Chapter Text
“The Andals believed that if seven champions fought, the gods, being thus honored, would be more like to intervene and see the guilty party punished.” Baelor explained, his hands on the table closing into fists.
“Are you cowering behind some 6,000-year-old Andal foolery because you’re afraid to face this hedge knight alone?” Maekar whispered to his son furiously.
“No.” Aerion replied.
“Then why? Why not slay the rogue yourself?” Maekar returned. A rogue, Dunk thought. Is that what I am? Is this my punishment for my lie?
“Daeron has been wronged as well. Ser Duncan must pay for each one of his crimes against us. Or would we leave a matter of Targaryen honor in doubt?” Aerion replied, his voice rising at the end so it echoed through the room.
Maekar growled back “Do not speak to me of honor, boy. This is fucking nonsense.”
“Is it? No.” Aerion replied and hit the walnut on the table with the butt of his dagger. It skittered across the table, to Lord Ashford’s lap and then under the tables. The boy prince pointed Lord Ashord under the table to fetch it.
There was a moment of silence as a nutshell clattered to the floor. Dunk could not look at Baelor, who had made the effort the previous night to advise him on what to say and what blows in a fight to avoid. ‘No point in fighting just to lose your leg anyway’, he had said to Dunk.
Dunk’s gaze went instead to Lord Ashford, scrabbling on his hands and knees beneath the table. It did not seem right.
This is what a prince can do—make a lord crawl like a dog in his own hall. What might he do to a hedge knight?
It was only a Golden Cloak, after all, who had slit Rafe’s throat. She’d have laughed herself silly to see me like this. She’d tell me to run.
Instead he was standing still, watching the Hammer and the Anvil themselves, as they scolded a wayward prince. Aerion, for his part, did not seem to care, sprawled as he was at the end of the table, with his walnuts. Dunk burned at the sight of his ease—but for his childish cruelty, my biggest concern would have been the tilts.
Finally, Baelor braced himself against his chair and turned away from his nephew and toward his brother. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but there was iron in it.
“Aerion is within his rights,” he said. “If this is what he wants—if he would have the humiliation of our house set down in song and story—then we have no choice.”
Maekar turned sharply to his brother, his jaw tight.
“Humiliating our house?” Aerion scoffed. “I’ll win. He’s nothing. Less than nothing. No man will stand for him.”
Nothing. He had been called worse before. Dunk felt it all the same. He means to kill me.
“And so you would win without even drawing your sword?” Baelor said, still not looking away from his brother. “All of Westeros would know that a prince of the realm is no dragon, but a carrion bird.”
There was a thump, as Lord Ashford’s head came up and hit the table. Plummer, shocked out of his mummer’s play at invisibility, exchanged a disbelieving glance with Dunk. Aerion, for his part, straightened in his chair and set his knife down.
“Why should I care what Westeros thinks?” he retorted with an edge to his voice. “We are Targaryens—dragons. Let the sheep bleat.”
Lord Ashford’s expression changed at that, and Dunk was suddenly grateful that he was below the table, his face hidden.
“Aerion, shut up,” Maekar barked. Aerion’s mouth snapped shut, with an almost wounded look. The little prince is not used to reprimand. Clearly.
“You speak as if names cannot be worn down,” Baelor replied. “As if men do not remember. It was only one whisper, just a score past, that sparked the Blackfyre rebellion. I was not yet knighted when men died over it, when I watched your father, a child still, nearly die because of rumor.” His words were accusing but his gaze upon his brother was oddly beseeching, almost tender. Dunk would have squirmed with the intimacy of it, but he did not want to draw attention to himself.
Baelor continued, “Our name is all we have, and you would spend it for spite. Is it blindness, or folly? Tell me truly.”
“Brother, it is not so bad.” Prince Maekar said, still defensive of his son. “This fucking hedge knight struck my son.”
"Your son assaulted an innocent puppeteer.”
“He was acting in the interest of our house! She killed a dragon.”
“Of course she did! Dragons are the villains in all stories. That is why our ancestors chose them. And what story is this? Yet another rendition of the noble Warrior, slayed by the evil dragon, for his defense of a fair Maiden?”
Dunk felt too large for his skin. This was too much fuss for a hedge knight, an orphan boy left behind with naught by his name, improper as it was.
“So you would shame my son before half the realm for his sake?” Maekar retorted scornfully, with a dismissive flick of his hand in Dunk’s direction.
“Shame would first require pride. What pride is there in this farce? What other six shall stand for your son?” Baelor asked, his voice raising now.
“I would!”
Baelor gave a short breath that might have been a laugh. “I would not! Valaar would not. What of his brothers? His friends?”
“I would make Daeron. And there is the Kingsguard.” Maekar insisted.
“So win or lose,” Baelor went on, pressing forward in his chair, “the realm will see us friendless.”
At that, Maekar’s face bloodied with an even deeper blush and he reared back from his brother. Dunk knew then that something had passed between the princes, that he could not discern. These two fought at Redgrass together. They ought not be at odds like this.
Maekar kept on, “Aerion is within his rights—”.
“Then let him defend his claim.” The Hand of the King proclaimed. “And let Ser Duncan and Ser Duncan alone answer and be done with it.”
“A trial by combat,” Maekar agreed, the words costing him something, before he turned sharply to his son as though to dare further argument. Aerion, quelled under his father’s gaze, kept his silence. Maekar looked at him for a moment, his jaw set.
“Ugh,” Maekar grunted, as he stood and grabbed his son by the collar, stalking from the room with nary a glance back. Dunk watched their backs, a small sense of relief filling him with each step away Aerion took.
Dunk took a shaky breath. This is what you wanted. A chance to fight.
But the thought did not comfort him. He had fought before. Some of these fights had even been sparked by similar cruelty—usually an older man who took issue with looking up at him or a newly dubbed knight who wanted to sharpen their teeth on easy prey. Aerion felt similarly young and untried. But this was not some scrum on the side of the road.
“Ser Duncan,” Prince Baelor called, as if for the fifth time. Dunk blinked. He looked up to find room empty save for the Prince, who was staring at him intently.
“My apologies, Ser Duncan. I did not mean to hold you here, to witness us argue so.” Baelor said, his mouth quirking sheepishly.
“Brothers fight, m’lord.” Dunk replied, without thinking. Why would the Hand to the King apologize to me?
“It was an unkind thing, to speak of you in such a manner. I needed to put the matter in terms my brother and his son would understand. Although I understand it might not seem so, I sought to defend your honor.” Baelor continued, with a courtly grace.
Baelor’s account was so clean. It was this smoothness that knocked down the shock of receiving such an apology from the Hand of the King. What was left was the same deep rage that Dunk had felt upon seeing Aerion snap Tanselle’s finger, only this time it was kindled by Baelor’s steady, almost smug gaze.
“I..I understand I struck a Prince when I ought not have. Aerion is cruel, even to his own brothers so of course he wants my blood. I am a hedge knight and I embarrassed him in public. But all this talk of song, of rumors and rebellions. I do not understand it.”
“What do you not understand?” Baelor returned, gentle.
“I am a hedge knight. This should not be happening to me.” Dunk explained.
“Yes. You are a hedge knight, with a knight’s vows and even those knights within the Kings Guard do not hold them half as well as you do.”
“Because they are not as foolish!” Dunk shouted back.
“Because they are not as good. You cleave to your vows more strongly than you do to your own body. If the realm had more such fools, it might bleed less.” Baelor retorted. He was leaning forward in his chair now and looking up at Dunk. With a start, Dunk realized that he had stalked forward and was now looming over the Prince. Quickly, he stepped back and hunched his shoulders. What was he doing, talking back to a prince? Especially this prince, Ser Arlan’s soul of chivalry.
There was silence again before Baelor asked, amused, “Surely, now’s not the time for shyness, Ser Duncan? I know your fierceness already.”
The warmth in his tone worsened the blush on Dunk’s face. It was true though—they were long past propriety.
“It’s just…I’ve spent the tourney looking for men who would remember Ser Arlan and vouch for me. You have and now you have fought for me too. Against your own family? Why?” Dunk asked.
Despite his earlier jest, the blunt questioning made Baelor fiddle with his rings once more and avert his gaze from Dunk’s. Dunk hadn’t realized how heavy Baelor’s gaze had been until he found himself staring at the prince’s profile. Finally, Baelor heaved a sigh and turned to face Dunk once more.
He gave him a small, queer smile before replying: “Last night, I asked you how good a knight you were. When you left me, I found myself haunted by the very same question. As archaic a tradition as it is, I knew of the Trial of Seven and I knew there was a chance Aerion might evoke it. I knew you might need men and I wondered who might heed your call, to collar the Crown’s cruelty. If men were needed, I knew where I would stand.”
“As for my brother…” Baelor sighed.
“Well, it’s as you said. Brothers fight—it is natural among men and even more so amongst Targaryens. He will forgive me. We spoke of it last night, didn’t we? Of his desire to have his children compete with mine? It has made him blind to Aerion’s faults and as a result, Aerion knows no restraint. I am grateful you stepped in but I’d not have you suffer further because of my family’s negligence. With your permission, I’d be your champion tomorrow and fight in your place.”
Dunk did not know what he should say to that, if he could say anything at all. Not a week ago, he knelt in the rain and buried the only family he had left in the world, and now he stood, surrounded on all sides by princes: one a bully, another his squire and yet another seeking to be his own champion, to fight on his behalf as though he were a princess whose honor needed defending. As though he were important.
The last person and only person who had fought for him before had been Rafe. She had looked at his forever too large body and his clumsy hands and kept him at her side, even when doing so slowed her down. She would sleep, curled up against his back and it was the warmest he had ever been. When she died, it had been her blood that warmed his hands. And now there was Prince Baelor and Dunk was lying to him.
Dunk dropped to his knees, hitting the cold, uneven stones with a thud and cried. “Your Grace. Your Grace. I’m sorry. I cannot...you talk of goodness but I am not good.”
Baelor, eyes wide, stood and made to approach before stopping and asking “Ser Duncan, what do you mean?”
“I, I had the chance last night to say and I didn’t. Your Grace—Ser Arlan died before he could knight me. The old man, he knew he was sick, knew I had learned everything he could teach and he still did not knight me. I am not good. I have no right to fight nor honor for you to defend, not to your own family. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Dunk confessed, not daring to look up. There was silence but for his own sniffling. No wonder Ser never knighted me—look at me. I should have let them just take my hand.
Dunk kept his head down, not wanting to see the disappointment and anger that surely marred the Prince’s handsome face. Finally, there were the sounds of movement— a body leaning back and layers of brocade shifting with it. A great sigh and the rasp of hands on a bearded face.
"You lied. You asked me to vouch for a lie.” Baelor stated and his voice was tired. Dunk did not dare move.
“But no. I suppose you never claimed to be a knight— only that you had been his squire. You know, you didn’t even give your name then?” Baleor continued speculatively, before falling silent once more.
It wasn’t until the stone had leeched the warmth from his legs that Baelor asked “Who knows?”.
It took Dunk a moment to understand what the prince was asking.
“No one, m’lord.”
“Not even the boy?”
“No. Egg’s a good lad. He thought I was a knight.”
Baelor gave another great sigh and stood. He walked around the table and then, too quickly, Dunk could see the tips of Prince Baelor’s dark leather boots. He could not move for the fear that pulsed in his veins, some animal part of him convinced that if he stayed still, small and on his knees, no ill would find him.
“Give me your sword,” Baelor commanded.
The Prince is a good man. Dunk reminded himself. The soul of chivalry. He wouldn’t be cruel, not even with punishment. Moving slowly, Dunk grasped his sheathed sword and raised it above his head for Baelor to take.
“May the gods have mercy on us both”, Baelor muttered and then there was the familiar whistle of a sword being unsheathed. Dunk did his best not to flinch. He may have been as thick as a castle wall but he was as strong as one too. He could handle pain and he could handle dying.
The flat of the blade landed on his right shoulder.
“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Dunk looked up and stared. The Prince stared back at him as he lifted Ser Arlan’s sword to rest on his left shoulder.
“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” “Your Grace, you can not..”
“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.” “Please, your grace…” Dunk continued weakly.
“In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.” This time, when Dunk went to speak, the Prince reached out and pressed a handkerchief to his face. Through the fine fabric, the finest Dunk had ever felt, the heat of Baelor’s hand seemed to burn.
Dunk kept his peace through the rest of the dubbing, but burst into heavy, fierce sobs the moment he was done. He couldn’t remember a time in his life that he had cried so hard—not when Ser Arlan had breathed his last, not when he realized that the last he would have of Rafe’s rationed warmth was to be her blood on his hands and not when he had realized his mother was not coming back for him.
Baelor bent to place the sword down near Dunk’s knee and knocked his temple gently against Dunk’s own on his way up. It was the same knock he’d received from Sweetfoot on rough mornings. Dunk wondered distantly if it was treason to compare a prince to a horse. She was a good horse.
Baelor kept pressing the handkerchief to Dunk’s face until Dunk’s tears petered out and even longer, until long after his trembling ceased.
Dunk was sure mortification waited for him under the clear morning sun but in the coolness of Lord Ashford’s solar, Dunk couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about ruining Baelor’s handkerchief and his own pride with his tears. He was forgiven and a knight of the realm too.
Finally, Baelor pulled back and hooked a hand on his bicep, urging him up. Dunk stumbled up, his legs numb and Baelor caught him.
“Careful, Ser Duncan,” Baelor said, looking up at him. Dunk wasn’t sure what his face was doing but it seemed to please Baelor greatly, for he gave Dunk a small, toothy grin and squeezed his biceps. “I”ve already got your tears and snot. I’ve no need for your blood too.”