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The day seemed endless. Maesters said he is still to rest, but Baelor knew better. He had his duties.
And so, although his head ached mercilessly and it took all his strength to keep a proper posture, Baelor stood there, hands clutched behind his back, to offer his condolences upon ser Hardyng and ser Beesbury's untimely passing, to honor what remained of the tourney festivities with his presence, and to make the smallfolk sure no harm has come to him, and thus, the fate of the Realm is secure.
His brother followed two steps behind him, silent. Baelor had insisted on Maekar coming alongside him, yet he could not make his brother smile or say a kindly word. His suffering was no less, in any way.
It was only at dusk, when they have retreated into the half-lit quietness of the castle, that Baelor took the liberty of leaning into his brother's shoulder and wincing and groaning in pain.
Maekar grunted, and helped him walk upstairs into his room. Not a single word escaped his lips, though.
“Hope you're feeling well,” – when they reached Baelor's chambers, Maekar finally broke the silence, the grudge in his voice ever so clear, as he helped Baelor into a great wooden chair.
“I couldn't complain,” – Baelor answered, rubbing his temple. It was a lie, though.
“Because I'm sick of this fucking place,” – he continued, not paying Baelor any attention. – “And your fucking ostentation. First you ride for this obnoxious hedge knight, make me choose my fail of a son over you, and now you risk your fucking life again, barely dragging that wobbly feet of yours so some fucking peasants could be graced with your presence. Not to mention you made me go through this gods’ damned ordeal alongside you.”
Baelor sighed. That might've been the longest remark his dear brother said to him since Baelor was awake.
It's been tough for him. His eyes grew red with weariness (or was it tears, Baelor thought, idly), and terrible weight seemed to burden his shoulders.
Baelor could've explained himself. He could've said uncertainty breeds fear and rumors spreading like a plague. He could've said the image of someone who almost slew his kin would've been insufferable for his dear brother. He could've said it was his duty, to protect his men and to make them feel that all was well. He could've…
But instead, Baelor looked Maekar in the eye and said plainly: “I hope you could forgive me, brother.”
“I hope you won't fall off your fucking horse,” – Maekar answered, and hurried away. He closed the heavy wooden door, gently, carefully, so it wouldn't slam or creak, and left Baelor utterly alone.
He leaned back in his chair, tilted his head and stared into the ceiling. The great stones, fitted well into each other. Ashford was a good enough castle, albeit a small one. Baelor liked it well.
Stones being chipped here and there, cracks running through them, formed a peculiar pattern, and Baelor let his mind rest, following it. The pattern began to spin on it's own in front of Baelor's weary eyes, when he heard someone scratching at the door like an enormous dog.
“Who goes there?” – Baelor asked, blinking frequenly.
“Just me, Your Grace,” – the familiar voice answered. A funny way to introduce himself to royalty, it was.
“Please, ser Duncan,” – Baelor said. – “Come in.”
He heard some fuss behind the door, and then ser Duncan managed to open it with his elbow and entered the room bearing a jar of wine, a cup, and a basket filled with firewood. He had to bow his head when he passed through the door.
Baelor gave him a questioning glance.
“I met two servant girls, Your Grace,” – the boy said. – “I figured I may help them. The kingsguard won't keep me out now, for some reason.”
Baelor himself has commanded the kingsguard not to stop the hedge knight, and told Lord Ashford it would please him a great deal if he treats ser Duncan as a member of Baelor's own retinue. He hoped it did not offend Lord Ashford's pride, not too much, at least.
Ser Duncan walked in, and poured Baelor a much desired cup of wine, and added some firewood into the hearth. The fire crackled, sated.
Ser Duncan stood up and picked up the empty basked and looked at Baelor.
“Well…” – he started.
“I would like you to stay, ser Duncan,” – Baelor interrupted him. – “Unless you have other matters to attend to.”
“Uh, no, Your Grace…” – the said awkwardly, and placed the basket back. – “I don't.”
“Sit with me, then.”
In a few moments, the boy settled in the second chair, at the other side of a small table, and leaned on it, propping his chin with his hand.
Baelor observed the fire for quite some time, but then his gaze shifted to the boy's face, anyway. He studied him, his tall and broad frame, his clear blue eyes, the dark bruise under the left one, a worried crease on his forehead, a curve of his lips. He was so young, Baelor thought, not much older than Baelor's own sons. His mind must've gotten stuck again.
“Tell me a story, ser Duncan,” – Baelor asked, shrugging off the feeling.
“What?” – the boy jumped upright in his chair, and then corrected himself. – “What do you mean, Your Grace?”
“The maesters forbade me to read, ser. And I've studied those walls well enough already,” – Baelor considered if he should say what comes next, but couldn't help himself. – “As well as your face. So why wouldn't you tell me something for a change?”
The boy flushed fiercely and looked away, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. Baelor smiled softly.
“I'm not much of a story-teller, Your Grace. Better with my fists than my wits,” – he said.
Baelor hummed indefinitely, then took a sip of his wine and waited patiently, until the boy finally made up his mind.
“So, there's a story of how we got Thunder, Your Grace. Ser Arlan's warhorse. Might that interest you?”
“Is that the one you rode into the trial?” – Baelor asked. He remembered ser Duncan desperately begging his horse to get up. – “That might interest me a lot, ser.”
“Well, then…” – ser Duncan cleared his throat, and Baelor handed him the wine cup and smiled reassuringly. The boy hesitated for a moment, and then he gripped the cup as if to steady himself, and squeezed Baelor's own fingers briefly, and pulled away.
“So, I was four-and-ten back then, I think,” – he started after a mouthful of wine. – “Ser Arlan and I, we were back in the Riverlands, serving in Lord Darry's lands. Ser Arlan managed to get some coin from a merchant he protected. Not that much, though.”
Baelor focused on ser Duncan's voice. That served well enough to soothe his mind.
“Then, there was a rumor that some farmer, Yvory was his name, I believe, had bought a herd of some fine horses and would be taking them to a fair. For sale, it must've been. But mostly, I think, he just planned to brag and name the prices no one could afford.”
Baelor stretched his legs and let his hand rest on the table, following the wood's pattern with his fingers. Ser Duncan watched him, for a moment, his eyes on Baelor's signet ring, and then he continued.
“Well, maybe not no one at all. But not a hedge knight, that's for sure. That Yvory told ser Arlan he could go try his luck elsewhere, maybe he could find some nag meant to become horsemeat soup the other day, he said. And so we left empty-handed and stayed at the inn for the night. But the horses, Your Grace. They were so damn beautiful. All shiny and knots of muscles under their skin. You should have seen them, Your Grace,” – the boy smiled and closed his eyes for a moment. Imagining the horses, he must've been. Baelor felt something warm crawling inside of him, watching that dreamlike expression upon the hedge knight's face.
“But no way could we get them. But I thought, what harm could one more glance do? So when ser Arlan was asleep, I snuck out of the inn and went to the meadow where the horses were grazing, and I climbed a tree, and sat there for a while and watched. But then, I heard some sploshing. Didn't notice the creek under that tree. Must've been hidden in the bushes. I thought I'd better leave, and tried to get down, but – boom!” – the boy rounded his eyes, and Baelor couldn't help but laugh.
“It did snap, didn't it?” – he asked.
“Indeed, Your Grace. And I ended up in a creek with a stable boy, who appeared to be a girl, and she tried to strangle me and drown me and I couldn't even swim.”
At this point, Baelor almost choked on his laughter, and reached desperately for a cup of wine. And ser Duncan, a delight that he was, had said he couldn't tell a proper story.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?” – he asked, his expression changing from almost playful to worried in a heartbeat. – “Do you need?..”
Baelor raised his right hand to stop him, only to realize it was too weak and shaky and to put it back again. He hoped the sight of it eluded ser Duncan.
“I am well, ser. Please do keep on with your story.”
And the hedge knight obeyed.
“I've managed to survive, anyway. Convinced her I was spying on the horses, not her, and promised I won't tell anyone around about her. A miller's daughter, she was. Her father had died and her stepfather would lay his hands on her and her mother was back in town doing some rich men's laundry, and so she ran off and cut her hair and dressed up as an orphan boy and found her place seeing to Yvory's horses. Grainne, her name was. She also kissed me, on my cheek, I mean. It was quite pleasant,” – ser Duncan flushed again, even the tips of his ears bright red, and made Baelor, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, feel jealous of a rogue peasant girl.
“But still not a word of that Thunder, good ser?” – Baelor teased.
“Oh…” – ser Duncan stammered. – “I might've trailed off a bit… So, I told her about our struggle, and she told me she had an idea. There was a steed she liked the most, that very Thunder, and she'd rather see him end up in good hands. So she promised me she'd lie to her master that Thunder kicked and bit and bullied the other horses, and so he'd sell him off for half the price.”
That sounded quite suspicious, if Baelor knew anything of horses and farmers and stable boys turned out to be miller's daughters, but he held his tongue and nodded.
“The next morning I asked ser Arlan if we could try again, and I told him that Thunder was particularly good. And the farmer actually sold him for half the other horses’ price. We were quite content, and back on our way. Just to find out that very evening, that Thunder did actually kick and bite and eat all of poor Sweetfoot's oats.”
Baelor tried not to laugh too hard at the poor boy's blunder, but ser Duncan still gave him a brief side-eye, and then stopped abruptly, when he realized Baelor had seen it.
“So she'd tricked me, not her master. Or, most likely, me and her master. All men are fools, indeed. Ser Arlan told me I was as thick as a castle wall and he said it was now up to me to fix it and to make a proper horse out of that beast. And I even managed to find my way with Thunder, somehow,” – he said, with a spark of pride in his voice. – “I think he considers me a friend now. It's good he didn't kick little Egg, with all of his recklessness, not even once. That's it, Your Grace. That's the story.”
They sat silently for a while, ser Duncan sipping wine to calm down his tired throat and Baelor staring into the fire. It was not just a story, that ser Duncan shared with him, he realized, but a moment of genuineness.
“That's a good story, ser Duncan.” – Baelor said, finally. – “And an enlightening one. Thank you, truly.”
At these words, the boy slouched a little and stared at his well-worn boots.
“It pleases me to entertain you,” – he sad awkwardly. Not used to any praise, Baelor thought.
“Reminds me of how I was humiliated by a horse, once.”
“You?” – ser Duncan sat upright and stared at him directly. – “Humiliated? Your Grace, you're teasing me.”
“Not at all. It was back then, when my lord father was the Prince of Dragonstone. Do you have any interest in it, ser Duncan?” – Baelor asked.
“Sure, Your Grace,” – the boy answered eagerly.
And so Baelor began.
“One day, I decided I was old enough to ride skill-at-arms with my father's men. And mounted atop a proper warhorse, not some children's pony who has known life. Begged my lady mother to lend me one of her rides. A dornishwoman that she is, she has always had a great passion for horses. She wouldn't carry a lance or sword, but she is probably still able to beat some knights in a race,” – Baelor smiled. – “And so she let me do this. And that unfortunate morning, I rode into the arena, all dressed in black and red and carrying a tourney lance and the horse wearing a chanfron and a long rug. I meant to impress everyone, and to show off to my brothers and my lady mother. Only to find out, that once we got there, the horse won't move his feet and would rather chew on the hedge than obey any of my commands. Took me somewhat a dozen minutes of compelete and utter embarrassment, until the horse got bored and kicked me off and ran around all pleased with himself.”
Ser Duncan winced, anguished. Baelor wondered, whether he was worried for the horse or for the princeling that he was back then. Or was it just the fair share of bruises that Ser Duncan has had as well?
“My little brother would fuss around, ordering the men to catch the poor thing and yelling that he should obey me and that he was but horse of low station and a son of some broodmare altogether. And my lady mother would rise from her seat where she'd watched all that disaster, and come to me to help me up, and she would say to Maekar and I, that the horses require patience and kindness and compassion, just as well as anything else in this life.”
“And how did you deal with it?” – the hedge knight asked. An anticipated question, considering that ser Duncan himself had the displeasure of observing how another Targaryen prince deals with otherwise innocent mockery, and suffered a great deal over it.
“Well,” – Baelor shrugged. – “I would cry into my pillow that night. Until my brother crawled into my bed and hugged me and told me I was going to be king once and he would lead my armies until no one, not even a horse, disobeys me. It was a funny thing to hear from a someone who was only seven years of age, but anyway…”
Baelor sighed, a sudden sting of melancholy in his chest. Where did all that go? Now his brother would hardly speak to him, and he would sit there with his head heavy and his hands unsteady after a mere walk, chattering like an old man he is now.
“May I say something, Your Grace?” – ser Duncan's voice tore him out of his thoughts.
“You may,” – Baelor nodded.
“Well, I do not mean to offend you in any way, Your Grace, but had it not come from you, I might've thought this story was some ill-spoken tongue creation,” – ser Duncan said, thoughtfully.
“And why would that be?”
“Aren't you supposed to be…” – Baelor saw the boy struggle to choose the proper words. – “Unstained? A proper image of someone born naturally perfect?”
Baelor had heard a great deal of flattery, but it wasn't that, he realized. Just a genuine belief that he was built completely different.
Baelor sighed. “The soul of chivalry,” ser Duncan's called him. A pretty tale.
“Although the blood of the dragon it might be, I am still but a man, ser Duncan. Just as much as you. And sometimes it means being humiliated, or hurt, or feeling miserable. Doesn't make you – or me, for that matter – anything less.”
The boy sat there, still and silent, contemplating Baelor's words. The fire crackled steadily.
And then, as a wordless reminder of Baelor's own human nature, the pain came. He felt sick at once, his blood pounding inside his skull, his vision darkened and the wound in the back of his head burning again.
“I am unwell, good ser,” – he said. – “Would you help me to my bed?”
The boy stood up immediately, and offered his hand for Baelor to get up and his shoulder to lean on it. His breath was warm on Baelor's skin as they walked slowly towards his bed, and the confidence of his steps the only thing that mattered.
“As you can see, I'm far from unstained and perfect,” – Baelor managed to say, when they finally reached his bed and he sat steadily upon it. At least, the floor stopped shaking under his feet.
Ser Duncan stood towering over him with all his height, his eyes worried.
“Should I…” – he started, but Baelor grasped a fistful of his shirt, and ser Duncan got on his knees in front of him.
Baelor leaned in closer to him. His head still pounding and nothing to be seen clearly but ser Duncan's pretty face.
“But would you be so kind to let me kiss you, ser Duncan?” – Baelor asked, finally.
The boy looked at him with his clear blue eyes, the most true and loyal, and then:
“Your Grace…” – came out, like an invitation, and a plea, and a cry of someone almost desperate.
Ser Duncan's arms wrapped securely around Baelor's waist, and Baelor kissed him, a taste of sweet dornish wine on his lips.