Chapter Text
In another version of this story, in some far and distant world, it is Baelor “Breakspear”, Heir to the Iron Throne, who takes his brother Maekar’s mace to the back of the head during the Trial of Seven. It is on a grimy, hay-covered stone and dirt floor that he falls into the arms of the newly named Ser Duncan the Tall and takes his last breath. In that distant world, the Targaryen family falls to ruin in the aftermath of his passing, and not even the fabled Prince that Was Promised can reclaim the might of their family name.
But that world is not this one.
For instead of the Prince of Dragonstone receiving a sundering blow to the helm, it is Aerion “Brightflame” who suffers the wound instead.
There is a hole the size of a dagger in Dunk’s palm. It bleeds into his glove and leaves his fingers feeling tacky and hot, but he can’t afford to deal with that at the current moment. A few feet away, Prince Aerion has already staggered to his feet, his movements jerky and unsure in the mud. Dunk rolls away from him, aiming for distance, and prays that he’s fast enough to push himself upright before the prince finds that wicked blade once more.
He’s got mud and sweat in both of his eyes, and his head is ringing so loudly he wonders how no one else can hear it, so he doesn’t notice the horse galloping toward him until it’s too late. Hooves thunder by his periphery, and he thinks about jumping out of the way before the decision is taken from him. A lance is jabbed roughly into his chest, and he finds himself on his back once more, staring up through the split in his helm at a gray sky.
Miraculously, the lance brings almost no pain, but it poses another problem: it gives Prince Aerion time.
The muck and ruin at his back clings to the slits in his armor, and he feels like he’s drowning in a marsh as he digs his injured palm into the ground. He needs to get up, he needs to run, but he’s losing blood, and he’s nearly blind with pain. His hand stings like fire, and the stab wound in his gut has turned his underclothes into nothing but sticky, ripped fabric, which aggravates the fraying edges of the injury further.
He hears labored breathing and looks up to see Prince Aerion stalking towards him once more, the thin tip of his needle-like blade pointed straight at him. Dunk’s panic overtakes him. He pushes up to run and gets a single step away before Prince Aerion’s blade slips through his chainmail and skewers him in the back. Dunk bites back a shout and allows the momentum to send him tumbling forward.
By some grace of some divine entity, his own broadsword lay in the mud a few feet away. He grabs it, spins, and parries the attack that Prince Aerion is already throwing at him, managing to pin the princeling’s arm under the weight of his own. Prince Aerion’s back arches, and he shrieks in pain, briefly stepping up onto his toes to keep Dunk from breaking his arm outright. It is perhaps the first time that Dunk feels he has the upper hand.
At least until Prince Aerion smashes the edge of his shield into Dunk’s helmet.
The whistling screech of metal on metal sends his ears ringing, and he reacts purely on instinct. He swings wide, and his arms are always longer than anyone anticipates, so Prince Aerion is unprepared for the slap of Dunk’s gloved palm connecting with the angular face of his mask. The prince’s head snaps to the side, and for a second, Dunk stares in stunned silence as Prince Aerion falls into the mud again.
“Come on!” The shout comes from the stands of commentators, and his ears are still ringing like the bells of King’s Landing, but he hears it. The voice is feminine, faintly familiar, and all alone in the jeering and cheers of the watchers, but it is enough. He is not alone, he realizes. Someone out there celebrates his victory, and that is enough to bolster him into taking a steadying breath.
When Prince Aerion launches back to his feet, it is with an array of delicate footwork and skilled swordsmanship. Dunk can hear him practically growling under the helm of his terrifying black and red mask, and his own grunts pass his lips with every blow he takes. Prince Aerion abruptly turns his back on Dunk and swings, using the angle to swipe at his legs before whipping back around. From there, they trade blows that would kill lesser men.
The chaos on the field threatens to distract them both.
Two horses trot into frame behind Prince Aerion—one clad in beautiful white armor of the Kingsguard and one bearing the familiar yellow of Lyonel’s mail—and the prince darts out of the way before the horses trample him. From the way Prince Aerion’s mask tilts to look behind Dunk, he’s sure there are others behind him. The field is closing in, the fight draws nearer, and he and Prince Aerion are forced closer together.
Some part of Dunk has to give Prince Aerion credit—the prince fights like a man possessed. Dunk knows that he’s hurt the prince, knows that his blade has found purchase under the expensive plates of Prince Aerion’s armor, knows that the prince’s breathing has become particularly labored in the last minute or two, but Prince Aerion shows no signs of yielding anytime soon.
Dunk feels like a fish out of water trying to keep up with the princeling’s quick feet.
He lands a few mighty blows on Prince Aerion’s shield and watches the man stumble back, advancing just in time to walk into the end of the prince’s blade once more. Dunk hisses in pain and staggers back as Prince Aerion slips in the mud, nearly getting run over by one of the horses that still bears a rider. Dunk touches a hand to his hip and lifts his glove to see it glisten with blood leaking through his chainmail.
The prince is quicker to get back to his feet this time around, and he swings with rage and anger as Dunk tries to parry. He gets stabbed in the chest again for his efforts and swings, but Prince Aerion sidesteps and lets him crash to the ground instead. He rolls back to his feet and meets blades with the prince once more, only to be interrupted by the arrival of someone on horseback, who drives the two of them apart.
He hears Prince Aerion’s snarl of frustration before he feels the sharp, piercing sting of the prince’s sword being thrown into his thigh. The arsehole actually threw the damn thing. Dunk knows he’s incredibly lucky that the prince didn’t hit an artery—he’s seen one too many men die after being cut there by Ser Arlan’s blade—but it’s hard to feel thrilled about anything when he’s currently bleeding from a dozen stab wounds and has an entire sword sticking out of his leg.
“Ser Duncan!” He hears his name, but cannot react as Prince Aerion advances, only his shield in hand. Dunk cannot go far with the blade still in his leg, and the princeling is kind enough to solve that issue for him by wrenching it from his thigh. Dunk is pretty sure he screams.
“Brother—don’t!”
At once, Prince Aerion disappears from his side as a shadow falls over him. Dunk gasps, heaving in massive breaths, as Prince Baelor, the Hand of the King, steps in front of him and drives his nephew back with a perfect, practiced swing of his sword. “Uncle!” Prince Aerion snarls, the words pained. “Stay out of this!”
“I cannot do that,” Prince Baelor says calmly, his voice warm like river rocks under the summer sun. He angles himself in front of Dunk as Prince Aerion stalks back and forth in front of him, trying to get around.
“Brother—son,” Prince Maekar steps up beside Prince Aerion, his mace half raised. He looks between the two of them, then glances at where Dunk is still gaping at the back of Prince Valarr’s borrowed helm.
Prince Aerion snaps the mask of his helm up, revealing his handsome, tired face. “This is between me and him.” He doesn’t move to attack his uncle further, but he does jab his sword in Dunk’s direction. Dunk doesn’t necessarily hide behind Prince Baelor’s sturdy frame—he can’t when he’s a full head taller than the man—but he makes no move to step back into the fight. The wound in his thigh bleeds sluggishly, and Dunk clamps a hand over it to staunch what he can.
“Aerion,” Prince Maekar sighs. “We told you—”
“You called for a Trial of Seven,” Prince Baelor reminds Prince Aerion plainly. “If you had wished for a solo fight, you should’ve accepted Ser Duncan’s offer of a one-on-one combat.”
“I had to defend our honor—”
“This is not about honor, and you know it,” Prince Baelor snaps sternly. The volume of his voice does not rise, but the words take on a sharper edge. “This is about your proclivities for violence. Ser Duncan was merely your scapegoat.”
Something complicated happens on Prince Aerion’s face. He grits his jaw. “That’s not true.”
“Then what do you call this, hm?” Prince Baelor gestures around the tourney field, at the carnage of broken and bleeding men scattered about. “Does this look like honor to you?”
“Uncle, move,” Prince Aerion begs, and the frustration in his voice is palpable. His blue-violet eyes are wide and imploring, and Dunk is struck by how pretty the prince truly is. “I will not raise a sword to you, but I will finish this—I swear it. I will not dishonor us further.”
“Baelor…” Prince Maekar tries, but Prince Baelor shakes his head.
“I cannot allow you to kill Ser Duncan, Aerion,” Prince Baelor says, and though Dunk is eased by the words, there’s a sadness in the prince’s voice. He raises his sword defensively, making his position abundantly clear. “You have forced my hand.”
“My fight was never with you,” Prince Aerion says quietly. His eyes drift to Prince Baelor’s sword, then lock onto Dunk’s through his slitted helmet. There is no longer anger on his face, and Dunk finds himself unsettled by the fact that he can no longer read the emotions on Prince Aerion’s face.
Prince Baelor’s posture relaxes just slightly. “Then we are at an impasse, nephew.”
Around them, the fight rages on.
Dunk has a single moment to glance around the field. True to his word, Prince Daeron lay in the muck on the other side of the field, his horse safely guided out of the pit by a stableboy. Two other bodies lay in the fog, but Dunk’s eyes aren’t good enough to see insignias. He’s pretty sure Raymun is trouncing Ser Steffon some thirty paces away, and the Kingsguard are still tussling with a giddy Ser Lyonel.
“You,” Maekar hisses, and then with one strong hand, he grips Dunk by the arm and yanks him from behind the shield of Prince Baelor’s body. “This is your mess. Quit cowering.”
The moment Dunk is free from Prince Baelor’s impromptu protection, Prince Aerion swings. His own father shouts and ducks out of the way as his blade drives into the mail around Dunk’s chest. Dunk grunts in pain, and then the fight is back on—only this time, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar dance around them. Prince Aerion’s next move is blocked by Prince Baelor’s blade, and Dunk’s own parry is swiped aside by Prince Maekar’s mace.
Prince Aerion has the foresight to snap his helmet back into place, and Dunk is left once again staring at the harrowing visage of the prince’s beautiful face, forever carved in the metal work of his mask. Dunk can tell that Prince Aerion is doing everything in his power to push around his uncle to get to him, but Prince Baelor sticks to him like a particularly skilled shadow, keeping his nephew just out of reach.
Prince Maekar is the wildcard.
His swings have so much force that Dunk is sure a smaller man would be thrown ten or twenty feet back. He aims for both Dunk and his brother but resolutely avoids the areas that Prince Aerion weaves into. It is a messy fight. Dunk blocks and bobs as he can, but he suffers blow after blow from the pale-haired father and son duo. Prince Baelor does what he can to absorb Prince Aerion’s fury, but it’s not enough.
It is a series of concurrent, unfortunate events that lead to the end of the fight.
The first is this: Prince Aerion uses his speed to dart around his uncle, spinning at the last second as his uncle dives to the left to block where he would have been standing. Instead, Prince Aerion spins around him and trades places with Prince Baelor in a single step, coming face to face with Dunk once more. He kicks backwards, driving Prince Baelor a staggering step forward, further away from the two of them.
The second is this: Prince Aerion whips his sword up high, and Dunk goes to parry, except he meets only air. Prince Aerion drops to a knee and drags the side of his blade across the back of Dunk’s thighs. The angle isn’t right to cut through the mail entirely, but it hurts enough that Dunk shouts in pain and drops to his knees in the mud, putting him at eye level with Prince Aerion for the very first time.
The third is this: Prince Maekar watches as his son steps up to face Dunk. He sees Prince Aerion lift his sword, calculates the trajectory of the swing based on the arch of his shoulder, then notices Dunk doing the same thing. With a massive overhead swing, Prince Maekar brings the mace forward and up, attempting to knock Dunk’s parry aside, just as Dunk falls to his knees as Prince Aerion changes course mid-swing.
The fourth and final incident is this: Aerion stands back up.
It is an accident. A blistering, horrifying accident that happens so quickly, Dunk doesn’t even process it at first.
Dunk meets the still gaze of Prince Aerion’s mask. He’s sure his own eyes are wide with fear and panic, but he can’t read a face that doesn’t emote. Prince Aerion stands back up, and Dunk is sure this is going to be it, but then Prince Maekar’s mace connects hard with the back of his own son’s head. There is a sickening crack, and Prince Aerion lets out a gasping noise before falling eerily silent.
“No!” Prince Maekar drops the mace like it’s burned him, and he lunges forward, but Prince Aerion is already falling.
“Aerion!” The worried call of Prince Baelor spurs Dunk into action.
Dunk dives forward, ignoring the aches and groans of his own body, and catches the limp form of Prince Aerion “Brightflame” as he falls, landing in Dunk’s cradled arms like a full sack of spuds. Dunk feels worry gnawing at him when the prince doesn’t make a single sound on impact. He’s too still, too loose-limbed, and his armor is so thick and padded that Dunk can’t even tell if the man is breathing.
Despite everything—the trial, the lying, Tanselle—Dunk is gentle when he turns Prince Aerion over. The black of his helm is crushed inwards, but not nearly as bad as it could’ve been. Beside him, the two princes land on their knees and shove Dunk back slightly. Prince Maekar’s hands fret anxiously around his son, unsure of where to touch, shaking with fear and anguish as he hyperventilates.
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean it—”
“Ser Duncan,” Prince Baelor’s voice is no longer calm. There’s a half-frantic edge to it, but his voice remains warm and steady. His voice is that of someone who must be a future King in this moment, not a panicking uncle. “Hold him as still as possible.”
“Aye, your Grace,” Dunk agrees, his own voice sounding choked to his ears. The blow was meant for him. Prince Maekar had been aiming for Dunk’s arm, and Prince Aerion was so fucking short that it—
“I didn’t mean it…” Prince Maekar weeps softly at Dunk’s right side, babbling nonsensically as he finally places his hands on his son’s shoulders. Dunk is supporting the princeling’s torso and head, the mask carefully angled face-down into the curve of Dunk’s elbow so his father and uncle can see the back of it. One of Dunk’s hands is curled under the prince to curve around his shoulder, and the other curls around his hip.
“Brother,” Prince Baelor says. His fingers dig under the smashed helm of Prince Aerion’s armor and find the curve of his angular jaw. Prince Baelor’s face takes on a look of deep concentration for a heartbeat before it soothes into utter relief. “Calm yourself. He still lives.”
Prince Maekar heaves a gasping breath and throws his helmet to the side. It bounces off the mud and rolls away into the fog. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“Aerion, can you hear us?” Prince Baelor says, slightly louder than necessary. They’re all hunched over Prince Aerion’s body, sharing breaths between them as they lean over his prostrate form. “If you can hear us, make a sound.”
The prince lay still and silent.
“Perhaps he’s unconscious?” Dunk swallows.
“We need to get the helmet off of him to check his wound,” Prince Baelor says, meeting Dunk’s eyes through the slats in his son’s helm.
“Milord—your Grace,” Dunk stammers. “A maester might be better suited.”
“I agree. Regardless, this fight is over.” Prince Baelor stands to his feet, leaving Dunk and Prince Maekar kneeling in the mud. Dunk chances a glance up to realize the fighting has all but stopped. Raymun and Steffon stand several feet apart, breathing haggardly. Lyonel’s helm is tilted in his direction, though the two Kingsguard—Sers Donnel and Roland—are watching Prince Baelor stalk across the tourney field.
At the barricade, Egg is wide-eyed, clinging to the wooden beam so hard he’ll surely have splinters. Behind him, the spectators stand on their feet, silent for the first time all morning. In the commotion and panic of Prince Aerion falling, Dunk had failed to notice the chaos around them finally quieting. Dunk wants desperately to reassure Egg that everything will be alright, but he holds an unconscious prince in his arms and bleeds into the dirt.
“Prince Aerion has fallen,” Prince Baelor announces loudly, stopping below Lord Ashford’s podium. “The fight is concluded. Ser Duncan is the victor.”
Dunk doesn’t know what the rules of the trial actually are. If it were a fight to the death, then the fight wasn’t technically over until Dunk ended Prince Aerion’s life. Perhaps the only people who truly know the rules are Prince Baelor and Prince Aerion himself, but no one steps forward to question the Heir to the Iron Throne at this moment—not even Ser Lyonel. Instead, Lord Ashford nods slowly, still looking shocked.
At the Lord’s side, the horn is blown, and the Trial of Seven ends with Dunk protectively cradling the body of the man who accused him of treason.
Moving the princeling is a challenge in its own. As the adrenaline wears off, Dunk becomes painfully aware of his wounds—most of which are still bleeding. Prince Baelor returns to Dunk’s side and places a hand on his shoulder. “Can you stand, Ser Duncan?”
“I can try,” Dunk grits out, and carefully gets his foot on the ground. It pulls at the wound in his thigh from Prince Aerion’s blade, but he can’t afford to focus on that.
“Easy, good ser,” Prince Baelor’s voice soothes. He places his hands around his nephew’s head, ready to adjust him as needed.
“We’ll turn him,” Prince Maekar rasps. “Slowly.”
The younger prince had stopped crying a few moments ago, but his eyes are dead and hollow as he looks down at the prone form of his second eldest. Gently, the three of them rotate Prince Aerion in Dunk’s arms until Dunk can support his neck and thighs. Prince Baelor helps Dunk to his feet with firm, kind hands while Prince Maekar keeps a hawkish eye on his son.
Standing back at his full height, Prince Aerion’s face is level with one of the many wounds he left on Dunk’s chest. For a cleverer man, Dunk’s sure there’s symbology in that. At the sight of Dunk on his feet, holding the still form of his brother, Egg finally gives up propriety and races across the field. “Ser Duncan!”
“Aegon,” Prince Maekar intercepts him with a gloved hand, halting the boy before he can crash into Dunk’s legs. “You can check on your knight later.”
“But father—”
“Aegon,” Prince Baelor cuts in sharply, walking at Dunk’s side. “Your brother is injured.”
Egg pouts but cutely grasps onto the coattails of his father’s armor, struggling to keep up with the three longer strides. “Will he live?”
“Hopefully,” Dunk replies quietly.
“Pity,” Egg sighs.
“Aegon!”
“This is his fault!” Egg wails petulantly. “This whole stupid thing was his idea! I begged you all not to, and you wouldn’t listen—”
“Egg,” Dunk cuts through the prince’s mounting tirade with a tired chide. “Now’s not the time, lad.”
Egg’s pout deepens, but he falls silent under Dunk’s firm reprimand. Dunk notes Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor sharing looks behind his back, but he keeps his focus on the mud in front of him, taking steady steps, and holding Prince Aerion as still as possible. He cares not what Raymun, Lyonel, and the others do now that the fight is over—but he knows that he’ll owe them life debts for the foreseeable future.
The tent they have Dunk settle Prince Aerion in is farther than any of them would’ve liked, but it provides ample space for the Maester to move around with his various tools and herbs. Dunk, Prince Maekar, and Prince Baelor move in tandem, standing around the makeshift cot on three different sides. Prince Baelor takes hold of Prince Aerion’s head while Prince Maekar and Dunk lift his knees and torso, respectively.
Together, they carefully and gently lower Prince Aerion onto the cot, still supporting his head so the Maester can slowly pry the helmet off. Dunk is sure his heart is beating loud enough that the others can hear it, but no one dares speak as the Maester reveals more and more pale, unblemished skin. Then, finally, the princeling’s angular, pretty face comes into view, but everything is wrong.
The permanent scowl he always seemed to aim in Dunk’s direction has been eradicated by his unconsciousness, leaving his pale brows smooth across his forehead. His full lips look soft and bitten red, but there’s not a single hint of a sneer pulling at the corners of his mouth. Even his short, straight nose is unwrinkled in disgust or annoyance, leaving his face as still and lifeless as his helm.
Dunk hadn’t even noticed Egg creeping from his father’s side to his until the boy clings to his gambeson. Dunk glances down, but Egg’s eyes are fixed firmly on his brother’s face. “He looks like he’s sleeping,” Egg says softly. “I’ve not seen him so…”
He trails off, but no one prompts him to finish his sentence.
“His head, Maester,” Prince Baelor prompts quietly.
The older man—Yormwell—hums under his breath as he crouches beside the cot, staring intently at the back of Prince Aerion’s head. “Tilt him for me, if you would, your Grace.”
Prince Baelor complies without a word, and Dunk slides over to help. Prince Maekar seems to have grown roots in the ground, as he doesn’t move in the slightest. Instead, he holds his son’s hand in both of his and gently rubs his thumb across the back of his knuckles. Dunk’s fingers slide over Prince Aerion’s sculpted jawline, featherlight and gentle as Dunk can be, tilting his head in small increments.
No one bats an eye at the blood and mud he leaves staining the princeling’s porcelain skin.
The back of Prince Aerion’s head comes into view, and everyone winces. Blood stains his white, silvery hair, and the back of his neck is painted in crimson. The Maester tenderly prods at the area around the blood while Dunk and Prince Baelor hold the prince’s head completely still. Everyone tenses as Maester Yormwell begins lightly touching the area where the wound sits, his fingers turning scarlet.
“The blow was powerful, my Lords. The prince’s smaller stature did not help him,” Maester Yormwell tells them. He presses his fingers more firmly to the prince’s head, and Dunk cannot look away from the way his fingers grow redder.
Across the cot, Prince Maekar winces and swallows guiltily.
“And?” Prince Baelor prompts, shooting a concerned look at his brother that the younger Targaryen heir refuses to meet.
“And luckily his armor did the trick,” Maester Yormwell continues. “His helmet absorbed much of the impact, but he still—how would you say…? Had his bell rung.”
“You dare joke?” Prince Maekar hisses venomously, his pale eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he finally looks up.
The Maester has the intelligence to look abashed. “I apologize, my Prince. I hoped it might lighten the mood—that is to say, Prince Aerion will recover. He suffered some cuts and bruises, but I don’t currently believe it’s anything life-threatening. His skull is still firmly intact. I will need to examine his head further, but for now, I can only wait until he wakes.”
Prince Maekar pauses, then clarifies, “But he’ll wake?”
“Almost assuredly,” Maester Yormwell promises, and Dunk feels the guilt and fear around his heart sink away as he sighs in relief. He’s not sure why he feels this way—especially given the way the prince has been nothing but cruel to him—but Dunk doesn’t know if he could’ve lived with himself if the prince had died taking a blow meant for him.
It’s a sensitive subject, the matter of the Trial and Prince Aerion Targaryen. On one hand, Dunk had gone into the fight this morning knowing that the horn would only sound if either he or Prince Aerion had fallen. He had walked on the tourney field today, ready to die. On the other hand, there wasn’t a single part of Dunk that had expected the prince would be the one lying still on the floor.
Prince Aerion Targaryen was vicious and cunning, but he was still a son. A brother. A nephew. Whatever his damage was—whether it be grief or guilt or divine madness instilled in a dynasty’s bloodline—it didn’t change the fact that he was loved. The evidence was here, in this tent, wearing the faces of his brother, his uncle, and his father. Egg may not admit it, but Dunk can see the conflict on his youthful face.
On the cot sat the boy who had tormented him in his childhood, who had killed his beloved pet, who had spat venomous words at him whenever he could. But despite what Egg may wish, Prince Aerion was still his brother, born of the same mother and the same father as he himself. Dunk likes to hope—foolishly, perhaps—that Prince Aerion hadn’t always been so… jagged.
In the version of reality Dunk can conjure in his bloodless, injured state, he likes to believe that Prince Aerion had been a good brother once. One who followed his elder brother around the Red Keep, begging him to play. One who read fables and stories to his two younger brothers when they were babes. One who delighted in the small things and cared about something other than himself.
Dunk hopes that before he had grown into the beautiful, angry monster he was, there had been something within him capable of love. If he and Egg were cut from the same cloth, surely it was possible, right? Even Prince Valarr, whom Dunk hasn’t properly met, seemed a righteous, kind sort—though perhaps that had more to do with Prince Baelor than anything. He’d met the man thrice now, but even Dunk can tell Prince Maekar is as prickly as a desert flower.
Dunk had been told he was stupid his entire life, and maybe he was. Perhaps he was stupid to look down at the face of the man who had nearly ended his life and think, you’re better than this. He didn’t know Prince Aerion. Not truly. But there was some deep, optimistic piece of Dunk that believed this could be the wake up call the prince needed to find his heart again. Nearly dying was supposed to do that to folks, wasn’t it?
“What about the blood, Maester?” Prince Baelor asks, shaking Dunk from his thoughts.
“Head wounds bleed something fierce, your Grace,” The Maester assures, standing and wiping his hands on a clean cloth draped around his waist. “A few stitches and some cloth will stop that right up.”
“You will have everything you need,” Prince Baelor says, nodding to the few novices lingering on the fringes of the tent, pretending not to listen to the conversation over the prince’s still form. At once, the Maester’s assistants break into a frenzy, gathering tools and equipment into piles. A few duck out of the tent and begin barking orders at nearby servants, their voices fading into the distance.
“Very good, your Grace,” Maester Yormwell bows slightly. “For now, let’s settle the prince on his side.”
Dunk steps back to Prince Aerion’s side as Prince Baelor takes a firmer, more sure grip of his nephew’s head. “Three, two…” Prince Maekar counts softly, and with a heave, the three of them twist Prince Aerion onto his right side. Surprisingly, Egg moves to his uncle’s side and pushes a small pillow under his brother’s cheek. The boy blushes when Dunk raises an eyebrow at him, but resolutely refuses to respond.
It takes a bit of finesse, but between Dunk and Prince Baelor, they’re able to assemble some blankets and pillows under the prince’s chest and torso to support him, should he tilt or tip forward. The four of them step back from the cot, reluctantly holding their hands up and testing Prince Aerion’s balance. When the prince doesn’t even so much as waver, they all collectively breathe a sigh of relief.
“How long until he wakes?” Prince Maekar asks, and to Dunk’s ears, the prince sounds exhausted.
“I’m not sure, my Lord,” The Maester says apologetically. “It could take anywhere from several hours to a few days. We don’t know the severity of his injury yet, but we’ll know more in the eve.”
Prince Baelor—who is still wearing his helmet, Dunk is only now just realizing—claps a hand onto his brother’s shoulders. “Fear not, brother. He will have the best care.”
Dunk’s eyes swim with tiredness, and he wavers on his feet. Egg, still at his side, looks up sharply. “Ser Duncan?”
“Easy, lad,” Prince Baelor cajoles softly, reaching out to guide Dunk down onto a nearby chair. “You’ve had a hell of a morning.”
“Yeah,” Dunk agrees, feeling drunk for some odd reason. “Did I drink something?” He slurs at the Heir to the Iron Throne.
“That would be the exhaustion and the adrenaline,” Prince Baelor laughs kindly, reaching up to finally remove his son’s helm. He places it on a nearby cart and leans down to look into Dunk’s slitted visor. His handsome face comes into view, his salt-and-peppered beard moving as he speaks. “Might we remove this, Ser?”
“’Kay,” Dunk mumbles.
“Aegon, come help your knight,” Prince Baelor calls, and suddenly Egg is at his uncle’s hip, looking worried. Dunk’s not sure which of them actually removes his helmet, but the world dances with light and color as his limited view is finally released. He squints and winces in the brightness of the morning sun peeking in through the flaps of the tent.
“You look like shit,” Egg says helpfully.
“What my dear nephew means to say,” Prince Baelor drawls sardonically, his two-toned eyes sliding to Egg’s grimacing face. “Is that you have taken quite the beating, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk lets out a delirious bark of laughter. “You can say that again.”
“You are probably going to pass out soon,” Prince Baelor says calmly, clapping a hand onto Dunk’s shoulder. Dunk doesn’t have the energy to be afraid anymore. “Nevertheless, we will see to it that you are taken care of, Ser.”
“I can’t thank you enough, your Grace,” Dunk slurs, but he means every word. He wants to get on his knees, to lay himself at the prince’s feet, but his body stopped working a few moments ago. “For defendin’ me, and for stepping into the Trial, and—”
“Save your strength, Duncan,” Prince Baelor shushes kindly. “It was the right thing to do.”
“Ser Arlan always spoke of your honor and your kindness,” Dunk continues sluggishly, needing to get the words out, desperate for Prince Baelor to understand. The corners and edges of his vision are growing black. “It’s an honor to have seen it myself. I am your man. Please—your man.”
Prince Baelor smiles, cupping Dunk’s cheek with his warm, gloved palm. “I need good men, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk chokes out a gasping breath and lets the darkness swallow him.
When Dunk next opens his eyes, everything hurts, and Prince Baelor Targaryen is sitting at his side with Egg asleep against his thigh and his son, Prince Valarr, watching him curiously. “You know,” Prince Baelor says teasingly before Dunk can even open his mouth. “You could’ve done us the courtesy of passing out on top of a cot, as opposed to falling onto the floor.”
“Sorry, Ser,” Dunk croaks. His throat feels like he’s gargled glass. He’s in another tent—not Prince Aerion’s, but one of a similar size—and he’s lying on a cot that’s too short by about a foot. He’s covered in a thick blanket, but he’s bare from his waist up, leaving his scarred and bruised chest on display.
“Aerion sliced you up finely,” Prince Valarr leans forward. His voice has the same smooth lightness that Prince Baelor’s does, but tinged with a youthfulness the Heir to Dragonstone has long outgrown. Dunk tries not to stare at the prince’s mismatched eyes, a nearly perfect replica of his father’s. “Maester Yormwell couldn’t believe you stood as long as you did when we finally pried you out of that armor.”
“’m stubborn,” Dunk mumbles.
“Rightly so,” Prince Valarr smiles, and he’s as handsome as his father, Dunk painfully admits. Not quite as pretty as his cousin, but lovely in his own right. Dunk’s eyes drift to Egg’s sleeping face. Prince Valarr’s smile softens into something tender. “Poor lad—he tried to wait up for you to wake, but the exhaustion of the day took him.”
“He’s a good boy,” Dunk murmurs softly, his bleeding heart aching. “What time is it?”
“Just passed mid-day,” Prince Valarr answers kindly. “You’ve been asleep for most of the day, but the Maester said that was to be expected.”
Dunk grunts, shifting restlessly on the too-small cot. He mentally assessed himself. The stab wound on his thigh hurt something fierce. He could feel the tight bandages wrapped around his leg and knew they’d be a pain to rewrap later. The wound by his hip had dulled to a persistent ache, but the bandages were white and clean. When he breathed, he could feel the stitches. As for the other various slices, none were as sinister.
“How do you feel, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor asks, his tone warm. He’s since removed his son’s armor, sitting at Dunk’s bedside in his royal garb.
“Like I got stabbed a dozen times,” Dunk grumbles, but his sour mood softens when both of the princes laugh delightedly.
“You put on a hell of a show,” Prince Valarr compliments, grinning. “I thought you nearly had him there, for a second.”
Dunk snorts. “He ran circles around me. Your father saved my life.”
“Perhaps,” Prince Valarr allows. “But don’t underestimate yourself, Ser. It takes a special kind of fighter to go against my cousin and live.”
“How is he?” Dunk can’t help but ask.
Father and son share a look. Prince Baelor sighs. “He sleeps, for now. Maekar and I were able to remove his armor, but it took some time. You dealt him a few blows I’m sure he’ll whine and moan about when he wakes, but he’s otherwise unharmed.”
“That’s—good,” Dunk says haltingly, unsure.
“It is,” Prince Baelor agrees, nodding slightly. “I am glad to see you awake, Ser Duncan.”
“I’m glad to be awake,” Dunk offers a timid smile and feels the bruises on his face pull sharply. At his father’s side, Prince Valarr winces.
“You fought bravely and honorably,” Prince Baelor continues. “If you’ll accept, I’d like to offer you a place in our family’s guard—once you complete your training, of course.”
Dunk’s breath freezes in his throat. “W-what?”
“You are a skilled fighter, but you still have much to learn,” Prince Baelor says calmly. “My Master of Swords can complete your training back in King’s Landing, or Summerhall if you’d prefer to stay with young Aegon.”
“And I suggest you do,” Prince Valarr cut in cheekily. “The lad is quite attached to you.”
As if sensing his name being spoken, Egg yawns and stretches into his uncle’s side. His eyes peel open, and he blinks a few times before realizing Dunk is meeting his gaze. “Ser Duncan!” Egg all but leaps onto the cot, ignoring the dual protests of his cousin and uncle, and lands in a heap on Dunk’s chest. “You’re awake!”
“Lad, I’m glad to see you—but you’re all skin and bones,” Dunk grimaces, pushing Egg’s elbow off of his sternum. “Mind those things, would you?”
“Sorry, ser!” Egg scrambles back until his feet touch back down onto the floor. He still looms over Dunk’s prone form, beaming into his face. “Uncle, did you tell him?”
“Yes, I was just doing that,” Prince Baelor says amusedly.
“Come with us to Summerhall, ser!” Egg begs immediately, clasping his small hands around Dunk’s bicep. “King’s Landing is too crowded, and it smells like fish—no offense, uncle.”
“…Why would that offend me?” Prince Baelor quietly asks his son, who shrugs with a grin. Egg isn’t even looking at them.
“Lad, I grew up in Flea Bottom,” Dunk reminds Egg with a laugh. “I remember the smell better than you ever will.”
“So, you’ll come to Summerhall with us?” Egg asks pointedly. He blinks his stupidly large, sweet, sapphire eyes at Dunk.
Dunk shifts his gaze over Egg’s shoulder to meet Prince Baelor’s mismatched eyes. The prince lifts a brow, and Dunk reads the it’s your choice in the tilt of his smile. Dunk huffs a laugh and turns back to his squire. “Yes, Egg, I’ll come to Summerhall with you.”
Egg’s smile is bright and beautiful, and he throws himself back over Dunk’s chest with a cheer of joy. Dunk ignores the pain in his ribs and lifts a hand to curl around his back, patting him the same way he does Thunder. Over the boy’s shoulder, Prince Valarr and Prince Baelor look at Dunk with the same soft smile and warm gaze. The decision was his to make, but Dunk gets the sense that he made the correct choice.
It was nearly five full days later when Dunk heard the noise.
The evening had set over Ashford Meadow like a blanket of snow. The sky was alive with washes of tangerine and maroon, and the clouds were white and fluffy as they drifted lazily amongst the heavens. Dunk had begun walking the meadow again on his second day of bedrest, though admittedly it had been a slow, strenuous thing. Egg had hopped along at his side, seemingly unbothered by Dunk’s lumbering pace.
He had to use a walking stick still, unbalanced as he was by the various wounds in his legs, but it wasn’t so bad. The wounds on his chest still hurt, and the stitches itched, but Egg was always quick to reprimand him when he tried to alleviate the burn. With every passing day, Dunk felt more and more of his strength returning, though he was willing to bet it’d be a long while before he was back to full health.
On the third day, Dunk was determined to find Raymun, Robyn, and Lyonel. He had learned via Egg that Sers Hardying and Beesbury had perished in the Trial, which Dunk had felt enormously guilty about. He made a mental note to ask Prince Baelor about sending provisions or coin to the families they left behind. He found that Robyn Rhysling had slunk back off to whatever hole he crawled out of, but Lyonel and Raymun were still in the camp.
Raymun had been all too happy to see him, and the hug they shared brought a smile to Dunk’s face. The smile had faltered only when Raymun introduced his wife, Lady Rowan Fossaway, who Dunk was pretty positive was a lady of the night. The two seemed happy enough, even though Dunk was quite sure babies weren’t made in a handful of nights, so he wished them well and made his way to the Baratheon tent.
Lyonel had taken a fair few hits, if the shiner around his eye was anything to go by, but he was all smiles when Dunk found him. Dunk was tricked into drinking four pints before he realized what Lyonel was doing, but by then he was too loose to care. They chatted, Dunk thanked him profusely, and Lyonel offered him a position in his homestead at Storm’s End that Dunk politely declined, and everything was settled.
On the fourth day, Dunk sat with Prince Aerion.
Prince Maekar had become a statue at his son’s bedside, but he didn’t snap at Dunk when he poked his head into the tent. In fact, the prince hardly even spared him a glance before he went back to staring off into the middle distance. Dunk didn’t stay for long—just sat on the empty chair on Prince Aerion’s other side and catalogued the wounds on his body. He could barely see the changes, but the signs of healing were there.
Prince Aerion’s body was completely unlike Dunk’s. He’s thin and wiry where Dunk is muscular and firm, lithe and elegant where Dunk is too wide or too burly. His skin is like alabaster, and he has a fine dusting of silver-white hair across his chest that Dunk has to force himself not to stare at. Though the prince is smaller, he’s no less defined than Dunk is, which makes sense given the way he’d nearly beaten Dunk into the ground during the Trial.
Dunk left after an hour, with not a word said between him and the elder prince. He tried to shake it from his mind, but for some reason, he kept drifting back towards the tent as the day progressed. Dunk stopped by three more times—once finding Prince Maekar asleep in his chair, the second time finding him talking with his brother, and once finding Prince Valarr lightly washing Prince Aerion’s face with a warm cloth while his uncle watched.
Each time, he offered a pained smile and crept back out, not wanting to disturb the family any more than necessary. Egg always scowled when their path looped back around to Prince Aerion’s tent, but he had learned by now to stop whining about it to Dunk. “He would kill you if he had the chance,” Egg had tried once. “You know he would.”
“Aye,” Dunk had agreed. “You’re probably right.”
“Then why do you keep returning?”
“Because I owe it to him,” Dunk had explained. “He took the shot meant for me, and now he’s hurt.”
“It was an accident, ser,” Egg had said. “He would’ve never stood if he knew what would become of him. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my father’s—and I’m loath to blame him when the torment is clearly eating him alive. He did not mean for this.”
“Maybe so,” Dunk agreed. “But your uncle once told me that a person need not intend harm to do it.”
Egg had not had a response to that, so Dunk had continued walking.
On the morning of the fifth day after the Trial of Seven, Dunk awoke with a crick in his neck. The cot was far from uncomfortable—anything was better than the ditches in the Reach, and you could quote him on that—but his body still aches from Prince Aerion’s assaults. On the floor beside him, Egg is still fast asleep. Dunk cranes his head to the side and notices that the sun is only barely peeking through the clouds.
Early morning, then. Very early morning.
He knows he won’t get to sleep anytime soon, so Dunk pushes to his feet and quietly steps over Egg’s body. He slips out of the tent and finds himself walking the same circuit as the day before. The meadow is quiet as the denizens of Ashford snooze. Dunk occasionally passes a tent where he can hear quiet chatter or the occasional creaking bedspring of a night not yet gone, but most of the valley sleeps in the grey mists of dawn.
Dunk winds up outside Prince Aerion’s tent like he always does. He debates on going inside, but decides that should Prince Maekar be inside, Dunk does not wish to wake him. At first, nothing seems amiss until he walks around the side of the tent, continuing on his route back toward his own. He hears it between his own steps—whimpering, quiet and afraid. Dunk pauses and tilts his head, listening.
Someone inside Prince Aerion’s tent is crying. Dunk assumes it’s Prince Maekar, but the prince’s eyes have always been clear and dry when Dunk has seen him of late. Something pulls at his chest, something screaming something is wrong, something is WRONG, and Dunk spins around as quickly as he can. He pushes the flap of the tent aside and strides in, his walking stick thudding softly on the furs and rugs.
Prince Maekar is not in the chair. In fact, there’s no one in the tent at all. No one except for Prince Aerion Targaryen, who, up until this morning, had been fast asleep. Now, the prince’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s hunched up on his side, clutching at his temples as he moans in pain. Dunk is so startled to see him awake that he doesn’t move, not until one of Prince Aerion’s gorgeous blue-violet eyes cracks open and he whispers, “Help.”
Dunk rushes to his side and leans over the prince, unsure. His hands hover uselessly. “Prince Aerion?”
“H-hurts,” Prince Aerion chokes out, and Dunk’s stomach drops when he realizes the prince is crying. How long has he been awake? Why was no one here?
Dunk glances around and finds the Maester’s cart. He doesn’t know medicine, not in the way Prince Aerion clearly needs, but he knows milk of the poppy will help with the pain. He finds the vial of it, recognizing it not by the elegant script on the label but by the opalescent hue it emits. Dunk rushes back to Prince Aerion’s side. “This will help.”
“P-please,” the prince chokes, parting his lips. Dunk uncorks the bottle and pours the whole thing down the back of Prince Aerion’s throat. The prince swallows and continues to gasp in pain.
“Just a moment, my prince,” Dunk tries to emulate Prince Baelor’s smooth, soothing voice.
It seems to work because Prince Aerion gives a slight nod before wincing at the movement. “Thank you,” He whispers.
“You’re welcome,” Dunk says, and he fights to keep the surprise off his face. Out of all of the ways he thought Prince Aerion might react to his presence, this docile, polite version hadn’t even made the list. He turns to leave. “I’ll go find your father.”
“Wait!” The prince’s cry is quick, and when Dunk turns back, one of his trembling hands is extended in his direction, clumsily reaching for him. Dunk returns to his side in an instant. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
“Of course, my prince,” Dunk swears.
“Where am I?” The prince asks softly. His skin is pale and clammy, glistening with sweat, but his eyes are clear from pain as the milk of the poppy begins to work through his system.
“Still in Ashford Meadow,” Dunk replies. He sits down on the stool, and the princeling sighs in relief at not having to tilt his head to look at him. “Your father refused to travel until you were hale and whole.”
“Father…” Prince Aerion murmurs softly.
“He’ll be here in no time,” Dunk tells him. “He’s spent nearly every waking hour by your side.”
“Alright,” Prince Aerion says. He blinks at Dunk tiredly, and something uneasy stirs in Dunk’s stomach.
He hesitates only a moment before asking, “How are you feeling, my prince?”
“Everything hurts,” Prince Aerion admits. Dunk can tell that he’s waking in full now, the medicine finally allowing him to focus. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Aye, I doubt you would,” Dunk rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Your father’s mace—he was intending to hit me, but he hit you on accident. Knocked you out cold. You’ve been asleep for near five days.”
“Why was he trying to hit you?” Prince Aerion frowned, confusion marring his handsome face. “That seems unkind.”
A chill settles over Dunk’s skin. Goosebumps crawl up his arms. “He… it was during the Trial, my prince.”
“The Trial…” The prince repeats, but Dunk can see it now—the words have no meaning to him.
“My prince—forgive me. What can you remember?” Dunk asks quickly, fighting to keep the sharp trace of fear out of his voice.
“Not much,” Prince Aerion tells him flippantly. “I think… I think you are called Duncan.”
“Aye,” Dunk nearly sags in relief. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Makes sense,” Prince Aerion smiles—a genuine, teasing smile—and that cold sense of dread slithers down Dunk’s spine again. “My name is…A… Ari…Aerion?”
“Prince Aerion Targaryen of House Targaryen,” Dunk tells him, swallowing back his nerves. He should go and find Prince Maekar or even Prince Baelor, but he’s loath to leave Prince Aerion alone after he practically begged him to stay.
“Apart from that… not much else,” Prince Aerion admits calmly. “I don’t know how I know you, Ser, so forgive me if I speak out of turn.”
“We—we are…” Dunk stumbles over the words. “It’s complicated.”
“You seem a kind sort,” Prince Aerion says, and Dunk feels his stomach flip. “Are we friends? Something more, perhaps?”
Dunk chokes on his spit. “W-what? No! No—you’re a prince, and I’m just a hedge knight. We’re—that would be—no.”
Prince Aerion lazily raises an eyebrow, but Dunk can tell that he’s distinctly amused. “No need to get so defensive. I meant no offense.”
“There’s none taken,” Dunk is quick to say. “You’re beautiful—I mean, you’re very handsome—no, wait—it’s just that—”
Prince Aerion’s laughter, which Dunk has never heard before, is incredibly endearing. He settles back into the blankets and furs still piled up around him and smiles sweetly at Dunk. “You’re very charming, Ser Duncan the Tall.”
Dunk feels the flush creeping up over his cheeks. Prince Aerion’s pretty eyes follow the spread, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his full lips. “I should really get your father.”
“You said he’d be here soon, no?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know when,” Dunk admits. “But he’ll want to know you’re awake.”
“Will you be gone long?”
“Only a few minutes or so,” Dunk shakes his head, already mentally mapping the route to Prince Maekar’s tent.
“And you’ll return?”
“If you’d like.”
“I would,” Prince Aerion says easily. “Yours is the only face I remember, Ser Duncan, which means you must be important to me.”
Duncan swallows back the actually, it’s probably because you were trying to kill me when your dad smacked you in the back of the head, and tries to smile. “I don’t know about all of that, my prince, but hopefully seeing your father will jog your memory.”
Dunk stands, and Prince Aerion’s pale eyes follow his movements. Before Dunk makes it to the exit of the tent, the prince calls out once more, timidly, “You promise you’ll return?”
Dunk glances back at him and sees a man he’s never met. “I swear.”
With that, he ducks back outside and hobbles as fast as he can towards Prince Maekar’s tent. Two Kingsguard stand outside the entrance, looking bored and tired, but perk up slightly when Dunk approaches. “Name your business, Ser Duncan.”
“Prince Aerion is awake,” Dunk doesn’t beat around the bush.
The Kingsguard’s—Wyld, Dunk thinks—brows shoot up, and he stands at attention. “You’re sure?”
“I was just speaking with him,” Dunk nods.
“Shit—wait here,” Wyld ducks into the tent, and Dunk doesn’t hear what is said, but within thirty seconds, a half-dressed Prince Maekar is billowing out of the tent.
“He’s awake?” He asks, sharp and direct.
Dunk sees the hope in his pale eyes and takes a steadying breath. “Yes, but there’s something you should know, my Lord.”
“Spit it out, hedge knight,” Prince Maekar snaps, and Dunk doesn’t bother to correct that he’s technically not a hedge knight any longer.
“He’s… not himself, right now,” Dunk starts hesitantly. When Prince Maekar only stares at him in confusion, Dunk adds, “He says he can’t remember anything.”