Chapter Text
He had not meant to scream.
It had still tore from his throat. Despite that, Duncan had heard the thump of his hand falling to ground. Or, he mused, perhaps he just imagined it. He was pulled out of his thoughts by Prince Baelor’s voice.
“You told me you,” the prince’s speech came to halt before he turned his head away. His expression was pained; the prince’s face would have lead others to believe it was his hand cut off earlier today instead of Duncan’s. The sight made Duncan’s stomach turn despite knowing this was far less cost to have paid.
Time went by. It would have been silent in Lord Ashford’s chambers if not for the fire. How long the silence lasted Duncan could not tell. Milk of Poppy didn’t make it hard to count. It just made it hard to continue to count instead of having his thoughts dart else where.
“Why, Ser Duncan?” The prince simply asked quietly. He was once again twisting the ring on his finger. The Hand of King had more than one ring on his hands. He wore two today. One for each hand.
The answer was simple: what was a hand to a life?
“I’m not a knight, Your Highness.”
The prince’s lips thinned at the reminder. He began to glare at Duncan with those two different eyes of his. Duncan did not look away from the hardened stare the prince gave. Other men would have. He himself would have if he was years younger. Only Duncan was not years younger despite his youthful appearance and that was the very reason why he was here.
“You could have kept your title if you had heeded my advice.” It was easy to hear the anger in his voice. Duncan knew though he was not the only source of the Hand of the King’s ire. “Now you have not only lost your hand but the very thing-“
But that was thing. Duncan had not had knighthood prided away from him. It had, after all, never truly been his to begin with.
(There was a reason why he never knighted Egg despite the man being more than ready to bear the weight of such a responsibility and, yes, knighthood was just that: a responsibility. No matter if you were a hedge knight, a knight who served under a lord, or even a member of Kingsguard. It was a responsibility.)
“…,If you were wary to face Prince Aerion in battle, you could have taken to the black,” Prince Baelor said. He said it as though speaking those words would take back what had happened mere hours ago. He said it as though it might cause Duncan’s hand to come back like some plant that sprouted from the ground every spring. But Duncan was no plant. He was not even a tree despite many such comments having been made about his height over the years.
Abruptly, Duncan wondered just what they had done with his hand. It had been the wrong hand, he thought. It had not been his right hand that had struck Aerion. Despite his anger that crashed into him like a wave from the sea, Duncan had enough sense in him not strike Aerion with his right hand just as he had enough sense not to kick the prince this time around.
A fat lot of good that had done, Duncan thought as he stared at bandages. They were already stained from blood but the maester had-
“Was your tongue taken as well as your hand,” the prince abruptly questioned. It was a cruel thing to ask but Duncan knew how anger could rob one of kindness.
Duncan raised his head, looking away from his bandaged limb. He stared at the prince who was no longer fiddling with his ring. The skin underneath the prince’s eyes were darker than Duncan remembered. Had he not slept well?
“What would you like me to say, Your Highness?”
The prince’s face twisted as though he had been stung by some buzzing insect. He was quiet. Duncan wondered if the prince was quiet so he might gather himself. After some time, he eventually asked, “Why?”
There were answers on Duncan’s tongue. There they would stay least he sound mad.
He raised his left hand. Fingers - still stained from blood - spread across his face. He knew though that the blood wouldn’t get on his face. The blood had dried.
“They say grief makes men fools,” Prince Baelor softly admitted. Abruptly, the man before him reminded Duncan of Egg. There were times where Egg had fits that Duncan had endured instead of simply enabling his squire. After some time, Egg would almost always end up burning himself out from such tantrums. Duncan had learned it was best to may the man eat whether he was hungry or not; Egg was less tired after a warm meal and something to drink. (If it was ale, his squire’s face wrinkled but drank it nonetheless. Egg had never grown to have a love for ale even after summer after summer went.)
“I had not realized the death of Ser Arlan had stolen your wits. If I had earlier, I would have-“
“I am a man grown, Your Highness.” Duncan interjected. He didn’t flinch after speaking. An apology didn’t stutter out of his lips. He was used to arguing with princes even if he ought not; he had even argued with his King at times though such conversation occurred when they had no company. “I do not need your gallant rescue.”
Prince Baelor looked as though Duncan had struck him. Time went by painfully; it was like waiting for a meal to brought out after spending several hours in hunger. “You think I am gallant?”
“I think Ser Arlan was right. You are the soul of chivalry.” And that was why Duncan would not begrudge his circumstances. Losing his ability to wield a sword was nothing compared to keep this prince alive.
After-all, what was the point of strength if he could not protect those around him?
The prince’s face grew pinched. It was still a handsome face, Duncan could not help but think. How could he have ever forgotten such a face?
“Yet you still did not heed my words,” Prince Baelor said in puzzlement.
Duncan looked away. It wasn’t just his eyes that darted away. His face turned away as well.
“Will you least heed my words about Daeron’s accusation?”
Daeron would not call for a Trail of Seven so, yes, Duncan would. There was no chance Prince Baelor would die and, because of that, Egg would never have to sit upon the Iron Throne.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Duncan said before looking back at the Hand of the King.
The words did not soothe the prince’s nerves if his face was anything to go by. “Daeron is a drunkard but even he would stand a chance against you in your current state. It would be wise to find a champion who would stand in your place.”
Duncan was silent.
“Is there anyone who would take up this fight for you?” Prince Baelor asked. “It need not even be a knight though that would be wisest choice.”
“I will have a champion.”
“Knowing Aegon, he has already beseeched someone to take on your cause,” Prince Baelor admitted. His face was relaxing. “My nephew is quite fond of you.”
Duncan was silent. He could not force words out of his throat even if wanted to.
“In another life perhaps he would have squired for you after this tourney ends.”
He sounded mournful, Duncan thought. This was not a tragedy though.
“I would have failed him.” Duncan said and it was closest he ever would be in admitting his shame least he be thought mad.
Prince Baelor stared upon him. “The tragedy is I do not think you would have.”