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Dunk sat with his back resting against the elm tree, weak and weary, battered and bruised from the day prior. Birds were chirping, dragonflies were flitting about, and the sun was shining through the foliage. It was a beautiful day, yet it did nothing to brighten his mood. He would have preferred yesterday’s dull grey skies.
During their battle, Prince Aerion had inflicted a multitude of wounds on Dunk. There were too many for him to keep track of, but the more grievous ones stood out: The lance stuck in his belly, the sword hilt hitting his eye, the same sword’s blade embedding itself in his thigh, and the dagger tearing through his hand. Dunk thought that it was only courtesy of Steely Pate’s armour that he had lasted long enough to leverage his size and weight to overpower the prince. He was grateful, and he hoped to find the armour smith still in Ashford to thank him properly once he made it to the main encampment in the meadow.
However, he could not bring himself to get up yet. Even though his injuries had been expertly treated, he felt worse than he had in the immediate aftermath of the trial now that the tension had left him. The fear for his life and the overwhelm from the smell of blood and the clashing of steel had passed, leaving him with pain. Pain in his body and soul.
Dunk’s thoughts were interrupted when a shadow cast itself over him.
Blinking up, he recognised Lyonel Baratheon, dressed in black and gold finery and leaning on a cane shaped like a stag’s antlers. He bore a black eye and a few shallow cuts and bruises on his face, but seemed to be in good spirits. Standing beside him was an old man in rough-spun black robes with a maester’s chain around his neck.
"You look positively miserable, my friend. I’ve not seen you around since the trial, so I thought I’d bring my maester to tend to your injuries, as well as something to drink in case you are agonising too much," Lyonel said to Dunk while holding out a flask.
"That’s very kind, Lyonel. But I’ve already been seen to. Prince Baelor sent his maester yesterday."
"How very chivalrous of him," Lyonel said, making it sound more like a jibe than a compliment. He dropped into the grass next to Dunk and mirrored him in leaning back against the elm tree. "Let this witch of mine have another look. Wounds can fester faster than you’d like."
Dunk knew that well enough. It wasn't that long ago that he had buried Ser Arlan.
Lyonel started talking about what a wonderful tournament it had been, lamenting its end. Dunk thought it callous, and tried not to pay too close attention to the words. The jousts had indeed been exciting, up until Prince Aerion had deliberately maimed Ser Humfrey Hardyng and killed his horse. Then the trial of seven had claimed three lives, and Dunk could see nothing wonderful about that.
Hardyng and his good-brother, Ser Humfrey Beesbury, had both perished at the hands of the Kingsguard while fighting for Dunk. Or rather, with him, considering they had been motivated more by their own wish for revenge against Aerion than by a desire to support Dunk’s cause. Nevertheless, Dunk would have lost hand and foot had they not joined him. It was for him that they had died.
His feelings about the death of Prince Daeron on the accusers’ side were more complicated to parse, though Dunk certainly felt guilty about that, too. Dunk hadn’t seen what had transpired, and Prince Daeron had reportedly only succumbed to his injuries after the trial’s end, but rumours had reached even Dunk’s ears by now. They were already spinning into wild and wilder tales ranging from great chivalry to gruesome brutality, but most shared two common threads. First, that the young prince had saved Baelor Breakspear’s life; and second, that it was by his own father’s hand that he had been slain. Dunk was unsure whether he wanted to believe either. The tragedy of it all seemed too great to grasp.
He vaguely noticed Lyonel’s maester announcing that he was dying, but Lyonel refuted that statement instantly and sent the man away before Dunk could start pondering it.
Dunk tuned back in to the so far one-sided conversation when Lyonel suggested that he accompany him to Storm’s End. It was a gracious offer, far more than Dunk could have dreamed of mere days ago. But those aspirations had come at a price; he had caused nothing but misery.
Dunk winced in pain as Lyonel pushed himself up, his hand on the thigh that had been pierced by Aerion’s sword yesterday. The man moved to the nearby stream to take a piss.
"It’s a fine offer, Lyonel. But I ought to remember my place, lest I cause further pain and suffering."
"You’ve done the realm a kindness, you‘ll see that one day. Only good dragon is a dead dragon. Let them kill each other all they like, I say. We‘ll be better off without them."
"Fucking gods, Lyonel. Can you muster a little respect, please? Not all of them are like Aerion. Baelor fought for me at the expense of his own kin. And Daeron—"
Lyonel spun around and pointed angrily at Dunk. "Fuck that! And fuck you! I fought for you! I— Hardyng, Beesbury, the fucking apple boy, we fought for you! The drunkard was half the reason you found yourself in this mess, if you care to remember, and only the gods know what flight of fancy compelled him to fling himself at your dear prince. Who, incidentally, knew exactly what he was getting into, with no risk to himself—"
Dunk’s gaze had wandered to a black-clad figure approaching them, and Lyonel’s eyes had surely followed, judging by the abrupt silence.
"Good morrow, sers. Please, I had no intention to interrupt your conversation. There’s no need to stop on my account, Ser Lyonel," sounded the smooth voice of Baelor Targaryen. He halted by Dunk’s campfire, folding his fingers together in front of him. His face was a mask of polite interest.
"Your Grace." Dunk began to get on one knee, only for the prince to gesture for him to stop.
"As you were, Ser Duncan."
However, Dunk could not just sit back on his arse in the grass in the presence of the heir to the Iron Throne, so he slowly rose to his feet instead, leaning on the elm tree for support.
Baelor made no comment on this, but continued to look at Lyonel expectantly. His expression and posture betrayed nothing, yet there was something quietly dangerous about him. Dunk had also noticed it the day the prince had vouched for him, though he still could not quite tell what it was.
Lyonel undoubtedly saw it too, and seemed to be weighing up what to say next, his jaw working silently. In the end, he turned to address Dunk. "Consider the offer, my friend. Caravan departs after the roast." He inclined his head towards Baelor, adding, "Your Grace," and then limped away in the direction from which the prince had come.
Dunk’s mouth fell open in disbelief at the caustic remark, though Baelor merely narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line in response. Once Lyonel had disappeared from his line of sight, the prince turned to face Dunk, expression composed again. "Egg told me I might find you here, ser. I apologise for not coming sooner. I‘m glad to see you alive."
Baelor looked dreadful. Paler than when Dunk had last seen him, with his nose and his right cheek swollen and covered in black and purple bruises. The dark circles under his eyes had a matching hue.
"I must thank Your Grace for fighting for me, and for sending Maester Yormwell. I might be in much worse condition otherwise."
"I cannot take credit for sending my maester, but I will relay your gratitude to my son. I will also pass on your thanks to Maester Yormwell. Are you healing well, then?" Baelor took a few strides towards Dunk around the campfire, taking in his appearance.
Up close, it was plain to see that the prince’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Dunk quickly averted his gaze. "I— Yes, Your Grace. Your maester expects me to make a full recovery if the wounds are kept clean."
"That is good to hear."
"Although Lyonel’s— Ser Lyonel’s maester said I was dying. He’s a terrible maester, apparently."
Baelor’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Perhaps I should send Maester Yormwell to take another look."
"No. I mean, I don’t think it will be necessary, Your Grace. I feel fine."
"It would not do if you were to die now, ser. After everything that’s happened." The prince’s reprimand was sharp enough to make Dunk cringe.
"As you will, Your Grace."
When Baelor said nothing in response, Dunk raised his head to meet his mismatched eyes. The prince appeared to be deep in thought. Perhaps he was wondering whether Dunk had been worth the personal cost his family had endured.
Dunk felt a wave of shame wash over him. "I am very sorry about Prince Daeron, Your Grace. He was— well. He lied about me. But he did apologise, for what it’s worth. He also—" He shuffled uncomfortably. "I don’t know if I should say."
The prince merely tipped his head to one side.
So Dunk continued. "He spoke of the strangest dream. About a great dragon that had fallen on top of me. He said that I was alive, but the dragon was dead. He claimed it would come true. At the time, I did not believe him, yet here I am, alive while he is dead, just as he prophesied. I— I know people don’t seem to have many nice things to say about Prince Daeron, but now I wonder. Might it be that he meant to reassure me about the trial?"
Baelor closed his eyes for a moment. "I am aware of the rumours about my nephew, ser. As with most things, it's not so straightforward as people suggest. I fear I cannot enlighten you much about these dreams, except that Daeron was troubled by them from a young age and that they rarely, if ever, boded well. Daeron is— he was many things, but he had a kind heart. It grieves me that so few will even remember that."
Dunk silently promised that he would. He thought that Egg would, too. He recalled the little boy’s bitter tears when he and Maester Yormwell had come to find him. "Egg is heartbroken."
"Yes, Egg loved Daeron well."
"And some people are already praising Prince Daeron for saving your life."
Baelor grimaced and shifted uneasily. He started twisting a ring on his right hand.
"I— I keep asking myself, Your Grace. These lives lost because of me. Hardyng, Beesbury, your nephew. How could I be worth all that? Had I not fought, you would have taken my hand and my foot. But mayhaps I could have spared them."
"Hardyng and Beesbury were accomplished knights who chose to fight alongside you of their own free will, knowing the risks. Nothing good will come from dwelling on things that have already unfolded, ser. You should respect their decision. You honour them by making it all worthwhile, by making good use of that hand and foot. As for Daeron, there is plenty of blame to be shared, but I do not see how any of it should fall on your shoulders."
Dunk would have to think about that. On the surface, it sounded like wisdom, Prince Baelor’s voice steady and assertive. Yet, as Hand of the King, he would have been well-practised in sounding that way, Dunk assumed. The guilt written plainly all over the prince’s face told a different story from his words. Dunk wondered why he was placing so much fault on himself.
"Is it true that— I’ve heard people say that it was Prince Maekar’s mace that struck Prince Daeron down."
All vestiges of Prince Baelor’s careful composure seemed to dissipate at once. It was the wrong thing to have asked. Dunk the Lunk, Ser Arlan’s voice admonished.
"I— I apologise, Your Grace. I did not mean to imply that your brother—"
The prince raised a hand to stop him. His head was turned towards the main encampment in the meadow now, but Dunk could see that his eyes were glassy. "If people claim that it was in any way intentional, I can assure you that isn’t true. Maekar would not see any harm befall his family, least of all his children. Any of them." Baelor took a measured breath and tilted his head back towards Dunk. "I fear you must excuse me now, ser. My nephew’s funeral is due to begin soon."
"Your Grace, please. I am indebted to you." Dunk dropped down on one knee, suppressing a pained groan. "I would swear myself to you, if you would have me. I am your man."
Baelor sighed, but closed the remaining distance between them. He laid a hand on Dunk’s shoulder and regarded him earnestly. "I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm needs good men. Were the circumstances different, I would have gladly taken you into my service. But after what happened yesterday, I fear I cannot accept. I have to consider my family. It would be imprudent to ... complicate the situation further."
Dunk felt dejected. It had been foolish to offer, now of all times. Presumptuous and selfish. Thick as a castle wall, Ser Arlan’s voice chided. A horrible tragedy had befallen the Dragon House, and Dunk had had a hand, and a foot, in it. He had caused too much sorrow. Even if Prince Baelor refused to acknowledge it, Prince Maekar was bound to feel differently. He’d lost his son.
Dunk lowered his gaze to the grassy ground. "Of course, Your Grace. I understand."
Baelor took a step back. "Rise, ser, and keep your head held high. It was an honour to fight for you. If the gods will it, our paths will cross again one day. Under better circumstances, I should hope."
"As you say, Your Grace." Dunk stood and straightened.
Perhaps it is for the best to stick to the hedges, he decided as he watched the heir to the throne walk away, the man's shoulders slumping more and more with each step.