Chapter Text
“Your grace, get up, sir.”
“Get up, sir.”
“Get up!”
The words echoed over and over in Dunk’s mind, a cacophony that would not stop, throbbing in time with his heart, pulsing in his still swollen eye.
Baelor, prince Baelor, Hand of the King, was dead.
Because of Dunk.
The very thought had his breath hitching, a sudden knot, perhaps blood, sticking in his throat. He tried to sit up a little taller from where he was slumped against his oak tree at Ashford, coughing away the grime with a narrowly choked sob. He tilted his head back against the rough bark, unfocused gaze watching the boughs sway lazily in the breeze.
It could be such a fine day, with the rains finally cleared and the sun shining warm and cheery. Dunk wondered when he might ever find cheer again.
He could hear horses in the distance, the Targaryen procession making ready to leave. They would take him. Baelor. They would take him with them. Take his body with them. To bury, or rather burn, the Hand of the King here at Ashford seemed so insignificant, so inadequate a place to memorialize so great a man. And so they would take him back to King’s Landing - his brother, his son, his nephews - to offer him a funeral fit for a king.
A pyre for a man who should have a crown.
Dunk let out a shaky sigh, hands loose at his sides atop the still damp earth as he continued to stare up at the too blue sky. A sky that felt so full of promise not long ago. It seemed whatever luck that shooting star held had vanished the second Dunk deigned to hope for it.
Baelor resembled that star from the moment Dunk was called to “come closer” by the prince, his piercing eyes roaming up Dunk’s large frame in that calm way of his. It was all Dunk could do not to flinch away from that gaze at the time. He had been judged as ugly and stupid and useless his whole life. What could a prince, a future king, possibly think of him?
Yet Baelor said none of those words to him, had ever so calmly vouched for him, explained matters to him, and even smiled at him. How was Dunk’s heart not supposed to skip a beat at that moment, how was he not supposed to kneel down in front of this man who seemed every bit a king?
Dunk closed his eyes as he remembered the last time he kneeled before Baelor, begging that Dunk might be his man, his to command.
A moan escaped his mouth before he could stop it and he screwed his eyes shut even tighter, until he could near on see stars. Stupid, idiot, he scolded himself, fucking failure of a man to let a prince-
“Sir Duncan? Are you alright?”
Dunk snapped his eyes open and levied his chin down so fast the stars continued to swirl in his vision.
“Egg? What on earth are you doing here?”
The young prince fidgeted for a moment, lifting his chin in defiance as he held Dunk’s gaze. He was dressed in plain clothes again, his red and black finery abandoned. The two of them remained that way for a while, the small lad standing only inches away from Dunk’s long, outstretched legs.
“My Lord Father says I am to serve you,” he finally announced, rocking forward on his toes.
“You what?”
“My Lord Father says-”
“I heard you. But I don’t- You- Your father said he forbade it.”
“My father changed his mind.”
“Egg, surely you can’t-”
“You’ve seen what growing up in a castle, surrounded by servants and decadence has done for my brother.”
Dunk swallowed, the image of Aerion licking the blood off his lips flashing in his memory.
“My father has decided that traveling abroad may indeed have an efficacious impact on me.”
“Those were his words?” Dunk raised his eyebrows dubiously.
“Does that sound like something I would say?” Egg raised an eyebrow right back.
Dunk sniffed loudly, looking Egg up and down. “No,” he admitted with a small shake of his head. “But what about your…don’t you need to be there, for…” He trailed off, this time looking to the dewy grass between his legs.
“I’ll hardly be missed, it seems I’ve caused enough trouble for a decade,” Egg dropped his own gaze to the same patch of green.
Dunk let his eyes move back up until they locked with the young prince’s. Neither seemed willing to back down, so it was blue against blue as they both stared in defiance.
“Well then,” Dunk finally made up his mind. He stood, shakily, hand braced against the solid oak as he rose. Egg stepped forward as if to help, hands held aloft, but let Dunk stand on his own.
“Chestnut is yours,” Dunk instructed as he moved towards his horses, still saddled for the moment he finally worked up the courage to leave. “Treat her kindly. And I don’t wanna find you on Thunder unless I put you there.”
Egg just grinned in response to Dunk’s stern tone.
“Yes, ser,” he nodded.
Dunk returned a small smile, letting his gaze wander back towards the tourney grounds. He would never forget this place, would probably dream about it until the day he died. Such sorrow and pain, wrought all for him.
He jerked his head away, breaking off that train of thought, even as his eyes threatened to brew fresh tears.
“Then let’s be off.”