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Part XXIX

Alright, my writing has slowed, due to me working nights and my brain going wonky from Sleep chaos. But here we are, the next chapter.

alwynno Created another Beautiful Piece of art, and I cannot thank her enough for being so inspiring. I am amazed at each and every Picture she creates.

SoD drew wonderful art for this story and I cannot thank her enough. She is so incredibly talented. Please give her some love, because she and her art are simply amazing.

alwynno is still to blame and harrylee94 still listens patiently to me rambling about plot.

alwynno created another Wonderful piece of art and now I want Baelor wounded at the Redgrass and a Young Knight Duncan getting him off the field. Oh my… that would be the next Major AU.

Links to the earlier Parts:

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII Part XIII Part XIV Part XV Part XVI Part XVII Part XVIII Part XIX Part XX Part XXI Part XXII Part XXIII Part XXIV Part XXV Part XXVI Part XXVII Part XXVIII

This comes with big thanks to harrylee94 who patiently listens to me chatter on about plot, problems and more plot. She wrote amazing LotR stories and is working on something Asoiaf related that will be posted eventually. I really recommend checking out her stories, she is amazing.

Baelor woke in the hour of dawn when the skies turned from black to a dark blue, and the stars slowly began to dwindle. He was snuggled against Duncan’s powerful frame, though during the night he had slid away from the crook of Duncan’s shoulder, and onto the softer pillow. Duncan lay on his back, one arm closely wrapped around Baelor. He lay absolutely still, but his breathing was not that of a man sleeping.

Tilting his head Baelor could see Duncan’s face, illuminated by the pale light of the waning moon. The silver shimmer emphasised Duncan’s proud features. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling above him.

Was he missing the stars? Baelor wondered for a moment. Duncan had been a hedgeknight, and probably grew up outside, along the roads of Westeros. Did he miss the comfort of the stars, or was it just him lying utterly still, looking up at something that may not even be there in his mind, just for Baelor’s sake, so as to not wake him? Baelor could not honestly imagine that anyone might miss sleeping outside, in the ditches. But he had known enough old campaigners who had never learned to sleep in a proper bed again.

Had Duncan slept at all tonight? Or had he just lain awake, silently watching over Baelor? The memory of his own collapse the night prior returned on soft feet and Baelor wanted to bury his face in the pillow. The pain was still there, it always would be. But now as he could see the events with a calmer mind, he was ashamed by his own weakness. He had broken down in bitter tears, allowing his grief and pain to overwhelm him. It had been a picture of wretched weakness, and he was more than lucky that Duncan had not judged him for being unworthy.

No, Duncan would not do that. In spite of having lived through much greater hardship, hardship that Baelor did not dare imagine, he had shown Baelor only gentleness. Not reminded him that such loss was visited by the gods upon all families high and low. Baelor remembered Duncan holding him, being a bastion of strength and warmth in the darkness. He had begged Duncan to not leave him alone in the night… and Duncan had not forsaken him.

His heart swelled with the conflicting feelings. What he had done to deserve someone like Duncan? Someone who gave him so much love and warmth and asked for nothing in return? Tracing his eyes over Duncan’s profile, Baelor heard a soft sigh from Duncan, betraying a heavy heart - or worries, well hidden from others. Duncan’s hand gently circled Baelor’s back, an unconscious caress, before Duncan turned his back towards the window.

This Baelor knew - Duncan was checking what hour it must be, and before the blue outside dimmed to grey, he would get up, slip out of Baelor’s bed and be back at his duties by sunup. His movements betrayed he was getting ready to leave. Without thinking Baelor reached for Duncan’s arm, letting his hand trace over the warm skin.

Duncan turned towards him with a small - strangely sad - smile. He leaned in and kissed Baelor’s forehead. “You should rest a little longer,” he said in a hush. “The moon has yet to leave the skies.”

It was his way of saying that it was too early an hour for a Prince to be up and about. Instead of snuggling back onto the soft downs, Baelor propped himself up on one elbow. “It is too early for you to leave.” he did not want to let go of Duncan. People would talk, he knew that. Servants would notice, and they would gossip, that the King was bedding one of his Kingsguard. Dornish habits they would whisper, some would certainly feel sorry for the handsome young knight having to accommodate an ageing King, and some of the more adventurous would feel envious of one or both of them. Baelor did not care. He wanted Duncan by his side, and the realm got no say in that.

“I have to go,” Duncan said, softly. “There will be a lot to do, and it’s still the three of us, provided the healers get Kendric back to his feet, at least somewhat. And Griffin will need me… on this day more than ever.”

Now Baelor noticed that strange expression on Duncan’s face more clearly than before. Was it the executions that bothered him? He must have seen his fair share of them in his life. But then, Baelor remembered Duncan’s slight hesitation going into battle as a dragon. He had known the carnage that would follow, and he had not revelled in the power of destruction. “What is it, Duncan?” he asked, trying to not sound impatient. “Dealing with the traitors has to be done…”

Duncan sat up and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, and now there was the mask in place. This was the Kingsguard speaking, not allowing himself an opinion on his King’s actions, putting aside his own feelings in the name of duty.

Before Duncan could leave, Baelor sat up reaching for Duncan, to not let him leave. “Tell me.” he said gently. “I want to know what is in your heart.”

A heavy sigh escaped Duncan’s chest as he turned to Baelor. “I have to be down there today, Baelor - I need to. Alyn will need me on this wretched day. Having to oversee the execution of his brother will hurt - even if Alyn will accept his brother earned his own death by rebelling. But Olyvar? That will tear him apart inside, and he won’t be allowed to show the pain - not if he does not want people to whisper that he is next. And I… I can’t let him choose death and ask to die beside Olyvar.”

There was a part of Baelor who wanted to be jealous. Duncan cared about Ser Alyn, would try to shield him when he could, they were close. He forced himself to not allow these feelings to take root. Duncan was a loyal friend, a good comrade and maybe the best kind of sworn brother the Kingsguard had seen in a long time. He cared about his Lord Commander. “Olyvar?” Baelor asked instead. “That’s the Connington hostage we have, isn’t he?” He had never truly cared to know the people that had been taken after the Redgrass. But he vaguely remembered that his father had chosen to leave Lord Togarion in Griffin’s Roost to administer the lands, after he had been a fairly ineffective rebel and his other brothers had died on the field. They had taken the freshly born heir instead. The name had never truly registered with Baelor nor could he put a face to the name.

He could see Duncan’s blue eyes flash with temper in the dark. “He is a fourteen year old boy, who never raised his voice, let alone a weapon, against your House.” he said sharply. “He gave us information when we were searching for the conspiracy, he adores his Uncle…” he shook his head. “That he is to die because his father was an idiot is plain wrong. And who in the world is to look after his little brother Fion? The boy is so little, he can’t fend for himself. What will become of him, if all his family is gone, except an Uncle who is not allowed to have a family?”

The words surprised Baelor, few men would care what became of rebels and hostages, let alone their offspring. Not Duncan. A pang of pain rose in Baelor’s heart, when he thought of that man down in the dungeons. Leo Flowers, who looked astonishingly like him. Had Duncan too been in that place? A child left behind when the Blackfyre rebellion reached its peak? Left behind on the streets to survive on his own? Did he see himself in that boy - Fion - knowing how this would end?

“Olyvar was a hostage,” Baelor said slowly. “But an argument could be made that Fion could not possibly be considered a rebel and as the last of his house…”

“Olyvar was a child taken from his family, before they could ever care he even existed.” Duncan said grimly. “All family he ever had was Alyn. Making him pay for Togarion’s treachery is simply wrong, no matter how it is framed.”

“The system of taking a hostage to ensure a family’s loyalty only works if everyone knows that you are willing to kill them.” Baelor said, it was a distasteful method, but it had kept noble houses in line for centuries.

“Only as long as those families do not simply decide that their loved ones are dead already, and do whatever it is they wanted to do in the first place.” Duncan shook his head. “Olyvar does not even know his parents. The only family member he ever knew and loved is Alyn - he would make a loyal man, if he is not wasted on….” he took a deep breath. “In an attempt to make the crown look strong.”

This was Duncan, Baelor thought. Not caring for rules, or traditions, or the intricacies of power, but speaking up for those who had no voice. Baelor should tell him that being a hostage was a compact with death, and that there was no consideration that could change that. Duncan’s words had touched upon something even more complicated: the question of strength. “I have to appear strong, from the beginning,” Baelor admitted, it was something he would not easily share with someone, not even family. “My… My family and I, we inherited the Dornish looks of my mother, and there will already be enough people who whisper we are not true Targaryens.” he barely managed to speak of his dead sons. “It will make people repeat the whispers about my house being Falseborn tenfold. If I appear weak…”

“You are not weak,” Duncan cut in, shaking his head. “You have dragons. That will give the realm pause, and should quell doubts about your legitimacy. And once little Aevar’s dragon hatches, there will be no room left for doubt.”

“One dragon,” Baelor said. “People will look at my brother and his family, perfectly Targaryen looking with two dragons and consider their options.”

“You truly think that Maekar will turn on you? Or is it just that fear you were taught from childhood on?” Duncan had fully turned to him, looking at him in the dim light.

Baelor sat up fully. “Fear? We are not taught fear.”

“But you are,” Duncan replied. “Fear of what others think, fear of losing power and influence, fear of your family, because they might one day disagree with you. That’s the true destruction the dance wove on your house. Not the death of the dragons, not the loss of blood. One hag of a stepmother and her scheming father destroyed the true strength of your house.”

The words hit Baelor hard, because they were not untrue, though no one would dare say it so openly. Baelor’s father had been concerned about too many sons in the family, sending one child to the citadel, against Maekar’s wishes, always expecting conflict between his sons. Baelor had been taught to understand that his brothers were also his rivals, much as he had not believed it. He loved his brothers.

He closed his eyes, maybe that was part of the answer. Stop listening to fears and whispers, and building this family back up from what was left. The thought hurt worse than he could express and he had to struggle against the tears returning.

Suddenly he felt Duncan’s arms around himself, holding him close. “I am sorry,” Duncan said softly. “This was not the time to discuss this.”

Baelor leaned into the embrace, allowing himself to find strength in Duncan’s arms. “No, it was the right time,” he said in a hush. “I am not sure I would have heard you, otherwise. You are right. Marker, Rhaegal and I can stand together, rebuilding this house stronger than it was. We… we have to banish the fear from our table.” He pulled back to look up at Duncan. “How do you do it? Trusting, I mean. Trusting your sworn brothers like that? You barely knew them, and still… there was a connection.”

Duncan shrugged. “I have been called a fool often enough,” he said with a sad smile. “In the end it is no big secret, just common sense. Give a little trust, and see what the other person does with it. It will show you what kind of man you are dealing with. Those who do the same, and extend the same trust back, you can go a long way with.”

It was simple, practical, and so distant from the life Baelor had lived, he almost laughed about it. But in the end, there was a kernel of wisdom in it, and Baelor could not deny it. At the same time a sad thought crept in. This had been the trust Duncan had given his King… and it had ended in death. The thought also brought the memories of Aegon back, but this time Baelor struggled and kept them inside. He could not waste this precious time on tears, not if he wanted to find an answer.

He looked at Duncan, seeing the warmth and care in Duncan’s eyes, he was here because Baelor needed him, and he would later be there for his Lord Commander on this darkest of days. He had wanted to protest last night, Baelor remembered - he had seen it in Duncan’s eyes, but Ser Alyn had stopped him with a gesture. And Baelor wanted Duncan’s thoughts, wanted the truth that Duncan saw and the honesty to speak it. But even more, he wanted to ease that burden on Duncan’s shoulders. “What would you do with Olyvar, if it was up to you?” he asked, not sure what answer would come.

“Simple: punish those that are guilty. Execute the rebels, the traitors, those who murdered your family and their retainers,” Duncan replied, “but leave those who did nothing to you out of it. Find a decent loyal steward for the Roost, and have Olyvar and Fion grow into manhood here, under Alyn’s influence. They will learn the right things from him and will grow into good men. Do the same with the other children we captured - their parents forfeited their lives through their own actions, but if those children grow up under your influence - and without being abused as ‘traitor’s children’ - they can grow into loyal men who will one day wonder what their parents’ beef with you was.”

Suddenly Baelor could not hold back a laugh, it was not a happy laugh, but one of grim amusement and incredulity.

Duncan looked at him alarmed. “Baelor?” he asked softly.

“You give me some common sense advice,” Baelor shook his head, “and it contains a power play of the highest order wrapped into common decency. I had not expected that.”

Now Duncan looked at him totally confused. He could honestly not see it, it seemed. “We have all the houses of the Blackfyre supporters down in the dungeons, if they are not already dead,” Baelor elaborated. “The houses who played both sides against the middle, did not commit this time, they cut their losses after the Redgrass field. If I execute the guilty people - all of the adults - and keep the children to be raised here, as you advised me to, then I will shape a generation of heirs directly under my influence. A good number from influential houses. If I do what you thought, but not said, not just treat them decently, but truly build a rapport with them, it will give me allies when they are grown, and that IS a power play of magnitude.”

Baelor could see a conflicted expression in Duncan’s eyes, that slowly turned into warmth and he nodded in agreement. “One could see it like that.” Suddenly Baelor was not sure whether Duncan had expected him to turn the suggestion into a political plot.

“We will do it like that,” Baelor decided. “Seperate the children from the adults this morning. We knew some decent people to handle them. If the healers can get them back to their feet, get Ser Corwin, Liam and a few others on that. They are good men - I will ask Rhaegal if he has a few more decent people in his household, that he can spare. Can you and Kendric handle overseeing the executions? Ser Urras should be prepared…”

“And will be half-drunk,” Duncan replied wryly. “The man is deeply conflicted about what he is. Tarle of the Raven’s Teeth can step it up, should Urras be incapable. He is just as good a headsman.”

“Or give one of the captives the chance to earn a pardon by being his comrade’s headsman,” Baelor suggested. It was tradition, if one did not find a knight to do it, and had no man of a headsman’s clan at hand. Baelor had done the same at the Redgrass field, when he had felt he could not ask anyone of noble blood to be the executioner of the traitors. “That captive - Leo Flowers - he might be capable of it.”

A shadow flickered over Duncan’s face. “Don’t do that, Baelor,” he said softly. “Don’t try to bribe me… we will get Urras sober or Tarle will step in.”

Baelor reached for Duncan, to draw him close, into an embrace. He wanted to give Duncan this, to spare the man who might be his father. It would be too cruel otherwise. “Let me do this,” Baelor said softly. “Alone he is not dangerous and he might be…”

Duncan freed himself from their embrace. “He might be, I have speculated for years. But now… now that I could ask him, I don’t want to. I don’t want to hear why he could not take me with him, when he killed toothless Ben, or why I was left on these streets in the first place. Whether he did not care, or I was just a byblow of a drunken night… I don’t want to hear it.”

“It is not about that,” Baelor gently traced his hand along Duncan’s jawline. “It is not truly about him either. I do not want you to bear that memory for the rest of your life, and someday hate yourself for having witnessed him being sent to the block. I don’t want to do this to you.”

“I have lived with knowing that my father was most likely a criminal, who either got hanged or sent to the wall for all my life, Baelor,” Duncan replied, “knowing where he died won’t change a thing.”

Baelor held his gaze. “Make the offer - if he does not take it, he dies with the rest. But then it was his choice.”

Duncan nodded silently, leaning in for a short kiss, just as the first hint of red touched the morning skies outside. “I have to go - daylight waits on no one.”

Reluctantly Baelor let go of him, and watched how fast Duncan slipped back into his clothes, before leaving the room almost noiselessly, betraying the ease he had done it with before.

***

When Duncan reached the front yard, he was glad to see Kendric there, in a discussion with Benrarr of the Raven’s teeth. “Drunk,” Bernarr said wryly. “And not just that - he took some herbs as well. He is so far gone, he cannot swing a tankard let alone the axe. Whoever thought of making that man the royal executioner?”

Kendric shrugged. “King Daeron, the gods rest his soul, had very few executions under his reign. The one at the Redgrass notwithstanding.”

“There they used a pardoned captive, some foot soldier, I think it was,” Bernarr observed, inclining his head as he saw Duncan approach. “Ser Duncan, is there the slightest chance of convincing the King to delay the spectacle by a day or so, so we can withdraw Ser Urras from whatever concoction he swallowed.”

“There won’t be any need for this,” Duncan replied, wondering whether Baelor was a little of a seer much as Prince Daeron was. “The King has ordered a captive to do the ugly work. I will head down to the cells momentarily. But before that - the King wishes the children to be separated from their parents, and brought to the old hostage quarters. Kendric, you, Corwin if he can walk, Ser Liam, along with Stanton, Thoron and Ygon are to take care of them for the moment.”

Duncan had pulled the names from memory of men who had either had a reputation as good knights and decent men, or from old men he had known later at the Red Keep. Men who could be trusted to show the children care, and some empathy. A part of him was still shocked that Baelor had taken his suggestion. He had expected the familiar answers he had lived with all his life: this is a matter of state, or you do not understand court politics or the every familiar you do not understand, Duncan. It still seemed unthinkable that Baelor would have considered what Duncan had to say.

Kendric arched an eyebrow, but did not question. No kingsguard mistrusted an order one of their brothers conveyed. “May I know what the intention for the children is?” he asked slowly.

His eyes were shining feverishly, and Duncan had no doubt that Kendric was running on a concoction of willow bark, feverfew, barberry dissolved in rosehip tea. Otherwise he would not be up and about. He tried to make sense of the order, to know what was expected from him. With his mind probably slightly hazy from the draught, it was the safest he could do. “The children will remain in his grace’s care and be raised as the future heirs of the lands their parents almost threw away in their disloyalty,” Duncan said, the polished words came easier than expected. Weeks around Baelor clearly had left their traces. He took a slow breath and made himself speak normally. “Take care of them, Kendric, they will remember this day, no matter what. Let them remember that the King sent men who cared and would not punish them for their parent’s foolishness. Secure Olyvar Connington with them - he can help manage the small ones and his little brother.”

A nod was his direct answer. “I will take care of that. Will you relieve Ser Alyn and handle the executions?”

“I will,” Duncan said, “can you get Alyn along to help with the children, if he will not rest?” he doubted Alyn could sleep this day, even as he should after having been up all night. They would need to get the Kingsguard to full numbers again, and Duncan had no idea whom Baelor would select. Each King had their own preferences on that.

Kendric strode off, to find Alyn and then go and remove the children from the upper dungeons. Bernarr coughed, and arched an eyebrow at Duncan but said nothing about what had just transpired. “What about the executioner? If the captive tells us to go and fuck ourselves. They had to search for one willing at the Redgrass, and that man only did it, because he had a family and small children to get back to.”

“Then we have Tarle standing ready to swing the axe. He does it as well as if he were born to a headsman’s family.” Duncan replied, “And he will not lose sleep over it.” He knew the latter well enough. The man had joined Bloodraven on the ship to the wall, and never expressed a single ounce of regret for the amounts of death he had wrought in his Lord’s name.

Bernarr nodded. “Good thinking, Ser Duncan. I will have him ready. What do we do with Urras?”

“What is there to do?” Duncan asked him grimly. “Let him sleep. It’s all that can be done, except from someone taking mercy on him and suggesting to the King that a royal executioner who hates his profession is not a good headsman.”

Now Bernarr laughed. “I want to see the small council try that,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “It will be a day to remember. Anything else needed from my men, Ser?”

Duncan considered shortly. “We need someone to announce the judgement,” he said after a moment. It was one of the more distasteful aspects of an execution that one could not just let the people watch the condemned die - not without telling them the crimes of those dragged to the block. It was to ensure the people did not sympathise with those who were to die. It was unlikely in this case, not after all the damage to the city. But still… it was necessary. At noble executions the Hand of the King might do it, or the Master of Laws, two things the realm did not have at the moment. And the royal heralds had also died in the fighting, or were about to be executed as traitors.

He had hesitated too long, and Bernarr saw it. “I can ask Lord Brynden, if you so wish, Ser Duncan.” he asked quietly. “He may know the right man to help with this mess.”

Brynden’s person left a strange torn feeling inside Duncan. He remembered the feared Hand of the King, with his thousands of spies, feared and despised. He had been a very effective Hand of the King, though, and had he been a bit less of a spymaster, he might have been remembered fondly, and there was the man who had murdered Aenys. After what happened at Dragonstone Duncan was ready to forgive Brynden’s memory for that. Aenys had been dangerous in a different manner. Brynden here was an ally of Baelor - a friend of his - and the tears he had shed over Aerys’ death had shown Duncan that the bond with the King he had served faithfully, had been deeper than most people had given him credit for. “Ask him, check what shape he is in. If he can bear it, his presence to oversee the executions would be helpful." The royal family was mourning, and in no shape to appear and watch the traitors die. Brynden might make their absence feel less glaring.

After Bernarr left, Duncan headed down towards the Black Cells. He was still not comfortable with this task. Baelor could have named anyone to execute the prisoners, or make the offer to one of the sellswords among the captives, they would take it at once. Choosing Leo was something he had done for Duncan, and Duncan was uncomfortable with that. Privileges of someone sleeping with theKing, his lips curled in a slightly disparaging smile. He had always disliked exactly that – not the fact that Knights might sleep with men higher up in the hierarchy, it happened, and as long as no force was involved Duncan wouldn’t think badly of them, they too were men and men with wishes for companionship. The slippery area began where privileges or favours were involved. And Duncan had always believed he’d not go that way, he’d be careful to avoid them – at least the more obvious ones.

He had an easier time when it had been about Olyvar. That had been not about Duncan, but about someone else, and Olyvar truly did not deserve to die. While Leo… Leo had already been a murderer the first time Duncan had met him.

“With that brooding face, someone might accuse you of being a Stark bastard,” His feet had carried him right to that cell, and Leo Flowers still occupied that spot near the steel grate. He studied Duncan thoughtfully. “I take it Aegor the old bastard got away?”

Duncan nodded slowly, he did not want to speak of Aegor, of his escape of all the things that had happened. If he let the pain come too close, he would be tempted to break down, to allow the tears to fall and he could not afford that. He needed to be strong, Baelor needed Duncan to be strong, and so Duncan would be. It was what he always had done - be there for others, be strong for those who needed him. It also helped him to not think about his own pain. “He did,” he replied, “and the rest of this merry conspiracy dies today.”

Leo was not moved, not even shocked. “I guessed as much,” he said, getting up, unfolding his long legs. He was a tall as Duncan was. “So what brings you down here, Ser… Dannagh?”

The words, the name, spoken with that slightly throaty lower Reach accent hit Duncan like a fist to face. He had heard it before, long ago… and somewhere from the depths of his mind, something responded.

Dannagh. A name, a word… a woman whispering that name in the dark. Dannagh, stay here, don’t move, don’t listen. And noises that would follow. Male voices, sounds of slaps and… soon other noises, grunting, slapping, a woman weeping.

He shivered, forcing himself to breathe. “My name is Duncan,” he said. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Ser Duncan the Tall of the Kingsguard,” the words actually made Leo smile. “A good name. So… what brings you here?”

Duncan had not wanted to ask, he did not want to know, but the hazy memory, the terrible noises, the men laughing, would not leave him alone. He needed to know. “Were you my father?” he asked roughly.

Leo’s eyes widened. “Your… gods, no. You are my sister’s son and I am not a Targaryen, as you might have noticed.”

His uncle, the brother of his mother, of the woman Duncan remembered weeping, he could not remember a face, but weeping and begging in the darkness. “Who then…?”

“I don’t know,” Leo replied, “don’t ask for more. It will only bring you pain.”

The pain was already there and Duncan could not run from it any longer. “What happened?” he asked. “It can’t be much worse than all I had imagined.”

“She was my sister, she was raped by a dozen or more noblemen and their entourage. She could not name them all,” Leo said. “There had been too many. Aegor and I killed the ones she could name. I hid her away in the capital, gave her money and hoped when we won, I might earn some small holdfast, to bring her and you there, to raise.” he smiled grimly. “It was not be, and by the time I returned to the city, she was dead and you were a street rat. I hoped you’d survive till I could return again, but when I did you were gone.”

The words were spoken quietly, without sentimentality and free of any false regrets. Leo stated the facts as they were. Duncan swallowed, he recognized that tone of voice. It was the matter of fact voice of a man who had grown up much as Duncan had - live with the facts, don’t weep over what you cannot change, survive. Leo probably was not a bastard raised by his father, but in the dirt, much like Duncan himself. “My mother… what was her name?” Duncan asked softly.

“Lia, Lia Flowers,” Leo replied, “you have her colouring, the red hair, and the eyes. She was small, dainty even, total opposite of me. I got my stature from our father, the old swine.”

Lia, his mother’s name had been Lia. Duncan had a hard time to not put a hand on his chest, to somehow contain the feelings inside him. He knew his mother’s name, a real name, the name of the woman who had given birth to him. Who had named him. It should not be important, and yet it was. He had found a piece of himself that had always been missing. “Do you know what happened to her?” Duncan could guess, deep down he knew but he needed to hear it.

“Murdered,” Leo replied, “by a bunch of drunken loyalists, as far as I could find out. In the years before the Redgrass, when the conflict between the great bastards and the King began to smoulder, there were a number of nobles, knights, landless pretenders, who showed their loyalty in “putting bastards in their place.” They raped many of us, killed more. The King did little enough to contain them.”

Duncan remembered Alyn speaking of a bastard half-sister that had suffered the same fate at the hands of a Blackfyre supporter. It seemed both sides had used the same brutal tactics. And in Flea Bottom it did not even need some great conflict to end up like that. Duncan had seen that too as a child. He looked up.

“There is need of an executioner for the condemned,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

“And you happen to offer it to me?” Leo asked, slightly amused. “No. You don’t do that. Get someone who will owe you big after this.”

Duncan looked at him confused for a moment. “You do not sound like a diehard Blackfyre supporter, why die for them?”

Leo leaned against the wall. “Oh, I was friends with Aegor, if you must know. I liked him. He was honest about the monster he was, that’s a rare thing. But no, you won’t waste a golden opportunity like that on rescuing some useless Uncle that cannot offer you anything useful in return.” His eyes found Duncan’s. “Lia… your mother… she’d be bursting with pride if she could see you now. Her son a knight of the Kingsguard. She’d be over the moon with happiness,” the was a strange echo of warmth in his voice. “But you won’t have much in terms of connections in this court. And courts run on debts owed, favours granted and secrets maintained. There’s a few captives down here that can serve you better for that. There is Jacelyn Kyndall three cells down from here. He may be a piss-poor Kynfall by name, but in truth he is the bastard of that old donkey in Casterly Rock. His favourite son. Get him out of this, and the golden weasel will be in your debt big time. Or take Kyrie Rowan, he’s in the next cell. He pretends to be a lone fighter for glory, but he is a Hightower plant for sure - and he fucks as least one of them. So there’s secrets and a big favour.”

“No!” Duncan interrupted him sharply. “This offer - it’s only for you, otherwise one of the soldiers will take the job,” he said firmly. “And even if not… I’d not do this for someone just to use them as leverage later on.” He was not sure by now whether or not he wanted Leo to live, the man was a murderer beyond doubt, and he was a stone-cold killer. And he was Duncan’s Uncle. He should not be surprised, Duncan thought, he had been a little monster too and if not for Ser Arlan, who had taken him in and raised him to be better, Duncan would have ended up like Leo, or swung from the gallows before he was four and ten.

“That grouchy Prince promised me a fast death, not wielding the axe,” Leo observed. “But I won’t do it.” he raised his hand to forestall an argument from Duncan. “You keep making your mother proud, Dannagh, and a mercenary Uncle will only be a smear on your reputation. No one knows - and those who heard down here, will be dead before sunset. You were an orphan, who rose far thanks to some Hedgeknight. Let’s leave it at that.”

***

It had been a long day, longer than Baelor would like to admit. He had spent hours trying to bring order to some of the chaos the uprising had left. Unfortunately Maekar had left with Voria for Oldtown, though Baelor could not truly be angry at him. He too had argued against sending Aemon to Maesters, not just because it was unnecessary, but also because it would give the citadel a hostage, which Baelor was unwilling to grant them. So he understood Maekar had wanted to go and retrieve his son, and do it soon, before some less than loyal Hightower branch got their hands on him.

Still he would need to speak with Maekar. Tradition would dictate that Maekar became Baelor’s Hand, and normally Baelor would agree. But Maekar did not have the temperament or the patience for Baelor’s political plans. He would be better suited as either a Master of Law or a Master of War. But Baelor would talk to him before announcing anything. He would not put Maekar into a spot of hearing it when all was decided. Aerion was at Dragonstone and Baelor already knew what task he would give the Prince once he returned. Someone would have to rebuild the Dragonkeepers, and shape them into a loyal and knowledgeable order regarding anything dragon. Aerion would be the best man for that task.

Which left another problem - the Kingsguard. Baelor would need four new knights to fill those ranks, and knowing Duncan there would demand their skill and character. Baelor smiled, his dragon had a clear vision of what the Kingsguard should be, and maybe was the only person stubborn enough to truly believe it and see it through. His two friends Vorian and Cai would be ideal candidates but as they were the dragons of Maekar and Aerion it would make no sense having them take the White. So there was another topic that would need thinking. Because those people who had proven themselves in the fight for the Red Keep had been squires who had seen their knights die, Raven’s teeth and other unexpected people who had chosen to stand with Baelor’s house.

Maybe some of those squires who had been especially brave and resourceful could be knighted and called to the White? It would allow Griffin, Duncan and Kendric to train them right from the start? He thought of those two in the dungeons a few days ago, they had been brave, fighting beside Duncan to clear the keep of Aegor’s mercenaries. Maybe that was an option. Though Baelor was sure one of those boys was a Lannister and the Lord of the Rock would mislike one of his boys taking the White and being out of marriage politics.

Baelor stopped, deep in thought his feet had carried him back to the empty throne hall of the Red Keep. The stones had been cleaned and the hall aired, though Baelor still believed he could scent the coppery smell of blood in the room. He doubted he would ever be able to see this hall again and not remember his parents, his brother, dead before those stairs. And yet, he had to. He had to be stronger than that, if he wanted to change anything.

He thought back of his conversation with Duncan this very morning. He would want Duncan’s advice, his clearsightedness, to support him. He wanted Duncan by his side, in ways that were barred to them forever because Baelor’s father had insisted Duncan take the White. And yet… Duncan was born for the White, he was a great knight and an amazing Kingsguard. Baelor would not take that from him, even if he wished they could more formally recognize what they were to each other.

Familiar steps behind him interrupted his thoughts. He turned around, seeing Duncan walking up to him. He still wore the white scaled battle armour of the Kingsguard, and Baelor could not help it, he loved seeing Duncan like that, proud in white, confident. Duncan indicated a short bow, before he spoke “It is done, they all are dead.” The words brushed past Baelor like a cool wind, as he suddenly recalled the dream he had months ago in Ashford.

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