Chapter Text
The day following the trial did not hold clearly in Dunk’s mind. He remembered looking up at a ceiling of dark fabric, and then a feeling like flame crashing over his stomach. He slipped into a not-quite-sleep, where time lost form, but he remained distantly aware of every ache and pain in his body. Sometimes he found himself near the surface of it, catching fragments of conversations he did not understand and glimpses of faces he did not recognize.
The next time he woke, he found himself alone in a room with stone walls. He lay on a bed, a real bed, with sheets finer than any he’d ever slept in. He tried to sit up and immediately sank back as pain shot through his side. When he moved to take stock of the wound, he realized the tunic he wore was not his own. It was simple and didn’t fit quite right in the shoulders or sleeves, but the fabric was soft against his skin. Beneath the tunic, his wounds were dressed in clean white bandages.
He did not understand why he was there. Prince Valarr had offered him a place in their household, but that was before…
A quiet knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts. Before he could answer, an old maester entered. He startled slightly upon meeting Dunk’s gaze.
“My apologies, ser, I did not expect you to be awake,” the man said with a bow. “How do you fare?”
“How long has it been? Since the trial?”
“A day, ser. I shall have some food brought for you, once I’ve seen to your injuries.”
“Are the others well? Those who fought for me?”
The maester crossed to him and began tending to his wounds. “Of those who left the field, your injuries were the gravest.”
Dunk felt some small relief at that. That was until he recalled Prince Valarr falling from his father’s arms.
“The prince… He didn’t…?” It was foolish to ask. He already knew the answer.
“No, ser. There will be a funeral on the morrow.”
Dunk swallowed thickly, looking up at the ceiling. He clenched his jaw as he fought back tears. He had cost a prince his life with his lie.
He sat silently as the maester finished his work, gathered his supplies, and then left.
Dunk stared down at the freshly changed bandage wrapped around his hand. He was no true knight; he had no right to a trial by combat. He would have lost a hand and a foot, had he not lied, and now he found himself wondering if that would have been the better option. Prince Baelor’s wail echoed in his head unbidden, and he screwed his eyes shut.
A knock came at the door. He presumed it to be a servant with the meal the maester had promised. When, instead, a small bald head appeared in the doorway, Dunk sat up with a start.
“Egg?”
“Ser!”
The boy ran across the room and flung his arms around him. Dunk winced with the impact but immediately returned the embrace, drawing him in closer. They didn’t speak for a long while, and Egg’s grip on Dunk’s tunic told him he was wont to let go.
“There was a moment I thought you had died,” Egg whispered against his shoulder. “They nearly blew the horn.”
“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Egg sniffled. “Valarr, he-”
“I know,” Dunk says, hugging him tighter. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all my fault,” Egg said tearfully. “I asked him to fight for you. Uncle won’t say it but I know he blames me-”
“None of that, now,” Dunk said sternly, drawing Egg away from his chest. “Look at me. This was not your fault.”
The boy wiped the tears from his eyes and looked down solemnly. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs not quite reaching the floor. He was wearing a black tunic accented by red at the sleeves and shoulders. It suited him better than the dress he’d been made to wear to the trial.
“It was my father’s mace that dealt the blow,” Egg said quietly.
Dunk did not know what to do with this. One prince dead, another a kinslayer. All in his name. The thought made him feel sick.
“What of your brothers?”
“Daeron’s horse trod on his foot, and he has a rather nasty gash on his face, but he’ll be alright,” Egg recounted. A ghost of a smile played on the corner of his lips. “Aerion had to be carried from the field. You did a number on him, ser. Knocked out one of his teeth, and Maester Yormwell says he might walk with a limp the rest of his life.”
“Less than he deserves.”
Egg hums in agreement. He sat quietly for a moment. “Once you’re well enough to leave,” he started, hesitantly. “Might you take me with you?”
Dunk gazed at him sadly. “You know I can’t, Egg.”
“I can sneak off! I know how to get past the guards, I can meet you by the elm tree, and we can be gone before my father even notices-”
“Your father is wroth with me enough as is. I’ll not make things worse by making off with his son.”
Tears sprang to Egg’s eyes, then, and his lip wobbled. He looked down at his lap pointedly, gripping the sheets tightly. Dunk watched him quietly, wishing not for the first time that he had words of comfort to offer. He knew none would be adequate. Instead, Dunk reached out and drew his squire back into his arms. Egg allowed himself to be moved easily, resting his head against Dunk’s chest. Dunk felt tears soak into his tunic, though the boy made no sound. Dunk brought his hand up to cradle the back of his head. He noted Egg’s hair was beginning to grow back in. Dunk wondered idly what Egg might have looked like before Daeron had shorn it. It was a difficult image to conjure.
The sound of a throat being cleared startled them both. Prince Maekar stood where the door had been left ajar, and the gaze he fixed Dunk with had him lurching away from Egg as though he’d been burnt. He ducked his head deferentially even as his wounds protested the sudden movement.
“M’lord.”
Maekar regarded him with a pinched expression before turning to Egg. “Go. And if I find you eavesdropping, you’ll spend the journey back to Summerhall in a wheelhouse.”
Egg grimaced but rose to his feet. “Yes, father.”
“You’ll find Lady Gwin in her solar. And wear your damn wimple.”
Egg curtsied pointedly to his father, such that the gesture seemed almost an insult, before taking his leave. Maekar’s gaze followed the boy, his jaw set. Dunk watched him carefully. He knew not what to say to the prince, after all that had happened. He’d rather have never spoken to him again, but it seemed the gods had not deigned to grant him that kindness.
“Should my daughter seek you out again, you will turn her away,” Maekar said icily. “I’ll not have her head filled with useless fantasies of playing squire. Especially not to you.”
Dunk nodded solemnly. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Maekar studied him from the doorway. He seemed to consider saying something before thinking better of it. He shut the door without another word, and Dunk was left alone once more.
Despite the maester’s protests, Dunk found himself roaming the grounds of Ashford Castle. He could not bear another moment in the room he’d awoken in, knowing he was undeserving of such accommodations. He first went to see to his horses, who had been moved to Ashford’s stables. He supposes Egg must have had them brought along with his belongings. It was strange seeing Thunder and Chestnut housed alongside the fine steeds of House Targaryen. He hesitated as he passed the stall of Prince Valarr’s black destrier.
The horse watched him expectantly, and Dunk couldn’t help but step towards him. When he held out a hand, the destrier nuzzled against it without hesitation. Despite the stallion’s size, he was quite gentle. He was a beautiful creature, Dunk thought, well-bred and well kept. Prince Valarr had clearly cared for him. Dunk felt a guilty pang as he realized he would search for his rider for the rest of his life. He averted his gaze before limping on.
As he looked Thunder over for injuries, he overheard a whispered conversation between a maid and one of the stablehands. “The prince has not left his son’s side. He only let them in to begin preparing the body an hour ago.”
Dunk felt shame wash over him, and he suddenly wished he were anywhere else. He did not want to hear gossip about the pain he had brought the prince. Baelor had done him so many kindnesses that he could never hope to repay, a fact which made his stomach turn. He quietly ducked out of the stall and began the slow walk back down to the tourney grounds.
It took him far longer to reach Ashford Meadow than the first time he had made the walk, hindered as he was now by his injuries. The tourney was a sight sadder than it had been, then, too. Many of the tents and stands that had been put up were now gone. Dunk asked one of the remaining vendors where they had gone and learned that the tourney had been canceled following the young prince’s death. As he walked, he noticed that more eyes lingered on him than usual. They blamed him for all this, surely, and rightfully so, he thought.
“Ser Duncan!” Came a shout. “Dunk!”
From a distance, Dunk saw Raymun waving to him. Dunk raised a hand in greeting as he limped to meet his friend. Raymun himself was limping, and he had a few gashes on his face, but otherwise seemed to be in high spirits.
“I went by your camp, but everything was gone. Was worried you might have left.”
“I was given a room in the castle, don’t know by whom,” Dunk said, and Raymun’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
“Truly?”
Dunk shrugged. “I understand it about as well as you.”
“Might it have been Egg’s doing?”
“I don’t think he has that kind of power. His father’s not well pleased with him at the moment.”
Raymun seems to ponder something. “Can’t believe she’s really a princess. Never would have guessed Egg was a lady.”
Dunk shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t rightly think he is one. Not truly. Only he was born as such.” Raymun looked at him queerly, and Dunk sighed. “I won’t pretend as I understand it fully, but it’s what the boy claims. And there’s a rightness in it, I feel.”
Raymun shrugs, and they continue toward Raymun’s tent. Dunk is reminded of the conversation they had before all this ugliness began, how Raymun had called the Targaryens aliens. He would likely dismiss this as yet another strangeness, though Dunk didn’t see it as such. He’s sure there are others like Egg. He’d met enough folks in Flea Bottom who tread the line between man and woman, though he’d never known them well enough to know if they thought of themselves in the way Egg did. And besides, all of them were more concerned with survival than anything else, and it was a deal safer to keep a fact like that secret.
Raymun filled him in on all that had happened after the trial, how his cousin had left him, the cadet branch he was starting, and even introduced him to his new wife. Red greeted him with a twinkle in her eye, and Dunk played along as though it was their first meeting. The two seemed besotted with each other, and Dunk was glad some happiness had been found amidst the chaos.
Raymun told him that a funeral was being held in the Beesbury pavilion, and the three of them went together to pay their respects. Dunk nursed an ale quietly as Raymun marveled at the honeycombed coffin at the center of the tent. He wondered at how Raymun could be so lighthearted, what with all that had happened. When he and Red, now Lady Rowan, began to kiss deeply, Dunk turned away from them. He had half a thought to find another pint of ale when his eyes landed on none other than Prince Daeron.
Dunk came to a stop before him, and the prince looked up at him dolefully but said nothing. Dunk shook his head. “Have you no shame coming here? Those men are dead because of you.”
Daeron looked away and held up his hands with a shrug. Dunk stood there, expecting something, maybe some expression of remorse, but the prince offered none. He clenched his jaw, fighting back his own disgust, and made to leave.
“Will you take Egg to squire?”
Dunk paused and turned back to look at him, brow furrowed. “Your father would never allow it, you know that. I already told Egg as much.”
Daeron took a sip from his cup. “Father has had to concede much these past few days. Aerion is to take the Black, you know.”
Dunk’s eyes went wide at this. Never before had a prince been sent to the Wall; it was unheard of. The only one who could have passed down such a punishment was-
“I told my uncle what he’s done to Egg. And our sisters too, though Egg was always his favorite target.” Daeron scowled. “Father never wanted to believe it, though Egg had told him of it. He dismissed it as another of Egg’s fabrications.”
“That’s vile.”
Daeron sighs. “A father never wants to believe his son is a monster.”
“And so he left that monster to hurt his other children unchecked?”
“I did not say I approved of his choices,” Daeron said pointedly. “I did what I could to protect my younger siblings, given my father’s failure, but I could only do so much. When Uncle Baelor sought an explanation for how things had grown so dire between Aerion and Egg, I thought he might see the truth for what it was, and fortunately, I was correct.”
“So Baelor gave the sentence?”
“No, he had my father decide the punishment,” Daeron said. “Told him he would take the black, elsewise he’d be gelded and disinherited. Little surprise he chose the option that left him intact.”
“And you think all this would make your father more likely to allow Egg to go with me?”
“If Uncle Baelor agreed-”
“No. I’ve already asked too much of your uncle. I’ll not ask him to make things worse between him and his brother.”
“Not even for Egg’s sake?”
Dunk glared at him. It was a rotten thing to hold over him, and hardly fair. He cared for the boy, yes, frighteningly so considering how short their time together had been. He does not know if he could live with himself if Egg were hurt, or worse, under his watch. He could only hope that with Aerion gone, he might know a bit of peace.
“He’ll be better off with his family,” Dunk said, though the words felt hollow.
Daeron smiled sadly at him. “No doubt they’ll make a lady of him yet.”
Dunk did not see Baelor until Prince Valarr’s funeral. They did not speak. Dunk remained at a distance. He could not read any emotion on Baelor’s face, the mask carefully back in place. The man who stood before the pyre was a prince before all else. It was hard for him to reconcile this man with the grieving father he’d seen bowed over his son’s body just two days prior.
He left before the body was done burning. There was no use in lingering any longer; it would only cause more pain for everyone. When he returned to the castle, he quietly gathered his scarce belongings and made for the stables. No one stopped him. He knew he would not be missed. He could see in their eyes that servants didn’t understand his presence there any better than he did. His wounds would heal, Maester Yormwell had assured him, and so he had no reason left to stay. For everyone’s sake, the sooner he was gone, the better.
He went about readying Thunder and Chestnut to depart as he had countless times before. This he knew. Part of him was glad for it, despite everything. It would do him good to be back on the road. That was his place.
“You are leaving, then?”
Dunk startled at the now familiar voice, nearly dropping the saddlebag. He whirled around to find Prince Baelor watching him from the entrance of the stable. He stood with the poise Dunk had come to expect from him, though up close, something in it felt more deliberate. It was not the easy way he carried himself in their prior meetings, but rather a conscious effort. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his lips were pursed in a pointedly neutral way.
Belatedly, Dunk dropped to his knee with a heavy thud. “Your Grace,” he said, failing to hide a wince as his leg protested the movement.
“Rise, ser, please.”
Dunk swallowed and attempted to get to his feet. He groaned as his wounded leg gave out beneath him. His eyes screwed shut in shame, as he knelt there breathing heavily. He could not give his prince even this. He hardly registered the footsteps crossing to him until Baelor cleared his throat. He looked up to find the prince standing over him, a hand extended. Dunk stared at it dumbly for a moment and felt himself flush as the meaning of the gesture hit him. Hesitantly, he took the offered hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
“You do not seem well enough for travel just yet,” Baelor remarked. Dunk had to look down at his feet, for he could not bear the concern he found in the prince’s eyes.
“The wounds will not mortify, or so the maester says.”
“That does not mean they are ready to bear a day in the saddle.” Baelor hesitates. “The room I had prepared for you, is it not to your liking?”
Of course, Dunk thought ruefully. Yet another kindness he could not repay. “No, Your Grace- I mean, no, it’s not that. The room, it’s more than I have any right to ask for. I only-” He sighed. “Me waiting around does no one any good, is all. I’ve already brought about enough pain for your family, I’ll not cause any more.”
“You are not to blame for my son’s death, ser.”
Dunk tensed, and his head snapped up to meet Baelor’s. The prince watched him with tired eyes. He realized suddenly he had not offered him condolences, and he felt the blood drain from his face. “He was a good man, Your Grace, and I am deeply sorry for your loss. That he fought for me is an honor I know not what I did to earn.”
“You lived by your vows, ser, when others would not,” Baelor said plainly. He paused. “I myself meant to fight for you, but when I sought to requisition my son’s armor, he was already donning it.”
Prince Valarr had said as much, Dunk remembered, when Maekar had questioned his choice to ride for Dunk. He had not realized it was as close a thing as that. He tried not to think whether the same fate might have befallen Baelor, had he ridden in his son’s stead.
“He told me that Egg had beseeched him to come to your aid,” Baelor continued. “Egg has been betrothed to my younger son, Matarys, for some years now. The two are quite close, and already Valarr thought of Egg as his goodsister.” Baelor sighed heavily. “Of course, now that Matarys is my primary heir, I must arrange for him a more appropriate match."
Dunk frowned. “More appropriate?”
Baelor blinked at him. “Ah- it is not a matter of her character, ser, but of political expedience.” He sighed. “It brings me no joy to consider these things so soon, but matters of the realm do not pause for a prince to mourn.”
He seemed to grow distant then, his gaze unfocused. Dunk waited patiently for him to speak again, but as more and more time passed without a word spoken, he grew restless. “...Your Grace?”
Baelor seemed to snap back to the present and gave Dunk an apologetic look. “Forgive me, ser,” he said softly. “I sought you out that I might ask something of you, and I hope that it will not be too great a burden.”
Dunk bowed his head. “Anything, Your Grace. Name it, and I will do all in my power to answer it."
“I would ask that you take Egg as your squire.”
Dunk’s head shot up so fast he felt a twinge in his neck. “What?”
At the same time, he heard a sudden commotion from one of the nearby stalls and a soft voice swearing. Baelor smiled faintly. “It is impolite to eavesdrop, Egg,” he said without turning toward the noise.
The boy stepped out of a stall a few doors down. He was wearing the same roughspun tunic he’d worn when Dunk had first met him.
“You meant to follow me, didn’t you?” Dunk said, incredulous. “I told you, your father is wroth enough as is!”
“I know, ser, but uncle just said-”
“You couldn’t have known that-”
“Egg, might you join us, please?” Baelor interjected, and they both fell silent. When Egg came to a stop at his side, Baelor placed a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps it is best that you are here for this as well.”
Baelor bent down so that he was level with Egg. “You show great promise, and I would not see it wasted on a life in which you will never feel at home,” Baelor said, and Egg stared at him with wide eyes. “I spent a long time telling myself that I could not do more for you. I hoped that one day you would simply come to accept yourself as a lady, however foolish that hope may have been. It is my hope, now, that you might find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Egg flung his arms around his uncle. Dunk could tell Baelor had not expected it, for he hesitated a moment before returning the embrace.
Once Egg released him, Baelor turned to Dunk. “Will you take him?”
He looked to Egg, and the hopeful look in his eyes made Dunk swallow thickly. “What of Prince Maekar?”
“I will deal with my brother. It may take some time, but I believe he will come to understand why I ask this of you.”
“I don’t know that I understand it myself.”
Baelor smiled at him. “You are a good man, Ser Duncan. I hope that you might shape Egg into one as well.”