Chapter Text
Dunk never recalled how he left the field, how he came to the tent where the maester tended to his wounds. He didn’t even remember the pain; only the smell of boiling wine remained with him as some distant memory. He forgot how he got out of his armour, how he laid down, how the man gave him a stripe of leather to bite into as he poured the wine into his wound. He forgot, or maybe he had never registered any of it in the first place.
He remembered nothing but that he wished he were dead.
The pain, the wine, his wounds, the maester—it all faded into the back of his mind, irrelevant, insignificant, leaving him empty, like a shell of the knight he had come to prove he was. Nothing remained but an enormous crushing weight, so terrible he didn’t know how he was still breathing, how his heart hadn’t simply stopped.
In front of his eyes, the image of Prince Baelor Targaryen kept repeating the same words.
Let the gods decide if he was right or wrong.
The gods will let us know.
Dunk floated on the edge of consciousness, distantly aware of voices somewhere around, voices he should have been able to connect to faces, but there was only one face his mind could focus on. He saw nothing but the noble expression of Prince Baelor, his strong features, his mismatched eyes.
And heard nothing but his thoughtful, calm voice.
The gods will let us know.
The gods did let them know. Dunk couldn’t remember just what it was that the gods had told them, but he knew he hated them. He hated the gods, and he hated what happened, even as he couldn’t recall it, and he hated himself.
Oh, how he hated himself.
* * *
He must have passed out, because when he next opened his eyes, he saw the cloth of a tent above himself, which hadn’t been there before.
Before… He had been at the tourney field…
He had been fighting in the Trial of Seven. Which Prince Aerion had requested, clearly thinking himself brilliant for having tricked the dumb hedge knight into a trial in which nobody would take his side. But Dunk did find people who were willing to fight for him; on his side stood Raymun Fossoway, and the Humfreys, and Prince Baelor—
He rolled over and threw up on the hard ground.
“Easy on the wound,” a dull voice said and when Dunk finished vomiting and turned around, he found an old maester sitting on a stool, mixing something in a bowl. The man frowned at him and instructed, “Be careful so you don’t tear the stitches.”
“Is—” Dunk said and choked on the word because his throat was raw and aching.
The memory hit him harder with the feeling of soreness in his throat. He remembered now—screaming and begging, pleading to the gods and cursing them, blood seeping between his fingers as he held the Prince with only half his skull—
His throat constricted again, but he had nothing left in him to vomit. He recoiled and gagged on his breath, the image in front of his eyes—what had to have been a part of the Prince’s skull splattering on the ground with a wet plop, his face going slack and distant, his legs giving out. And at the back of his head, a huge gaping hole, with something mushy visible inside, something squishy and grey and revolting—
Dunk trembled on his knees, his left side burning as he ripped his stitches, his entire body shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
He laid his forehead on the ground, not caring about his vomit covering it, and hugged his sides, the wound stretching further, burning. He had half a mind to rip it open himself and bleed to death hunkered here. His fingers twitched with the urge. Or maybe they were only shaking.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
In the end, he ran out of strength before he ran out of regrets. The shaking subsided, leaving him rattled and hollow, his mind a jumble of accusations and questions. His wound ached and his legs were numb from kneeling on the ground.
Dunk wiped the tears from his cheeks, his fingers coming away crusted with flakes of dried blood, and stood up. For the first moment, he was certain his legs wouldn’t be able to carry him, but he stabilised himself on one of the tent poles.
The maester had ignored him the entire time. Now, he said, “If your stitches turn red and begin to itch, go see a maester. That’s infection and it will kill you.”
Dunk stumbled out of the tent, his mind filled with the knowledge and his heart with terrible, cavernous emptiness.
The gods will let us know.
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, didn’t understand anything, didn’t want to understand it. How was this fair? How was this possible? How could it be that Prince Baelor, who had done nothing but the honourable, chivalrous thing, had come to pay the price for Dunk’s actions?
And how had it come to happen that any price had to be paid anyway? It was all Aerion’s fault, for attacking Tanselle, for demanding the Trial of Seven, for existing.
Dunk wished he could turn back time and never come to Ashford at all.
* * *
He attended the funeral of Prince Baelor. They’d dressed him in the black of House Targaryen and placed a golden helm on his head.
They’d had to, Dunk thought somewhat hysterically, aware that his mind was catching on odd details, trying to focus on anything but the memory it kept coming back to. The memory of the Prince’s head, the terrible open wound, his face losing its collected expression…
He wanted to kneel, to beg forgiveness for his part in Baelor Targaryen’s death and pray that the Prince reached peace in death, but he took one look at Prince Valarr standing at the foot of the funeral pyre and knew that it wasn’t his place to do that.
“Your Grace,” he told the Young Prince when he hobbled past him, “I am so sorry. For everything. Truly. I didn’t—it didn’t—it wasn’t supposed to go this way.”
Prince Valarr turned to look at him. His eyes were the same as his father’s, but filled with grief and cold, so dreadfully cold.
Dunk was aware that his words were terribly insufficient. However, he didn’t know any better ones; even normally, he fell short on the right words to say, and now his mind was stuck on the moments before and after the Trial of Seven, recalling all the times he’d spoken to Prince Baelor, torturing him with the memories of the man’s nobility and kindness.
“You father was a great man—the best man,” he tried, fumbling through the words, “and I could never expect him to do what he did for me. I will—forever, I will be grateful to him and know that—that I’m only alive—”
The expression on the Young Prince’s face made him freeze.
“Keep your gratitude, ser,” the Prince told him. “It will not bring my father back and it gives me no joy to be reminded of your role in his passing.” He stared at his father’s face, the similarity between them even more pronounced now. “He could have been the greatest king since the times of the Conqueror,” Prince Valarr remarked, sounding far away. “And instead, here he lies and you will walk away. Where is the justice of that, ser Duncan?”
Dunk opened his mouth, but no words came out of him. He didn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t make the situation even worse. He’d already made it terrible enough.
“Be gone with you,” Prince Valarr told him and turned away, clearly done with the conversation.
Dunk was almost glad. Seeing the pain on the Prince’s face was horrible, and all the worse because he could feel the same pain mirrored in himself. His heart ached with the same sorrow as Valarr’s but knew he couldn’t ever mention that. Who had he been to Prince Baelor? Only a hedge knight the prince had decided to defend, because he had been an honourable man and he’d agreed with what Dunk had done. How could he ever dare equate his pain to that of a son losing his father?
He left the castle, only briefly considering looking for Egg. However, the boy would most likely be with his father, and he had no desire to see Prince Maekar. He hadn’t seen the fight, hadn’t seen the blow which had killed Baelor, so he was left to wonder whether Maekar had been aware of the strength with which he attacked his brother, or whether he’d only realized later, once Baelor was dead, what had happened.
Dunk didn’t know which of the two possibilities was worse.
He hobbled along the path, completely and utterly alone. Some of the tents and wagons had already disappeared. Dunk found he hardly minded; the fewer people were there to witness him limping towards the river, the better. He made his way to his camp, feeling worse with each step. His wound was beginning to sting and his legs burned with the exertion of walking.
When he reached his elm tree, he collapsed against its trunk, hitting his aching hip as he lowered himself on the ground. He hadn’t even been aware he’d hurt his hip. Too many things had happened; too many things had occupied his mind.
He should probably start a fire—it was getting colder and he would need to keep warm more than ever, now that he was wounded—but he found he had no strength to get up again and gather wood. He stared at the trees and bushes surrounding his camp, not seeing them.
Let the gods decide if he was right or wrong.
The gods will let us know.
“Why?” Dunk whispered to the silent camp. “Why did you have to die? What kind of cruel jape is it that you died and I didn’t?”
Nobody answered him.
Nobody would ever answer him. Baelor Targaryen was dead and the gods would never smile at Dunk again. Not after what he had done.
He shivered underneath the tree until the pain in his wound became numb, until the warm puffs of his breath faded into the cold night, until he was so weak that he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Surely it would be fine if he closed them just for a moment.
* * *
He dreamt about a merry burning fire, about warmth around the elm tree.
He could barely keep his eyes open. When he peered against the flames, he could see that there was somebody else in the camp with him.
“Who are you?” the person asked him. She—from the sound of her voice, she had to be a woman—spoke in a beautiful, melodic timbre, rich and resonating. “It was supposed to be Baelor. Where are we? More importantly, when are we?”
Dunk couldn’t make any sense out of her words. Her figure was obscured from him by the flames, and her voice, beautiful though it was, sounded muffled and distant. She shimmered and winked in and out of his sight, never quite there.
“Listen to me. Stop thinking you are asleep and pay attention,” she said, and then something else he didn’t catch. Against the fire, she was radiant, sparkling. And, most likely, not real.
“Leave me alone,” he whispered, not caring she wouldn’t hear him, his voice only a breath overpowered by the crackling of the fire. “Let me die.”
The woman leaned closer, bending over the fire. He wondered how she could bear to be so close to it. She had long, flowing hair which reflected the dancing flames, and she seemed wholly unconcerned about the fire nearly licking its tips.
“Hardly,” she said. “You won’t die until it’s done.”
* * *
Dunk blinked his eyes open and froze.
He would have expected to come to himself in his camp, cold and miserable. He also wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself in the seven hells, boiling in eternal flames, or drowning in the black pits of despair.
However, he was sitting with his back to solid wood and looking at a collection of wagons and tents, behind which Ashford Castle rose to the sky. A few lights were still visible in its windows, even as morning approached and the sky in the east was painted orange and pink. Puddles glistened on the ground, a memory of the night’s rain, now beginning to dry up.
“What…” he muttered and realized that his throat wasn’t sore from screaming, that his voice sounded as it always did.
Frantically, he reached for his left side, for the torn stitches and aching wound, only to find nothing at all. Save an echo of the enduring, dull pain, there was naught, his skin smooth and undisturbed. There wasn’t a mark on his body, except for the few bruises Aerion’s guards have given him when they’d pulled him off the prince.
Dunk sagged against the wooden planks, which he now knew to be the side of Steely Pate’s wagon. He’d come to pick up his shield and then needed a breath of fresh air, so he went outside, sat down, closed his eyes…
And he’d fallen asleep.
Dunk could hardly believe that he’d been able to take a nap only an hour before the Trial of Seven was scheduled to start, but it was the only way anything made sense. He’d sat down to calm his nerves, fallen asleep and had the oddest dream.
He recalled the vivid images, the sharp feeling of pain, as if it were real, the dull ache of loss, the way he wished he had died. He remembered the lance protruding from his flesh, the flailing morningstar, the swaying prince…
Something in him wanted to balk at the memory, to jump to his feet and bolt, run away from Ashford Meadow, from the Trial of Seven, lest the dream came true. Lest he once again had to watch a prince die, unable to do anything but hold him in his arms.
But it had been a dream. And what had happened in that dream had been so far out of this world, so large and impossible, that he couldn’t believe such things could ever come to pass.
So, he stood up and stretched his muscles and tried to calm his mind before the trial started.
After a moment, Steely Pate emerged from his wagon and walked with Dunk to the tourney field where the viewing stands and the fenced-off spaces for smallfolk were already filling. Many silent and solemn faces watched on as they crossed the field towards the paddock where they found Raymun Fossoway with his cousin’s horse and Thunder.
Raymun grinned at them anxiously in lieu of greeting, his nervosity about the upcoming trial palpable. But his excitement was equally as obvious; had Raymun been able to ride in the trial, Dunk knew he wouldn’t shy away from risking his life.
Raymun… in the trial.
Dunk shook his head to himself. Those were dreams, fantastic and unrealistic. Only in a dream would Baelor Targaryen come to fight for his side. In real life, why would the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms risk his life for a hedge knight? Only in a dream were such things possible.
However, as he came near, Dunk recognized Rhysling, Hardyng and Beesbury, preparing for the trial, Hardyng already mounted. In front of his eyes, an image flashed, of the man lying dead in the mud, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably.
“Sers,” he said hesitantly, his voice catching on the simple word.
All three watched him intently, probably expecting him to speak further.
When he didn’t, ser Humfrey Hardyng cleared his throat and said, “We heard from young Fossoway here that you were to fight against Aerion Brightflame. The prince owes me a debt still,” he tapped his leg very lightly, “and I intend to collect it.”
Next to him, Humfrey Beesbury nodded, smiling grimly.
Dunk turned towards the entrance to the tourney field and his eyes fell on Lyonel Baratheon, followed by a squire leading his horse. Dunk had never experienced drowning before, but he’d wager it felt a lot like this—his body locking in place, no air coming to his lungs, every sound around him muffled.
“It was just a dream,” he said softly, almost not hearing himself.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud, at least not until Raymun leaned closer and asked, “What dream?”
Last night—and it didn’t feel like it had been last night, it felt like a week had passed since—Prince Daeron had said that he dreamt dreams which came true. He’d spoken of a dead dragon, large and defeated, and of Dunk…
But dreams weren’t real. Dreams didn’t come true.
Raymun was telling the others something, thankfully, because Dunk couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth. He was afraid that if he did, he would vomit again.
Well, not again. When he’d last vomited, it had been in the dream. Therefore, it hadn’t been real. Because dreams weren’t real.
He could hear the crowd clamouring, cheering. With a sense of unreality, he turned and looked at the other side of the tourney field where three knights of the Kingsguard and three Targaryen princes had ridden onto the meadow, the last remnants of the morning mist coiling around their horses’ legs.
“There are only six of them too,” Raymun said, sounding puzzled. “They are a man short.”
Dunk swallowed bile. They were a man short now, but if his dream had been a prophecy, like the ones Prince Daeron had spoken about, then Steffon Fossoway would join Aerion’s side and Dunk would be left with six against seven, which, as he’d been told in the dream, was against the rules. And then…
But surely that couldn’t be. Dreams didn’t come true.
Egg sidled up to him. The boy—the prince—also seemed confused. However, he said, “You need to put on your armour, ser. The trial is to begin soon.”
Dazed, Dunk let Egg and Steely Pate help him into his armour, trying not to panic. To his side, Raymun Fossoway was panicking openly, alternating between loudly bemoaning where his cousin had gone to and assuring everyone that Steffon would be there soon.
As he took his helmet from Egg, the older Fossoway finally arrived, instructing Raymun to armour him, looking around haughtily. Dunk wanted to ask if ser Steffon had found the seventh man for their side, but he couldn’t force himself to speak the words. He was too afraid of the answer, because he was quite certain what it would be; now that he knew what to look for, the preening smile on the face of lord Steffon Fossoway was unmistakable.
In the end, it was Raymun who asked, “Have you found the seventh man, cousin? Our side still needs one.” He glanced over his shoulder at the opposing end of the tourney field and added, “But so does the other.”
Steffon turned to Raymun with an all too familiar expression and Dunk’s heart sank.
Dreams didn’t come true. They didn’t. They couldn’t.
He didn’t pay attention to the words spoken. He didn’t try to persuade Steffon to change his mind. He didn’t even move and only stared at Raymun as the younger man begged him to knight him.
Dreams didn’t come true.
He looked across the field where Prince Daeron was mounted on his horse.
I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, you see. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.
Egg was tugging on his hand. “Ser? Ser! Lord Ashford summoned you; you must go to him. Ser? Ser Duncan? Are you alright?”
He wasn’t. In fact, Dunk was so far from alright that any other feeling aside from mounting dread seemed more distant than the Free Cities behind the Narrow Sea.
But there was nothing to do. He had to fight, and he had to win. If he just gave up now, he was as good as dead. He would in fact probably end up dead—Aerion would demand his head instead of the gods’ judgement, and that would be the end of his short-lived knighthood.
Dunk pushed dreams out of his mind and rode Thunder towards lord Ashford in the viewing stand. The man watched him with a closed off expression, which closed further when Prince Aerion reached them too.
If there was one person Dunk had seen today who seemed in good spirits, it was the prince called Brightflame. He flashed his teeth at Dunk and lord Ashford both, obviously no longer concerned about one of them being loosened.
“It would seem you only have five champions,” he told Dunk, his eyes alight with some inner fire, as if he really were a dragon.
“Six,” Dunk said, “and I beg m’lord Ashford,” he turned to the man, “to give me a moment to find my seventh.”
In the corner of his eye, he could see Prince Aerion open his mouth, but lord Ashford beat him to speaking. “You may have a moment,” he told Dunk.
He’d tried to persuade the gathered knights to join him in his dream and it hadn’t worked, but that had been the dream. In reality, there was bound to be at least one honourable man who would ride by his side in the trial.
There had to be at least one.
He rode along the stands, gathering his words. “I know this is a lot to ask,” he began, trying to make eye contact with somebody, but all the knights seemed to be averting their gazes. “I am asking you to risk your lives for a man you don’t know. I am asking you to face the Kingsguard and the royal family simply because it is the right thing to do.” Still, nobody would meet his eye. Dunk turned his horse and continued, “Yet that is exactly why you should do it. Because it is the right thing to do. I didn’t attack anyone unprompted. I hadn’t erred in the eyes of the gods. I protected the innocent, which is what all knights should do. All I’m asking is that one of you helps me prove it.”
He stared at the stands. Nobody answered him, nobody moved to stand and join him. Across the field, Prince Aerion was laughing.
“Ser Arlan taught me to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves!” Dunk called to the gathered lords and knights. “He taught me that true honour lay that way. Am I the only one here who believes it?” He rose in his stirrups, his eyes searching the crowd. “Are there no true knights among you?”
The memory of his dream rang through his head as the words carried across the field and as if hypnotized, Dunk turned his head towards the river.
He knew it was going to happen and still the sight of the black stallion trotting onto the field shocked him, as did the knight on its back, clad in dark armour.
“I will take ser Duncan’s side,” the rider announced.
Behind him, lord Ashford asked, “Prince Valarr?” but Dunk knew whose face he would see when the knight lifted his visor.
And indeed, Prince Baelor Targaryen had come to the field, as he’d had in his dream, the heir to the throne riding into deadly combat for a simple hedge knight. Once again, Dunk was struck by wonder. How could a prince be so honourable and noble that he would stand against his own family to defend someone like Dunk?
The two Targaryen princes, Baelor and Maekar, drew closer to each other to speak, and Dunk’s memory attacked him again, the dream playing in front his eyes.
My fingers… they feel like wood.
The tall figure of Baelor Breakspear against the sky, his steps slow and careful, his body swaying. His helmet smashed and cracked, requiring two men to lift it off his head. And underneath the helm—
My brother’s mace, most like. He’s strong.
No. Dreams didn’t come true.
Baelor had turned his horse away and was crossing the field towards their side, so Dunk had no choice but to follow him.
“You have turned an interestingly green colour,” the prince remarked when Dunk reached him. “Calm your nerves, ser Duncan. Have faith in the favour of the gods.”
It would be polite to answer, but Dunk could find no words. He was left to stare at Baelor in a mix of amazement and terror, seeing him here on his horse in one moment, lying on the funeral pyre in the next one.
Unaware of the images flashing in front of Dunk’s eyes, the corners of Prince Baelor’s mouth tugged upward. “Truly, do compose yourself, ser. Agitation is oft the most dangerous things in a fight. You were in the right and the gods will judge you according to that.”
They’ve reached the rest of the defenders. Dunk tried to do as the prince told him, taking long breaths, willing himself to focus on the present. This conversation had never happened in the dream; he would have remembered it. He wouldn’t forget a single word Baelor had said to him.
The prince was explaining his plan with tourney lances and Dunk briefly wondered whether he shouldn’t heed the warning of the dream and take a war lance instead. However, it hadn’t been the lance which had prevented him from unhorsing Aerion in the dream, it had been his own ineptitude.
Maybe that had been the reason he’d dreamt the dream in the first place. So that he would be wary of his own shortcomings and perform better.
He nodded to himself. Yes, that was it.
Baelor was saying, “Leave the Kingsguard to me. Trying to defend themselves without endangering me should occupy them enough.” He glanced at Dunk. “Ser Duncan, your focus must be on Prince Aerion. Get him to withdraw his accusation, and in a few hours, we can be back to celebrating lady Ashford’s birthday with a cup of wine.”
That sounded nice. Dunk nodded and took his shield from Egg who wished him luck.
Luck, Dunk thought, his fingers running over the shooting star Tanselle had painted over ser Arlan’s winged chalice. The star meant good fortune, and he’d seen it streak across the sky, bright and burning. The luck would be his; he would win the trial and then he’d have a cup of wine with Prince Baelor, and nobody would die.
He took his place in the line-up, Lyonel Baratheon to his left, Baelor Targaryen to his right, and placed his helm on his head. The world narrowed to what was visible through his eyeslit, the knights flanking him disappearing.
It made Dunk’s heart skip a beat. As if, the moment he stopped seeing Baelor, his mind suddenly couldn’t overpower the terrible visions. As if the prince was only real as long as Dunk’s eyes were on him.
Ahead of him, Aerion took the war lance from his squire, its hardened tip gleaming darkly.
At the sight of it, his side throbbed with pain, and it was this sensation that made Dunk falter. How much could dreams hurt? How powerful was his imagination? Was it vivid enough to supply the feeling of the steel tip of the lance ramming into his body, tearing through skin and flesh, leaving only burning pain in its wake?
His heart hammered in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.
Dreams didn’t come true.
But what if they did?
The gods will let us know.
His hand on Thunder’s reins loosened, but before Dunk could formulate a thought, before he even began to wonder what he could do, Thunder moved.
That must have been the horn, Dunk thought wildly, his fingers tightening on the reins again, because he would fall otherwise. Thankfully Thunder had charged when the other horses had, since Dunk hadn’t even heard the sound.
With no other option, he spurred Thunder ahead, picking up speed. His fellow knights were all a few steps ahead and he glimpsed Prince Baelor charging at his own brother, his lance held in place so firmly that it didn’t even waver.
Dunk’s own lance was swaying madly. He felt like he couldn’t breathe; his armour was too hot and stiff, but cold sweat ran down his back, and shivers took over his whole body. And still, the only sound he could hear was the frantic drum of his heart.
I need to strike Aerion, he thought, I need to force him to withdraw his accusation.
Yet even as he attempted to stabilise his lance, his eyes sneaked to the right, following Baelor’s charge. He could see Prince Maekar now too, almost perfectly clearly, as the horses neared each other…
He could see him too clearly.
His eyes snapped back to Aerion, but it was too late to aim with any precision. Dunk pointed his lance in the general direction of the prince, his eyes catching on the gleaming steel tip of Aerion’s weapon, growing nearer and nearer.
Don’t look at the lance, he remembered, his hand faltered, and the world went up in flames.
His side exploded in pain as an enormous force tore through him, lifting him from the saddle. His right leg got caught in the stirrups, but the blow had been too strong and his ankle gave way with a painful twitch.
A second later, he slammed onto the ground, the pain spiking, the breath knocked out of his lungs. His vision darkened.
No, Dunk thought in panic. He couldn’t stay down; Aerion was still ahorse, and he would come back at him in the next charge.
He forced his eyes open, and managed to take a gasping, burning lungful of breath.
Then he tried to move and almost passed out again.
With a sick twist in his gut, he looked down. Three full feet of Aerion’s war lance were buried in his side, the splintered wood at its end pointed against the sky, the sharp steel tip grinding against his ribs as he took another wheezing breath.
Like a wave, the pain pulled him under, pulsing through his entire body, erasing every other sensation. Somewhere far away, somebody was screaming.
This didn’t happen in the dream, Dunk thought, and just like that, his thoughts came back to him—the trial, Baelor, get Aerion to withdraw his accusation.
Dunk clenched his teeth, grabbed the wood of the lance right where it had gone through his skin and pulled it out.
He feared he would faint but oddly, the shock was like a bucket of cold water. More than anything, it cleared his head.
Sound came back, yelling and screaming, the metallic clash of swords. Hooves thundered to his left as a Kingsguard galloped past, and behind him Lyonel Baratheon. Not far from him, Humfrey Hardyng was lying motionless in the mud.
Yet another horse’s gallop boomed behind him and Dunk’s body reacted faster than his mind could. He rolled to his side, the movement bringing the pain back tenfold and, almost as an afterthought, struck out his arm still holding the remains of Aerion’s war lance.
It hit something, the force of it pulling him through the mud, but Dunk held on fast even as his body screamed. Somebody yelled out, and then someone else.
Dunk dropped the lance, unsheathed his sword and used it as a crutch to drag himself to his feet, every part of him screaming with the exertion. He pressed his hand to his side, and it came away warm and sticky. Blood was flowing down his hip, darkening his trousers. Too much blood, he thought, although he was no maester.
He turned around to see what he’d hit with the lance.
Aerion was rising from the mud, his horse down. A long, jagged gash ran along its side, intestines hanging out of the noble animal, dark pink and squishy.
Bile rose in Dunk’s throat. The sight was worse than that of his own blood. The poor animal.
It must have been Aerion then, who had yelled out, Dunk thought and raised his sword. His legs were unsteady and every time he moved, pain pulsed through his side, spearing through his veins into his entire body. He had to win though. He had to win fast.
Aerion turned his head around, searching, but his morningstar laid far from him, half buried in the mud—he must have dropped it as he fell. He turned back, drew his sword and charged at Dunk.
From the first strike he blocked, Dunk knew he was in trouble.
His arms shook with each parry, his feet barely finding purchase in the mud. Aerion seemed to be favouring his left leg, perhaps he’d been hurt in his fall, but Dunk was too uncoordinated, unable to get a proper hit in to use it to his advantage. The prince advanced easily, his technique more refined.
He slashed through Dunk’s right calf, slammed the pommel of his sword into his side, making the pain from the lance wound blossom, forcing a whimper out of Dunk.
Dunk tried to block the next strike, but his right ankle twitched and gave out, forcing him down on one knee. He managed to bat Aerion’s sword away with his gloved hand, but the prince kicked him in the chest and Dunk fell backwards into the mud, a sob escaping him as his side throbbed again.
“Are you crying, hedge knight?” the prince asked, manic glee in his voice. Dunk couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine the mad smile, the fire in his eyes. “Cry harder and maybe I’ll let you live. Maybe I’ll take a hand and a foot, and watch you crawl around like the worm you are.” He laughed. “No? You can die then!”
The prince stepped closer, his hands tightening around the hilt of his sword as he switched his grip on it and prepared to bury it in Dunk’s chest. He raised his arms and his body stretched, and Dunk found some unknown strength in himself, grabbed Aerion by his ankle and pulled. By pure chance alone he’d taken hold of the prince’s right leg and the left he’d been favouring earlier gave out entirely.
The prince toppled onto the ground and dropped his sword, which barely missed Dunk’s head.
“Aerion!” somebody screamed, but Dunk didn’t have the time to worry about it.
He rolled over and pressed Aerion into the ground with his knee. The prince punched him in his aching side, but the angle had been all wrong and it didn’t hurt any worse than the wound hurt anyway. Dunk smacked Aerion’s arm to the side and punched him in his helmeted head, again and again, until the prince stopped struggling, until his body sagged into the mud.
“Do you yield?” Dunk rasped raggedly and hit him again, for good measure.
For a moment, the prince was silent and Dunk wondered if he hadn’t killed him after all. But then—
“I yield,” Aerion murmured and Dunk sat back, finally, his strength nearly gone.
Around them, people kept fighting. Nobody seemed to notice that the trial was over, that Aerion had yielded.
Dunk’s head was swimming, and everything was swaying, but he leaned forward, grabbed the prince around his neck with one hand and told him, “Get up and tell lord Ashford. Or I swear I’ll drag you all the way to the stands.”
It was an empty threat; he wasn’t sure he could drag himself to the stands, let alone anyone else. But Aerion didn’t know that, so he lifted his visor and spat out a mouthful of blood. He supported himself on his right arm, lifted himself off the ground and waved weakly in the direction of lord Ashford.
Dunk wasn’t sure it would be understood, but maybe the lord wanted everything to be over too, because the horn sounded over the field only a moment later.
He won.
He won the Trial of Seven.
He felt dizzy and not just with the victory. Fumbling around, he sought something to help him stand up. His hand closed around the hilt of a sword—Aerion’s sword, which had nearly decapitated him, and now it laid uselessly in the mud—so he used it to push himself upright.
Only a second after Dunk had stood up, Prince Maekar was by his son’s side, kneeling in the mud, checking the princeling for wounds, murmuring words too quiet for Dunk to hear.
He didn’t want to hear them anyway.
He turned away and his eyes fell on Prince Baelor, supported by Lyonel Baratheon, limping towards them. Valarr’s dark armour was scratched and battered, the visor of his helm cracked.
The helm…
Dunk tried to remember something, something important, but it all seemed so distant. He was terribly cold and his vision was clouding. He tried to blink it away, but it didn’t help.
Strong arms wrapped around him, supporting him, mindful of his wound. Somebody was talking to him, but it took him a moment to realize it was Raymun Fossoway. He had no idea what the man was saying.
From his other side, another voice was addressing him, deep and rumbling.
Dunk blinked again and suddenly he was sat down at the edge of the field, Raymun leaning over him. He didn’t remember crossing the field.
Was that concerning?
There was something he was supposed to remember. Something…
“Dunk!” Raymun waved a hand in front of his face. “Gods, Dunk, your side… Dunk, it’s bad. It’s really bad.”
Dunk recalled, with sudden clarity, the three feet of lance pointing to the sky, the blood seeping through his trousers, warm and pulsing.
He didn’t feel warm now.
“I think…” he began and a shadow fell over him.
Against the grey morning sky stood Prince Baelor, the fine details of his armour chipped away. Now, the metal was marred with dints and scars, and the prince was swaying.
“A maester is on his way,” he said, his voice oddly dull. “Well fought… ser Duncan.” He wavered again and Steely Pate stepped closer to him, letting Baelor lean on him.
“Let me help you out of your armour,” Pate said and reached for the prince’s helm.
Like moments ago, with the memory of the lance, the cotton in Dunk’s head pulled back to feed him another vivid image.
He couldn’t make sense out of it at first, not sure how he could be recalling something that hadn’t yet happened, but then he remembered the funeral pyre, Prince Valarr’s grief, and the hideous, gaping wound…
“No,” he said weakly, and the sound of his own voice was odd, because it sounded so distant and hollow. But his voice wasn’t important, he wasn’t important, only the prince in front of him. “No,” he tried again, but nobody could hear him, so thin his voice had become.
Pate removed the helm and cursed, taking a step back.
Dunk stared at the bright red, floppy thing which had fallen out. It lay splattered on the ground, a stark contrast against the dark mud. Numbly, he raised his head to Prince Baelor. A part of his skull was caved in, something grey visible underneath.
He had seen this before.
This had happened before.
Baelor Breakspear looked almost surprised by the turn of events and, with an unsettled expression, touched the back of his head. He swayed once more and his legs folded underneath him.
Dunk had seen it happen before. In some other world, he had caught the prince and held him in his arms as he died.
He didn’t catch him now. He couldn’t even move.
He stared at Baelor as he collapsed on the ground, as his face cleared of all emotion and gained that terrible, empty expression he remembered.
Dunk sighed and toppled over, the world and Baelor with it tilting away, until it all faded into black.
* * *
He was dead.
Dunk was quite sure about it—he remembered sliding onto the ground, the coldness starting in his fingers, spreading into his entire body. He’d never died before (how could he?) but it was rather obvious. He’d won the trial and then he died right afterwards.
And along with him, Prince Baelor had died too.
Dunk had learned nothing at all from his dream, unsurprisingly. Visions of things to come were wasted on a lunk like him. He wanted to be angry about it, but what was the point, when he was dead?
“Oh, finally,” a voice said, a drawled and languid one, melodic and sophisticated. In contrast to its pleasant sound, the tone was rather annoyed.
He’d heard the voice before.
Dunk opened his eyes.
He was in his camp underneath the elm tree, and a fire was burning in the middle of the clearing. It was nighttime and darkness surrounded the campsite.
What?
Across from him, bathed in the glow of the fire, sat a woman wearing a shimmering dress. He knew he had met her before— he would never forget her, since she was the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes upon. She had long, silver-gold hair and around her neck glimmered a heavy necklace decorated with precious stones.
Despite her comeliness, an amazingly unpleasant expression occupied her fair face.
“Finally,” she repeated, poking a stick into the blazing flames. “If you are done pretending you can’t see or hear me, you’d better tell me who you are and why in the seven hells you are here, instead of Baelor.”
“I’m… I’m Dunk and… Is this hell?” Dunk asked, although it didn’t look much like how he’d imagine it. He also didn’t think the woman would be expecting Baelor in hell. That was the last place where the prince belonged.
She rolled her eyes and tossed the stick into the fire. Now that his sight had grown accustomed to the dark, he saw that her eyes were like Baelor’s, each a different colour. One was deep blue, the other shone with bright green. It gave her an almost unreal air, like she was more than a mere human.
The woman said, “Stop acting dumb, Dunk, you know you’ve been here before.”
Dunk stared at her across the fire.
Some of his confusion had to be visible on his face, because the woman took one look at him and groaned. “Gods,” she said, “you have no idea, do you?”
This, at least, was familiar territory.
“No,” he admitted, pushing up against the tree, amazed that it didn’t hurt. He remembered a war lance in his guts, a cut running down his calf, half a dozen blows to his shoulders and head. Yet now, he felt slightly stiff but not in pain at all.
She seemed to be weighting something in her mind, her eyes narrow, but then shook her head. “Alright. First of all, this is not hell. I suppose that for the purpose of this conversation, we can call it a dream.”
The word ‘dream’ made his stomach lurch. The events of the Trial of Seven played in front of his eyes, lances, swords, deaths. It happened once and then it happened again.
“I had a dream…” he started but then faltered.
Had it been a dream? He’d been wounded in both cases, once probably fatally, so everything was blurred. However, he still remembered the thought he’d had just before the trial started. How much could dreams hurt? Could he feel the steel tip of a war lance taking his insides apart in a dream? Could he feel the coldness of death?
The woman nodded at whatever expression he was making. “You are starting to comprehend it, at last.” Under her breath, she added, “Not that I would expect you to.”
Dunk would take offense, but she was right. Dunk the lunk, living through some odd sort of a dream hallucination, with this divinely beautiful woman. He didn’t understand much of it.
“It wasn’t a dream,” the woman said. “You lived through the same event, twice.” She ran her mismatched eyes over him, hesitating on the spot where his wound had been. “I can’t see the event playing out, you know. I only glimpse bits and pieces when I sleep, and usually the ones you feel the most strongly.” She sighed. “But that is the trouble with magic. You never know what exactly it will do.”
Magic. Dunk felt compelled to argue that magic wasn’t real, but he had died and now he wasn’t dead. The evidence of the existence of magic was quite undisputable.
He attempted to sort through his thoughts, but it was a futile effort. He asked the most pressing question. “What happened, then? Did everything happen the first way, or the second one? Did it happen at all? How can the same thing happen twice?”
The woman pursed her lips. “Seven gods, I must have miscast the spell terribly. I shouldn’t be required to explain the minutiae of high arcane arts to some common born yokel.”
Dunk had understood about half of the words she’d said. Before he could react, the woman stood up.
She paced around the fire and said, “Fine, I’ll explain it. If I must,” which wasn’t fair to Dunk who had not demanded she did that. “For years, I’ve been searching for a way to change the future. I shall spare you the details but know that it is not particularly kind to the Seven Kingdoms. My dear, idiotic brother thinks that my efforts are in vain, but I’ve seen what will happen if I leave him on the path he’d chosen.” She hesitated. “Again, you need not know the details, but even though he is an idiot, the results of his efforts are mediocre at best and leave him engulfed in suffering.”
Dunk had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that the only viable option is to return House Targaryen to its full glory, ideally such akin to the times of the Conquest. If I am right, it might even bring dragons back.” The woman waved her hand. “Do not attempt to change my mind.”
Dunk hadn’t been about to. Honestly, he had no idea what she was talking about. And he had no idea what it had to with him.
“Is that why you asked me why I wasn’t Prince Baelor?” he asked because that was the only thing that made at least a little sense to him.
Surprise flashed across her face. “Yes,” she agreed, once again exploring something on his face. “I’ve carried out many plans that should have set the future on the right path, and all were fruitless. But Baelor as the king of the Seven Kingdoms could prevent many of the disasters that are to come.”
“Baelor died though,” Dunk said numbly. “He died because of me.”
The woman’s head whipped around and her eyes lit up. “Oh! Dunk.” She clasped her hands together. “I should have known. Dunk. Ser Duncan. The hedge knight.”
The hedge knight. As if he were somehow more important that the dozens of other hedge knights who roamed the Seven Kingdoms. As if he’d ever done anything else but completely flunked everything.
Well, Dunk supposed that if the woman wished for Baelor Breakspear on the Iron Throne, he was the hedge knight. The one who made it impossible.
The woman had stopped pacing and now she walked over to where Dunk was sitting with his back to the elm. She leaned over him, inspecting his closely. From such short distance, she was even more breathtaking.
“You are absurdly young. And you look really different—Whatever,” she shook her head, staring into his eyes, tilting her head from side to side. “That was the Trial of Seven, then? That fight where you were stabbed in your abdomen?” She drew back and shuddered. “I saw that part. Not exactly what I would have chosen to see.”
“My apologies for getting stabbed,” Dunk snapped, petulant, then immediately felt bad about it.
The woman didn’t seem to care. She sat down on her heels next to the fire. “The time is almost up. Let me explain it quickly. I’ve researched spells that could change the past; spells which could ensure Baelor’s survival. And I crafted this one so that it would let him live through his last day again, with the knowledge of what had gone wrong. That way, he could change his action and thus rewrite his fate. For some reason,” the woman glowered at him, “the spell didn’t attach itself to Baelor but to you instead. You can imagine my surprise when I cast it and appeared here, in this stupid camp, an unknown man lying underneath the tree. Well, I didn’t know who you were in the beginning. Now I know.”
Dunk dragged a hand through his hair, trying and failing to understand. He said, “But I didn’t change anything. I lived through his last day again and everything stayed the same.”
In retrospect, it had been gloriously dumb even for him. He woke up after all those miseries and decided to ignore them and just do the same thing that had happened before. However, how was he supposed to know it was magic?
The woman smiled grimly. “That is the beauty of the spell. Or the horror of it. I will leave that to your decision.” She ran her fingers over her necklace. “The way I crafted the spell, it is supposed to ensure that Baelor stays alive and becomes the king to save the Targaryen dynasty from its disastrous decline. Therefore, until you manage to achieve that, the spell shall not release you from its grasp.”
“Me?” Dunk’s stomach tightened. “But I don’t know how. I tried twice and failed both times. I’m not even a proper knight! I—I am—”
The woman tssked at him, like he was a cat. “It doesn’t matter, Dunk. The spell is cast and we are both trapped within its power.” She shrugged. “At least you are. I will probably have some nightmares about you, but we won’t speak again. It would weaken the spell significantly and I do not intend to waste all the resources and precious materials I have gathered to cast it just so that we can have a jolly little talk.”
She wasn’t getting it. Dunk licked his lips, his breath hitching. “No, I meant—Listen, lady, I—I can’t do it!” He stared at her, willing her to agree, to tell him that there was another option, but she simply watched him back, eyebrows arched. Dunk tried again. “I fought the trial twice and Prince Baelor died both times! And I didn’t even have the chance to try to prevent it! I had enough trouble not dying myself.” He frowned. “In fact, I died myself.”
“Do you believe in fate, Dunk?” the woman asked, as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Do you believe our paths are set, our stories written by the gods? Or do you think it is up to us, how our lives unfold?”
Dunk had little interest in philosophy now. “Are you listening to me? I can’t control what happens in the trial. Gods, I shouldn’t have even asked for it in the first place—” He straightened. “Wait, that’s an idea! Can you change it so that I return further back? So that I can—”
“No.” She drew her silver brows together. “Were you paying attention? It is not my choice anymore, what happens. Now, the spell is in process. Until you have saved Baelor, you will live the day, over and over again. Only when you’ve found the path to the future where the spell is fulfilled, you will be released from its power.” She looked into the fire. “Or when it runs out of power. However,” she lifted a finger, “that won’t happen. I know what I am doing.”
“Well, I don’t.” Dunk had to make her understand. He had to. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I can’t stop the prince from dying. His death is completely out of my—”
“I don’t care what you think.” The woman stood up and grimaced. “And neither does the magic. I am sorry, Dunk, but you will have to do it, and you will have to do it alone.” She didn’t sound much sorry. “The spell will not allow you to speak of it—which is a common safeguard most time-related spells have within themselves. It is up to you.”
Dunk opened his mouth and the campsite blurred.
“Oh, that’s it then,” the woman said, unconcerned. “Time is up. I’d wish you luck, but it won’t help you.”
“Wait—” Dunk said and it all disappeared.
* * *
He opened his eyes and his gaze fell on the wagons and tents of all those attending the Ashford Meadow tournament. Above them, candles twinkled in the windows of the castle, a dark shape against the bleak morning sky.
Behind his back, the wooden planks of Steely Pate’s wagon groaned as he sagged against them, his arms slack.
Oh shit.