a closed starter for @astrifervs < 3
the maesters had come and gone , fussing over him with their old , vinegar stiff hands . they had prodded at cracked ribs and split skin , bound him tight with linen where it was needed , pressed poultices on bruises that throbbed like drums in his bones . they had offered milk of the poppy . he had refused . he wanted to feel it all . every ache . every bruise . every failure . now the tent was quiet . their lanterns had been snuffed or carried away , leaving shadows pooling in corners where the canvas sagged low . dunk sat on the hard cot , one arm draped over his knees , his body too riddled with pain to move . the adrenaline of the trial had burned out hours ago , leaving him raw , trembling , and heavy with a weight that no sword or shield had prepared him for .
baelor breakspear had died in his arms .
the thought came first as shock . then as guilt . then as a quiet , gnawing certainty : this was his doing , no matter how intricate the dominos of fate were set up ... this started with a lowly hedge knight . he had wanted to be better than flea bottom . better than hungry hands , broken backs , scraped knees , and fists . he had wanted to be a knight who remembered the small , who lifted them where he could . and now a prince was dead . a kingdom grieved . and for all his striving , all his clumsy , earnest attempts at honour, he had caused more pain than he had ever helped .
he tried to straighten . his ribs cried out . his shoulder ached with every tiny shift . his head throbbed where the helmet had pressed into bruised skin and engorged eye . his hands , wide and calloused , rested on his knees , trembling with a mix of fatigue and shame . he could almost feel the prince’s warmth still there , a ghost pressing into his palms .
ser duncan the tall , this chosen identity ... he had been called it plenty today . by lords . by knights . by whispering men whose eyes had widened at the sight of him standing in the trial . but the name felt hollow . knighted in name only ... not knighted at all . ' ser dunk ' did not think in poetry . he thought in simple terms , in concrete measures . baelor died . he stood . . all else was words . all else was meaningless .
the pain pressed into him , sharp ... and he let it . he did not flinch . he did not curse . he did not cry . he simply sat there , aware of every ache , every pulse , every hollow space where adrenaline had once made him feel larger than life .
time passed . or perhaps it did not . perhaps he existed now only in fragments , steel bashed against skull in ways that will never heal ... in that daze , his thoughts drifted , uninvited . to her . tanselle . the memory of her voice , the curve of her smile , the way she had looked at him when he had thought himself a fool , a hedge knight among lords . he imagined her here , and for a moment , the pain seemed to recede , or perhaps it simply became background to the pulse of her presence in his mind ... and then the canvas of the tent shifted slightly in a breeze . the flaps parted . a sliver of light . a presence .