Chapter Text
No one ever said the gods were kind. If they were, they would not make your soul marks the last thing your soulmate will ever speak to you. If they were kind, it would be the first thing. If they were kind, it would be their name and the moment you would meet them.
But the gods aren't kind.
Dunk has never learned how to read. Never had the chance for it, no. But, when he was old enough to understand what the words on his arm meant, even if he didn’t understand the words themselves, he’d rushed about Flea Bottom trying to find someone, anyone willing to read the words. In the end, Ser Arlan had been the one to read the words, a frown on his Ser’s face, Dunk has never forgotten the words.
They say that some soulmates, if they’re desperate enough, if they care enough, they can change their soulmate’s fate, just through sheer force of will. If they succeed, the words of their mark change. But no one really knows if the stories are true, or if they’re just hopeful wishes. Hopeful retellings by a surviving soulmate, wishing things had been different.
“My brother’s mace, most like,” Prince Baelor says, and Dunk’s heart skips a beat in his chest. That can’t be. “He’s strong.”
By the time the prince is falling, Dunk is already moving, rising to catch him, cradle him in his arms. His mind a litany of desperate pleas and the word ‘no’ repeating itself.
He’s not sure what’s coming out of his mouth, if he’s even speaking a language at all. All he knows is that Prince Baelor is his soulmate, and his soulmate is dying. He won’t accept it, can’t fathom it. Not Prince Baelor, who rode for him when he didn’t have to. Prince Baelor, the Hand of the King, the Heir to the Throne, who didn’t have to even look twice at him, but he did, and he acknowledged him, he acknowledged Ser Arlan, and he bloody well rode for him against his own family. He’s not going to die here. Not like this. If the gods want a sacrifice they can have him. Not Prince Baelor. Never Prince Baelor.
‘Oh, but you are the salvation of his entire house,’ a voice rasps and rattles in his ear. Some of the stories, they said if you tried to bargain with the Stranger, he’d answer. Dunk hadn’t believed them, but he does now.
He does now, though he doesn’t understand what they’re talking about. Him? The salvation of House Targaryen? He’s their doom in this very moment!
‘If you are not there to save them from their own madness, who will be?’
I don’t care! Not Baelor! Please, not Baelor. You can’t have him. Take me, instead. Me, not him. Always me. Every hit that should be his, I will bear it. Every fatal blow, it shall be mine. Every gasping, aching breath shall be drawn from my own lungs.
‘Very well, Ser Dunk the Tall of Flea Bottom. Your soulmate shall live, but from this moment, all his hurts shall be your hurts. If he takes a cut, you will be the one who bleeds. If he gets so much as a bruise, you will be the one who feels the pain. If he takes a fatal blow, you will be the one who dies.’
Yes, please. Anything. Anything! Let him live, just let him live!!
‘It is done. I’ll let you live through this blow, just this once. Until we meet again, Ser Dunk.’
Pain blooms like fire through the back of his head, and his breath hitches. A weight pulls away from his chest, and someone is screaming. Why are they screaming? Dunk’s head already hurts enough, like someone has tried to smash his head open.
Gods, make it st-
“Your grace! Your grace! Get up, Ser! Get up, Ser!”
Oh, Baelor thinks, well, isn’t that fitting?
He waits for the darkness to claim him. The end of his story. The cool touch of Stranger’s hand upon his own, but it never comes. He lays there, in an unspeakable limbo, held in his soulmate's arms, just waiting for death that never comes. Are the words wrong? They can’t be wrong; he’s traced his fingers over those words since the day they appeared. The words aren’t wrong, so why is he still here?
‘A bargain has been struck. Your life is yours to live, but he shall wear the scars,’ a voice rasps and rattles in his ears, Baelor doesn’t know who they are, and yet he Knows. They are the Stranger. Though he knows not what they speak of.
What do you mean? He tries to ask, but they’re already gone and the pain in Baelor’s head has gone, too. Feeling has returned to his limbs, the chill that had started to set into his bones has been chased out by warmth.
Around him, Duncan’s arms slack and Baelor hastily sits up. He hears screaming. Egg, his nephew. His nephew is screaming.
“Ser Duncan! Ser Duncan, no!” when Baelor turns, he finds little Egg sitting there, and Ser Duncan’s crumpling backwards, his head falling into Egg’s hastily raised arms.
Baelor breathes and reaches for the back of his head again. He still feels the wound, but there is no pain. There is no blood rushing to meet his fingers.
“Ser Duncan,” Baelor exclaims, unable to pull his eyes away from his soulmate. “What have you done?” he breathes, remembering the Stranger’s parting words. His life to live but Duncan would bear the scars. “What have you done?”
Baelor doesn’t remember being bustled into the castle. He feels like he blinked and suddenly everything around him had changed. He thinks he remembers the sound of his brother yelling, but that can’t be right. Maekar was busy with Daeron and Aerion.
“Uncle?” Baelor startles at the sound of little Egg’s voice so near to him, his nephew’s hand resting softly on Baelor’s elbow.
“Egg,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “Where is Duncan?”
“He’s here, uncle,” Egg says, pointing behind Baelor. Baelor breathes and turns, finds Duncan splayed on his stomach over Baelor’s own bed. When had that happened? “Uncle?”
“I’m alright, Egg,” he answers, forcing himself to sit down at Duncan’s bedside. He looks for the horrible would at Duncan’s head, but it’s hidden beneath a sea of bandages, and when he reaches up for his own head, he finds he’s been treated similarly. He has no memory of it. “What did the maesters say?”
“They said you’ll both live. They don’t understand what happened, but… they said Ser Duncan’s wound was... not as fatal as yours should have been,” Egg answers. Baelor swallows. Of course, because what would be the point in the gods showing their mercy if he didn’t get to feel the burn of it? This is their punishment and their kindness.
Baelor breathes in, then holds his arm out, frowning as he finds his borrowed armour has been removed. He looks around, trying to find it, but it’s nowhere to be seen.
“Valarr helped you out of the armour, then he took it for repairs,” Egg says, answering the question Baelor isn’t sure he was going to ask.
“I see,” he murmurs, looking at his shirt sleeve. He sighs, then slowly starts rolling the sleeve back, until he can see the words just above his inner elbow.
They aren’t the same anymore.
Where before there was a desperate plea, that had left Baelor in no doubt as to which of their pair was going to be the one dying first, this new set of words is ambiguous. At least it seems to imply that it won’t be sudden, when the time comes.
“Have you seen his soul mark?” Baelor asks, looking at his nephew, who hesitates, then nods.
“Yes, uncle.”
“What does it say?” Baelor asks, knowing he could go searching. Ser Duncan isn’t in any position to deny him that currently, but Baelor won’t. Not after all that Ser Duncan has sacrificed for him. Will sacrifice for him, if he understands the nature of the deal that’s been struck.
“It’s changed,” Egg says, his haunted eyes shifting away from Baelor to look upon the knight on the bed. “I-I think you should ask Ser Duncan to show you, when he wakes up.”
“I see,” Baelor says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Thank you, Aegon. I’m sorry you had to witness that.”
“It was, it was really scary,” his nephew whispers, his voice cracking. Baelor holds his arms out and Egg all but throws himself against Baelor’s chest. “I thought you were dying!! And then Ser Duncan was dying! And-“ Egg trails off as he bursts into tears, sobbing against Baelor’s chest. Baelor just rocks them, murmuring reassurances to his youngest nephew.
On his arm, the words ‘I told you back then, Bael. Your man, always’ burn with an intensity he’s never felt before. Ambiguous they may be, but they do imply a greater distance of time between them being uttered and this moment right now, so Baelor will take them. So long as Duncan survives this, Baelor will take them.
Dunk wakes to a pain at the back of his skull, like his head is being split in two. It takes him far too long to remember what happened, the feel of his soulmate dying in his arms. His desperate bargain with the Stranger. It takes even longer to place his hands beneath him and push up, to settle himself on his knees upon a very soft mattress. He has to find… oh, there’s Baelor.
His soulmate is lying upon the bed beside him; Egg curled in his arms. There is a thick nest of bandages wrapped around Baelor’s head, but Dunk figures it’s a match for the lot he can feel wrapped around his own. He breathes out, relieved to know that his bargain worked. Whatever will come from it, Baelor lived. Baelor survived.
He hesitates, remembering the words that had adorned his skin since the day he was born. They should be different now. Even if they are, he’ll have no way of knowing what they say. He’ll have to ask someone to read them to him. Maybe Lyonel? He could ask Egg, but it’d be a cruel thing, if the words are his uncle’s last.
He sighs, and manoeuvres himself back down amongst the pillows, his head hurts. His limbs hurt. Every part of him hurts.
But Baelor survived.
Whatever else may come, at least there’s that.