"I asked chatgpt-" Well I asked Dalinar Kholin and he started quoting the entirety of The Way of Kings at me, which turned out oddly relevant to my situation actually
This is still totally blamed on @alwynno and @sod-st1ll-sleeping because their art lit a fire in my brain. I apologize for nothing. I know I am not much of a romance writer and my crazy story brain is always going weird places. Anyway this is Part 2 of the this snippet. Please check out @alwynno and @sod-st1ll-sleeping art, they are amazing.
There were moments when the simple advantage of every princely household having their own Maester could not be overstated, and Maester Crohen of Ashford castle had been very accommodating to all of them. Right now that meant two Maesters in every sickroom, which was a small comfort amidst all the worries.
And Baelor was not used to worrying about Maekar. In most tournaments and battles they had fought, Baelor had been the one to be injured and Maekar had been right as rain. Seeing Maekar unconscious on a bed, while the Maesters applied layers of bandages drenched in vinegar and plaster, assisted by the castle's barber-surgeon was not exactly calming. The sharp smell of vinegar filled the air, along with the sounds of two helpers finely grinding bonewort and comfrey in a mortar.
After a while Maester Robil was not needed any longer, as the main work was done, and approached Baelor. Rovil was an old Maester, with many links in healing, the main reason why Maekar had chosen him for his household.
“How bad is it?” Baelor asked quietly. He was under no illusion such injuries could easily lead to the loss of an arm, or an arm that would remain stiff forever, depending how badly the bones had been smashed.
“The damage is oddly minimal, your grace,” The Maester replied, “it must have only one hit, very precise. Just enough for one clean break of the bones. We all three are in agreement, the break can be felt cleanly, no other signs of damaged bones. It will take weeks for Prince Maekar to recover, months to heal fully. And yes, there might be lasting damage, he may not regain the full use of his arm - but if he remains resting and does not strain himself too early, to not upset the injury again - we are confident he will be able to use his arm again, once fully healed.”
One clean break? Baelor could almost not believe it. It would mean one precise hit, with just enough force to break the bones beneath but not fully smash them. Just enough force to wound but not maim, controlled strength. He wanted to take Maekar down, not seriously harm him. He knows his own strength and how to temper it. He had not expected it, such skill bespoke a man of experience, let alone the forgiving temper of not going all out on a foe that had wronged him.
He remembered the young hedgeknight, and his clear impression that he was a fundamentally good character. But neither the skill nor the restraint he had shown quite fit the awkward young man he had met before the fight. After the fight, that was an entirely different topic.
“Is there anything else that can be done, Maester Robil?” he asked. It would need a lot of care, and distraction to keep Maekar tied to bed for months. To say nothing of the question of how to transport him to Summerhall. A litter carried very carefully, or a litter on mules might be a solution. Maekar would hate it worse than death itself.
“Not at the moment, your grace. Good news about his sons will do a world of good for him, once he wakes. Right now, he sleeps, thanks to you convincing him to take the milk of the poppy.” The Maester bowed and hurried back to his duties.
Baelor left the room, taking a deep breath in the hallway outside. Who are you, Ser Duncan? He wondered. Aerion and Maekar set you up to die in this trial. But you went out of your way to not kill them outright. Was it mercy on your part? Or was I right to hear some strange care, when you spoke to Aerion after?
Slowly he began to make his way to Aerion’s room, to see how things had been proceeding there. But his mind went back to the hedge knight time and again. When they had spoken after Ser Duncan had carried Aerion back here, the hedge knight had been changed, withdrawn.
“The days after Ser Arlan’s deaths were like a haze, your grace. When the fighting began… it… it felt like waking up, seeing the world sharp and clear again.” Ser Duncan had said, and his eyes had held a far-away, pained expression, that betrayed so much inner turmoil. Baelor understood grief. When Jena had died, he had not been able to function for days. He could not even remember the direct days after her passing. It had been Maekar with his dogged care that had pulled Baelor from the darkness, reminded him how to live.
Could it have been the same for Duncan? If Ser Arlan had been like a father to him, the loss could have been devastating. Still, if the skill he showed on the field is true, then he is already better than many knights, and will be one of the very finest within a few years. Normally Baelor should not care about that. The realm needed good men and good knights, and one more growing among the lower ranks of the knighthood was a good thing. But he wanted to know. Wanted to know how good this man truly was. If he had that much skill, combined with his massive stature, he would be a force on any battlefield. And Baelor wanted to see him fight.
Aerion’s door ripped him from his musings. Inside he found his own Maester Luhan, along with Maester Ansil. Aerion lay on the bed, half passed out, pale. His neck was bandaged, but the bandage was not soaking through, so they must have stemmed the bleeding. He could see the fresh Yarrow leaves left in a small basket, and smelled the scent of shepherd’s satchel tea. Maester Ansil sat at the side of the bed, gently feeding Aerion spoons of the tea.
Maester Luhan approached Baelor with a bow. “Let us head outside, your grace, the young Prince needs to rest.” He always spoke of “the young Prince” no matter whom of the family he was treating. Even Baelor had ended up with that moniker now and then.
“How is he?” Baelor asked, when they stood outside in the hallway.
“Critical,” Maester Luhan replied. “It was almost too late. The cut itself was not deep enough to kill him immediately. But until someone helped him, he already lost a lot of blood. We stemmed the bleeding, and he needs to lie still, so as to not aggravate the wound again. It is the blood loss that worries me. If he lasts through the night, we will have a chance to build him up again. Once he can eat, we will feed him kale and buckwheat, along with bloodroot and nettles. I can tell you more come morning. For now he is very weak.”
Baelor nodded and stepped away, digesting the words. Had Maekar not attacked Duncan, help would have gotten to Aerion faster. Again, Duncan had wounded Aerion just enough to take him down, but tried not to harm him more than he had to. Not tried, he had not harmed him more than absolutely necessary, and if not for Maekar’s interference Aerion might not have lost that much blood.
It did nothing to answer any of the questions that Baelor had on his mind. Knowing that there would be no news on Aerion for the next hours, he went next to find young Aegon. Only when he reached Aegon’s room, he found only Daeron sitting in a chair before the fire, his eyes wide and glazed. But there was none of the typical smell of wine in the room.
“Where is Aegon?” Baelor asked, a bit more sharply. “Daeron… where is he?”
Daeron looked at him, his eyes glazed. “He is gone… slipped out… the dreams,” he whispered softly. “The dreams are burning, reeling. The hedgeknight, the lost Dayne and the dragon dancing in the flames…”
Baelor grasped Daeron’s shoulder. “Where did Aegon go?” he asked a bit more sharply.
“Find the Hedgeknight… but it is too late… it changes.” He grabbed Baelor’s hand, with an iron clasp. “The Lord Commander, the Sunset Blade, and the dragon… the fire has borne them…”
Shaking his head Baelor stepped back, leaving Daeron sag back into the chair. There was nothing to be learned here. He returned to his own rooms, looking around to see whether Aegon had come here, but Valarr quickly confirmed not having seen the boy. With a resigned sigh, Baelor pulled a hooded cloak around his shoulders, and left the castle to search for his wayward nephew.
Outside the later afternoon gave way to the evening over the tournament grounds. Laughter, singing, and the wild mix of voices at the edge of the grounds mixed with the cool spring wind. Now that the excitement of the trial of the seven was over, people looked forward to the Melee and the archery contests to be held the day after tomorrow. Some more daring mummers performed an exaggerated pantomime of the trial by a fire, with people standing around and laughing.
It almost seemed like the world had turned back to its usual hustle and bustle, uncaring of the two Princes lying wounded at the castle. It was a strange feeling, though Baelor knew it was only normal. He passed through the camp largely unnoticed. He had almost reached the forge, to find out where the Hedgeknight had gone (and hopefully where Aegon would be headed), when he heard a woman scream from the nearby edge of the meadow.
“He is drawing… gods! … who threw him in there?”
Baelor strode toward her voice at once. Aegon could not swim, and the sudden nightmare of the boy falling into the river stood vividly in his mind. He was not the first to reach the height above the Cockleswent, several people from the grounds had come as well, along with the blacksmith.
Down in the water, half tangled in the reeds, someone was drifting, Baelor could spot parts of armour dragging the man under, only the reeds prevented him sinking. Baelor could spot a head of dark hair, struggling time and again to keep above the water, and scrap of violet cloth. Not Aegon. That was the first relieved thought coming to his mind. It was not his little nephew having taken the next risk, only to get harmed as well.
“Vorian!” A familiar voice cut through the voices of the people watching, as a tall figure pushed past several onlookers.
Ser Duncan did not wait for others to react, or offer help. He was already down at the river bank and waded into the streaming water. Baelor frowned. Did the hedgeknight know the person in the water?
He watched as Duncan reached the drifting person, swiftly cutting through something that seemed to hold him down, and then lifted the body out of the water. Baelor gasped, seeing that it was not a man grown, but a youth. Younger than Ser Duncan, whom Duncan carried ashore, and put down. The youth toppled over as his body freed itself of the river water he had swallowed.
Duncan cast a look at the gawking people, and Baelor was stunned by the authority in that gaze. “I’ve got him!” the hedgeknight called out. “He’ll be fine.” It was enough for most people to turn and return to the camp. Those few who had come out here, had come to help, and it seemed help was no longer needed. Baerlor stepped into the shadow of a tree, to observe without being seen.
He studied the youth Duncan had pulled from the water. Two-and ten or maybe three-and-ten, clad in chainmail, remnants of a violet tabard still clining to him, deep black hair… a Dayne if he ever saw one.
The hedgeknight and the lost Dayne…
What hat Daeron seen? Down there, at the river, Duncan helped the younger man to his feet. “Vorian, can you stand?”
The youth nodded grimly. “I’ve had worse. Thank you for cutting me out there…” He suddenly stopped and looked at Duncan, as if he were seeing him for the first time and his eyes widened. “By the seven…” he whispered. “You… how?”
Duncan put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know,Vorian. I don’t know. But you… you should not have followed me into that fire.”
“And you should not have left him stab you in the first place. So we both are fools.” Vorian replied, and now Baelor understood what he found so unsettling about those two - they both sounded older, like men double their age at the very least.
They walked away from the river and Baelor followed in shadow. The walk led to an Elm tree, where a small fire was burning. Duncan put a torn blanket around Vorian. “You need to warm up, you may not feel the cold, much as I did not feel any pain, at first. But it will come.”
Vorian nodded gratefully and sat down by the flames, Duncan leaning back against the tree. “You should not be here,” he said, “you cannot be here. It will be decades till…”
“I know,” Vorian shrugged. “Whatever happened in that fire, when the eggs broke, it did something. Not that I know what.”
Duncan chuckled. “Not a question one can ask a Maester either,”
Both men laughed, and Vorian’s eyes sparkled with wry amusement. Baelor noticed the eyes were bright amethyst, which eradicated the last doubt that he was dealing with a Dayne. But there had not been a Vorian Dayne for generations. Naming a son after the last Dayne King held a certain… arrogance. Or maybe it was the son of Aeron Dayne? Baelor wondered. Aeron had been a close friend of Daemon Blackfyre, which had caused a rift with his family, leading him to leave Dorne entirely Though he had stuck to his oaths and fought for the rightful King at Redgrass fields. Baelor knew that Aeron had never forgiven himself for fighting his best friend, and retreated with his surviving children into a seclusion, living as a hermit at Toryar’s peak. Rumour had it, that house Dayne forbade him to ever leave the peak again. Could Vorian be his son? Little enough was known about his family, as he had married after breaking away from his house.
He had missed some of the conversation between Duncan and Vorian, and only now noticed Duncan’s voice again. “... no one will believe it, you came back as a mite, Vorian. You’ll have to be my squire again for a while.”
Vorian grinned, slightly amused. “It will be my honour, oh Ser Duncan,” his words were lighthearted, though rather the words of a grown man joking, than of youth making fun. “I’ll do a pass for the armour and the horses come morning?”
“No!” a sharp, clear voice cut through the darkness, and Baelor saw a familiar figure dart from the shadows. Aegon, who stood indignant before the fire. “You cannot take him,” a glare as only a child could make it flew at Vorian “as a squire. You promised it would be me.”
Duncan leaned forward, arm leaning on one knee. “That was when I believed you to be an orphaned stableboy, Egg,” he said kindly. “You are a Prince of the realm, and you cannot wander the land with a hedgeknight.”
“Why not?!” Aegon challenged. “I want to see the world. I need to learn things I cannot learn in Summerhall, or the Red Keep. You could teach me.”
To Baelor’s surprise he could see genuine sadness, but also an odd wariness in Duncan’s mien. “Egg,” Duncan said quietly. “I know you want to see the world from a different perspective than from the royal household’s. You have questions, and think you can learn the answers by travelling as a commoner.” the voice held warmth, but was tinged with a sadness Baelor could not fathom. “But all that would accomplish would be to give you more questions, and problems that I do not know the answer to.”
Was it only his imagination, or did Duncan look past Egg, into the darkness, as if he were speaking to someone who was not here. “All I know is, that the answers you seek, are not simple answers, no do they have simple solutions. And all I could give you, would be simple solutions. And were you to try to implement them, you would seen find resistance.”
“Then I must be stronger!” Egg said, pulling himself up to his full height. “I am a dragon.”
The words made both, Duncan and Vorian wince. “I know,” Duncan replied. “And that is why you cannot walk with me. A dragon needs to soar, not trudge along. I can only ask you, to seek you answers elsewhere, with wiser people. Your Uncle Baelor is a good, honourable man, and he could teach you much.”
Why did Baelor feel almost embarrassed by that unexpected praise? He could not say, but hearing the praise from Ser Dunan’s mouth meant something to him. He stepped out of the darkness that had fallen around them. “He is right, Aegon,” Baelor said quietly. “You cannot just run away from your problems.”
Both Duncan and Vorian rose the moment they realised Baelor was there, bowing simultaneously. Aegon looked up at Baelor with a stubborn pout that told him this would not be the end of it all. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and silenced him with a glance, before meeting Duncan’s eyes.
Why did he only notice now that Duncan had clear blue eyes, like the summer skies? “I do not yet know whether Prince Aerion will live,” he said quietly. “But I know that you tried to not harm him worse, than you had to. The same with my brother. And for that I am very grateful.” he could see the unease on Duncan’s face, the way he looked aside, not quite sure what to say. Baelor went on. “Lord Ashford has decided the melee will be held the day after tomorrow, will I see you there?” He was curious to see Duncan fight, to see whether what happened on the field had been a fluke, brought on by the threat of impending death, or whether there was much more skill in the young man, than he had shown so far. “You squire seems old enough to follow you.”
Ser Duncan straightened his shoulders. “I had not considered it yet, your grace,” he replied quietly. “Especially not knowing how much harm I might have done to your family. If you wish to see me fight there, I shall participate.”
Baelor nodded, keeping a firm hand on Aegon, as he led him away from the fire and along the hillside. Aegon was quiet, but the stubborn glint in his eyes and become intermixed with something else, anger and envy, that Baelor did not like seeing. He would have to take the boy in hand, he decided, and he would ask Valarr to help. As they reached the top of the hill, he turned and looked back, seeing Vorian showing Duncan something on his arm, and Duncan doing the same. He could not see what it was, an injured perhaps, or a scar. Baelor had not time to think about it now, he needed to bring Aegon back to the castle and make very sure he did not vanish again.
Baelor only found rest late in the night, and when sleep came it was fraught with dreams. He was flying high above dragonstone, the sea below churning. He was fighting on a hot battlefield in the stepstones, hearing the battlecry ‘fire and blood’ on the wind, he was standing in the throne hall of the Red Keep alone, and a tall man in white armour walked up to him saying “it is done, they all are dead.”
And suddenly he was lying in his familiar bed in the Red Keep, the strong arms of his lover wrapped around him and a warm voice whispering. “Go back to sleep, it was just a dream. All winter winds bring nightmares.” And he snuggled more firmly against his lover’s powerful frame, finding peace in Duncan’s arms…
Baelor startled from his sleep, sweat drenching his brow, his body shaking. What had he been dreaming? The pictures were still so close, so real. Duncan’s tall frame wrapped around his, strong hands slowly caressing Baelor’s body…
He felt the heat rise in his cheeks when the insidious pictures slipped into his mind again. How could he? He buried his face in his hands, trying to chase those images away. He had hidden part of his nature for most of his life. It had been easy with Jena, with her he had found it no challenge to resist the occasional temptation a good looking knight might pose in court. Because Jena had filled his heart and his nights with equal warmth. She had never been taken aback by an occasional dream or flight of fancy, knowing she held his heart and his love. When she had died, he had sworn to himself that no other woman would ever take her place, believing all of his ability to love had died with her.
And now… Now he saw how wrong he had been.
Get over yourself, it was only a dream. He told himself. You are too old to lust after the best looking young knights in court.
It did not help, the dream was still too close, and the warmth he had felt inside it, had been a warmth he had missed for so long. He sank back into his rumpled bed, trying to forget about the dream, and yet, the imagination alone, the memory of the strong arms holding him, was what made him drift back into sleep.
I fully blame @alwynno and @sod-st1ll-sleeping for this - they Duncan/Baelor Drawings got my mind to this story. No real Duncan/Baelor yet... more a setup and me having no idea how in the world I could even nudge them into a relationship! This is raw, unbetaed and just the way it came to my mind.
259 AC, Summerhall
The hall was packed, and almost half the guests in attendance were of royal blood. And a lot more were of a descent that held royal blood in the last four generations, five with some, if one was generous. At the heart of the hall sat the grand fireplace, containing the eggs, carefully arranged in the middle of the flames.
While they certainly were the attraction most people stared at, the eggs were the least of Duncan’s worries. They were stone. Dead and gone, unlikely to make any trouble. The same could not be said about the guests, who were already indulging heavily in the wine, generously served.
His eyes went to Caderyn Grey, who stood at the other side of the hall, watching the entrance. There were five of them in attendance here, with Arlan Storm and Brynden Moore sleeping in their quarters. They would take over once the feast wound down - which was hours away. Caderyn’s gaze met his and there was an imperceptible nod towards him. All is good so far. That gaze said. They are still behaving.Which would be Caderyn’s way of expressing that the court was only mildly indulging in their usual foibles.
Standing taller than everyone else in the hall afforded Duncan a clear view of the guests, and of the troubles already arising. Drunken advances, japes becoming slights, and Prince Jaeherys definitely indulging a bit too heavily in the arbor gold. His constitution was not made for heavy drinking and he was stumbling already.
Duncan made eye contact with the guard by the pillar. He had assigned young Gerold Hightower there. The knight was eager and a bit itchy, so best keep him where Duncan could see him. When Gerold met his eyes Duncan pointed his chin towards the Prince, and Gerold’s eyes widened. He understood. He might be eager, but he used his brains with astonishing ease, contrary to Duncan who constantly felt slow around him.
While Gerold moved to help Prince Jaehaerys back to his quarters, Duncan’s attention was drawn towards the voices growing louder in front of the long firepit.
“You cannot be serious!” Prince Aerys’ voice rose clearly. “Grandfather… this is madness.”
Leaving his silent post, Duncan moved in closer, ready to interfere, should the young Prince fall out of line. The young man was unruly, and he had the temper to be a problem. Beside him stood his pregnant wife Rhaella.
“It is the only way,” the King spoke in measured tones, but his voice held an odd note. “To return the dragons to us, they must be woken. And only a death may pay for a life. I did not select your child lightly, Aerys…”
Duncan did not hear the rest of the words, as he froze up inside. He had seen this before - Aerion drinking wildfire, others of the royal family consumed by prophecy, by fire, by… madness. He had believed Egg was different. He had sense. He understood that problems needed to be solved through work, not mysticism. Duncan had believed that Egg saw clearly about the mad fascination his family held with fire and death.
Even when Egg had become somewhat obsessed with dragons, Duncan had told himself that Egg would be reasonable. He knew his comrades, Caderyn Grey and Vorian Dayne especially, believed that Duncan was blind to what was happening. That his long past with the King blinded him to the obsession the King had developed. Others whispered that Duncan was too old, slightly senile and might not see what others did.
They were wrong. Duncan did see. Duncan did hear. But he did not judge words, he did not worry about talk. He worried about deeds, about the crimes men actually did commit, not the ones they phantasized about. But now… this… this was not words any more. The deed was about to be done, and deep down inside Duncan a great disappointment woke. He had believed Egg would be different.
Duncan straightened up. At nine and sixty he was not the strong young man he once had been, but he still was stronger than most of his comrades. His physical strength was not the issue - the words were. While years in court, years as Lord commander had taught him to navigate pitfalls, express himself in a manner that did not sound like a complete moron, and observe carefully, he still relied on Caderyn when it came to fine rhetoric.
Princess Rhaella clutched her belly, tears in her eyes and fear in her voice. “My baby… you cannot take my child from me, please.” she pleaded, and to Duncan’s horror Egg was unmoved.
“It has to happen, and sad though it may be, it will restore this house.”
Duncan felt a cold hand lay itself around his throat. Egg could be a little shit at times, he could do things that were not well thought out and he did use people. He was a king, so all that was expected. But sacrificing an unborn babe? That went too far, too far for all his family, even Aerion had not been mad enough for that. He had drunken wildfire, which said a lot about his sanity, or lack thereof. Yet he had only harmed himself. Sacrificing a child… that went beyond any insanity Duncan had lived through with this royal family so far. And after over fifty years around them, forty in their service, that was saying something.
‘A hedge knight is the truest kind of knight, Dunk... Other knights serve the lords who keep them... but we serve where we will, for men whose causes we believe in.’ Ser Arlan had taught Duncan a lifetime ago. And only now, in this hall, after decades wearing the white, after years of being the Lord Commander, Duncan began to realise that the cause he had chosen might not have been the right one.
Duncan pushed past the crowd, shoving aside a few minor members of the royal house, along with the Lord Hand, who looked ready to collapse. Deliberately he stepped between Princess Rhaella and the King. He looked at the young woman, eyes wide in tears, her desperation clearly written on every feature of her pretty face. “Leave, M’Lady,” Duncan said quietly. “I’ll handle this.”
Her eyes widened and the hope he saw shining in there was all it needed to set his will on this course. Aerys at least used his common sense, and wrapped his arm around Rhaella, though at the King’s gesture, Gerold Hightower and Reynald Vance blocked their leaving the room.
Duncan levelled a glare at his King. Aegon the fifth of his name stared up at him, with that will that had always gotten his way, even as a child. “Lord Commander, step aside.” he said, his voice cool.
“You say that only death can pay for life?” Duncan asked, ignoring the order. He had done harder things than this. He had stood up to Egg before, and he had gotten in trouble with worse Targaryens than him.
“Yes,” Aegon’s voice was tense. “It needs a life, the blood of a sacrifice on these eggs, to bring them to fruition.”
For a moment Duncan wondered how much of this he had heard over the course of his life. Too much, too often. It was wrong, and yet it was indelible in the Targaryen lines. His hand sank to his side, not to his sword, but to the dagger on his left. He loosened it with the left, and drew it slowly, flipping it around, to offer it to Aegon hilt first.
“If only death can pay for a life, then let it be mine,” he said firmly, ignoring the gasps of the people around him.
The King took the blade, though there was a tremor in his hand. “Do not think I will not do it, just because of our history, Dunk,” he said softly, his eyes holding an expression of anger and uncertainty. “I will do it.”
Duncan did not move, his gaze found Vorian Dayne, beyond Aegon. While Gerold and Reynald had obeyed the King, Vorian had the arrogance to obey an order of the Lord Commander over his King. He moved, pushing aside Hightower, and allowing Aerys and Rhaella to pass towards the exit of the hall.
Duncan’s gaze returned to Egg. “Then do it,” he said, keeping his voice level. He had come close to death often enough, wished for death at least twice… and at his age Death had become a fact, not something you ran away from. “I am an old man, and my death is a certainty.” a part of him, the part that had always been astonished at the friendship he had shared with Egg hoped, believed that their friendship would be stronger than this. The harder part in him, the Lord commander knew such belief was folly.
Aegon stood entirely still for several minutes, the court having fallen silent around them, everyone staring at them. One might hear a feather drop in the hall. Slowly Aegon weighed the sharp dagger in his hand. “You chose this.” He said, his voice rough and tense.
“Aye,” Duncan replied. “As did you.” It would be both of their choices, and maybe his long journey had always led Duncan here, to this precise moment. Maybe that was the price for years in Egg’s orbit. Maybe, he should have stayed in Essos all those years ago, when Aegon’s wrath had sent him to exile. No, even that was not possible, because then he would have been on the other side of the same war.
Their eyes met, and in Aegon’s gaze Duncan saw his answer, when the familiar eyes hardened with the utter determination that Duncan knew so well. Aegon raised the dagger, and plunged it straight into Duncan’s throat, right where the armour did not protect him. Pain shot through his body, as his breath became filled with blood. His body stumbled and crashed backwards into the firepit, flame igniting his clothes, his hair. Duncan wanted to scream in agony but only a gurgle escaped this throat.
The hall erupted into screams and shouts, and the clash of steel. He saw a familiar figure leap onto the edge of the firepit, trying to reach him. Vorian Dayne. Duncan wanted to shout, scream for Vorian to stay away, but even that last piece of strength faded into horrifying agony. He saw a spear thrown, hitting Vorian into the back, and his brother in arms collapsed beside him into the fire.
A loud, horrible crack echoed the hall and fire exploded from the pit and through the room, as shouts of fighting became screams of terror. A pain, worse than before, touched Duncan in his last seconds of consciousness, as if something, something freed from the breaking eggs was creeping over his skin. A last sear of pure pain and suffering… and then the darkness took him.
***
He came to on the ground in the mud, a cold chill in the air but the pain was gone. Through the slit of the helmet he vaguely saw an approaching figure, and heard fighting noise around him. Duncan pushed himself up, there was pain, but nothing to what he had felt only seconds before. A knight in black armour and with a winged helmet swung a mace at him. In reflex turned aside, a full turn, making the man stumble past him. One second he had to draw his blade. The next swing came, and Duncan’s reflexes took over, his brought his blade up, right against his opponent's hand, and steel clashed on steel. The impact making them both stumble, Duncan pushed forward.
His mind was reeling, but his body reacted without thinking. Strike, pivot, cross-cut. This could not be Aerion. How could it be? And yet it was… it was the man he had brawled in the muddy fields of Ashford.
You have no time, you lunk. Finish this. Duncan knew he had not been as skilled as a youth, but now, years of experience, of fighting in wars, assassination attempts and tourneys to protect his Prince, took over. Aerion lost the mace and drew a blade, but Duncan was faster. He opened his cover, allowing the blade to slash alongside his armour, and penetrate the chainmail, while his sword came up and in one clean strike cut through the chainmail at Aerion’s neck, slicing the side of his neck open. Hot blood shooting from the wound. Aerion stumbled forward, trying to attack, but Duncan stepped aside, letting him crash to his knees. “Yield!” he barked at the Prince, who collapsed into the mud with a gurgle.
Behind himself Duncan heard a roar. “You slew my son!”
Maekar. How in the seven hells could any of this be? A hit of the rider’s lance threw him into the mud, but the impact cost Maeka his seating as well. Duncan scrambled up, blade ready, as the angered Prince came at him with a mace. Duncan blocked the first strike, his eyes searching the field. He could spot Prince Baelor, still ahorse… still uninjured.
His heart leapt. If this was real… if this dream was real…
Maekar attacked with the ferocious anger of the dragon, hits coming hard, Duncan felt the mace’s spike crash through his armour, puncturing it above his ribs. Maekar had to yank to break the mace free, and that was all Duncan needed. He ignored the pain… It was not pain really, it was an irritant, nothing compared to dying burning in Summerhall, he brought his sword down on the Princes’ shoulder, using both hands. It was not meant to shatter the armour, it could not, and Duncan knew that. It never needed to shatter the armour - only the bones beneath it. Maekar howled in pain as the bones in shoulder cracked, and he lost the grip on his mace. Duncan pushed him backwards into the mud and yanked the mace free, throwing it away.
“Your son is defeated, I won,” he growled. “He may yet live, if you help him at once.”
Around them the fighting had stopped, the knights realising the trial was over. Duncan saw the horses of Prince Baelor and Lyonel Baratheon cantering towards them.
Lyonel…
The name brought back pain and sadness. He had fought Lyonel in a trial by combat. At least Lyonel had known when he was defeated. Duncan did not waste any more time on the downed anvil, but hastened back to where Aerion lay in the mud. A huge red puddle formed beside him. The hit had not been deep, but found the right place, and his time was running out. Duncan tore off the mud-coloured tabard he wore, pressing the cloth against the neck wound, to stem the bleeding. Aerion was pale, panting, strength rapidly leaving his body. “You won,” he whispered.
“And you will live,” Duncan replied, as the shadow of Prince Baelor fell over them, and Duncan heard the typical clanging of a chain. Someone had called for a Maester. The old grey man knelt in the mud, gently prying at the cloth Duncan pressed against Prince Aerion’s neck, just enough to see the damage. “Dear gods,” he murmured. “Keep your hand there, put pressure on it. We need to get him to the castle.”
Prince Baelor’s leather gloved hand fell over Duncan’s. “I will keep this in place,” he said quietly. “Can you lift him up?”
Duncan nodded, sliding his hand out from under Baelor’s who kept the pressure on the wound. Duncan wove one arm under Aerion’s armpits, one under his knees and carefully lifted the Prince up. It took all his strength, as Aerion still wore his armour. Duncan gritted his teeth and came up to stand, careful to move slowly, so Prince Baelor could keep the makeshift bandage in place. Duncan began walking slowly, Baelor matching his step, a hard grip on the wound. Was it only wishful thinking that Duncan thought the bleeding slowed a little? Maybe it was.
“Why?” Aerion whispered, his head was resting against Duncan’s shoulder, almost like a child. “You won, you should triumph, gloat, you rightfully beat a Prince.”
Suddenly, for a moment Duncan felt as tongue-tied as he had been as a youth, unsure how to express his thoughts and took refuge in the words of a friend. “A true knight leaves thievery, rape, gloating and treachery to lesser men.” A Vorian-ism if there had ever been one. Vorian Dayne had been full of such kernels of arrogant knightly wisdom, wrapped into the pride of a man who wielded Dawn. Duncan had stolen his quotes more than once, when he had not found the right words himself.
Aerion shuddered, he was paler than ever before. “That’s just words…” he whispered, “words you say. Not what is in your heart.”
Damn him, damn dragons and they damn insight into men. What had Duncan been thinking, believing he could lie his way out of this? There had been no Targaryen he had ever met who was not good at reading the men around them. So how to explain? Duncan had never liked or respected Aerion, who had been arrogant and cruel, and who had found his end in a bottle of wildfire. And yet… he had never wished for his death either. “It was not my intention to kill you,” he replied honestly.
Luckily they arrived at the castle and were led to the Maester’s chambers, where Duncan carefully put Aerion down, and one of the Maester’s assistants replaced Prince Baelor in keeping the pressure on the wound. The Maester shooed both of them out, having to work. The Prince’s personal Maester arrived moments after at the door of his colleague, accompanied by two Kingsguard supporting Prince Maekar, whose face was pale with pain and was led into the Maester’s rooms as well.
Duncan knew better than to come close to a Maester’s refuge when they had patients to work on. It was never advisable, and most Maester’s had acerbic methods to keep disruptions at a minimum. Now that the rush of the fight was receding the full shock of what had happened returned.
How… how could this be real? How could he be here? Or was this just the pain and the ritual and his mind fleeing from the horror?
“When I asked you how good a knight you were, this was not the answer I had expected.” Prince Baelor’s voice cut through Duncan’s reverie, reminding him that he was not alone, and noting was as he remembered it.
Duncan averted his eyes. “The days after Ser Arlan’s deaths were like a haze, your grace,” he said, it was not truly an answer, but in a manner it was the truth. “When the fighting began… it… it felt like waking up, seeing the world sharp and clear again.” It was not a direct lie, but a misdirection. Gods, how much of this had he learned from Caderyn and Vorian? Saying something without saying anything, giving an honest answer by not answering really. Only now, standing here, Duncan began to realise how little he still had to do with the boy he once had been. He could remember that boy, as cleary as if it had been yesterday. Only he remembered that young hedge knight like one would remember a long lost friend, a friend much mourned, not someone he himself had once been.
“Your grace!” The Maester’s voice came from the doorway. “I apologize for the disruption, bu Prince Maekar… he refuses the milk of the poppy and…” Prince Baelor turned around and swept up the stairs, no doubt to shake some sense into his youngest brother.
Duncan exhaled sharply, the pain began to creep alongside his bones, and he began to realise the hits he had taken. The pain was still subdued, as if the memory of the fire, of dying in agony still was overlaying his every sense. He took the chance to leave, leave the castle, the dream, the confusion.
Help for Duncan came in the form of Steely Pate, who found him, and offered help with his injuries. Duncan took the help gratefully, especially the bucket of cold water to wash himself, get the mud off his body. Seeing himself reflected in the cold water, Duncan saw a face he had long forgotten, the face of the naive hedge knight he had once been. But at the base of his throat, he saw a thin white line. A scar. The scar where Aegon’s knife had embedded itself into his neck.
He touched the cool flesh, feeling the slight uneven texture of the thin mark. How… how was this even possible. How could he bear a mark that he should not receive for three and fifty years? What had truly happened in that ritual? What in the world had Egg set loose? And you helped him, his thoughts supplied ironically. You helped him, like you always did.
He eyes fell to his left arm, still marred by the muck from the field. He began to wash the dirt away, only to notice a strange marring along his skin. His lower arm was marked by a fine pattern of blue and silver, almost like scales, or an ornament wrapped tightly around his lower arm. He ran his fingers over it, and it felt strangely warm, alive. Not like some sickness, more like something… natural. Hastily he finished washing and donned his rough spun tunic again, the long arm covering the markings fully. “Egg, what you have done?” Duncan whispered. “What in the world have you done?"
my boy dunk is really bad at taking compliments so when months into his secret relationship with the king he got hit with “the handsomest knight of the seven kingdoms” lets just say man couldnt mumble a coherent sentence for five minutes
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