Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the dark, there was Jena.

She was tracing the vivid line at Baelor's collar where his armour finished and his helm began, all flush with red-purple bruise and made yet starker by how deeply he'd tanned, riding at the front of the column bareheaded because the summer heat was stifling and also he believed it suited him that they knew who he was, that they had a face to the name. She pressed her fingers in and said, does that hurt, and he said, yes, a little. Far from the worst of his ills. She smiled and kissed him there, at his throat, at the back of his neck. Top of his spine and brainstem: she said, your helm is for wearing, ser. Your skin tells me true.

I wore it for the fight, he said.

Then I thank it for its service in protecting my noble husband's head, and I thank my noble husband not at all.

He did not say anything to that, though she was smiling against his skin. As he'd swung down from his destrier she'd been standing under the arches watching him for faults or breaks, a stumble to land. He came to her light of foot. And she looked at his newly broken nose and told him she liked him better this way. The same as she preferred him in summer, liked him to spar shirtless, bring out the colour in him that was his mother's blood. In only an hour he would come up brown to the waist of his breeches. She liked not the whiteness of him that spoke of hours in council or else helm and plate. And she'd said, touching the crooked bridge of his nose when he returned from the Redgrass Field, that it made him more of a man. He had not told her that Targaryens were not meant to be men.

In the dark —

He could imagine it was her touch, all around him, warm, a weight. He would not move, for fear of disturbing her. He could not move. Her lips at the back of his head where his hair was no longer long and dark but close-cropped and greying, a kiss, pain, a bite, with teeth, teeth of a dragon, teeth that were his brother's teeth and his Jena who was all around him was cold and that cold was seeping in, that cold was within, he'd always hated the cold. In the dark his Jena was dead, and his father, too, the maw that was inevitability, was time — the spring was come, and he would be King after all.

But when he woke it was dark enough to be winter, and that pain in his head was less the weight of a crown than a blow; he said, My father– and got no further than that before there was noise and light and all this touch, sensation, they were saying he's awake is he really awake is he you must check if he can he really be but what if he's–

"My father," he said again, and somebody, it was Maekar, Maekar said, "Father is fine, brother, tis you who is the worry."

Father will not be fine, Baelor said or did not say, sinking down again into that cold dark: he was not accustomed to the dragon dreams but he knew of them, he knew what they could be taken to mean. That it was still winter meant only that spring was on its way. And Jena had died in winter, when Baelor was pale as chaff and would put his hands to the fire to keep them warm, and Jena's cold cheek was a touch he could not forget, not even in the summers that had passed hence. Jena was cold around him and would be until the day he passed into flame and ash. Jena was —

He drifted.

There was Blackfyre, and Bittersteel. The crash of broken lance and stolen sword, also, Blackfyre the sword, Blackfyre the man. Bittersteel at the head of a golden column, a grim look that told a story, for once, rather than solely being grim: that any man could come at the head of something, see, look here, now, you think it means anything that they call you lord? Anybody can be a lord. Anybody can call himself–

He woke to the dark again, murky, and someone mopping his brow. Valarr, he knew, by the touch of the fingers, the slender wrist. He did not speak, let Valarr turn to the bowl, wring out his cloth. Only as he was turned away did Baelor say, "My son."

Valarr flinched. The cloth landed in the bowl with a splash. As he looked around his eyes were full and watery and he grabbed for Baelor's hand like seeking out some trick or mummery. "Father. You are– are you well? How do you feel? Tell me you–"

"I feel–" he cast about for the words "–apart, somehow. You are through a kind of– veil. It is dark in here, is it not?"

"It is– it could be brighter, yes. Father– do you recall what happened? They told me I ought to ask."

It was Redgrass and Jena's sickbed that occurred to him first, not Ashford Meadow, but Ashford Meadow too emerged eventually. "Ser Duncan. What happened to him? Is he well?"

"The hedge knight."

"The hedge knight, yes. Tell me–"

"He lives, so I hear. Licking his wounds and pacing up and down outside the castle wall all hours. Your latest loyal dog."

"Valarr," Baelor said.

That pain at the back of his head was white and hot and he could not see his son so well in all this dark. But for a moment Valarr was baring his teeth, castigation to the set of his mouth, before he relaxed all and said only, "Your Grace. I shall fetch Maester Yormwell."

Baelor let him go. When he brought a hand up, there was sensation in his fingers again, though it took a few tries to find his head. Thick bandages, dry and flaky with old blood. No clue as to how long he'd lain here, how many hours or days. He was not hungry. His mouth was dry but he could not smell the staleness of his own breath, attributable to little time passed or the head injury? he could not be certain — these the idle details he was thinking of, lying there, small mercy that he could still think at all. The way the mattress felt beneath him, the sheets, Lord Ashford's finest linen. The pains that were not the pain in his head: the sting of a fractured rib, the ache in legs that had spent too long sitting and too little sparring, training, he'd been growing complacent, losing his edge. This the matter he would count, same as twisting his signet ring around his finger, to remind himself he was a person who lived in the world same as anybody else: that this world could act on him, and would, at the slightest opportunity. Striking Jena down with fever or breaking his nose. One of his many, perhaps his most, un-Targaryen aspects. He felt out at the world around him because there was all too much witchery and far-seeing in his house already. That he had dreamed of his father's death was just that, a dream. Steered and seen through the murked glass of a crushed skull.

Maester Yormwell warned him to remain abed. As though he did not hurt to move; as though he would dare try to stand, not knowing if his legs would hold him. And yet the maester caught his look and said, "I know you, Your Grace. Not for nothing did you send me off to Prince Maekar first."

"I did not realise–"

"No, I am sure you did not," said conspiciously without a trace of irony. "And knowing Your Grace, there is a question I must needs ask you. As regards your condition."

"My condition."

Yormwell had changed his dressings without fuss, only a slow hum of talk that was his way, idle gossip about stableboys and scullery-maids. Unbecoming for a maester of the royal house as went recorded, but there was an easiness to it, a comfort. Yormwell had known them all since they were boys. And now, as he was meting out milk of the poppy with his face turned to the fire, he said, "The danger of haemorrhage has now passed. We can thank the gods for your survival, which was not at all certain. I had to trephine. A hole in your skull," he added, at Baelor's expression. "To let the blood."

"You did, did you?" Baelor said faintly, hand touching the bandage again. "How long?"

"Since the trial?"

"Since the blow. The trial and the blow."

"Five days, Your Grace. Your brother has been quite beside himself."

"I can imagine."

"Good, Baelor," Yormwell said, a rare lapse, turning to look him in the face, "tis well that you may still imagine."

"Speak plainly, Maester."

"This kind of injury is different to that of spear or sword. To be gutted, say, carries its own complications, but you will be yourself throughout them. The skull is different."

He knew that; of course he knew that. Had led enough men to their deaths and worse on the field, under heat and mud. One, a Ser Aran Allyrion atop a sand steed better fit for racing than war, had lost his wits under the feet of that very horse, kick in the head that left the mark of the shoe at his temple and clear fluid running from his nose and his ears, insensible, just gone. It had been down to Baelor, his liegelord — nephew of his liegelord, if the sovereignity of Dorne was to hold, as it yet did among House Martell's bannermen — to put him to the sword and thereby make an end to it. He'd heard that in the North they said the man who passed the sentence ought to swing the sword. This was no sentence and Baelor was no First Man, could hear Maekar's sniff at the very idea of it, but he could not consign the killing to anybody else. Made himself seen to do the thing with honour, mercy-kill. He knew from this kind of injury.

"There will come a time," the maester said now, "when we will need to assess the damage."

"And so your question is–?"

"There is no need to do it now. Five days' past is still fresh, your skull's commotions scarcely settled. Perhaps not even fruitful to–"

"I wish to assess the damage."

"Perhaps Your Grace would rather not know."

"There is nothing I would rather not know," Baelor said, teeth grit. The pain was travelling slowly out from behind to all around, encircling, a crown all of its own. "Or, I should say, there is plenty I would rather not know but nothing I can afford. It is my duty to know."

Maester Yormwell took him in, a long look, that look like when Jena's fever reached pitch and all the coriander and feverfew, all the bloodletting and fox lungs, none of it would do any good. Baelor had put his fingers around the grip of his dagger and said something nonsensical, like, where do I go, tell me where I go. Who I fight. That he could meet any and all foes on the battlefield and in the opposing put an end to them, just like that, this his most Targaryen trait of all. That he could fight the Stranger, kill death. It put him in mind now of Ser Duncan. His latest loyal dog.

He said, "Maester–"

"Very well," Maester Yormwell said, bowing his head. Coming closer with the milk of the poppy in his hand, all the sweetness of oblivion. To be in that dark. Yormwell said, "Tell me–"

And so Baelor told him.

Dunk found Egg watching the Lannisters take their pavillions down. He was standing beside the Lady Gwin Ashford, whose gown of fine orange silk had come up muddy at the hem. The Lady Gwin Ashford was a good head or two taller than him. She was talking at length and Egg was plainly not listening, watching the men lever up tent pegs and use their forearms to coil rope. Pensive. Kept bringing his hand up to his head and rubbing at the scrubbly hairs growing back in, silver-gold.

Dunk stepped up beside them and said, "M'lady."

She glanced up at him. "You know, you're supposed to say that to Prince Aegon too."

"What, 'm'lady'?"

She pinched her lips together but there was a smile tugging at them. Egg sighed in a huff all at once and said, "I wish they'd just get on with it."

"The leaving, you mean?"

"I don't know why they're still here."

"Perhaps it would've been rude, you know. To knock off overnight after–" Dunk stopped. Visor's cracked. "They have to pay homage. Their respects."

"That makes it sound like he's dead." Egg had never sounded so small — only the once, cornered in a lie in Dunk's cell, all that horseshit about only wanting to be someone's squire.

Dunk put his hand on Egg's shoulder and regretted speaking at all. Then elected to make it worse by saying, forcibly jovial, "This Lady's been keeping you company, then?"

Both Egg and Lady Gwin glared at him. Dunk was in no laughing mood and all this was rather beyond him, children whose entanglements would actually mean something, children who were not and could never be only children. He still felt half a child himself. And there was the dull throb of his black eye and the place at his side where his mail had stove in; the soreness of his armpit where he hobbled on his crutch; the bone-tiredness that was lying out on the roots of an elm tree and not sleeping, never sleeping, for fear of what changed world he would wake up into afterward.

Still. Their expressions amused him a little.

He said, as Egg's eyes slid inevitably back to the Grey Lion's tent, furs being rolled up and standard brought down, "I was asked to fetch you. Send you, rather. I've been told your father rather loathes the sight of me."

"He's just guilty," Egg said.

"Be that as it may–" a lot of that going around "–I don't wish to be in any more trouble with him than I am already. Be off with you now."

"Is there news?"

"I know not. Now go."

With another sullen look, Egg went. Leaving Dunk alone with Lady Gwin, the girl whose tourney this was, in whose name all this had ostensibly been done, who was watching him with a wry kind of smile that crept around the side of her face. Like knowing he'd be cornering Egg about this later: aren't you a bit young for all of that yet?

She said, like heading him off, "My lord father wishes me to take advantage of the princes' continued stay here with us."

He stared at her. "You don't mean–"

"Of course that's what I mean. And I do what my father tells me, else I get sent to bed without supper. But, between you and me, I had rather die than marry into that family. Into that silver-headed side of the family, anyway."

"I believe they're considered to be quite fair. You know, striking."

"Oh, it isn't that they're not fair. They're fair enough. Though I do prefer the look of the Prince Valarr, don't you? Those mismatched eyes. Now he is striking. But he, unfortunately, is married. And Daeron is a sot and Aerion is a villain and so I'm left to flirt with the child. As my father wishes."

Dunk had been rather wrongfooted by his own recalled image of mismatched eyes, not those of Valarr out of a soft and untested face but those of Prince Baelor, stern and wise and forgiving. It took a moment to recover himself; he said, "Are you not only thirteen?"

"I have flowered already. That makes me a woman."

"You should not be telling me that."

The Lady Gwin shrugged. "It is all their business. Why should it not be the hedge knight's, too? I suppose I should be grateful that there is no right of the first night anymore. Though I know not who would claim it. The King? They say a portly man of six-and-fifty, made sad and sick by the years. His heir, who by all accounts cannot currently get out of bed? When I am wed to his nephew, a boy of nine. I should not like to imagine it," she said, though by the verve in her voice she seemed to like imagining it plenty. That way he'd begun to notice little lordlings had, willing themselves into other worlds when they grew bored of their own.

He let his voice go hard. "You should not talk this way."

"Who are you to tell me how I should talk?" She shook her head. "No, I am entertaining it to satisfy my father but rest easy, ser, I will not be marrying your squire. Baldness or boyhood aside. It was a rotten thing they've done to you and you were right in your reply. The idea of marrying into that sickens me."

"I– uh, thank you."

"I do not blame you for ruining my nameday."

"Well– good. Thanks." She started walking back towards the castle, a strident trot as if to leave him behind, and he hurried to follow. "Wait– what do you know of the prince? Prince Baelor, I mean? You said–"

She looked up at him archly. "Are you sure you wish to know? Prince Aegon was more than happy to be spared the details. He went quite pale."

"I want to know."

"I suppose you are a knight, and knights are used to such things. They say he woke up raving the first time, scarce knew who or where he was. The second was better. But he lies abed and they say, do you know what they say?" She leaned up, closer. A yen for gossip. Dunk felt ill but leaned in anyway. "They say he cannot see."

"No," he said.

"Yes, so they say. They say it could be even worse than that, it's just too early to tell. You hear about them walking forever lopsided, in circles all the time. Our Protector of the Realm who cannot hold a sword nor see a foe to strike him." Lady Gwin was smiling as she might with her handmaids, gleeful and half behind a hand. Somehow reassuring, he knew, the idea that if bad things were happening to others it made them less likely to happen to you. But when her eyes flickered up to him she seemed to catch what his face was doing and the smile dropped. "I'm sorry, Ser Duncan. He is the only noble one of the lot and I should not make mock. He fought for you and for that they say he may never fight again."

"Don't say that," Dunk said, stumbling through the words. "Don't–"

"You did ask."

"There was no call to be cruel about it."

"Oftentimes I'm told I'm a very cruel little girl. And then the other times they say I am a woman grown and if it cannot be a Targaryen then perhaps a Lannister, or a Tyrell. Were the princes not still here I'm sure I would be thrust at your friend Ser Lyonel."

"I'm not sure he'd be interested," Dunk said absently, which she seemed to take to mean something beyond that she was thirteen and all too childlike, flowering or no, and she wrinkled her nose. "Your lord father will be missing you, surely."

"He will be praying to the Seven on my success. But you are right. I have spent too long talking to you. Farewell, ser."

She turned, skirts flying, and strode away across the grass. Too late he thought of all the other things he could have asked her: who are they, what could be worse than that, do all you noblefolk do this, make merry and scandal out of the lives of everybody else, great or small? Does it amuse you? But of course it amused her and there was also a strange resignation to it, that she'd be doing it for the rest of her life, that she would have nothing else.

But he should have asked her if the prince was taking visitors. If he might want protecting, in this new and vulnerable state of his, which Dunk cursed himself for as he thought it because of course he had three Kingsguard all shiny and white on parade outside his door and what good would Dunk the lunk be, thick as a castle wall, who'd brought all this about in the first place? A knight fell in service of his lord, Ser Arlan had taught him that. Not the other way around.

He walked towards the castle. Could not think of anyplace else to go. He had been haunting its walls of late, not seeking entry nor even particularly standing guard — he did not know who was meant to be there and who was not, so he could not stop anyone — but making his presence known, like doing penance. It hurt his leg to stand up so long. The first day Prince Maekar had come out and said, What the fuck are you doing here? and Dunk had just looked at him until he threw up his hands and went back inside.

The second it had been Prince Valarr, who had said nothing but made his hands into fists, white knuckled, fingertips somehow bloodied. Like maybe he'd been tending a wound. Mopping a brow.

Or else only biting at his fingernails; Dunk did not know how these great houses worked but he doubted, in a tone that sounded like Raymun, they were accustomed to getting that close. Except when they did — that was the other half of it — that these Targaryens married kin to kin, didn't they? He would have to ask Egg if he wanted to know how many had done so, and which ones. It could not be all of them. Prince Baelor's mother was Dornish, everyone knew that, and so it stood to reason that Prince Maekar was half-Dornish as well, though nobody ever talked about that part. Easy to forget when he was as blond as Aegon the Conquerer. And Dunk did not really want to know, beyond a morbid curiosity, and certainly did not want to ask Egg.

On seeing Valarr Dunk had taken one frail step forward, and the prince's face had shuttered off: there would be no apologies, no staged dramas. He turned on his heel as his uncle had and went back inside. Leaving Dunk to the cold: no one thought to bring him a warm mead or a blanket but no one bid him leave, either. Which was the least he could hope for and the most his life would probably amount to, he was thinking now, if Prince Baelor was never able to come outside ever again and in so doing ratify what Dunk had sworn to him, your man, I am your man — everybody thought it right and proper that he was out here self-flagellating, could come out here to look at him and feel relieved for a time of whatever burden of guilt they themselves had been carrying within the stone walls of the keep because here he was to take it on, asking them to give it to him, here, I will take it, my shoulders are wide enough to bear all your guilts at once — and they did not imagine a use for him beyond that. Less sworn sword than kicked dog.

Today, the sixth day, however, Ser Lyonel appeared with a flask of warm mead. Pushed it into his hand and said, "Bloody cold out here."

"It's winter," Dunk said, stupidly.

"Aye, and it's been winter all year, and the year before that, and I think the Northmen must grow pelts like bears up there to withstand it. Us with our thinner Southerner's blood, we must make do with wine."

Dunk sipped the mead, which was sweet and hot. "What are you still doing here?"

"I am–" Ser Lyonel waved a hand "–paying my respects. Vassal to liegelord. You know how it is."

"Makes it sound like he's dead."

"No, and thank the Gods for that."

Dunk looked at him sharply. "I thought you hated him."

"Best not be saying that so loudly, eh? Only good dragon is a dead dragon and all, your apple boy may have the right of it, but if the noble Prince Baelor had died in defence of the hedge knight they would never have let us forget it; it would be hammered about our heads night and day, that there yet remains honour in House Targaryen, that you should be so grateful and pledge obeisance everlasting to the scions of the martyred prince and consider not the valour of any other house ever again. No, better that he lives to be crowned a weak and crippled King."

"Why would you want that?" Dunk said, voice gone thick. "He is– he is the best of them. Surely. He fought for me. He could have given his life for me–"

"Fuck that, and fuck you. I fought for you. I– Hardyng, Beesbury, the fucking apple boy, we fought for you. Your prince fought for you against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing. And the Gods don't favour a fraud." Ser Lyonel scoffed and shook his head. "I bring you mead and a kind word and yet here you are, though he yet lives, worshipping a ghost."

"You can't serve a ghost. I think if he dies– if he had died– I wouldn't do as you say. I'm sure they wouldn't have me, but even if they would, I would not become their sworn man. I don't– I pictured myself, a fantasy, on coming here, maybe somehow doing well in the lists and attracting the eye of some lord of a great house that would take me into its service. I had no thought as to which one. But for all I have seen of great houses this week–"

"Oh, House Targaryen has not impressed you? Some sense at last."

Dunk could not understand it, this hostility, all that Ser Lyonel was refusing to see. The mead seemed to stick in his throat and he held the flask out; Ser Lyonel did not take it back. "I am his man, ser. I swore it to him. Right before he–"

"Oh, for the sake of– really? Did you really? Well, he's unlikely to remember it. I hear he's lost his wits. You could– I had thought you could come with me. Back to Storm's End. We would, you know, hunt and hawk and– sail, make merry. I'd sharpen that iron of yours so you don't make such a grand fool of yourself next time."

"Next time," Dunk echoed.

"Fucking Gods. You're quite the piece of work, you know? Quite the knight."

"I'm sorry, ser. It's a fine offer, it is. But I am– here, now. I can't just leave. What kind of knight would I be then?"

"There is more to the world than what can be covered by a dragon's wing. And that dragon's wing has grown less far-reaching of late. But," Ser Lyonel added briskly, "I can see you have made up your mind. When my beloved father dies, you will find me in Storm's End. Before then, no idea."

He turned away with nary a farewell, and Dunk did not call after him, though he wanted to. It was coming on to evening, the sky going to murky blue. His breath showed when he exhaled and it did not take him long to finish the remaining mead. He missed it as soon as it was done, its sticky sweetness, how it kept him warm inside. He had been colder than this.

Easy to forget, when you were in something bad, that things had been worse, but Dunk had always tried to remember it. Burying Ser Arlan in a shallow grave and bitter rain. Rafe with her blood soaking out into the dirt. It had been summer, then, and they'd glimpsed the column coming back up into the city as they were set to leave it, a Dornish lord riding beside the one that could only be Prince Baelor, dark-haired and tanned almost to the Dornishman's same colour. The smallfolk were throwing flowers at their feet and Rafe had told him how half these people had been cursing the Dornish and their blood only a few days earlier, when Blackfyre was closing on the gates. It was smart, she told him, to love the victor. Dunk — he was remembering it now — Dunk had thought it strange, then, hunched in the back but still tall enough to see clear over the crowd's heads, that to love a man like that might require an excuse. Who was so bright and brilliant on his great black horse. Eyes glittering over the smallfolk and smile brimming beneath a crooked nose, he must have been a score and five by then, perhaps ten, married with sons. Rafe had to tug Dunk away by his wrist all the way past the column, past the rear, into the dry cracked trail left by a thousand infantrymen and horses. That was the day she showed him how to dig for teeth.

Lights, now, were showing above him in the keep. He limped up and down for a while, worked at the circulation in his fingers. He had not dared look at the wound on his hand since Lyonel's maester had seen to it. Too close to the place on Ser Arlan's arm where the skin had gone yellow and green and shot through with red streaks, the blood poisoning that had killed him. If Dunk had had the guts or the presence of mind to do what needed to be done, take the old man's sword and lop it off at the elbow —

"Ser Duncan!"

Somebody was shouting at him from a window way above. It was Egg. Bald head shining in lamplight and moon, leaning halfway out to wave.

Dunk had half a mind to tell him to be careful; he had crippled one prince already, and could ill afford another. But Egg was already yelling down at him, "You can come inside."

"You– really?"

"Really! Quick, before Father changes his mind!"

Dunk was shuffled around the keep for a little while, servants and guards alike looking at him like trying to work out what he was doing here, now that he wasn't in trouble. Then they were pushing him towards their maester, for some reason, who was tutting over his old bandages and uneven stitches: some maesters, apparently, were better than others. This had not had occasion to occur to Dunk before. This maester was old and long-suffering and told him, letting the fluid out of Dunk's swollen hand, how he'd served all four of the elder princes since they were boys. Aerys who would not notice a wound until it dripped blood on a page of his books; Rhaegel who could not go a week, it seemed, without a fainting spell or a fever but always behaved right as rain when they got him abed, like it was all just a ploy to get Maester Yormwell to teach him cyvasse; Maekar who would wheedle Baelor, five years his senior, out into the sparring yard and then goad him incessantly into a direct hit which, when finally delivered, would knock him flat and require the maester's attention and at least a week of sulking before of course he went and did it again. And in the end it was Baelor who taught Rhaegel cyvasse.

Things Dunk had not heard even from Egg, who probably didn't know them. He said, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"You are to serve them, are you not? Makes you one of us."

Pledged in service to the dragon. It meant a whole dynasty, didn't it? Good and bad. If there was such a thing.

Dunk said, "Prince Baelor–"

"He'll want to see you, I expect." Maester Yormwell turned away to roll his tools back up together in their fine black pouch, dragon-stamped leather.

"But what should I–"

"He abhors sympathy. Otherwise, comport yourself as befits his station. He seems to like you."

Dunk stared at him. But the maester was already waving him off, back out into the dim hallway where Ser Willem Wylde of the Kingsguard was waiting for him with a nasty gash at his temple, neatly stitched no doubt by that same maester's hands but yet uncovered. Dunk wondered idly which of his side had struck the blow.

"Well, come on," Ser Willem said, when Dunk didn't move to follow him. "We ought not keep His Grace waiting."

"No. Right." Ser Willem was a good head shorter than him but moved like trying to shed a bad smell. It was true that Dunk had not bathed so recently — in the first days after the trial it had hurt too much to try to remove his tunic — and that he was regretting it now, though he wasn't sure why it was any of Ser Willem's concern.

They ascended a wide staircase and at the top was a fine carved door, the royal bedchamber, and as Ser Willem raised his hand to knock there was a crash from within and half-drawing his sword the Kingsguard said, "Your Grace?"

Then His Grace — Prince Baelor, that was the prince's voice, thinned-out but coherent, not raving, not gone — said, "What?" with a measure of fury in it.

"I have brought Ser Duncan with me."

"Let him in."

Dunk swallowed a sudden queasy feeling and went in. Inside it was darker even than in the corridor, lit only by the fire in the hearth and a few sparse candles. He'd half expected to find the prince on the floor after the sound but he was abed, propped up on pillows and pressing the fingertips of one hand to his temple as if it pained him. On the flagstones across the room lay a book, crumpled as if it had been thrown, and a fallen candelabrum whose flames were even now licking at the stone. Dunk hurried to right it before it caught at the pages but Prince Baelor was just staring at the fire, digging his fingers at his forehead.

Dunk left the book where it was as though it might offend him and took a hesitant step closer. "Your Grace?"

All at once, the prince looked at him. He seemed thin and ill, his head bandaged and bruised shadows in the pits of his cheeks, under his eyes, but those eyes were the same as before, sharp as a knife. "Ser Duncan. I apologise; you have caught me in a fit of bad temper."

"Are you–"

Dunk bit it back, but too late: Prince Baelor had seen it in his eyes. There came the touch of a grim smile around his mouth. "Well? Not quite well, though they tell me I am to live and I yet retain my wits, to the disappointment of the local gossip."

"I am so–"

"Do not apologise, ser." The smile had gone less grim, and his voice was gentle. "I drew my sword in your defence, yes, but twas I who drew it. I will not have you carrying some guilt around with you as though you deserve it. Would that all this could have been prevented, but that is a matter for the Gods, not us."

"Two men died for me," Dunk said. Had not intended to say it, but it came out anyway, all hollow. "Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Ser Humfrey Hardyng both. Hardyng was– after the tilt with Aerion, on the first day, his leg was broken. But he still fought for me, though he knew he might die."

"We all knew we might die," again gentle, but brooking no argument. "I trust you have not been ill-treated since."

"No, Your Grace. It's been– fine."

"And Ser Willem, he did not give you any trouble?"

"I– no, why would he–?"

A tired look crossed the prince's face, and he brought a hand up to his temple again. "A long story. His position is– complicated. My father appointed him in part to appease the Stormlords when Blackfyre was fomenting rebellion but succeeded mainly in offending our master-at-arms at the time, Ser Quentyn Ball, who'd sent his wife to the silent sisters to be allowed to swear his oath. I assume you know how that ended."

"Fireball," Dunk said, remembering. Ser Arlan would always say it so ponderous and slow, real weight. "He fought for the Black Dragon, not the Red."

"Insofar as he was given the chance. On the eve of Redgrass he was slain by a common archer as he sought to drink from a stream. And I, who would have faced him on the field on the morrow, was spared of having to answer the question of whether the pupil can ever truly best the master. You know, I was relieved at that. Maekar was furious."

"And Ser Willem–?"

Prince Baelor's brows creased a moment, like he'd lost his thread. "Oh, yes. Only that certain parties in the Stormlands urged him not to accept, and he accepted anyway, believing it a great honour, solely on merit. He was but eighteen. When we broke the rearguard, House Wylde was with us, but many of his friends and cousins were not. And we were not merciful that day. I believe he has had occasion to wonder, over the years since, why it is he fought Stormlord against Stormlord in defence of a Dornish heir. The trial might have been another such occasion. But he is a loyal knight, and true."

"Dornish, Your Grace?" Dunk said, forgetting himself.

"That is what they say, is it not? In the full of the summer I am the spit of my mother, you know. Save for this." He gestured to his paler eye, blue-violet, flickering to reflect the firelight. "Though perhaps now they will say something else."

It was not hard to gather what he meant. Dunk did not want to ask, could not bring himself to, and besides it would not be proper, it would not be befitting of his station. He stood there and twisted his hands together, winced at the fresh open wound in his palm. His gaze drifting to the book on the floor.

Prince Baelor followed his eyes. "I was trying to read," he said. "My sight is– it hurts, when the room is overbright, and there are places I cannot– well. But the reading is an issue of its own."

"I can't read."

"Well, you'll have to look elsewhere if you're to find someone to teach you now." Then, "My apologies, ser. That was ill-said."

"No, I–"

"Will you help me up?"

"Your Grace?" Dunk said, startled, but Baelor was already pushing back the coverlet and Dunk hurried forward, crouched to let the prince lean on him. He was in breeches and chemise, black like everything else he'd worn, but loose at the neck to reveal collarbone and downy dark hair and the edge of a mottled purple bruise. Dunk only noticed these things now Baelor was touching him. The feel of fine linen and how hard his grip was on Dunk's shoulder as he steered them a little way across the room, just to where he'd thrown the book, where by some awkward manoeuvre he bent down to pick it up. When he straightened he was trembling with effort, sweat on his forehead, sagging into Dunk's shoulder such that Dunk was tempted to carry him wholesale back across the room, but he didn't.

When they reached the bed again Prince Baelor was grey-faced, sinking back into the pillows. Dunk carefully took the book from him and set it on the table. He said, "I could've done that, Your Grace."

"Let it not be said I do not clean up my own messes."

"I don't think they would say that."

"They say a great many things."

"I–" Dunk shifted his weight. His side was hurting again, and his leg, from bearing the prince's weight. He was heavier than he looked, which somehow relieved Dunk, the solid muscle of him. "Your Grace–"

Prince Baelor opened his eyes again, blinked at him. "Sit, Ser Duncan, sit. I apologise for making you stand so long. And for–"

"No," Dunk said hurriedly, then coloured: who was he, to be interrupting a prince? That was not befitting of his station, not at all. But Baelor did not say anything, only smiled faintly. Dunk came to sit in the chair by the bed and wondered fleetingly who had been sitting in it: Prince Valarr? Prince Maekar? Egg? He cleared his throat. "I was going to say, I remembered where I saw you before. I didn't put it together at first. But it was right after the battle at Redgrass. We saw you riding back into the city with the Dornish bannermen, all the cavalry, and people were throwing flowers at your feet."

"They were, weren't they? I had forgotten that. Strange."

"Strange?"

"One spends so long wanting to be loved that one can scarce enjoy it when it comes, for fear of its removal. People move on. They have short memories." Baelor's voice was dimming, growing thinner. He said, "I fear I have overtaxed myself. Ser, if you would be so kind–"

He leaned forward a little way and Dunk helped him shift down the pillows. Close again, close enough to see the faint white scar at his brow and a healing scrape at his throat, bruised, what Dunk recognised as the chafe of ill-fitting armour. He backed away again, made to turn to the door.

"Thank you, Ser Duncan," the prince said.

"Anything, Your Grace. I– I meant what I said. Your man."

"I believed you," said smiling a little again. "And what did you make of me? When you saw me, after Redgrass?"

"Would that I'd had flowers of my own to throw," Dunk said. Prince Baelor huffed a laugh, something close to it, anyway, and his eyes slid closed. Dunk watched him a moment, watched his breathing even out. Then went to leave, and by the door, just under his breath, he said, "I thought you were lovely."