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Aegon is off down the stairs and out of the stands as soon as the horn blows to call the Trial to an end. Ser Duncan will need tending to, no question about that. Aegon doesn't know much about what he'll need to do, but as Ser Duncan's squire, he has to learn eventually. Someone will show him how.
Ser Duncan looks worse up close. Aegon feels a pang of fear that he might really die, no matter that he'd been able to heave himself to his feet and stagger here under his own power. Half his face is swollen up. There's blood on his leg and at his side and in his mouth. That last might be the most frightening — it means he's bleeding somewhere inside, somewhere the maesters can't stitch up, in his lungs or his belly or his throat.
"Ser Duncan!" Aegon calls. Ser Duncan looks up. Raymun Fossoway (Ser Raymun now) is on one side of him, and the blacksmith Steely Pate on the other.
"Egg," Ser Duncan says. His one good eye doesn't seem quite focused on him. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't be stupid," Aegon says. His throat feels tight. "I'm your squire."
"Here, now, that's no way for a squire to talk to his knight," Ser Raymun says. Ser Duncan opens his mouth like he means to protest that he is stupid.
"No, you're right," Aegon says. "I'm sorry, Ser Duncan." He looks to the men on either side. "What can I do to help?"
"I don't suppose you could get a maester," Steely Pate says, doubtful enough that he must already know the answer. Aegon shakes his head.
"Uncle brought the maester from Dragonstone, because there's almost no one left there, with him and Valarr here, and Matarys at King's Landing. But I think he'll have to see to Aerion first," he says. "I'm sure Lord Ashford has one, and some of the other knights have come with their own maesters, but none of them are likely to listen to me."
"You're a prince, haven't they got to listen to you?" Ser Raymun says.
"I'm the fourth son of a fourth son," Aegon says impatiently. "Nobody's going to mind a thing I say until after they've had their orders from my uncle, my cousin, my father, and both my brothers." However little Aerion might deserve their obedience. "Not all princes are equal."
"Fair enough," Ser Raymun agrees, after a moment's thought. He hasn't much love for the royal house, Aegon knows, but he has enough for Ser Duncan that there must be some left over for Aegon as his squire. "Stands to reason that most families are alike that way." Ser Duncan bites back a groan as Ser Raymun and Steely Pate ease him down to sit on the bench at the side of the passage. "You don't need to be heir to the throne to fetch and carry, though. We'll need something to clean the wounds. Steely Pate says hot oil, but I don't know, that seems like it'd cook him from the inside out." Aegon winces.
"Hot wine," says a voice from the direction of the trial grounds. Aegon knows it immediately, but the others don't. "Steely Pate — you're the blacksmith, aren't you?"
Steely Pate, half-crouching as he examines the wound in Duncan's side, doesn't immediately turn to see who's called for him. "Aye, but I've got my hands full enough with this one, as you can well see," he grumbles. "You'll wait your turn, my lad —" At which point he looks up and sees who he's talking to. Daeron smiles tightly. "Apologies, Your Grace, but you can see Ser Duncan's in a bad way. What can I do for you?"
"My uncle's injured. My father is helping him off the field, but Maester Yormwell had a look and says he needs someone who can remove bent armor first without doing more damage."
Ser Duncan's visible eye goes wide on hearing this, white showing all around the pupil. Animal panic. Aegon saw the same in Ser Humfrey Hardyng's horse as it fell, before the poleaxe put it out of its misery. Ser Duncan tries to lurch back to his feet. Ser Raymun puts a hand on his shoulder, and the gesture seems to weigh him down. He doesn't stand, but stares, his blue eye bright in the bloody mess of his face.
"Not Prince Baelor," Ser Duncan says hoarsely. He shakes his head. "He can't be hurt, not him."
"That also seems to have been his opinion, going out into a fight to the death in armor fitted to someone else," Daeron says. "And tourney plate, at that. Though, well." He gestures to his own armor. His tone is wry but there's a tension around his eyes and mouth that Aegon knows. He's playing his part — playing the fool — despite his worry, to keep others from worrying themselves. Daeron doesn't look badly hurt, or at least not much more so than he usually did after the rare occasions when their father and his master at arms managed to drag him out to the training grounds. Bruises, a cut over his cheekbone that might need a few stitches. "I take it you'll lend us your talents, Goodman Pate?"
"Aye, I will," Steely Pate says. Just in time, too, with three figures approaching from the field.
Aegon's father is bearing most of his uncle's weight. Baelor's left arm is slung around Maekar's shoulders, and the other is hanging limp at his side. Too limp, and… wrong, somehow. It's only when he looks closer at the black metal of the armor that Aegon can see the blood dripping from Baelor's hand, out from between the seams of his gauntlet. His uncle's face is bloodless: the sick, pale color of whey. Maester Yormwell is beside them, his long face in grim lines. He takes Steely Pate aside to confer with him. Baelor and Maekar are talking, too, in Valyrian.
"I feel nothing below the shoulder," Baelor says. His voice is quiet, but thick and wet-sounding. "When the armor comes off, my arm may go with it. We've both been on the battlefield. You know how quickly a man can bleed out once a limb is off."
"Don't you fucking dare," Maekar says, but he doesn't sound angry. He sounds afraid.
"It will have to be you," Baelor presses on. "Valarr isn't ready. Aerys isn't suited to it and won't want it. Rhaegel is as good as removed from succession already." There's blood in his mouth, too. More than in Ser Duncan's. His teeth and lips are stained red.
"Here, Your Grace, turn and brace your other arm against the wall," Steely Pate says. "Prince Maekar, if you'd stand in front of him, with one arm 'round his waist and the other in front of the injured shoulder. We want that good and still before I start bending any metal." That Aegon's father obeys a man with no royal blood or even a title to his name speaks to how dire the situation must be.
That becomes even clearer when Baelor turns. The back of the pauldron over his right shoulder is concave instead of convex, deeply indented. Though the black metal makes it harder to see the blood by color, Aegon knows how to look for it now. He can see where the armor is wet. Blood is welling up between the warped plates and dripping down Baelor's back in long, thin trails.
"Tell our father what I said," Baelor says, still in Valyrian. His voice is weak and thready. "Do what you can for my sons. I won't ask you to make Valarr your heir, but —" He has to pause, taking a hitching breath and then breathing out hard through his nose.
"I don't want to delay this, Your Grace," Steely Pate says. "The pain may be worse for a bit." He lays one hand gently on the ruined shoulder. In his other hand he has a tool Aegon doesn't know, something to grip or pry. Baelor's eyes flinch closed at the touch. A muscle twitches in his jaw. He sags forward a little, his forehead resting against his brother's.
"But not for very much longer, I know," Baelor replies, finally in the common tongue. "Go on."
He manages to hold himself up through the first effort, with Maekar's help, though the tremor in his limbs is soon bad enough that the armor doesn't hide it. But then Steely Pate wedges his tool in under the edge of the plate and pries it up. A number of things happen very quickly, all of them bad. There's a sluice of blood down the back of Baelor's armor. Aegon feels sick and dizzy at the sight of it, so much so that when Baelor turns from whey-pale to corpse-grey and goes limp, it feels somehow like watching himself. His father is cursing at Steely Pate, who has switched his focus from getting the plate all the way off to keeping Baelor from sliding to the ground between them, and at Maester Yormwell, who is trying to get in close enough to pack linen over the wound. It all starts to seem distant, like Aegon is watching from the far end of the passage.
Daeron's hand on his shoulder brings him back. It's too horrible to be brave, though. Aegon tucks himself against his brother's side and shudders. His cheeks are hot and wet and sticky and he knows it must be tears but some part of him thinks it's blood. That he's bleeding, too; that the wound is his.
"Come on, Egg," Daeron says. "There's nothing more we can do here." It's a relief to be told that his duty is done, but it's wrong, too. He shakes his head.
"Ser Duncan," Aegon says. Ser Duncan is alive, even if Baelor might not be. Ser Raymun hadn't been able to keep him from sliding off the bench and to his knees, but Ser Duncan hasn't gotten any further than that. The sound of his name seems to rouse him a little.
"Your Grace," Ser Duncan says. His voice is hoarse and quiet, but it's enough to draw Maekar's attention. Aegon can see the blaze of fury in his father: his eyes, his clenched jaw, his hands trying to curl into fists for all that they're otherwise occupied. If not for the fact that he's stuck supporting his brother's weight, Maekar would be beating Ser Duncan senseless, never mind their wounds.
"You," he snarls. "You fucking dare to speak to me, you cur, you whoreson, after what you did to my son." His face is flushed scarlet beneath his beard. "And my brother. This is all because of you."
"Prince Baelor," Ser Duncan says. His eye tracks over to Maekar only slowly. How many times had he been hit in the head? How hard? "Anything I can do for him, I will."
"You've done enough," Maekar says. "The best thing you could do for him, for the whole fucking realm, is to crawl back into whatever ditch you came from and die there."
Daeron squeezes Aegon's shoulder and then lets go. He doesn't walk away. He walks forward into the storm of their father's wrath.
"And you!" Maekar shouts. Both Steely Pate and Maester Yormwell are wincing. If they needed any further proof that Baelor was well and truly insensible, the fact that his brother's tone hasn't roused him should serve. "Useless, cowardly — at least Aerion put up a good fight."
"If not for Aerion, there wouldn't have been any fight in the first place," Daeron says. None of the rest of their siblings would dare to talk back to their father like that, but being the firstborn comes with certain privileges. Or at least a certain shield from the most immediate consequences. "I mean to make myself useful now. Better late than never." He turns to the maester. "Where are we taking him? I may not be much of a fighter, but I'll serve for a pack mule."
"You can't be bothered to lift anything heavier than an aleskin," Maekar snaps. "I'll carry him. The blacksmith will help, if need be." He looks to Yormwell. "Well, man? Where?"
"The keep, Your Grace," the maester says. "Somewhere with fewer stairs and more windows, as Lord Ashford can accommodate us."
"I'll requisition the whole bloody building, if I have to," Maekar says. "Daeron, make yourself useful and find the steward. He'll see something prepared for us." Daeron nods, accepting his task, and walks on ahead of them. Ser Duncan keeps quiet, looking after the tight clump of men as they make their awkward way out of the passage, trying to balance haste and gentleness.
"I'd take you to the Fossoway pavilion, Ser Duncan, but I doubt even I'm welcome there now," Ser Raymun says as he helps Ser Duncan take his seat again. "Ser Lyonel might welcome you, an he isn't too hurt himself."
"Is anyone dead?" Ser Duncan says.
"Hardyng, for certain; Beesbury might be in the Stranger's company before long, but he was still breathing, last I heard. Ser Robyn's gone, too, I think," Ser Raymun says. Ser Duncan's face screws up like a little boy's as he tries to fight back tears.
"I ought to talk to their families," Ser Duncan says. He can barely get the words out. "Make my apologies."
"No," Ser Raymun says, taken aback. "Not now, at any rate. We've got to get you stitched up first, and give them time to understand what's happened, too." He looks to Aegon. "Could you find Ser Lyonel, d'you think?"
"I could," Aegon says, considering. There might be a better option — one that won't give Ser Lyonel an opportunity to carry off Ser Duncan while Aegon is attending to his family. "Are you hurt, too, Ser Raymun?" He's not sure he likes Ser Raymun any more than Ser Raymun likes him, but they're together in this.
"Ah, no, don't give it another thought," Ser Raymun says. He even smiles a little. "Some bruises, is all. I'm no worse off than Prince Daeron. Once I find someone to help me off with my armor, I can get on well enough."
"I think I could get Ser Duncan a place in the keep as well," Aegon says. "They have enough rooms and few enough servants that I hardly think they'd notice until after he's settled, and then it would be too inhospitable to turn him out before he's better."
"Forgiveness rather than permission? I suppose that's a prince's prerogative," Ser Raymun says. "So long as I don't get the blame for it."
"You won't," Aegon says confidently. A certain amount of pretended authority tends to go far, outside the circle of his own family.
"I can't," Ser Duncan says. The tears have run down his face, making tracks through the blood and dirt. There's even a trickle on the side that's swelled up. (It seems like a good sign, that the eye under there must be intact.) His voice is steadier, though.
"You can. You've got a prince on your side," Ser Raymun says. "Two, even." Aegon isn't sure whether he means Daeron or Baelor, besides himself. He'd rather not think about Baelor just now.
"There's men dead because of me," Ser Duncan says. "I can't — sleep on a featherbed, with a roof over me, when they're bound for the grave."
"The bed will be stuffed with straw, most like, ser," Aegon says. "I wouldn't worry about being too comfortable."
"Egg," Ser Duncan says. His voice cracks. He doesn't seem to know what else to say.
"Time's wasting, Ser Duncan," Ser Raymun says briskly. "Get your arm around my shoulders, and the lad will be on your other side. Hold yourself up as best you can, and we'll make up the difference." He's bending down to pull Ser Duncan's arm around his shoulders even as he gives the instruction. It's well managed, Aegon thinks; whether he'll make a good knight remains to be seen, but Ser Raymun must have been a good squire.
Ser Duncan's face goes a little paler when they get him to his feet. He sways at first, but stays upright once they've braced him between them. He spits a mouthful of blood and saliva and coughs once before looking down at Aegon and nodding.
"Lay on, squire," he says. Aegon does as he's bid.
Daeron meets Egg by chance in one of the narrow servants' passages. The steward had found someone to help him take off the heavy plate, but it would have taken too long to remove all the layers beneath. He's still half-armored in gambeson and mail. It seems to be getting heavier by the minute.
"Uncle's alive, last I heard," Daeron says, before Egg can ask. "How's Ser Duncan?" Egg's wince is almost enough answer itself.
"The lance drove some of the mail into his side," Egg says. "I know that needs to come out, but I don't know how to do it. I'm trying to find someone who can." He sighs wearily. Such an adult sound from such a little boy.
"I don't think there's a maester to spare, but Tailor might at least serve to stitch him up until Yormwell or Lord Ashford's man can have a look at him," Daeron says. He flattens himself against the wall as two maids hurry by with baskets of laundry. One looks at him with trepidation; the other ignores him entirely. "Yormwell's still with Baelor, and the other's with Aerion."
"Is that where you're going now?" Egg says. "To see Aerion?" His tone is bitter and wounded, as it always is where Aerion is concerned, but in this case, Daeron is inclined to agree with the sentiment.
"No," he says. "Someone has to tell Valarr." Egg's eyes widen. He hadn't thought of that, Daeron can see. "He and Kiera might still be abed. I could swear they went through a quarter cask of Dornish red between them last night." They wouldn't have indulged like that if Valarr was still to be in the lists as one of little Lady Ashford's champions. He took the sport seriously even as his talent was only middling. It had been clear, though, that the Trial would take precedent over the jousting, and Valarr was so disgusted by the whole business that he preferred to not to acknowledge it even by sitting in the stands.
"And you didn't help them with the wine at all?" Egg says. Daeron leans down so that Egg can get a good look at his face. The bleakness in his eyes, and the dark shadows under them.
"Not last night," he says. "Usually, I would. But not before the Trial. I wanted to live more than I wanted to sleep." Egg looks at him for a long moment before speaking.
"I'm glad you're alright," Egg says. "But I wish uncle hadn't been hurt. I wish — I wish there were magic to trade one life for another, so Aerion could die instead."
"It would be a very complicated world, if that was on the table," Daeron says, straightening up. "Anyway, he's not dead yet. And maybe Aerion will choke on a grape. The day's still young."
"You don't hate him as much as I do," Egg says. He still sounds a little resentful, but thoughtful, too.
"No, but I was always bigger and older than him," Daeron says. "He never gave me as much reason to."
Aerion had looked up to him once. He was a cheerful boy, loud and curious and restless. Daeron had been steadier and calmer. They were close in age, and had maintained a kind of balance between them. Daeron kept Aerion from running too wild; Aerion made sure Daeron's caution never ran to cowardice. Then the dreams started. Daeron had made himself sick trying not to sleep, and a sick brother was no fit playmate. Maybe the turn for the worse had started then. Aerion had been angry and left to his own devices. Aemon was too young to serve as a companion for him, and most of the noble squires at Summerhall were too old.
There were servants' children who were the right age. He'd only heard much later how Aerion had turned from playmate to bully to tyrant and tormentor. The servants were afraid of Prince Maekar, who had given them reason to be — always harsh, and not always reasonable — so he hadn't been told until a girl had nearly died. Once Aerion had found a taste for cruelty to weaker creatures, there was nothing to stop him doing the same to his younger siblings, so long as he was never caught in the act and didn't leave marks.
Still, there's no single moment Daeron can point to. No cataclysm or great tragedy that had fallen on Aerion in particular. Their father had been no harder on him. Their mother hadn't loved him any less. At least Daeron can blame his dreams for how badly he turned out himself: the inscrutable whims of the gods. Maybe it's the same for both of them. Some inner deformity. With any luck, the two of them will have paid the price in madness for the rest of their siblings to live untroubled by it.
"Who do you have picked out to swap for Ser Duncan's life, if it comes to that?" Daeron says. "Not me, I hope."
"No," Aegon says. "You're my favorite brother." Though, as they've established, there isn't much competition on that front. Egg hates Aerion, and he hardly sees Aemon frequently enough to feel any particular way about him. "I think we could do without Ser Steffon Fossoway."
"I doubt we'll be seeing him at court, anyway." Nobody's going to get a lordship for participating in this. "I shouldn't tarry long. I'll come and find you later." That will be a matter of finding Ser Duncan, which should be easy. He's not exactly inconspicuous.
Daeron passes a hand over Egg's head as he moves past him. He hadn't been so small at that age, but he hadn't been as sure of himself, either.
Kiera has been given the use of rooms facing away from the lists and encampment, looking out toward the bridge that leads to Ashford town. It's quieter on this side of the keep. She'd been excused from most of the expectations of a royal guest on account of her delicate health. Kiera's health has only ever been delicate when she was with child, so it's either a hopeful sign that they're trying again, or a canny excuse for her to avoid the tourney. She has seemed in good spirits, either way.
Daeron raps sharply on the door. It's his cousin who calls out for him to enter. Valarr has his own pavilion out near the lists, but he's not one to choose a tent over sleeping indoors if he has the option. He's seated by the hearth, half-dressed in hose and breeches and shirtsleeves. Kiera is in bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows, with a brocade and velvet dressing gown on over her shift.
"I suppose it's all over?" she says hopefully. "Oh, but cousin, your poor face!"
"Which fool has the farce proved greater?" Valarr says drily.
For a moment Daeron can't speak. It seems too cruel.
"Valarr," he says. "Your father is —"
"My father?" Valarr is on his feet in an instant. "He said he was only going to fight the Kingsguard. If any of them hurt him, I'll have their cloaks. They can go and live in the hedges with that Ser Dermot, assuming he's still alive."
"Maester Yormwell is seeing to your father," Daeron says. Valarr is dressing himself the rest of the way, not bothering to call for an attendant. Boots, doublet, sash, belt, all the stupid necessary things that hang from the belt — "You might not be able to see him now."
"Who's going to stop me from seeing my father?" Valarr says. He doesn't have the hot temper that plagues Aerion and Maekar, but he has a very clear sense of his rights, as the second in line to the Iron Throne.
Second in line for now, anyway. Until his father dies, or Maekar gets their grandfather's ear.
"Yormwell might still be… at work," Daeron says. Valarr stops short and stares at him.
"What happened?" he says. His tone is cold, but there's a tremor in it.
"A bad hit to the shoulder," Daeron says.
"My armor fits him well enough," Valarr says. "There shouldn't have been any gap for a blade, and as far as I know, no one went out wielding Valyrian steel." Not quite true. The dagger Baelor always wears is Valyrian steel; a gift from the King. Would that go to Valarr, or be burned with Baelor on his pyre?
"It wasn't a blade," Daeron admits.
"What, then?" Valarr says. There's a challenge in his voice that says he suspects the answer already, but he wants to hear Daeron say it.
"A mace," Daeron says.
"Your father," Valarr says. Daeron closes his eyes briefly, nodding. Valarr has nothing more to say to him after that. He pushes past without another word. He might make his apologies later, or never, depending on how things turn out. His footsteps echo down the stone hall as he goes — not running, which would lack dignity, but as fast as he can go without resorting to it. Daeron realizes that his head is pounding. He puts a hand out to steady himself against the doorframe.
"You ought to have a maester, too," Kiera says, once the hall behind him is silent again. "Your face might scar, if you don't get stitches."
"It'll give me some character," Daeron says. "Perhaps fewer people will call me a craven to my face if it has the marks of battle upon it."
"Will you sit, have some breakfast?" she says. "I can call for someone to help you off with your… mail, and things." She doesn't know most of the words for the different parts of armor. She hasn't learned them because she mislikes tourneys and martial sport. When she had crossed the Narrow Sea, her grasp of the common tongue of Westeros focused on courtesies and formality, leaving her very little ability to make conversation beyond the correct addresses to her betrothed and his family. Valarr's Valyrian, in turn, was archaic by the standards of the Free Cities. They'd started out by meeting somewhere in the middle, and in time, they had each taught the other enough that they could converse as friends. Now Kiera can speak fluently on what interests her, and Valarr's Valyrian has picked up a lilting Tyroshi accent and some of the modern additions to the vocabulary.
Their marriage is, if not a love match, at least a contented one. They enjoy one another's company. They trust each other. Daeron knows he can't hope for the like — even the sweetest-natured, best-intentioned bride would be sure to lose patience with his drinking before long. He could give up the whoring, but not the drink. He thinks he might kill himself if he did. Maybe that would be the kindest thing, anyway. Surely being a royal widow would be easier than being his wife.
Daeron sits down in the chair Valarr had vacated and peers into his cup. It's something warm and spiced, though just the smell is enough to tell him that there's no alcohol in it. He takes a sip anyway. Dried lemon and orange peel, ginger root, clove, allspice, rock sugar. Some of the ingredients are costly, for a morning tisane, which could as easily be made of crushed fresh mint and honey. Perhaps Lord Ashford is emptying the best of his larder for them. It would serve him right to bankrupt himself, for what this might cost House Targaryen.
There is a murmur of rushes against silk as Kiera crosses the room to sit in the other chair by the hearth.
"He isn't angry with you," she says softly.
"He'd be within his rights," Daeron says. A plate on the small table at his side holds stewed figs, soft white cheese, toasted bread. The thought of eating turns his stomach so that he can hardly even swallow the tea. "If I hadn't accused Ser Duncan — I didn't even mean to accuse him." He'd only told his father's men about the last stranger he'd seen before he realized Egg was gone. To say that a robber knight took him was only a sneering joke. Daeron had been careless, flippant, sure Egg was playing at being a crofter's son on some nearby farm and helping strangers herd geese or whatever it was the smallfolk did in this part of the countryside.
Until Egg was found in the company of an unknown knight, big as life. (Big as dreams.) And then it didn't matter whether Daeron said he might have been mistaken, because his father needed someone to be angry at for more than just carelessness.
"I knew it would go badly," he says. He always does, but the details never make sense until afterward. There had been four dragons on the field, and any of them might have fallen. He'd thought Ser Duncan would have been the one to do it, but he hadn't seen that, had he? Just Ser Duncan alive, and a dragon dead.
"These things always go badly," Kiera says. "Someone always ends it hurt, or worse. Yet you ride anyway, and play at war."
"I don't, if I can help it," Daeron says. Kiera leans forward and peers up, to get a look at his downcast face.
"That must be why we get along," she says. Daeron forces a smile for her, and she returns it with just an edge of worry to the expression. "I'll have to dress soon and mind my lord husband, but I don't like to send you away when you're feeling poorly. Is there anything that would help?"
What he needs, more than anything else, is sleep. It's not just his remaining armor that feels heavy now, but his own limbs. He can't bear the thought of what he might see, though. He doesn't want to find out what comes next in dreams of fire and blood.
Daeron clears his throat. "I'll take a cup of wine, if you have any left."
Dunk doesn't know quite where in the castle he's ended up. The walk from the field to here is a rough blur of sensation, pain and dizziness and light and shadow, his gritted teeth grinding together and the salt-stickiness of sweat and blood and tears mingled together on his face. He's on a bed now, though. His feet are hanging off the end because it's shorter than he is tall, and his boots are gone somewhere. He's less worried about the boots than about all the places he's bleeding. Dead men have no need of boots.
Egg returns accompanied by a small, dark-haired man just a few years older than Dunk himself. There's a lightness to his step and expression that seem out of place in a sickroom. He doesn't wear a maester's chain, or the star or crystal that would mark him as a septon, but he must be whatever's the next best thing after that. He rolls up his sleeves briskly as Egg places a tray down on a little table between the bed and the hearth.
"Now, Ser Duncan, I must beg you to try and keep still unless I ask you to move, and to stay awake as long as you can," the small man says. Dunk nods his agreement. "Very good. First you'll have a sip of this." He holds a small glass bottle, oblong and flattened like a flask, to Dunk's lips. The liquid inside is clear and a pale gold color. The man tips out a good mouthful before pulling the bottle away. Dunk expects something bitter and medicinal, but it burns like fire all the way down to his gut. He coughs, gasping. The cough makes his side hurt, but it's the drink that has tears springing to his eyes.
"What was that?" he gasps.
"Woke you up a bit, did it?" the man says. "That's a fine plum brandy, ser knight. It won't do as much to dull the pain as milk of the poppy, but you'll have to wait for one of the maesters to give you that later. They've their hands full now, gods bless 'em." He corks the bottle and tucks it away inside his doublet. "I'm called Emrys Tailor, and I'm not called that for nothing. I'll sew up your wounds and show your squire how to do it, though I hope you won't need so much mending again before he's had some practice."
"Egg can't sew," Dunk says.
"I can, ser!" Egg insists. "You showed me!"
"This'll be a bit different," Emrys says. "Sewing flesh is less like sewing fabric and more like sewing leather, which I wager your knight hasn't taught you yet. First, though, we want everything as clean as we can make it." Dunk closes his eyes and listens, letting himself drift. "Strongwine on the boil if you can get it, and we have, but strong vinegar does just as well, and it's cheaper. Put that wine over the fire, and meantime I'll show you how to prepare the needle." A hand pats the side of his face. "Still awake, ser?"
Dunk manages to open his good eye.
"Tell the man why he must stay awake, young squire," Emrys says. He's moved back again, passing a curved needle through the flame of a small oil lamp set on the tray Egg had brought.
"Because you're too big for us to move without your help," Egg says, "and because you took more than one blow to the head."
"I've a thick skull," Dunk says. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall, the old man used to say, though usually with enough humor that it didn't seem cruel.
"Even thick-skulled men may fall asleep and stay that way if they're not careful, after a blow," Emrys says. He's passing the ends of a pair of tweezers through the flame, too. "How's that wine?"
"Steaming," Egg says. He puts his little finger into the pot over the fire before Dunk can tell him not to. Dunk grimaces sympathetically. "Not quite to a boil." Egg catches sight of his expression and says, "It's alright, Ser Duncan. I still have enough blood of the dragon that a bit of hot wine won't harm me."
"Boiled Egg," Dunk says. Emrys laughs just once, a short hah! and Egg manages a strained smile.
"While we wait on that, you can get his clothes out of the way," Emrys says. "Shears are on the table."
"Don't —" Dunk starts, but Emrys waves him off. He's heating the ends of a pair of tweezers in the lamp's flame now.
"I'll find you some other clothes to wear." That wasn't what he was going to object to. Dunk doesn't want Egg seeing his wounds up close because it's likely to upset him. He's a fierce little thing, but he's a worrier more than a warrior, as yet. "If I can't lay hands on anything that'll fit you, there are plenty of goodwomen in Ashford who'll be pleased to sew a silken seam for the royal household for a few coppers. It'll be a story for them to tell years on. Good for morale."
Egg handles the shears gently, delicately, like he's afraid he might cut Dunk by accident. Dunk gives him a nod when he hesitates before starting on his breeches, to cut a path up to expose the wound in his thigh. Better for Egg to see that one clearly than the lance wound in his side. Somewhere between the field and the keep, Dunk had been divested of his mail shirt and gambeson, and the latter folded up and held in place against his side with a leather belt he doesn't recognize. Another debt he is unlikely to repay.
"Sure, the story she'll tell won't be that she made a tunic for some hedge knight, but that she sewed smallclothes for Baelor Breakspear, and that gave her another idea of why he's called the Hammer," Emrys goes on. "Here, let me finish that, you go check the wine again." Emrys takes up the shears as Egg heads back over to the hearth.
"You shouldn't talk like that," Dunk says. "About him." He swallows thickly and tastes blood and plum but his throat still feels tight. "Especially not when he's…" Emrys looks at him seriously, the quirked half-smile melting away. He's older than Dunk had thought at first — perhaps five and thirty. Not so young or so cheerful.
"He'll be alright," Emrys says quietly. "His maester knows what he's about, sure. I heard it wasn't so bad as it looked at first." His hands move to unbuckle the belt holding the makeshift bandage in place. He pitches his voice louder again, calling to Egg without turning his head. "Boiling yet?"
"Just about," Egg says.
"Good," Emrys says. "We're going to start with the worse wound, but the good news is that once we've got that handled, the rest will all be smooth sailing. Aye?" Egg nods, and so does Dunk. At the very least he doubts he'll be conscious for the whole process. "I'm going to take off this compress now and have a look. Your Grace, if you find you can't bear it, I'll call you back over when it's more closed up." It's the first time the man has made any reference to Egg's station. Dunk hadn't thought about it. He still thinks of Egg as Egg-the-squire, not Aegon-the-prince. It had seemed natural to hear Emrys talking the same way. Now it seems a little strange.
"I should see it," Egg says, though his expression says he would rather not.
Dunk finds he would rather not see it either, and because nobody told him he had to look, he closes his eyes. When the cloth is peeled back and his tunic cut away, the noise Egg makes is horrified enough that he's glad he did.
"First thing we need to do is get the splinters and mail rings out of there," Emrys says. "That's what the tweezers are for. Pass them over, and only touch the handle. Good. Now, it looks rough, and it is, but the bowels weren't pierced, which means it's not as like to mortify as long as we get everything out and get it clean." The pain that comes next is enough that even the darkness behind Dunk's eyelids seems to go gray. He knows what it feels like to faint, and he knows he's right on the edge of it. He breathes in and out hard through his nose. He needs to try to stay awake.
"We're going to roll you onto your side now and have a look at the back," Emrys says. He sounds far off; Dunk's ears are ringing again. Dunk nods his understanding, and tries to heave his weight in the direction that the two pairs of hands are pushing him.
"See, this side's not so bad. Mainly this here, which is big, but at least the wood's all in one piece —"
The pain turns his stomach, and Dunk feels his mouth fill with saliva as he fights down the urge to heave. He'd like to spit, but swallows it down instead. No use getting fine bedlinens dirtier than he has already.
"Now we've got all the bits out, that's when we rinse it with the wine, then we'll dress it." He sounds calm, which is good, because that will help Egg keep calm, too. The next wave of pain does pull Dunk under, as he'd thought it might. He floats in the quiet dark for what might be a moment or a thousand years.
It turns out to have been a few hours, when he comes to. Egg is sitting by his bedside, arms crossed on the edge of the mattress and his head pillowed on his arms. Dunk is down to his smallclothes under the sheets, but his side and hand and thigh are neatly wrapped in linen only lightly spotted with blood, and most of his skin seems to be a damn sight less dirty than it has any right to be. There's something cool and wet resting over the left side of his face. He still feels like he's been beaten and stabbed, because of course he has, but waking up clean and cared-for in a soft bed is a kinder way to wake to his hurts than he's ever known.
He lifts a hand to reach for Egg, and even that small movement rouses the boy. His head pops up, eyes wide.
"Ser! He said you might not wake 'til the morrow," Egg says. He glances toward the window, which is dark. "I don't know what hour it is, but it's past supper. I could get you something from the kitchens, if you like."
"Don't trouble yourself," Dunk says. He isn't hungry, and doesn't want to risk eating anything he might bring back up. "Did you eat?" Egg nods, looking abashed. "Well, good. You're still growing, and you've plenty of that yet to do." Egg smiles. It's a little wobbly around the edges, but not so strained as it was. "Can you tell me what's happened? Whatever you know of it, not that I expect you've been dropping eaves."
"I would never, ser," Egg says primly, sitting up straight. "Well, Aerion's jaw and cheekbone are broken, so he can't talk or eat more than broth, and he won't be sitting ahorse for some time with where the wound is in his thigh. You nearly took off one of his bollocks, and I wish you'd managed it." Fair enough, with how Aerion had threatened Egg's own delicate parts. "I think you did cost him two more teeth, but not the front ones. Father's talking about sending him across the Narrow Sea. I don't know for how long." He seems satisfied when talking about his brother's injuries and less so when talking about his brother's punishment. He looks down and picks at the coverlet. "I think he should have to go to the Wall and take the black, but nobody else thinks so."
"And your uncle?" Dunk says. "Is he…" Even saying alive or dead seems too final.
"Maester Yormwell says it might have been much worse," Egg says, though he still looks downcast. "He's woken up, and he isn't likely to die. He won't lose the arm."
"That's good," Dunk says cautiously. He's sure there's something Egg isn't saying. "Will he be in to see me later, or hasn't he the time?" Everyone had said how he needed a maester, though Dunk thinks it seems like a waste, when there's others still hurt, too.
"My uncle?" Egg says.
"No, the maester, you daft little —" He swats gently at Egg and regrets it immediately. He presses a hand to his side. "Ah, hells."
"He's been to see you already, ser," Egg says. "But he gave you milk of the poppy, which is probably why you don't remember." That's an odd thought, and unsettling.
"I'll have no more of that, then," Dunk decides. "Or only at night, anyway, and only until I'm on my way. It won't do to be sleeping the day away, or dead to the world when a brigand happens by."
"I could watch over you," Egg says.
"And defend me with what?" Dunk says. "A sword bigger than you are?" Egg looks more chastened by that than Dunk meant him to be, so he goes on: "Surely a prince should have his own dagger, or at least a feasting knife. Those'd be more suited to your size."
"I should have a dagger," Egg agrees eagerly.
"There's plenty you should have that I can't give you, Egg," Dunk says. "I didn't make my fortune here. I'm down a horse, I don't know where my new armor's got to, and the only thing I have more of than when I came to Ashford is holes where there shouldn't be any."
"I saw to your armor, ser," Egg says, looking a little hurt. "Did you think I wouldn't? Steely Pate is going to repair what's needful, and then I'll get it shining again before the next time you wear it, I promise."
"I know you will," Dunk says. Then, more to the point, he amends: "I know you would. I know you'd want to. But after all this, I doubt your lord father will want you squiring for me."
"You're the only knight I'll follow," Egg says fervently. He clasps Dunk's uninjured hand in both of his. Gods, his hands are small, and still soft, though he's on his way to forming calluses. "You're the noblest knight in all the realm. In all nine kingdoms. Even Prince Baelor thinks so, and he's next in line for the throne. He could order my father to let you squire for me, so it's his blessing you need."
"I'd like a word with him anyway, if that can be arranged," Dunk says.
"Leave it to me," Egg says. "I won't let you down, Ser Duncan."
That's him now. Ser Duncan the Tall, not plain Dunk, full stop. He can't lay claim to being a champion of Ashford Meadow like he might have if he'd rode in the lists, but coming out victorious in a Trial of Seven might be enough renown to get him into the next tourney. And there are certainly other knights who will vouch for him now — in the absence of Lyonel and Raymun, who fought beside him, then some other knights who refused their support and feel ashamed now that he's proved the victor. He's paid dearly for it, but he has made a start.
However much Egg has led him into trouble, he's led Dunk out of it, too. It would be nice to go on together as they've started.
"Good lad," Dunk says. He settles his head back against the pillows and closes his eyes. He hurts too much to sleep, but he can still rest. A thought strikes him and he opens his good eye again. "Did you say nine kingdoms?"
Baelor wakes to the worst pain he can remember. He breathes deeply and holds very still as he becomes accustomed to it. He can feel his right arm again, he realizes; when he tries to clench his fist, the muscles respond. Even the slight movement of his arm makes the pain in his shoulder and upper back spike into agony. He grits his teeth against it and hears his breath hitch.
"How do you feel, Your Grace?" Yormwell's deep, sonorous voice asks from close by.
"I have been better," he says tightly. "Tell me of my injuries, maester. Hold nothing back." He doesn't expect that Yormwell would, in any case. The man has a keen mind and thorough knowledge of physiology, but few social graces. It's likely why he was sent to Dragonstone rather than kept at the Citadel to teach.
"The top of the plate beneath the pauldron split and pierced your flesh, but that is easily mended, by comparison," Yormwell says. Before Baelor can ask what the point of comparison is, he goes on. "Your collarbone was dislocated and that has been set. Some ribs likely cracked, without damage to the lungs. Likewise not a grievous wound. But your shoulderblade is shattered, and the muscle around it shredded to pulp."
"What does that mean?" Baelor asks. He opens his eyes. Yormwell's answering gaze holds no pity, but some sympathy. The maester has a long, hard face; he was born in the Iron Islands, and still carries the look of the place about him. "Am I to be an invalid?"
"No, Your Grace," Yormwell says. "Not completely. There's nothing wrong with your legs, you'll notice. But I must advise you to prevail on Lord Ashford's hospitality and remain here at least a week, to begin healing."
"And after that?" Baelor says. He looks down at himself and finds that his upper right arm is bound against his body, immobile, and his forearm is in a sling. Some part of him had still half-expected to find the arm gone, and the feeling of clenching his fist no more than the phantom pains felt by those lucky (or unlucky) enough to survive the loss of a limb.
"After a week, you may travel. A horse will be better than a wheelhouse. It will jar the injury less. It will still slow your recovery, but that cannot be helped." It's a relief to know he will be able to do that much. "Assuming no further complications, your arm should be kept immobile for… perhaps three months. Then we can assess the extent of the permanent damage. You will not have full use of the arm, but how much has been lost is impossible to tell now."
The emotion that rolls through Baelor is not quite despair, but a close cousin to it. It cannot be despair because he is alive and still has his arm. He has much to be grateful for.
Or perhaps it is despair, to hear that it is not something that will heal completely. To understand that he is crippled. To know how decisively and clearly the gods have made their will known, not only on the subject of Ser Duncan's innocence but Baelor's folly in playing at being a young man again. It was the arts of politics and diplomacy, not war, that he has had to work hard to learn. He was more at home on a horse, in battle, sword or lance in hand. It had always been easier. He had wanted that ease again. And what has it gotten him now? A rebuke; greater difficulty in all things.
Yormwell notes his low mood and is quick to inform him how much worse it might have been. A blow like this to his neck or his skull would have killed him. A difference of inches, and he would be dead. If the hit had been to the front of his shoulder, his whole arm might have been paralyzed. At least he has the dexterity in his hand. He will be able to hold a pen. Baelor nods his understanding and restrains his desire to scream.
They speak of other things: what dosage of poppy they can agree will be sufficient to dull the pain without dimming Baelor's faculties overmuch; a recommended treatment of willow bark to reduce swelling that should not be used until the cut from the plate has healed, as it could worsen bleeding. The practicalities of balance, movement, what tasks Baelor can and cannot expect to accomplish on his own while his arm is bound in place. All the petty humiliations he will have to bear for three months, or even more.
Even the talk of it exhausts him. But Baelor is alive and awake and his work is never done. He is left to gather his wits and make peace with his lot for no more than half an hour before his brother demands an audience. Wryly, Baelor reflects that even that much delay is evidence of some restraint on Maekar's part. His brother is not a patient man, and no doubt he was informed as soon as a passing servant overheard that Baelor was awake enough to hold a conversation with his maester.
"What you said about the line of succession was nonsense," Maekar says. Whatever confessions or promises he might have made while Baelor was unconscious, these are his first words to his brother when Baelor is fully cognizant. They are an opening salvo in an expected argument that Maekar must have been rehearsing in his own mind. It is not an argument Baelor is interested in having.
"It was," Baelor says. He nods slightly and lowers his gaze in acknowledgment before raising his eyes to meet his brother's again. He moves little. He is steady and calm. (The former is a necessary precondition for the latter.) "I hope you haven't written to the king."
"Of course I fucking haven't," Maekar says. "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that our father is nearing the end of his life, and Valarr is nowhere near ready to rule," Baelor says. Too old for a regency, and too young to rule wisely. Or, if not too young, then at least too inexperienced. "I'm more than twice his age, and I don't feel ready myself. I was speaking from fear rather than reason."
"You were ready a decade ago," Maekar says. "Or more. The trouble is that you've been the Hand and half a king besides, as father retreats from his duties. You're only one man and he's asked you to be more than that."
"Every king is called to be more than one man," Baelor says wearily. "To do more than one man can do. But I take your point."
"I won't say the old man should have abdicated, because that might be treason," Maekar says. "But, well. He hasn't done you any favors." He takes a shaky breath and sits back in his chair. "You scared the piss out of me. I really thought you were going to die."
"I suppose I should be grateful you weren't aiming for my head," Baelor says dryly. Maekar is silent for a long moment.
"I wasn't aiming for anything in particular," he says finally. "I was only trying to get past you, to Aerion. It was a wild swing. I might have killed you without knowing."
"But you didn't," Baelor says. His brother's eyes are red-rimmed. Baelor raises his left hand and Maekar kneels at the side of the bed, pressing that hand to the side of his face. Baelor rubs his thumb over his cheek, feeling the beard there crusted with salt and grit. "Now that you've seen for yourself that I'm not dying, you ought to bathe."
"Oh, fuck off," Maekar says, equally disgusted and delighted. He drops Baelor's hand and takes his seat again. They have more to discuss after that, but only practical matters. Travel arrangements and the like. The most important understanding is shared between them: that Baelor has forgiven Maekar as much as he is able to, and that Maekar will never forgive himself.
Valarr's first visit is awkward, stilted, coldly courteous. His son retreats into formality when he is frightened or angry, and Baelor has given him ample reason for both. Baelor can well imagine how his son's manner will thaw. There will be ravens arriving by the flock before long, and letters to answer that Baelor cannot yet write himself. Valarr will serve as his secretary for that which must remain private, which will be most of it. They will spend hours shut in together, and Valarr will eventually have some small outburst to vent his true feelings, and then he will be mortified but relieved.
Baelor loves both his sons, but communication with his elder son is trying, sometimes. He doesn't doubt that Valarr cried for him before he woke, but would never do so if he were awake to witness it. Valarr refuses to show weakness because he cannot also show strength. His mother was the same, for better and for worse. But he is Baelor's son, too, and some of the blame must rest with him.
Swift and direct though their flights are, the inevitable ravens need time to cross the distance. Baelor holds tight to his patience as the rest of his family pay their visits. Kiera is sweet but a little shy of him, even now. She brings him a book of classical Valyrian poetry written in the looping script that the Free Cities have largely adopted in place of the old glyphs, which means it is beautiful to look at but difficult for him to decipher. It will be something to pass the time, at least.
Daeron doesn't sit, but lingers near the doorway and regards him with something like dread. He conveys Aerion's regrets that he is too hurt to pay his obeisances. His hands shake enough that Baelor judges him to be at least partly sober, yet he asks with a drunkard's unsteady sense of philosophy whether exile is a kind of death. Baelor just barely restrains himself from proposing other, much harsher punishments for Daeron's absent brother that are unquestionably nearer to death.
He asks for milk of the poppy after that. He is in too much pain to be very tolerant. So it is not until the next day that Egg, little Aegon, comes to see him. His manner is proper and correct. The lack of an ironic edge makes Baelor sure the boy wants something of him, though he suffers through a game of cyvasse before Baelor takes pity on him and asks outright. What Egg wants is an audience for his knight. Baelor agrees; He would have wanted to see Ser Duncan in any case.
He assumes he is agreeing to an audience days hence. If his memory of the Trial serves, Ser Duncan was run through with a lance, and stabbed with a sword, too. Who knows what else. He will likely be confined to bed longer than Baelor.
It is a surprise, then, to have Ser Duncan announced at the door of his sickroom on the following day. Someone has found a crutch for him — one made for a tall man, but still short for Ser Duncan. He shuffles in awkwardly, hunched over on one side to keep hold of it. He makes a very shallow bow and grimaces.
"I'd kneel, Your Grace, but I don't think I'd be getting back up after," he says.
"Better that you sit, Ser Duncan," Baelor says. "How are your wounds?"
"Oh, it's not so bad," Ser Duncan says, never mind that half his face is still mottled purple with bruises. "The maester said I'm healing well. Better than he expected. I suppose I've always been lucky that way." And he's young, Baelor thinks, a little ruefully. No one appreciates the resilience of youth until they're past it. "Thank you for sending him to have a look at me, Your Grace, and Master Tailor, too."
Baelor hadn't sent anyone. Goodman Tailor is Maekar's man, and Yormwell is still ironborn, for all that he's sworn to the Citadel and Dragonstone both. He obeys his own sense above all else. Under other circumstances, Baelor might have admitted that it wasn't his doing. But he can't afford to seem like his control is slipping, even over members of his own household. He nods in acknowledgment.
"I was glad to hear that you'd woken," Ser Duncan goes on, "and that you aren't like to die." He seems to regret the words as soon as he's said them. "I mean —"
"That makes two of us," Baelor says. He forces himself to smile and finds that it isn't as difficult as he expected. "We all thought it was much worse than it was, and I thank the gods that we were wrong."
"So you'll be alright, then?" Ser Duncan says. He looks so hopeful that Baelor is tempted to lie to him, but he's a man grown and a knight besides, not a child.
"I'll never hold a sword again," Baelor says, and he can't keep the bitterness from his voice entirely. Ser Duncan looks more than crestfallen. Heartbroken, perhaps. Such a wound would be the end of Ser Duncan's life as surely as losing a hand and a foot; it must look different to him. He opens his mouth to speak, and Baelor continues: "Peace, Ser Duncan. I'm told I will be able to write and sit ahorse before long. Few of my duties as Hand of the King require me to draw steel."
"Even so," Ser Duncan says. "That you should be crippled for my sake —"
Baelor grits his teeth, thinks don't use that word, and swallows it down before he can say it.
"I will have my brother's sword arm as long as we both live," he says instead. "Guilt binds people together even more closely than love. But there is no guilt on your part, as I see it. I chose to fight for you, and my brother dealt the blow. We are family, and we will manage the matter between ourselves."
"If you don't want my guilt, would you still have my love?" Ser Duncan says. Baelor raises his eyebrows, amused. Ser Duncan seems to realize how boldly he's spoken, and rushes to explain himself. "Not in any untoward way, Your Grace, but as a knight ought to love a worthy lord he serves. I'm your man, if you'll have me."
"Is it your ambition to join the Kingsguard?" Baelor says. He would rather not talk in circles around the point. It's what most knights in Ser Duncan's position, with little to forfeit and much to gain, would want. Ser Duncan flushes a little but answers immediately.
"No, Your Grace," he says. "That is to say — I know I haven't the skill for it now." Baelor is tempted to say that it's often blood or gold as much as skill that makes a knight of the Kingsguard, but does not voice the thought. Ser Duncan goes on: "And it gives me pause, seeing them commanded to fight against me. I'd trust you, Your Grace, of course, but… perhaps not everyone who might give me orders, were I to wear a white cloak." His frankness does him credit, Baelor thinks, and he can't truly blame the man. He has a clearer-eyed view of what it means to join the Kingsguard than most, for all that some of his youthful ideals seem to have survived the Trial. "I'm yours to command, so far as my own ability allows. But only yours."
"If I sent you to Dragonstone instead of King's Landing?" Baelor says.
"I've no expectations," Ser Duncan says. "I'll go where I'm bid, if I can make myself useful." He means it, that much is plain, but Baelor also has the sense that he's holding something back.
"If you had your choice," Baelor presses. Ser Duncan starts to speak, but thinks better of it before he's made more than an indistinct sound. He shakes his head and looks down at his hands folded in his lap. "Perhaps you could spy for me, then." That gets him to look up again.
"Spy?" Ser Duncan seems bewildered by the idea. "Begging your pardon, m'lord — Your Grace — but I'm not much for deception. Even if it weren't to cause dishonor, I don't think I have a gift for it." An understatement, certainly, though it would be unkind to say so.
"There are all manner of things that might be said before a hedge knight which a prince might not otherwise hear," Baelor says. "There would be little reason to lie outright. You could take to the road again, live as you have, and send a raven now and then, when you hear something worth telling."
"Beg pardon again, but I haven't the honor of. Well. Reading," Ser Duncan says. "Or writing, more to the point." That hadn't occurred to Baelor, though of course it should have. Ser Duncan had been raised by a knight of honor, some skill, and much tenacity, but no lineage. Ser Arlan before him likely hadn't been lettered, either. Living by the sword and sleeping in hedges seldom would have made them feel the lack. Ser Duncan smiles a little, still guarded. "I think you're having me on a bit."
"A bit," Baelor agrees.
"You want to see what I'd refuse you," Ser Duncan says. He may not be educated, but he's not a fool, either. "It's not very kind."
"It is not possible to sit the throne and be kind, ser," Baelor says, a little more sternly than Ser Duncan's gentle reproof deserves. "The king has ruled well and justly and so he is called 'the Good,' but that is the closest any man can hope for."
"I've never sat the throne, and I'm not like to, so I'd not know," Ser Duncan says. "But if kindness doesn't serve, then I don't think it's fair, to talk a man in circles when you could ask him outright. It's not the question I mind, just the way you're going about it."
"You have the right of it," Baelor says. "I am too used to maneuvering around the ambitions of those at court, and I should give you more credit." Ser Duncan nods, pink-cheeked but serious. "What is it that you would refuse me, if I accepted your service?"
"If you asked me to do what went against my duty as a knight, I'd refuse it," Ser Duncan says. "I'll not kill women or children or a man unarmed, unless it were by accident because he was trying to kill me. But I don't think you'd ask me to do anything like that, or any other service that would cause me dishonor, which is why I do want to serve you. Your Grace." He is halfway to quoting the oath of service that he must have heard pass half a hundred times between his old master and the many lords he served. He is so young and earnest, steadfast and predictable. Good, yes, and with few enough burdens to still be kind if he chooses to be.
"I would have your service," Baelor says. "And I would have your honesty." What he means to get from this is what Ser Duncan had held himself back from saying — the kind of service he prefers, or thinks himself well suited to.
What he gets is something quite different. Ser Duncan takes a deep breath, and nods. His gaze seems to turn inward. He closes his eyes.
"Ser?" Baelor says.
"No, I'm just —" Ser Duncan says. "You're right, Your Grace. You do deserve my honesty, and I owe it to you." He meets Baelor's gaze again, eyes blazing blue. "At the end, Ser Arlan couldn't lift his sword. Couldn't hardly lift his head, and he certainly couldn't stand. What he said was, 'you'll have my sword and shield, and I've taught you well enough to use them.' So that's how I was knighted."
It takes Baelor a moment to understand what he means. Baelor had known, of course, that Ser Duncan likely hadn't stood vigil and been anointed in a sept. Many knights weren't. Any knight can make a knight. It happens on battlefields, in godswoods, even in taverns. This is something more — or rather, something less.
"I knew the vows. We'd talked about them, what they meant and how to hold to them, but he didn't charge me with them, and he didn't dub me with any proper knightly name. I was only ever Dunk to him, not Ser Duncan." Ser Duncan — Dunk — pauses and swallows hard but refuses to look away. "It was Egg, first asked if Dunk were short for Duncan. And I thought, it might be. I don't remember my mother, who I suppose must have named me, and it's nice to think she gave me a proper name, but I had friends called Ferret and Pudding, so it might have been that no one remembered what she called me and I just fell into a washbasin when I was small."
It paints a bleaker picture even than Baelor had imagined as Ser Duncan's lot. Not a farmer's son chosen to squire for his size and strength, but an orphan, alone. Most knights who say they came from nothing mean that their family practiced a trade or sailed as merchants or, at worst, tilled a lord's land and not their own holding. Ser Duncan doesn't even have a family.
"When I came to Ashford, I thought maybe I wasn't a knight after all, because he hadn't touched his sword to my shoulders and said the right words. But I'd taken those vows to heart, even before the old man died. And I've seen plenty of men since then who must have come to knighthood with every pride, pomp, and circumstance, correct as any could wish, but the words were only wind to them, and not a binding oath. If those men can call themselves knights, then I've no qualms saying the same of myself."
Baelor lets a silence fall as he considers this. Not considering what he should do, which is clear enough, but what he can say in the face of such unvarnished truth.
"I will not insult you by asking if you understand what you've risked in telling me this," he says at last. "I trust that you know it could mean death for you, in spite of all you've weathered."
"I'd not have told you if I thought you were the kind of man to have me killed for it," Ser Duncan says. "But if I'm wrong, and you are, then it still spares me from having served a lord I mistook for other than what he was." From another man, in a different tone, it might be the height of arrogance. But it's impossible to think Ser Duncan intended any insult by it.
"No, you have not mistaken me," Baelor says. He supposes he has a right to be angry, having sacrificed his health for a man some would not esteem a knight. Mostly he feels tired, and old. If he kept on the way he had, he would have taken an injury sooner or later. Better to do it for a cause he can credit to more than his own vanity. "You are a good man, Ser Duncan. The realm needs good men. And I —" Gods, he aches. His head is swimming. "I do not think that my cousins across the Narrow Sea are yet content with their lot. We may have war again. It would ease my mind to know that you will answer, if I should need to call my banners."
"Of course, Your Grace," Ser Duncan says. He would be well-placed in the vanguard, Baelor thinks; an assignment of the greatest risk and the greatest honor. He should like to have men with Ser Duncan's integrity by his side, if the Blackfyres rally again.
(Except, of course, Baelor won't be leading the charge, if it happens. It will be someone else.)
"Until then…" Baelor looks at Ser Duncan, seeking an answer in his expression, and finds nothing but a frank admiration that makes him uneasy. "You thought to ask for some specific duty, and I would hear it." Ser Duncan nods.
"I don't much mind where I'm sent, I meant that. But if — if your brother, Prince Maekar, could agree, I'd like to keep Egg on as my squire."
"If you serve somewhere he knows and trusts the master at arms, I think he could come around to the idea," Baelor says. Maekar may never like Ser Duncan, but given a little time, the resentment will fade. He will find it easier to love Aerion at a distance and harder to hate Ser Duncan as the cause of their separation.
"That's the other part," Ser Duncan says. "The part I think he's more like to refuse." Baelor nods slowly and gestures for Ser Duncan to go on. "I'd have Egg squire somewhere he's not known to be a prince, or at least not treated like one."
"He is a prince," Baelor reminds him.
"A prince of the blood," Ser Duncan says, "like Aerion and Daeron."
"And like me," Baelor says. Ser Duncan shakes his head.
"It's not the same," Ser Duncan says. "They haven't any duty to grow into — to live up to. Just the right to do as they like with hardly anyone to deny them."
A good king considers himself in service to his kingdom; a bad one thinks that the kingdom exists only to serve him. Baelor's father has said as much, in recalling his own father. It's true that no one has asked much of Daeron or Aerion. Aemon has been given a vocation by the same means that he has been removed from succession. So far down the line, if Aegon doesn't find some other purpose for himself, his fate is likely to be little better than his sisters' — that is, making a match to some great house. He will have a right of refusal that the girls may or may not, depending on Maekar's permissiveness, but it's not much to look forward to.
"My nephews' tether to the throne is just long enough for them to hang themselves, if they have a mind to do it," Baelor says. From the look on Ser Duncan's face, it was shocking enough that he ought not to have said it. And yet what harm can it do? Ser Duncan won't repeat it to Egg. He won't be at court where someone of consequence could trick him into breaking Baelor's confidence. "I see the reason in your request, and I will grant it, though I expect Aegon to attend at state occasions that are announced in advance."
"And what are those, Your Grace?" Ser Duncan says.
"Weddings, mostly," Baelor says. "Funerals and coronations, if distance permits, but death can come on suddenly, and for the sake of order, coronations follow swiftly on their heels. If you are far from the Crownlands, it may not be practicable." Ser Duncan winces a little. "As I've said, I hope that will not be for years yet. Egg could have his spurs by the time the next king is crowned. Though you would be welcome, in any case."
"I'll ask for any royal proclamations when we're in towns big enough to get them," Ser Duncan says. "And if anything happens, Egg can write for us both, to Summerhall and King's Landing. So you know to expect us, or not." His smile is back now, though smaller. "Can't promise much in the way of spying, but Egg's more apt to notice things like that than I am, anyhow."
The matter of correspondence gives Baelor an idea. He holds out his left hand. Ser Duncan just stares at it, then glances up at his face. Well, of course; Ser Duncan is not like Maekar. He is not used to taking liberties with the royal personage.
"Will you remove my signet ring, Ser Duncan?" Baelor says. "I'm afraid I cannot do it myself."
"No, of course," Ser Duncan shakes his head as if to clear it. "Sorry, yes. I mean, I will." His hands are large but gentle, dexterous. When the ring is off, he cradles it in one palm. "Where would you like me to put it, Your Grace?"
"Keep it," Baelor says. Ser Duncan looks surprised but closes his fist around the ring immediately. "Somewhere safe, and out of sight. Use it to seal any letters of great urgency. It might be better for your allegiance to go unspoken otherwise, along with Aegon's true heritage. The black dragon still has many friends in Westeros."
"Thank you," Ser Duncan says. He's overawed again, in the way that just reminds Baelor of his own exhaustion.
"Wait to thank me until you've been on the road with Egg a few months," Baelor says drily. "Perhaps you'll be cursing me by then."
"I won't," Ser Duncan says. "He's a good lad. We'll get on alright."
"It may be wise to be on your way as soon as the maesters say you're fit to travel," Baelor says. "Though not before. I won't have you expiring on the road and stranding my nephew somewhere before you've taught him to hold a lance." Maekar will not dare to countermand Baelor's judgement just now, but there will still be arguments about the particulars. The sooner Aegon and Ser Duncan are away, the better for them.
"He's too small to dig me a proper grave, anyway," Ser Duncan says. The grimness of the jest makes it easier to bear, somehow. "In service of that, I think I should get back to my bed, if Your Grace will excuse me."
"Of course, Ser Duncan. You may take your leave."
He gets to his feet slowly, leaning hard on his crutch. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Slow as an aurochs, he'd said of himself when they met, but more to the point, he's stubborn as one. He makes it all the way to the door before he pauses and looks back.
"I suppose I should have kissed your ring," Ser Duncan says. "When you gave me your hand." He brings Baelor's signet ring to his lips, just briefly, before he tucks it back against his palm. "Didn't think of it then. I'm sure there's more besides that Egg will tell me I've missed. But I'll pay you all due respect next time, Your Grace."
Baelor wants to call him back. He is too keenly aware of the fact that they might never cross paths again. But there's nothing more to say, at least for now.
My man, he thinks, and finds himself well pleased with the thought.