“This is heaven, he believes. At least one of the seven has to be like this. He's died on the trial field and Baelor is his judgment. He would've been less terrified of dying if he knew it would be as good as this.”
Pairing: Dunk/Baelor. Rating: T, no warnings.
Little fix it, injury recovery sweetness post-trial. Read here or under the cut!
Dunk sits on his knees with his hands hanging limp between his legs, head cushioned against the firm thigh of the Crown Prince of the Realm. A small part of him worries about the fact that he doesn't remember how he got himself into such position. He blinks numbly, head swimming and floaty with wine and a good few blows to the head. Baelor's hand sits idle in the younger man's hair, glinting rings tangling in the strands. The Prince himself is leaned back, bandaged head tilted against the bow of a high-backed chair. There's an enveloping stillness in the room, warm from candles and the day's exertion.
Dunk hums dismissively as one of Baelor's expensive feeling rings tugs lightly at a lock of sun-streaked hair, the Prince's murmured apology floating up into the air like smoke from a flame. Baelor's hand drifts to cup the side of Dunk's face, careful of the swelling. He lets out a deep sigh, like he's just remembered he needs air to live.
"Did you not see the maester, Ser Duncan?"
The question is slurred slightly and Dunk knows it's not from drink.
He shakes his head, shaggy hair falling over his eyes.
"No, Ser. Was a bit preoccupied with catchin' you." Dunk mumbles, the fabric of Baelor's trousers rough against his lips.
The Prince swallows audibly, neglecting the improper use of his title. What use is a title when you've got a knight on his knees?
One of Baelor's feet taps at Dunk's leg, prompting him to sit to the side. It's an awkward angle, considering his refusal to remove his head from the Prince's lap. This is heaven, he believes. At least one of the seven has to be like this. He's died on the trial field and Baelor is his judgment. He would've been less terrified of dying if he knew it would be as good as this.
"You are not dead, good Ser." The voice of the Prince is suddenly louder, removing Dunk from his thoughts. He must've spoken his thoughts of heaven aloud.
Dunk raises his head, then. Blurry gaze meeting Baelor's eye, the other covered in the thick, white bandages wrapping the older man's head. They're both bruised in equal measure, though Baelor's face is clean of blood and sweat. Baelor is smiling at him, he realizes, amusement clear on the other man's face. Not mocking, just some sort of fond. Baelor's hand is still on his face, too. Thumb swiping tenderly under his swollen-shut eye. Dunk's pulse thumps against his temple, blood racing at the change in position. He blinks, stars dancing in his vision.
Baelor must see it, because his shoulder is suddenly grasped by a strong, warm hand.
"We'll have to work on your refusal to accept help if you're to be in my guard, Ser Duncan." Baelor says, shifting in his seat.
Dunk blinks, as best he can, and smiles at Baelor. There's blood in his teeth, surely, but he can't find the right to care.
"Stubborn, you are, boy." Baelor chuckles, fond again in a way that makes Dunk's chest ache more than it already does.
Baelor moves to clasp both of Dunk's hands in his, before standing. He sways a little, feet shuffling parallel to right himself. Dunk can see it in his face as the prince's head swims.
"Right back at you, Ser." His tone is light, words fuzzy on his tongue. Baelor chuckles and pulls gently on the younger man's hands, lifting him up to full height. Duncan's legs feel like they're made of the slimy fish he would see shooting down river in the first moons of the year, tingly and cool and all together wiggly. Through the throbbing numbness the blade wounds sting, blood fusing fabric with skin.
Baelor leads him to sit on the bed and, together, they make it somehow. Their joined steps are stumbly and unsure, nearly knocking each other over in the process. Dunk giggles like he's deep in his cups, near delirious with exhaustion and bone deep ache. He assumes Baelor fares no better.
The bed rocks under his weight, just shy of eye level with the prince while he stands. Baelor turns without a word, the absence of him leaving a cold air around Dunk. He fusses with something on a nearby table, but Dunk can't pinpoint with what. He focuses on the tapestry on the wall parallel with himself and tries his damnedest to stay upright.
Baelor returns with a damp, warm cloth in his hand. He tilts Dunk's chin with one hand and swipes gently at his grime covered face with the other. The prince tuts under his breath, a curious sound that cuts through the air.
"You didn't see the maester, didn't clean yourself up. Only came to me when I asked for you, hmm? And what if you had a fatal blow?"
Baelor seems to be speaking to the air more than he is Dunk, with all his lack of proper response. The hedge knight's mouth hangs open slightly, tongue swiping over his blood covered teeth.
"You needn't fret over me, milord." Dunk's tongue feels heavy like stones in his mouth and the words come out mumbled and unsure. "And you know I would answer your call no matter what."
Baelor nods, that achingly warm expression on his face once again.
"And prince's needn't wash their knights."
"Met many princes, have you?" Baelor's tone is teasing, but gentle. The cloth slides easy against Dunk's skin again.
Dunk swallows, suddenly aware of just how close the other man is. Baelor's knees are propped against the bed between Dunk's legs, leaning his weight against him to stand steady. Dunk's hands also suddenly seem in the way, fingers curling against his own thighs. Just as the realization came, Baelor moves to pull back. He nods, seemingly satisfied with his work.
"You look well enough, as well as I can see you, that is." He gestures to his half-covered face, tongue caught between his teeth in what seems to be jest. "I can't guarantee the rest of you though."
Dunk nods, now clean face flushed pink to his ears.
"Of course, Ser."
"You're shy now? After you've had your head on my thighs for the better part of the afternoon?" Baelor muses, dropping the cloth on arm of a nearby chair.
"That wasn't-!" Dunk starts, before being interrupted by a bark of laughter from the older man.
"I jest, calm yourself." Baelor says, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a pained huff. "If I were to want for any other sort of company from you, it would come as a question, not a jest."
Dunk feels like he needs to lie down, suddenly.
Baelor does lie down. It's his bed, after all. He squirms to get comfortable, wincing with it, before he pats the space beside him.
Dunk thinks he really did get hit in the head too hard after all. He stares, eyes as wide as the swelling will allow. Baelor stares back, hands crossed comfortably over his middle. Dunk feels mad as he shifts to lie beside the prince, staring up at the ceiling.
Baelor smiles at him, still, and raises a hand to bring the furs up around them both. That same hands raises higher still to rest against Dunk's forehead as Baelor turns to lie on his side.
"Rest. I will not let you sleep anywhere less when you've so thoroughly wrung yourself thin."
"And you haven't? I thought your skull cracked open." Dunk faces him then, glassy eyes sparking with something akin to grief.
Baelor sighs, a gentle thing. The crease between Ser Duncan's brows is settled by the prince's thumb, running soft and soothing over the boy's skin.
"Sleep, Dunk. We will talk on the morrow."
He nods, exhaustion taking hold. The ghost of lips brush over his swollen eye and he fights a contented shudder. A chuckle and another tucking of blankets and Dunk is gone, settled in a place that feels to big for his world.
