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There was darkness. Vast darkness filled with a sound of thundering hooves and metal clashing and a raven's croak. There was mud sploshing beneath his feet, dragging him deeper, burying him slowly. There were bells ringing to mourn him, and there was the Stranger to take his soul.
But then… Before he would take the Stranger's hand and slip into nothingness, a raven came. To peck out his eyes and to mock him and to torment him before his end.
“Rise,” – the raven croaked, and the raven's beak crushed his skull, and the raven's eyes were red, and the darkness was no more.
Baelor Targaryen, prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm, opened his eyes and tried to sit up in his bed. He bit his lip not to groan in pain, and felt a taste of blood on his tongue.
A lone candle lit the room, and it was dark outside the window. In this light, a basin near his bed seemed to be filled with blood. Or was it really blood? The bedsheets were blood-stained, too, as were his fingers when he touched the back of his head.
How long has he been lying here, waiting for death to have mercy upon him? Was it a day or two? His dear brother probably worried to death all that time. Baelor hoped he hasn't done anything out of anger or helplessness, whether to Aerion or Aegon or Ser Duncan, whoever he blamed for what happed.
A sound took him out of his reveries, followed by a burst of pain. A sound of armour clanking, someone being shoved into the wall and cursing violently and the footsteps appoaching. A moment later, Baelor saw Ser Duncan storm into his chambers, and it didn't surprise him even a bit.
“You're… I, uh…” – the boy tried to say something, but failed to catch his breath and kneeled instead. His hair was a mess, his cloak slightly torn at the side and his face flushed unevenly. He must've fought his way here.
“Wasn't that enough?!” – just to confirm that, Ser Donnel entered the room, pointing his sword at the hedge knight. – “Who do you think you are now?”
“Ser Donnel,” – Baelor spoke, and every word felt like another mace upon his head. – “Please have mercy. The man is innocent, as the gods themselves have declared, and means no harm, even though he might be rude and discourteous. You may leave us now, as we have matters to discuss.”
“Your Grace,” – Ser Donnel said, his eyes shifting from Ser Duncan, still on his knees, and back to Baelor. – “I beg you pardon. I did not know you were awake. Should I summon a maester for you?”
“Later, perhaps,” – Baelor answered. – “Now go.”
The kingsguard looked at him in disbelief, but Baelor nodded reassuringly yet firmly, and so he left. Ser Duncan didn't move.
“It is probably something of grave importance, isn't it, Ser Duncan? For you to fight the kingsguard and to walk in on me at that hour?” – Baelor didn't mean to scold him, just to state the obvious, yet the boy flinched.
“I am sorry, Your Grace. But they won't let me in,” – he said, almost miserably. – “And Prince Maekar advised me to leave at dawn, but I… I couldn't leave.”
No, – Baelor thought. – You could've left quietly after the trial, and it would be wise for you to do so.
Deep inside, Baelor admitted, he felt he would regret Ser Duncan's departure, but he would rather not see the little knight burned by dragons’ flame of crushed by dragons' feet.
“And why is that, Ser Duncan?” – he finally asked.
“You saved my life and almost died yourself,” – the boy shrugged. – “I owe you a great debt, Your Grace. And I can't possibly repay it. I couldn't just walk away as if nothing happened.”
Hells, it felt like a hammer pounding inside his head, and the candle's light seemed brighter than a dragon's fire. Baelor shut his eyes for a moment, yet it didn't get any better. The boy needed an explanation, anyway.
“In the end of the day, is that why you've done it?” – Baelor asked, trying not to wince in pain.
“Why what?” – the boy startled, – “Your Grace, I didn't mean…”
“Is that why you stood up for that puppeter girl? To have her in your debt?”
“No, Your Grace, I…” – the boy's cheeks flushed even more, a vivid shade of pink, – “I didn't even think of it. Egg, I mean, Prince Aegon asked me, and it didn't just feel right, you know. No one ever is to be tortured like that.”
“So, you can see for youself why you owe me nothing, Ser Duncan,” – it wasn't the easy thing to say, but the right one. – “You may rise now, and go as you please.”
What could the Blood of the Dragon possibly want from a hedge knight, anyway?
Yet, the boy didn't get up, but lifted his head and his blue gaze met Baelor's own. A long pause came. Ser Duncan shifted his weight, as if he was going to do what he was told and finally leave, and Baelor looked into his clear blue eyes and thought idly that he would probably remember them for a long time.
“But…” – Ser Duncan took a deep breath and finally blurted out, – “What if it doesn't please me to go?”
Baelor smiled, although it made his head ache immediately. The boy was either incredibly brave or incredibly dumb, or both. And he didn't look away, still.
And what could a hedge knight possibly want from a crown prince?
“Well then,” – Baelor said.– “It would please me if you do something for me. If it pleases you, of course.”
Ser Duncan nodded, slowly. Still on his knees. Still no fear of being crushed by a dragon whatsoever.
“I would like you to fetch me some wine,” – Baelor spoke, softly. – “And share a cup or two with me.”
Ser Duncan stood up, and nodded again, and bumped his head against the doorframe as he walked away.
“And you shouldn't probably say it's wine and it's for me,” – Baelor chukled, and felt his pain slip away slowly.