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    Summary

    "You've managed to fend off a group of gold cloaks on your own," Baelor says, over the rainfall that has started outside the shed. "That is what they swore; you attacked viciously. A boy no older than four and ten."

    "Three and ten," Duncan corrects him. "They stole my horses. They murdered my-they murdered Rafe. Of course I attacked viciously!"

    Baelor does not condemn him. It looks as if approval lingers in his dark gaze, even if he will not say it. But Duncan wishes to hear the words. He wants to hear it fall from the Prince's lips, and he does not know why.

    The feeling does not fade next winter, nor the next. If anything, it grows stronger.

    *

    Duncan is meant to be Baelor’s squire. Something far more consuming binds him to the Prince, through thick and through thin.

    Language:
    English
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