Chapter Text
Baelor's wound had been grievous. When he had collapsed the day of the trail, Dunk had seen the whole of the realm collapse with him. To die at the feet of a hedge knight was no place for a man as righteous as he was.
The Gods had spared him the humiliation. Dunk couldn't begin to understand their ways. Maybe it was luck rather than divinity. Whatever the reason, he thanked the stars above and the ground below for the fact that Baelor still lived.
The maesters said he has not yet awoken. There was a chance he never would. As a result, the Targaryen host remained sequestered at Ashford even while the rest of the tourney started to disembark. The fields emptied of tents, people and horses, leaving in their wake mud-tracks that painted a picture of the previously bustling grounds. Dunk, against all the protests and strain from his broken body, remained as close to the man's side as he was allowed. There was nothing for him beyond Ashford.
However, the Targaryen's were protective and closed-off. Maekar looked at him with thinly veiled disgust but permitted him to stay. He had not yet crossed paths with Aerion, who still remained bedbound, while Egg occupied his free time. He was to be his squire when things sorted themselves out. For the moment, Dunk was given a post infront of Baelor's chambers, made to watch all of the comings and goings of princes, nobles and maesters alike.
Most did not acknowledge him. Though, there was a pattern to the visitors. The maesters came every couple of hours. Always first thing at dawn and last thing at dusk, and then intermittently throughout the day. In the case that the prince awoke, one was kept close to hand. Maekar came briefly in the evening. His face solemn, and when they exchanged a glance Dunk couldn't bear the weight of emotion behind his eyes. It was better to say nothing.
The family clung to a feeble thread of hope. As did Dunk. A hope that waned each day that Baelor did not wake. The maesters could offer no more explanation than a shrug of their shoulders and the excuse that it was still early days. People were starting to get restless. To cart the prince home in his unconscious state was akin to admitting defeat.
Dunk took his position at the door-side for the evening, relieving the Kingsguard who had stood there since morning. In truth, it was a tedious task. His wounds ached the longer he remained on his feet, but he would have it no other way. He had given himself to Baelor's aid, and he would see to any task that was required of him.
Besides, in the night fewer people came to the prince's bedside. In the quiet lull between visitors, Dunk could crack open the door and peer into the room. Despite the fact that it was the same image every night, he couldn't stop himself from looking. He looked in from the doorway. The fire burned low in the grate. Baelor's figure in the bed was statuesque, cast in shadow from dimmed lanterns and the moon's light spilling through a gap in the curtains. From afar, it seemed like he was merely sleeping, and that he would awake in the morning like any other.
"Ser Duncan."
Dunk jolted at the soft voice. He whirled around, already stumbling over an excuse, "My lord-"
It was Daeron. A thin blanket was clasped around his shoulders, and his hair tousled and astray. He looked terrible. Dark bags were etched beneath his miserable, bloodshot eyes, and a line of stitches ran up to his ear. Dunk remembered he was to fake a fall, and something like disgust rose in his throat.
"I am here to see my uncle," He said simply, and Dunk realised he was still blocking the door.
He took an awkward step back, still unable to put his full weight on one of his legs, and cleared his throat to shake the feeling of being caught. "It is a bit late for a visit, your grace," Despite his words, he did not prevent Daeron from entering, and the prince did not deign to reply.
He walked like a ghost— footsteps barely making a noise on the wooden floors, and the blanket hugged loosely to his frame. His shoulders were curved and sullen, and he came to a slow stop before the bed. He didn't look much like a prince at all.
"Must you watch me?" Daeron looked over his shoulder, and maybe Dunk imagined a slight wobble to him. "I am not my father," The corner of his lip lifted in a half-formed smile.
Dunk had to swallow down his disgust once more, though he could not ignore the anger that balled his fingers into a fist. "It is not a time for jokes, your grace."
Daeron's eyes rolled so hard his whole head tilted with the motion. He was a prince after all.
He spoke only when he turned away, his attention turned back towards his uncle. "Forgive me, ser Duncan. My nerves have been shot."
As have everyones, he wanted to say, though Dunk held his tongue. It would not do well for him to make enemies of any more princes. "Still dreaming?" He asked, judging by the other's appearance that he had come from bed.
Surprisingly, Daeron shook his head. It took him a moment to respond, though Dunk could see the muscles of his jaw moving. "No, I have not slept since the trial," He said at last, and Dunk's eyebrows nearly rose into his hairline.
It had been three days and two nights since the trial. How Daeron was still on two feet, it was hard to comprehend. "Since the trial? Your grace, you should get to bed."
Daeron waved away the suggestion. "Fate does not rest, I'm afraid," He murmured. Even though he could not see his full face, Dunk could see the haunted look in his downcast gaze. Such an expression put an inexplicable pit in his stomach, and goosebumps raised along the length of his arms.
Before he could ask any questions, Daeron turned toward him. "A great dragon slumbers. I do not wish to see what befalls him before it comes to pass," A full body shudder ran through the blonde, though Dunk felt no draft.
"I thought you saw someone die during the trial? If nothing happened then, then... things must be alright, right? He will wake up, won't he?"
Daeron shrugged helplessly, raising his hands in a half-hearted display of 'I don't know'.
Dunk swallowed thickly. He felt as if the last of his hope had been smothered like the dying flame of a candle. He looked away, fists clenched until he could feel blunt nails digging into his palms. It was a dull ache in comparison to everything else. "There must be something we could do," He hated the sound of desperation in his voice. Baelor was not dead yet. There had to be something they could do to keep it that way.
"We?" Daeron laughed in disbelief, shaking his head. "We can't do anything."
"But your dreams," Dunk took a step into the room. "You knew about me. About the trial."
Daeron's gaze cut through him, surprisingly lucid despite the exhaustion and the wine that must mar his senses. "I dream. I am not a maester or a witch. I can't put the skull back in his head."
Dunk groaned, turning away. He knew, realistically, that Daeron was right. What was done was done. That being said, the Targaryens were starting to get on his last nerve. "What if you dream of him dying again?"
"I will," He said flatly, as if it was the most guaranteed thing in the world. Daeron stepped towards the bed, fingers trailing atop of the quilt. "There is nothing to be done except to see what the morning holds."
Dunk breathed out hard through his nose. It would be a painful few hours, and the prince's words had done nothing to quell the uncertainty in his heart. If anything, it had made it worse. When he closed his eyes, he could see Daeron's melancholic gaze in the darkness. He carried centuries worth of sadness, saddled with grief of tragedies yet to happen.
"Will you sleep?" Dunk looked back toward him. Daeron had become one with the shadows, looming like death in his cloak over Baelor's figure.
The shrug of Daeron's shoulders was nearly imperceptible. He stepped back and gained his humanity again when he moved into the light. He made his way across the length of the room. "I will try." He stilled as soon as they were next to each other, gaze raking over Dunk's form. "If you hear screaming, I won't be in need of any rescuing, Ser Duncan."
He slipped by, retreating down the stairs with a hand on the wall to support himself.
Dunk followed him out of the room with a last glance towards the sleeping heir before he shut the door. His gaze lingered for just a moment, visions of a burning pyre flashing in his mind. He knew he wouldn't be able to shake the image of Daeron at the bedside, or the possibility that Baelor may not see the other side of it.