Chapter Text
Valarr’s injuries from the Trial of Seven weren’t too grave. Even so, Baelor regretted letting his son fight in his stead. He watched from the chair as the maester bandaged his son’s shoulder tightly, the prince wincing a little.
As he noticed Baelor’s expression, he sighed and said, “Once again, Father, my armour doesn’t fit you at all. You would have needed to borrow Uncle’s and he’d worn it himself.”
Before Baelor could answer, as if summoned, Maekar walked into the chamber, a bruise on his face and limping a little.
“Fuck off,” he said to the maester, holding the door open for him, his own, largely insufficient version of courtesy. Glancing at Baelor, he added, “We have matters to discuss.”
That they did but he’d hoped that perhaps losing the trial would curb his brother’s temper, at least a little.
He turned to the maester. “If you would be so kind,” he told him, “we must speak in private.”
The man checked Valarr’s bandage and retreated with a bow.
Maekar closed the door behind him and turned to Baelor, ignoring Valarr completely. “Are you satisfied now? Our family looks like a bunch of cunts and your new friend the hedge knight prevailed, against all odds.” He frowned. “And causing the death of one, perhaps two knights. I hear Hardyng’s condition is anything but good.”
“I wouldn’t say I look like a bunch of what you said, Uncle.” Valarr stood up, mindful of his shoulder. “I will take my leave now, Father. I wish no part of this conversation, and I need to check on cousin Daeron.”
“Yes, you’d better do that.” Baelor watched his son leave, with a somewhat slower step than usual. Then he turned to his brother and suggested, “How about you took a seat and we discussed this properly, if you so wish to discuss it.”
Maekar scoffed but, with five quick steps, claimed the chair Valarr had just vacated. Without so much a pause, he followed his previous line of thought. “What is the life of one scoundrel against the name of our family? Do you think it brought me any joy to have to command the Kingsguard to defend Aerion? It makes us look weak and lacking in support and friends. And to lose on top of that…”
Baelor fixed his brother with a hard look. “And so, an innocent man should die to sustain the illusion of the dragon’s power? You are a better man than that, Maekar.”
Maekar frowned at that, his cheeks colouring slightly.
“We must be glad nobody of our blood paid with his life for this foolishness,” Baelor continued, “but myself, I must say that I might rather face my death than see Aerion get away with tormenting the smallfolk without facing any consequences.” Giving Maekar his best disapproving look, he reminded him, “He has not exactly represented the values of our king in this tournament.”
“Fuck me if I don’t know that,” Maekar muttered, then, more loudly, “Aerion is another problem, and one I intend to solve promptly. My complaint was not about him, however, rather about you and your Young Prince standing against our family.” He waved his hand. “To the seven hells with that. I didn’t come here solely to be cross with you.”
“If you haven’t come solely for that…” Baelor rubbed his forehead, regretting coming to this miserable tournament for the thousandth time.
“My main concern for now is Aegon.”
That in itself was such an unusual remark from his brother that it forced Baelor to look up sharply, his eyebrows rising. “Aegon? Truly? I would have expected another one of your sons.”
The look Maekar gave him was as withering as it could get. “I’ve gathered my sons and informed Aerion I will be sending him across the Narrow Sea, to have him cool his head and perhaps learn to appreciate what he has in life. Daeron and Aegon, I bade back home to Summerhall.”
That was a prudent course of action, almost unusually so. Maekar tended to be too benevolent with his sons sometimes, and blind to their faults.
“I don’t see the problem with that,” was all he said. He’d better keep the second part of his thoughts to himself.
“Because there isn’t one.” Maekar stared off to the side. “But Aegon refuses. He threw a tantrum, requesting to return to squiring for the bloody hedge knight.”
His first thought was You are his father; if you command him, he must listen. But unlike Maekar, Baelor knew not to voice his first thoughts without consideration. Ser Duncan the Tall may be a hedge knight and barely more than a youth, but he had proven he was a man of honour. He’d also shown he was quick to act and more than able to defend himself. From their previous conversations, Baelor knew him to be honest and direct, but not without humility. Something most of Maekar’s sons would do well to learn.
After the Trial of Seven, ser Duncan, dazed and bloodied, had promised his allegiance to Baelor and his bloodline, likely as a gesture of gratitude after Valarr had stepped up to fight for his side. Even now, Baelor’s blood froze each time the image of his son riding against the lances of war flashed in front of his eyes.
Luckily, Valarr prevailed and so did ser Duncan. Such a man would guard a prince of the royal line well, even with his life, if need arose.
“It is not the worst of ideas. Ser Duncan had sworn his loyalty to me, after the trial. He could leave Ashford with our host and Aegon could squire for him,” he told Maekar, well aware of how that was to be received.
His brother’s face turned first incredulous, then annoyed. “Of course you would think so,” he grumbled, the lines on his forehead deepening. “He’s to your image, isn’t he, brother? All this talk of honour and utter foolishness. Truly, the teacher for a prince.”
“Aerion had his share of teachers fit for princes. And Daeron. And Aemon seems satisfied with a vastly different life,” Baelor reminded him. “Besides, ser Duncan is a good man. I do not believe you truly find honourable men to be fools.”
“I find fools to be fools,” Maekar corrected, but by his tone, he was considering what Baelor had said. “I also do not think you should take a hedge knight to King’s Landing with you. Nor do I want him at Summerhall. Within his rights or not,” Maekar glared at him here, “the man did attack my son.”
Baelor twisted his signet ring around his finger. “Do not take him to Summerhall then. Let Egg squire for him as he did during this tourney—a hedge knight on the road and an unassuming boy by his side.”
Maekar looked up sharply. “Leave my son to a life of hardship and danger?”
Baelor himself found the idea slightly insane, but it was growing on him with each passing moment. “I know you are worried for him, but the realm is at peace now, and travelling as a commoner might teach him to look at it from a different point of view. One day, that could prove very useful for him.” He tilted his head. “Of course, you would first need to know if ser Duncan would agree to this.”
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An hour later, after talking to young Aegon and arguing with Maekar three more times, Baelor put on his cloak, took ser Donnel with him and set out to find ser Duncan. He had been taken to the castle to have his wounds seen to, but he had disappeared soon, after thanking Valarr profusely one more time. He’d said he’d go looking for the newly knighted ser Raymun Fossoway.
Aegon had been of the opinion that ser Duncan wouldn’t stay with the knight but would rather seek out the shade of an elm tree—a surprising choice, but a surprisingly alluring one, to look for the comforts of nature after a battle. Dark had already fallen, so Baelor didn’t fear being seen by too many people.
He’d been right about that. There were lights shining from the open flaps of knights’ pavilions, but the paths leading between them were empty and the night was quiet. The stars were bright and the moon nearly full. It painted a peaceful picture, if one forgot about the deaths on the field today. Ser Humfrey Hardyng had succumbed to his wounds not too long before his departure from the castle.
After Baelor judged they had come close enough, he turned to ser Donnel. “Wait here, ser.”
The knight didn’t look pleased by that.
“I assure you that if a band of brigands emerges from the river to attack us, I shall call for your help,” he told him, noting ser Donnel’s exasperated expression.
He continued on his own and it wasn’t after long that he saw light flickering between the bushes. He found a small camp set up under the canopy of a large elm tree, quite like the one ser Duncan bore on his arms. The knight himself sat with his back to the tree, watching his small fire with a worn expression.
As Baelor emerged onto the clearing, ser Duncan reached for his sword, so he removed his cape, allowing the fire to light his features. He hadn’t brought any arms, so he’d rather have his presence known before ser Duncan took him for a brigand.
The young knight’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hand from the sword’s hilt. Then, with a wince, he quickly rose to his full height. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing deep, “my apologies, for the sword, I mean. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Sit, ser Duncan,” Baelor told him. “You look pained and tired. You need to rest.” He ran his eyes over the camp and found a small stone which he sat upon. He didn’t like to look down on the people he was speaking to.
Once again, ser Duncan seemed to be surprised by this. “Your Grace,” he said, “I’d offer you a cushion or something, but I don’t have one.” He glanced at his horses, standing to the side. “I only have saddles and saddlebags.”
“It’s alright, ser,” Baelor assured him. “A while spent on a stone is often more comfortable than a day in the saddle.” The knight’s words about his meagre belongings didn’t surprise him—he knew what the life of a hedge knight was like, and the camp did look bare—but they made him wonder whether ser Duncan would want to stay on the road, after he’d promised his loyalty to a prince.
The hedge knight shifted. “Sorry to ask, Your Grace… but what brings you here? The trial is finished, isn’t it? There’s nothing else I must do.” He looked around restlessly, as if he expected more enemies to burst from the undergrowth.
“No, that is all done now. The accusations are withdrawn and your name is cleared.” Baelor felt like his placations were insufficient. Ser Duncan’s name was cleared, but it would be remembered by some, as the name of the man who’d struck a prince. He added, “Nobody has the right to hold this trial against you.”
Ser Duncan nodded, looking at the fire again.
Baelor did too. He had none of the dragon gifts of the days of old, but it seemed to him that the flames danced in an especially enthralling way.
“At the field, you proclaimed your loyalty to me,” he said quietly, still following the flickers of the fire with his gaze. “And I told you that good men were hard to come by and I would have the service of each one I found.”
He could feel ser Duncan’s eyes on him. When he’d seen the man up close, he’d noticed they were bright blue, like summer skies.
He continued, “Yet now, it seems I’d ask something else of you. You do not need to accept, of course.” He looked at the man. Ser Duncan cast his gaze to the side. “Perhaps you hoped for a place at the court when you offered your service to me.”
This made the hedge knight look back immediately. He looked alarmed. “Oh, no… I—I’d never presume that. I’m only a hedge knight, m’lord. I mean—Your Grace. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself among all the lords and ladies.”
Baelor was struck with a sudden desire to do exactly what he’d just denied the young knight. Bring him to the court, gift him the finest armour and most comfortable chambers, and let the bored, pretentious lordlings who flocked around the throne look upon what true honour was. Ser Duncan’s fear of not fitting in was apparent, and he wouldn’t fit in, because he was too good a man for many of those who surrounded the king. Still, he could ride out with the knights of King’s Landing for hunts and jousting in the Crownlands, and perhaps one day he’d even make the Kingsguard. He certainly had the heart for it, and his skills would grow more refined as he practiced with the best knights of the Red Keep.
He had to stop himself; the fantasy had grown too bright in his mind. Ser Duncan, as he sat here under the tree, would not amaze the king with his honourable comportment as he’d amazed Baelor himself. He would feel out of place in King’s Landing, that much was obvious from his expression.
Baelor forced a smile on his lips. “Prince Aegon had asked to remain as your squire,” he said, instead of offers of comfort. “And though my brother wasn’t fond of the idea a first, we have reached an understanding.”
Understanding. That was a bold description. However, ser Duncan didn't need to know that Maekar’s last words about the matter had been ‘Your insistence makes me feel you’d crawl into the hedges yourself if you could, Hand of the King or not’.
Ser Duncan watched him, waiting for something more, perhaps.
“If you would have him,” Baelor emphasized, “Aegon would go on as your squire. I’d thought to offer you a position in the royal procession, to have him squire for you as a prince, but…” He paused, aware that suggesting ser Duncan stayed on the road was not exactly generous.
Luckily, he was saved by the hedge knight himself. “Egg didn’t want to, right?” Ser Duncan smiled a little, his tired face lightening. “I don’t mind. Honestly, I have to say that I wouldn’t want to go anywhere with your family anyway.” His eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant to say that Egg ought to spend some time away from his brother and he liked being in the nature and away from the castles and such. I swear!”
Baelor found the knight’s panic almost heartwarming. It was more earnest than most responses he usually received from people, especially in the Red Keep.
“No harm done,” he calmed the man, raising his hand soothingly. “I didn’t think you would wish to insult me. And yes, I also think it would do Egg good to spend some time away from the life he’s known so far. But I must warn you—he’s a spirited boy, and bigmouthed too.”
Ser Duncan chuckled. “Don’t I know it.” Quickly, he added, “Your Grace.”
Baelor smoothed his cloak and stood up. “Then it is decided. You will take prince Aegon on as your squire. Of course, he will not serve you under this name, but rather as Egg.” He glanced at the elm tree. “We will, of course, outfit you with means to support both of you on your travels. In three years’ time, you will bring Aegon to King’s Landing or to Summerhall to his father.”
Ser Duncan rose too. “Thank you for everything, Your Grace,” he said. “I’m glad I found that there are true knights among men still, and honour can prevail.” His expression was as solemn as his words. He bowed deeply.
“I thank you, ser Duncan,” Baelor said, feeling slightly lost in the intensity of the knight’s words, “for you have shown me the same.”
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On the morrow of the next day, they went to see ser Duncan and Aegon depart. Maekar went to share some words with the knight, but Baelor thought it better to stay aside and let his brother have the conversation in private.
Instead, he turned to Egg, who had climbed into the saddle of ser Duncan’s horse.
“Be careful, nephew,” he told him. “Remember that to the world, you are now not a prince, but only a boy. Act accordingly.”
The boy nodded with a serious expression.
“And heed ser Duncan’s advice. He is a good man.”
“Yes, Uncle, he is.” Egg put a straw hat on his bald head and smiled. “And I will learn all I can from him and be a great knight.”
Baelor smiled at him, wished ser Duncan safe travels and went to stand next to Maekar.
“Foolishness,” his brother said.
“Perhaps,” Baelor allowed. The three horses departing, the figure of Aegon looked smaller already. Ser Duncan’s not yet.
“Should this go awry, you will be to blame.”
“Perhaps.”
Maekar huffed. “Learn some other words, brother. Even the illiterate hedge knight told me more than you do now.”
Baelor sighed. The horses plodded on, further and further away. “Do you know I envy them? They are off to find adventure, and I’m bound for the Keep, to bother with the politics of it all again.”
“Yes, of course, it is the adventure you will miss,” Maekar said, smirking. Then he went to find his sons and get ready for the journey.
For the whole trip back to King’s Landing, Baelor wondered what his brother had been smirking about.