die, he thought, hysterically. He was fated to die and somehow it was clear, Dunk had to save him.
He tried it differently this time, the battle. He went straight for Aerion like an arrow loosed by a hunter in the woods, smashing into him again, and again. All he could hear was his own breathing in his helmet, as he hit him once, twice, shoving himself forward like a bear in a rage. It was almost cathartic, to allow himself this violence when all else felt unfamiliar and out of control in the world. If Dunk knew how to do anything, it was this; his body, his fists, the unrelenting, simple nature of a fight. His sword fit itself into his hand like the greeting of an old friend, the hilt rubbing against each familiar calluses, his shoulder burning, his bones grating against each other as he raised his arm and swung it down. His blade bit satisfyingly into flesh; for each blow he gave, he got three in return. Aerion’s own flurry of attacks were unerringly proper. Dunk could see his training all through him; he moved like his father, his uncle, each swing of his blade shaped by all who stood around him, great maesters-at-arms, knights, lords and princes. But Dunk knew he could beat him. There was only so far fancy footwork would take you, he thought. Dunk was not fighting for himself alone, not even just for his own honour. Tanselle, Rafe, Ser Arlan; Baelor. Dunk bit back his exhaustion, and swung. Even as Aerion slashed him at him until his flesh was bloodied pulp, Dunk gritted his teeth and dragged himself forward; he knew he had to end it, as quick as he could.
He shook Aerion like a dog when he said he would yield, his face a mess of blood and dirt in twin image of Dunk’s own, his white hair slicked to his scalp with sweat and his mouth a red smear in his pale face.
“Gods, man,” Aerion said, once it was all over, the echo of the bugle still hanging over the field like the lingering of an eagle’s cry. His throat was hoarse from his shouts. “You–” he stopped, shaking his head and looking up at Dunk. An unreadable expression passed over his face, and he shook his head once more before picking up his helmet from the ground and walking unsteadily across the field, his left foot dragging behind the other. Dunk breathed in, deep, and the smell of mulch and vomit hit him in the face as a wet slap; there, he could see Ser Raymun knelt over and spitting out the last bits of bile.
Dunk whirled around to look properly across the field then, at the scattered men around him. He let out a low cry at the body of Ser Beesbury, already prone on the ground– the blow that struck him must have been early on. Faster, he thought, gods if I am to do this again I must be faster–
His own wounds were dull presences in the back of his mind. He could not see the prince, amongst the fog and figures of people stumbling onto and off of the field. He stumbled as he began to walk, and then there were hands upon him. He turned to see the face of Lord Baratheon, as bloodied and half-dead as the rest of them. He’d lost his helmet somewhere in the battle, and there was now-drying blood caked down the side of his head from some unseen wound on his scalp.
“Come on then, come on,” he said, and his voice was like that you’d use on a particularly large and unruly ox, coaxing and exhausted. “Let’s get you to a maester.”
“No,” he said, and as he shook his head he winced; his brain seemed to pull against the walls of his skull, a fiendish enemy stabbing daggers into the back of his head. “No I must–”
Running figures ahead of them. A dread gathering in Dunk’s stomach as he saw, kneeling in the dirt, a helmed figure; a mace abandoned beside him; a sword buried deep into the ground; a hand outstretched and limp upon the earth; somewhere, the smell of loam, roots moving underfoot, the sound of rustling leaves.
“Is that–” he heard faintly from beside him, Lyonel Baratheon’s disbelieving voice. “The prince–”
He saw, in a blur, a figure bent over another, armour littered about them in the earth as if torn off in a flying rage, only it was not a flying rage at all; the desperation of a mother; the unseeing panic of beasts. Sunlight pierced through the fog, white and fleeting, resting its hand upon the face of the prince, his face blank as it had never been in life, his mouth slightly opened as if he’d been about to speak. A moment, where his armour was lit by pale fire, and his eyes seemed to fill once more with life even as his blood leaked from the back of his cracked open skull. A tableau, his brother frozen in grief, spine curved and eyes wild. All seemed to be silent in the world. A cloud passed overhead and the pale light left them once more.
“No,”Dunk said, dead lips, “no I–”
Not enough. Lyonel’s hand at his shoulder, the buzzing of his voice in his ear, Prince Maekar staring down at the body of his brother, at his bloodied hands, his face pale as though his spirit had fled from him alongside his kin. Dunk thought he was trembling, but he was suddenly unsure if that was the world or just the shuddering of his own body. He knew not how he left the field, nor how he ended up in a bed, armour peeled off of him and as the darkness drew him fitfully into rest he prayed for the gods to help him end this nightmare or else send him back once more, before it began, once more before–
Before–
Dunk had not the mind for strategy, nor prophecy; he had no skill in trying to parse out the will of the gods. But he knew what was happening to him, and he knew that he would do everything in his power to make it stop. He did not know why, but he was being sent back, day after day, and no matter what he did, when Prince Baelor was felled, he would wake under that old oak tree.
The guards were startled when he demanded to see the prince, but he did not respond to their attempts to turn him away, stone-faced and insistent. He left them exchanging glances, as a serving boy trotted ahead of him to lead him to an audience. The boy made sure to press upon him the prince’s limited time. No doubt he’d been told in words that were less-than-polite to ensure that Dunk wouldn’t overstay– which he had no intention of doing. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to say when the boy rapped smartly on the door. The prince did not seem like he would have much patience for madness, he thought, a smile twitching involuntarily at his lips. His hands were practically shaking with nerves.
Dunk knelt as soon as he entered the solar, staring hard at the stone floor. The boy pulled it shut gently behind him, and he could imagine the curious look on his face; he’d certainly been chatty enough trying to figure out Dunk’s reason for speaking to Prince Maekar, notably without his brother.
“Well?” Prince Maekar’s voice was as bored as ever. “Rise then, ser, I haven’t got all fucking day. What could possibly be so important that you’re wasting the time you have to gather your men?”
“Your grace,” Dunk said, before hesitating; he’d only spoken properly of his dream to Egg, and while he believed him as quick as breathing, he wasn’t sure how quickly his lord father might take to the idea. Better then, perhaps, to not mention it. “The trial must not go ahead.”
Maekar, who had looked briefly curious, now exhaled hard out of his nose, casting his eyes up toward the ceiling. “I see. Simple cowardice then. Well if you can recall, Ser Duncan.” He slowed his words, as if talking to a fool. “You were the one who requested trial by combat. My son accepted. Thus, you are bound now by the gods to see who will be fairly judged. Or do you say that nerves are reason enough to defy the gods?”
“No ser,” Dunk said. “But I– I do not know if this is what the gods want, begging your pardon.”
“So you’re a septon as well as a knight, are you?” Maekar barked out a laugh. He leant back in his chair, clearly having lost all interest in their conversation; Dunk felt like a rat being watched by a lazing cat in the sun. He had no illusions as to who held the power here. He could see the tilt of Aerion’s head in his fathers twin expression, the way the both of them managed to convey utter disdain and superiority. He almost would have smiled again, for in that same moment he could see Egg rolling his eyes, when he was as convinced of his opinion as the sun was in the sky.
“No, your grace,” Dunk shook his head. “But I– I do not know why but I– the gods have made their displeasure at this trial as clear as can be, at least in my opinion. I would beg of you to listen, and to– stop your brother from entering, at the least.”
“My brother?” Maekar’s voice tilted high with disbelief. He stood, then, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor. He rounded the desk, steps clipped and short. His lip curled, and he looked down his nose at Dunk, still knelt before him as if he were some irritating pest scampering underfoot; as though he was a bit of mud only fit to be scrubbed from his heel. “I knew that you were a rogue, I did not expect you to be a coward as well. What, you would have me believe that–” he let out another laugh, if you could’ve called it that. An expulsion of sound, humourless. “First, that my brother, the crown prince, the hand of the king, would ride against his own nephew? His family? What sense does that make, I pray you tell me. As though his loyalty does not, above all else lie in preserving the pride of our great house. Second, that you were chosen by the gods to receive some message, a message that conveniently frees you from facing my son in honourable combat? Pray tell me, what your dream–”
“The honour of your house,” Dunk said, quietly. Maekar stilled where he was pacing in front of him.
“What?”
“The honour of your house,” Dunk repeated, looking up now. His hand was still on the bend of his knee, and his fingers clenched, not with nerves but resolve. “Prince Baelor seeks to preserve the honour of your house– not the pride of it. When Prince Aerion has behaved dishonourably as he has–”
“How dare you,” Maekar reddened, stepping forward and his hand resting at the gap in his belt as if to grasp the hilt of his sword; Dunk remembered then, all the stories Ser Arlan had told of these two brothers, of the great advance of Prince Baelor’s men and the unyielding line of Prince Maekar’s shieldmen, a crashing wave against a cliffside; the blacksmith’s hammer sparking down onto steel; remembered being struck down himself by the man, each unerring hit upon his armour as strong as the last.. “As though a hedge knight could ever question the honour of a prince of the realm!” His voice suddenly dropped, as he looked away, before turning back to him, voice suddenly taking on a conciliatory tone. “I understand– well. I understand your fear, of course, as any man does. A trial by combat is no simple task. But– gods man. Face it with courage, and you may be rewarded. My son is not–” he worked his jaw, “he would be satisfied with a victory that does not end in death. Fight honourably, and he shall allow you to yield. This, I can swear to you.”
Dunk faltered. For a moment, he was almost inclined to agree; to chalk these terrible vision-dreams to the simple reasoning of nerves before combat. He’d been sick enough that morning that it would make sense, retching until there was not a thing left in his stomach but bile and water. Then, like a thunderclap; Tanselle, shrieking in pain as her fingers snapped like stalks of wheat under a cruel prince’s grip; Egg, looking toward his brother with such hatred that could not have been borne of out anything less than long and bitter resentment; Prince Baelor felled, glassy eyed and blood on his palms, the delicate cracked shell of his skull–
“No,” he said. Dunk stood then, and relished, only slightly in the way Prince Maekar had to step back from him. “I question not your son’s honour, ser, but your blind loyalty.” He kept speaking, barrelling forward as Prince Maekar opened his mouth. “You know as well as I that there is only pride behind this trial. I am not afraid to face my fate, for the gods will know where the truth lies. I meant what I said to you. I do not think this trial should go ahead; I do not think Prince Baelor should enter. I saw him fall in my,” his jaw clenched again, involuntary; teeth stuck together like black tar in his mouth, “my– dream. I know not what it means but it seems to me a bad omen, m’lord. I seek only to warn you, so that what I saw may remain as it is; a terrible dream.”
He could not bring himself to say the last, that it was Maekar’s own hand, that in the defending of his son he had struck down his brother, that he was–
Maekar was staring at him, still, a wild look in his eyes, as if he had heard what Dunk had not said. His lips parted, as if to speak.
A knock, sudden and ringing into the room. Before the prince could utter a word, Dunk ducked his head in a bow, and left the room. He did not know whether he had succeeded in warning him. He did not know if he had been enough. Gods, but it had to be enough.
He saw from afar, Prince Baelor as he left, stood near his son, heads ducked together as he said something to him in a low voice. His son’s – Prince Valarr – jaw was tight with something like anger, like frustration. It was the first expression other than boredom that Dunk had seen on the young prince’s face. For all that Aerion seemed to display, almost proudly, every emotion that crossed his mind wide open on his face, Valarr seemed the opposite. Like a mirrored pool in a forest clearing, the shadowed face of the moon, the cool underside of a riverstone; he held himself above the world. Dunk watched as he watched his father as he left him. His gaze seemed suddenly raw and Dunk felt the back of his neck flush; to see such a feeling seemed inappropriate somehow. The admiration, anger, almost jealousy on his face. He looked suddenly to Dunk, as if he’d sensed the gaze upon him. He realised he’d stopped midstep in the corridor and blushed properly, blotchily red. He nodded, shortly, and walked quickly away. His stomach roiled as he did. The prince’s face had changed in an instant, Dunk thought. He looked as though he hated him.
The trial was late to start; the horses stamped their hooves in the dirt, as uneasy as the men upon their backs, their ears flicking back and forth. Prince Aerion was a small, dark figure across the field, sat tall and haughty upon his mount; the kingsguard in their white-scaled armour spoke to each other, heads bent together, as relaxed as ever. Then the gates opened and the bugle-boy startled, managing only to raise his trumpet to his lips and utter a squealing off-key note as both princes rode in hard. Dunk could hear Prince Maekar’s voice over the sudden din of the crowd, rising and chattering.
“Idiot–” Maekar was saying, “in your son’s borrowed armour– determined to make a fool of Aerion–”
Prince Baelor paid him no heed, nudging his horse up alongside Dunk’s; he blinked at their sudden closeness, at the vibrant gleam of the prince’s gaze. He could see behind him, Prince Maekar wheeling away to the other side of the field, his anger laid thick across the steel plates of his armour.
“Ser Dunk,” Prince baelor said, pleasantly, as if they’d only run into each other by chance. “I am here to ride alongside you, if you would have me.”
“Ser!” Dunk did not know how to respond, even as this was far from the first time he’d seen the prince ride through those great gates, far from the first time he’d witnessed the way that grace and honour seemed to sit upon his shoulders like they were not burdensome at all; still, he felt his breath tremble in his chest. “I–” He stopped, a stone in his throat. Perhaps he was a coward after all, for he could not look his prince in the eye and tell him he must not fight, not when the vigor in his gaze eased Dunk’s own nervous stomach, not when he looked so strong, so untouchable in his seat; maybe this time he would not be felled, said a voice in Dunk’s ear, hopeful and trembling. Perhaps the prince would be quicker, faster, luckier, better this time; perhaps he was still dreaming; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. For how could you look upon a man such as this and imagine him dead. How could you look at the man who would be king and imagine him dead and gone in a muddied field of no particular name.
It felt wrong; incongruent; utterly unfair. It felt unnatural to the ways that things should be. Dunk’s own crime was believing in the goodness of the world, even after all his life and what he had seen.
“I would be honoured, ser.” He said. Prince Baelor smiled, briefly, genuinely, clasping his hand on his shoulder before turning his horse away again to face their motley crew; in a moment he was the prince again but for just a second, he had seemed a man to Dunk. A man, as fallible as they all were, and he felt a shiver of terror again in his heart, in the space behind his lungs; a man could fall, and a man could die, and a man could get trod into the dirt.
This time, when he fell, Dunk cried as he had not done since the first time, the weight and warmth of the prince draining out of him as he cradled his gentle body in his arms. He wept, and wept, until he opened his wet eyes to the sight of the tree above him, and he turned his face away into the dirt.
////
The days flurried past him like dull grey dancers in the woods, their hands whipping across his face. It was in this state, vision blurred, exhausted, helpless, that he came once more upon Prince Maekar’s solar.
The man had barely opened his mouth when Dunk interrupted him. He could feel a tugging at the back of his shirt; Egg had followed him, his small face drawn and full of concern. He was as loyal as ever to the truth of Dunk’s dreams, to what he considered now to be a reality. He never took convincing, no matter how it was presented to him, taking his words to heart with his clear eyes and proclaiming that it was simply because Dunk was an excellent knight and of course he should be given a prophecy like this. Dunk had only laughed and scrubbed his hand over his small head.
“Your grace, I do not know why or how, but I have lived through the trial tomorrow now too many times to count. I will have five men standing with me, and at the last moment, Prince Baelor will arrive to stand with me in the trial. We will win.” He plowed on through the growing outrage he could see on Maekar’s face. “We will win and yet somehow, each time, your brother is struck down and dies. I have– I have not seen how it occurs and yet I feel it is slightly different each time. I have tried to shorten the fight, to lengthen it, to run away entirely but it seems not to change anything. Your brother is fated to die tomorrow and for some reason–” he was breathing heavily now, as he always did when he retold this story, the prince falling again and again, his smile before he did, the warmth of his hand on Dunk’s shoulder, piercing through any pain, through his armour and mail, his eyes looking steadily down at him and his voice saying gently that Dunk was his man, and Dunk’s own desperation in proclaiming it as if his fealty might ever be enough to save him from his fate– “For some reason, I have been forced to relive this day again and again, and I feel it is because I must…” He paused, and gestured helplessly with his hands. “Save him.”
Maekar’s face was cast into shadow as he looked at them, stood in front of the pale light filtering in through the window. The sunlight cast a halo’d light around him, and his hair was lit up, white and glowing around the edges. Dunk shifted his weight. The silence stretched, long and languid, reaching her arms up to the sky.
Egg stepped forward, and something in Maekar’s expression seemed to shift as he looked at him.
“I believe him, father,” said Egg. Dunk never heard him speak so formally as when he was addressing his father. All sense of childishness seemed to flee him, like starlight in rippling water. He glanced back at him and then back to his father. Egg was braver than he was, Dunk realised. At that moment, he was the tallest of all of them. “He says it is your hand that deals the final blow, most always. Please. Listen to him.”
Maekar had stepped back, as though the words themselves were a blow. Dunk could see his face now; pale and mouth agape. All at once, his age seemed to fall away in Dunk’s eyes. The stern prince, Egg’s lord-father, brother to the hand of the crown; within that, the man who had come upon his adulthood on the battlefield with his brother; within that, the youth who had been spurned over and over in his Baelor’s golden light, a shadow behind every achievement; within that, the child who had done nothing but idolise his eldest brother with all the love in his heart. His expression, cracked open for but a moment, was as the sunset’s fleeting beauty rests upon the world, the first sight of horizon after a long sea journey, the early budding flowers of spring; home’s open door.
“I would–” his voice was dry, cracked around the edges. “I would never– I am no kinslayer.”
“No ser,” Dunk said, gentle as could. “You are not. It was– is a terrible accident. You are–” His throat closes. “We are all greatly grieved by. It is a–”
“My brother.” Maekar said. There were a million words behind it. There was only one. His hands trembled. “Is this some– some jape. Some lie that you would have me believe so that you may walk away with all our honour disgraced, some cowardly shirking of the trial.”
“Never, ser,” Dunk said, dropping to his knee to swear it. He could see out of the corner of his eye, Egg kneeling beside him. Maekar blanched further looking at them.
“Oh, get up boy,” he said, and gripped Egg’s arm to pull him up. Egg tugged backward for a moment, pulling back until Maekar released him, his hand flexing in the air. He drew his shoulders back, as if preparing to face some great enemy.
“Father, you should listen to him because–” his voice faltered. They were all quiet now. Dunk could hear the wind whistling outside, battering its fists against the stone walls, rattling at the window. “You love uncle. Truly. He told me that the septons say we must love our brothers.” Dunk could almost hear the rhythm of the prince’s speech in his young voice; with a glance at Prince Maekar, he could see that he heard the same. “But you do not only love each other because you must. I–” He worried at his lip. Dunk could see him discreetly wiping his palms on his shift. “I do not have a great love for Aerion, father. But–” he looked away, back up. Maekar was looking fixedly at his son, as though he had never seen him before, as though a new creature had come out of the woods to stand before him. “I– I would– I would rather that he were alive than dead.” He said it with a twist in his mouth. Dunk could recall the bitterness inside of Egg every time he had spoken of his brother, and he could tell it was still there. Old hurts, old hates, all layered atop one another like a great abscessed wound. It would take more than this, for those wounds to heal. “He is a monster. I think so, truly. But he is my brother. And I–” The flicker of a smile. “I only have three of those.”
“Idiot boy,” Maekar replied, almost on instinct. His expression was changed now too. He stepped forward, and laid a hand gently on Egg’s shoulder. There was another, long quiet moment. “Your uncle is important to me,” he said, finally, lowly. “And there is nothing I would not do to see him live. Your brother is–” he shook his head. For a moment he looked away from Egg and Dunk saw the pain in his gaze, skin flayed back as he stared out, lost and helpless. “You remind me of him so. You flighty fickle boys…” He tapered off. Dunk could see the tension in Egg’s shoulders. He recalled that he’d shaved his head so as not to look like his brother. He could not imagine having siblings, could not imagine having ones he so hated. He could not imagine forgiveness, at such hurts.
“I will speak to my son.” He said, finally, looking up at Dunk. “And my brother. I shall think deeply on this.”
“Thank you, ser,” Dunk said. He rose slowly. It seemed there was a moment, come and gone in this room. He looked back as he left, at Egg still by his father’s side, and as he shut the door, the slow leaning of Maekar’s body toward him.
When Baelor fell, Dunk felt it in his heart like another cut over a long healed wound. Yet it was different. Maekar had not ridden at his son’s side. And as the familiar darkness folded itself over Dunk’s eyes, as the shivering trees bent their heads over him and the roots moved in the earth, he felt in his breath, in his bones, in his very spirit, a changing; a turning of the season. His feet were sure and steady upon the ribboned path stretching ahead, somehow more firm under him; the tree leaves grown auburn and orange, tipping gently off of the branch; the chill of winter’s approach on the breeze; his lungs full of the fresh churned soil, earthen and alive.
He tipped back–
A lake like glass, stars glimmering upon the surface–
The rustling of leaves overhead–