Chapter Text
In the Name of the Father
The summons came at dusk. From where Dunk lay gazing up at the faintly gathering stars beneath his elm tree, he did not see the boy until he was standing right over him. Violet eyes replacing the orange sky. Even from here Dunk could hear the sounds of the remaining camps beginning to stir to life for the night’s celebrations. A drumbeat pummeled somewhere in the distance, strong and sure as a beating heart and from it followed the strumming of lutes, and soon after, the drunken singing which Dunk had heard called out for days now: “Our Prince Lives,” they sang out in joy.
Prince Baelor Targaryen had lain in his coma for three days when his helm had been removed at the Trial of Seven. Silence fell for those three days as all of Ashford had held its breath, waiting to see if the Stranger would come and claim the heir to the Iron Throne. Even the dragonflies that glided lazily around Dunk’s camp had quieted their tune as they waited with bated breath, listening for the Stranger’s knock.
Dunk remembered little more than fragments of those moments after the trial, but over the past few days they had sharpened their hold on him, pressing into his memory until they were sharp enough to draw blood. They came in flashes: Baelor collapsing in his arms, the prince being frantically pried off him, panicked screams for the maester. That was all there had been, or all he could remember, before his own pain overwhelmed him and he fainted where he stood. His world turned to black and remained so until he woke in Ashford a day or so later to the news that Baelor lay insensate — and they did not yet know if he would wake.
Dunk had risen and walked straight out of the castle then, despite Maester Yormwell’s protests, moving through the encampments like a dead man, staggering half blind as his left eye was still swollen shut. He hadn’t stopped until he summited his hill, where he collapsed beside Chestnut and Thunder. That is where he spent those three days, his horses grazing obliviously behind him. He thought not of his own injuries, his hunger or the cold; he only thought of Baelor’s last words to him.
“Your Grace, I am your man. Please. Your man.”
“I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm . . .”
But he could not help but remember the words of Prince Daeron as well:
“My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine are true. . . I dreamed of you and a dead dragon. . . It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.”
They haunted him in equal measure. Let it not be so, Dunk thought, so earnestly that it bordered on prayer. If you must take someone, take me; the world would make no sense if a great prince died so that I, a hedge knight, might live.
A falling star brings luck to those who see it—that was what the boy had told him. So Dunk waited for another to fall, fighting the pull of sleep lest he miss it. He swore to himself that he would not rest until one fell and shattered this cursed stillness, to bring the prince back from the cusp of death.
But no star came. Instead, the boy did—it was Aegon who broke the silent spell over Ashford. On the third morning, before dawn had fully risen, the quiet was broken when Egg ran down from the castle, through the village, past every tent still pitched in the shadow of Lord Ashford’s seat, yelling at the top of his lungs that his uncle had awoken, waking the entirety of Ashford in the process. That night, the music sounded out again for the first time and had not stopped since, though Dunk could not quite bring himself to go and join in the festivities.
When the boy arrived and brought him the news that Baelor had not been mortally wounded by his brother's mace, Dunk finally found the strength to stand again.
“And Aerion?” Dunk remembered asking, blinking up at Egg as the sun beat down on him. “Will he live?”
“The maesters say yes.” The boy did not seem pleased.
If anything, he seemed surprised that Dunk had even asked.
But then who’s the dead dragon? Dunk wondered, thinking of Prince Daeron’s dream. He did not wonder for long, however. As soon as the words left Egg’s mouth, Dunk surrendered his fight against sleep, slipping away into the darkness at last. But even then, he found he could not completely rest, worrying about the supposed prophecy. To finally get to sleep, Dunk repeated the words Egg had shouted from the castle battlements, all the way to his hill, in his mind, so that he might be lulled to peace: He lives, he lives, he lives…
The boy made no such exclamations now. He came up the hill calmly, folding his hands in front of his chest as he looked down at him. “You look fucking dreadful,” was how he greeted Dunk.
“And you look like you need a good clout in the ear. What have I told you about sneaking out of the castle? Your father will not be pleased.”
Ever since Dunk had woken in the maester’s tent, Egg had been sneaking out of the castle and bringing him supplies: some parcels of food, apples for the horses, a canteen of wine that Egg had undoubtedly gotten from his hapless eldest brother. Eventually, Dunk had gotten the boy to confess that Prince Maekar had forbidden him from leaving the castle, not that this deterred him, evidently.
“My father won’t find out, ser, he doesn’t leave Uncle’s beside long enough to,” had been his answer every time Dunk had tried to send him back. Dunk would let Egg sit with him for a while, amidst the dragonflies, before eventually sending him back. Every time he did, Dunk would threaten to clout him in the ear if he defied his lord father’s command again, only for the boy to return the next day, and the next, and his ear to remain decidedly unclouted. Dunk couldn’t truly be angry at him, though. In truth, he was glad for the lad’s company. The most company he had had since Raymun left was the lingering pain in his leg, and even that was fading now. Besides, he could only imagine how icy the atmosphere must be in Ashford Castle.
During those first three days, when Egg had asked him quietly if his Uncle would die, Dunk answered honestly. “I don’t know, lad.” All the while avoiding Egg’s eyes, not wanting to see the same purple eyes as Daeron Targaryen looking back at him as they told him of his dream.
But the dragon, who is it? Dunk couldn’t help but wonder whenever he remembered Prince Daeron’s words. It wasn’t the drunkard himself; he had seen him at the Humfreys’ funeral, held shortly after Baelor woke. Only a cut on his cheek and a chunk out of his ear marked his involvement in the Trial of Seven.
Dunk had apparently attended the funerals, but he could remember little from them except the swarm of bees around Humfrey Beesbury’s coffin. People had approached him, congratulated him even, he remembered that. Rumours circulated as to Prince Aerion’s condition, though they were spoken in hushed tones so that the attending Kingsguard did not hear. Some believed he would never walk again; some that he had been gelded; some that his head injuries had left him mentally touched and sweet as a babe; others that they had left him crueller still.
Only the sight of Prince Daeron walking into the tent, even having the nerve to call for wine, made Dunk realise that this wasn’t a dream. The sight of him sitting there, Egg at his side, legs swinging from the bench and looking forlorn, roused Dunk from his numbed state. Dunk had sent Egg back up to the castle before turning his ire on his elder brother. He approached him and told him he should be ashamed.
“Have you no shame coming here? You were wrong, and men have died because of it. Look around—there are no dead dragons here, only bees,” Dunk declared, gesturing at Beesbury’s coffin.
“None yet, ser, but my dreams are never wrong. I wish it wasn’t so, believe me—then I wouldn’t need so much of this,” Daeron Targaryen said, holding up his cup. “Every night the moon before my late lady mother passed, I dreamt of her lost in a great fire, trapped within Summerhall, screaming for help. I did not stop dreaming of it until the fever that took her burned through her.”
A pause.
“Only on the night she finally died did I sleep peacefully,” Daeron added, this last part shamefully. “I dreamed of you again last night, too, hedge knight. It’s still coming. I don’t know how or when, but it is,” were the words he left Dunk with before staggering back out of the pavilion, cup still in hand.
Egg hadn’t been his only visitor, much to Dunk’s surprise. There had been others: Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun and Red, and Steely Pate. All of them had asked him when he was leaving and told him that he was a fool to linger here longer than necessary.
Lyonel Baratheon had visited twice, once while Baelor Targaryen lay in sleep and once after. After they knew Baelor would live, Lyonel had come to bid him farewell, saying that, as amusing as it was to watch the dragons lick their wounds in Ashford’s castle, the time had come for him to depart.
“Alive then, so you can stop your moping. Shame, in a way. Only good dragon’s a dead dragon,” he lamented. He had seemed genuinely downcast when Dunk rejected his offer to return to Storm’s End with him. Lyonel had called him a fucking fool, shaking his head almost affectionately as he did so.
“’Twas a splendid tournament. It’ll make a fine song someday.” He had gone down the hill, drunkenly singing his new composition:
“Brightflame burned bright as a dragon—at least in his head,
Till the giant’s hands found his helm and laid him out dead—
—or near enough, anyway,” Lyonel amended, staggering to one side on his descent. “Would’ve improved the verse.”
Raymun and his soon-to-be bride had come several times. His cousin Ser Steffon, now Lord Steffon, had had it away as soon as his injuries permitted, before they even knew if Baelor would live, unwilling to be caught lingering at Ashford if Baelor had succumbed to his injuries.
Raymun told him that he and his lady were going to be opening a cider business. They even offered Dunk a position, saying that life as a farmer on an orchard, picking apples, would be far sweeter for him than swearing his sword to this lord and that until his sword arm falls off. They were disappointed but not surprised when Dunk declined their offer. Just before they departed, Raymun had brought Sweetfoot up to him. Dunk stroked her mane and handed the reins over to Raymun. A thank you for fighting for him, his sword hand would already be lost if it wasn’t for him, and his foot, besides. Raymun and Red left with the promise that there would always be a place for him in their hall should he need it.
Red had leaned up to peck him on the cheek tenderly before she left.
“A knight who remembered his vows,” she had said, shaking her head with disbelief as she bade him goodbye.
The most surprising visitor, however, was Pate, who had visited only once—the day after Baelor had woken. He had been at the funerals and afterwards helped Dunk up to his camp and sat with him for a while beneath the elm. He told Dunk he was leaving Ashford that very night. This had surprised Dunk, who said he thought that Pate would linger. There was always plenty of work for a good smith immediately following a tourney; he could be making a pretty penny buffing up the armour of all the knights there. When he expressed his surprise to Pate, Pate explained he need never do that again.
He had looked around cautiously before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a velvet pouch about the size of Dunk’s hand, which was bigger than your average one. It was filled to the brim with gold dragons, shiny and new, with the face of Daeron the Good smiling back up at him. Dunk turned one of the coins between his fingers before slipping it back in and lacing the pouch shut, handing it back to Pate, who immediately tucked it into his breast pocket securely with a protective pat.
“You made this sum from selling armour here?” Dunk asked in disbelief.
Pate laughed at that, “Gods no, I couldn’t make even half this much if I sold my wares for the rest of my days.”
Dunk remembered the moment Prince Baelor had ridden out and declared he would fight for him, tugging off the Young Prince’s helm to reveal himself beneath it. Baelor had explained he was wearing his son Valarr Targaryen’s armour. They had gathered and were planning their strategy, discussing the use of tourney lances rather than lances of war, when Steely Pate had approached them anxiously.
Pate had seen the problem at once: the helm was too small. He had rushed forward, red-faced, apologising for the interruption but insisting he could not allow the prince to wear it. A blow to the head would do more harm than good. He had hurried back to his stall in search of a better fit. Egg had pleaded with Lord Ashford to delay until Pate returned, and he did with a plain helm in hand, far less adorned than Valarr’s, but properly fitted. That helm had been ruined, smashed into the gorget, but it had done its duty. It had saved the heir’s life.
Pate explains that this morning, after the news broke that Prince Baelor would live, he was summoned to the castle and met with Prince Maekar Targaryen.
“He didn’t say much,” Pate explained, “ ‘You have performed a great service to the crown,’ or some words to that effect.” Then he had pressed the pouch into his hand and advised him to leave Ashford swiftly, before word spreads.
Pate had said he intends to do just that, explaining that he can travel east and live as a wealthy man for the rest of his days with this money.
Dunk could almost hear the ghost of Ser Arlan chastising him: “If you had any sense, you’d be gone now, like your puppet girl, Tanselle, was it? But then again, she had at least half a brain about her. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”
Egg helps Dunk to his feet. “Not likely, given that it was him and my uncle who bade me to come fetch you,” the boy replies. “How fare your wounds, ser? Do they still hurt?” Dunk remembers that the first time Egg came to visit him, he could scarcely see the boy, barely able to open one eye.
“Aye, a bit. But not as much as yours will if you don’t stop with your cheek.”
As Egg pulls him along, Dunk wonders how his own meeting with the princes was to go. Even after all this time and several accounts as evidence of Prince Baelor still drawing breath, Dunk could scarcely believe it, not with the way that the Prince had fallen. And Daeron’s claims haunted him more than he cared to admit, even if he was a sot. Dunk wonders if maybe Aerion was the dead dragon; perhaps he had succumbed to his injuries after all. But surely he would have heard of it by now? It would be a shame, Dunk found himself thinking; he held no love for the prince, but he had yielded, and it was only right to let your opponent live once they had. Dunk remembers vividly the crashing blows he had dealt to Aerion’s helm. Perhaps after all of this, I will lose my head after all, he thought. That would be something, but he had had ample opportunity to flee.
He expected to be led to a bedchamber or even a maester’s study, so he was surprised to find himself led again to Lord Ashford’s solar, where this whole business had started in the first place, though the lord of the castle himself was not present.
Baelor Targaryen stood near the central table.
He turned to look, calmly facing the door as Duncan entered, clearly expecting him.
For a heartbeat, Dunk only stared. He had spent the past days and nights praying for this. He had not truly believed he would see it. Yet here it was. There could be no mistaking him. Nor the man beside him, though his back was turned, it couldn’t be anyone save Maekar Targaryen. The two princes who had stood on opposite sides of a battlefield not so long ago now stood together, unified.
Baelor showed scarcely any trace of what had passed. Dunk found himself looking him over, as if to be certain. He was paler than before, and thinner perhaps and he looked a little worn down… but alive. Upright. Smiling, even, and Dunk knew that the warmth that surged through him was because of that smile, and not from the hearth that Maekar had still not turned away from, rigid and unmoving.
Dunk felt a nudge behind his knee and realised Egg was prompting him to quit staring and kneel.
“That will be all, Aegon. Thank you,” Baelor says, dismissing his youngest nephew. Egg jutted out his bottom lip slightly, unhappy to be dismissed, but bowed his head, turned on his heel, and shut the door behind him all the same.
“No need to kneel, ser. Rise,” Baelor said kindly, his mismatched eyes sweeping all the near-seven feet of him.
Dunk was grateful. He had stopped needing the makeshift crutch Maester Yormwell had fashioned for him a day or so ago, but his knee still protested when bent too long and his ribs weren’t much better besides.
“It’s been near half a moon’s turn since the trial,” Baelor Targaryen says as he turns to sit on the high-backed chair. As he does, Dunk sees the neat bandaging at the base of his head. Baelor sits in the central seat, gesturing for Dunk to take the chair opposite.
Dunk hesitates before lowering himself into it.
Baelor glances at his brother and nods to the seat beside him—a suggestion, not a command—but Maekar makes no move from where he stands, rigid by the hearth. He remains with his back to them, watching the flames. With only his silver hair on display from this angle, he could be mistaken for a much older man.
Baelor instead turns his gaze back to Duncan. “How are your injuries healing?”
“Quite well, m’lor—that is, uh, Your Grace”, Dunk stumbles over his words, still unused to addressing princes, especially ones that by all rights should be dead. “The maester says I have a thick skull, but I’ve always known that.”
Baelor nods, his gaze softening a fraction. “I trust you have been well looked after. My offer of lodgings within the castle still stands, Ser Duncan. You would be welcome among my household retinue, should you have need of a bed this evening.”
Dunk shifts slightly in his seat. “I thank you, Your Grace. I'm grateful, truly. I just… needed somewhere familiar, after…”
Baelor inclines his head, understanding. “Quite so. It has been a trying few days. Which is precisely what I bought you here to discuss.” He studies Dunk a moment longer before continuing. “I had half-feared you might already have left Ashford. I regret having to summon you as I did—I would have come to you myself, and sooner than this—but my dear brother forbade it.”
A faint, almost rueful smile touches his lips. “I am being endlessly fussed over, it seems.” There was something in the way Baelor spoke, something easy, almost fond, that sat strangely beside the other man’s rigid stillness.
“You are not well,” Maekar said, startling Dunk. It was the first time he had spoken since Dunk entered the room, and he did not turn his head to do so. “You need rest.”
“I couldn’t ride on without knowing you would be well, Your Grace. I hadn’t wanted to leave until I was sure,” Dunk admits, feeling his ears turn pink as he does so. “I am very glad to see you upright,” he adds with a shudder at the memory of the prince’s collapse.
Baelor smiles at him. “You are kind to worry, ser. I admit, I felt half ready to meet the Stranger when I first came to, but my strength has returned more each day. Maester Yormwell tells me head injuries are queer things—unpredictable, but he expects me to make a full recovery.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, Your Grace. Truly.”
Baelor says they are all now near well enough to travel, and they will be departing Ashford on the morrow.
“If I am not mistaken, ser—and I may be, as I recall little of the aftermath of the trial, you offered me your service upon its conclusion?”
“Presumptuous of you,” Maekar added, face still hidden, before Dunk could speak, though Baelor gave him a reassuring look which silently told him to pay his brother no mind.
“That is correct, Your Grace, and I’d gladly still give it. I am at your service.” Dunk can scarcely believe what he is hearing. “You honour me.”
“That may not be the honour you think it is.” Prince Maekar, apparently, had grown impatient with the conversation and turns, finally facing Dunk. Maekar places his hand on Baelor’s chair, just behind his right shoulder. The iron weight of his gaze presses down on Dunk, though he is not quite brave enough to meet The Anvil's eyes.
Baelor continues, “You won’t know this, but the King sent us here as a gesture of goodwill. It was an opportunity for us to curry favour in the Reach; However, this whole tournament has been—”
“—a fucking disaster,” Maekar finished for him.
“That is to say, it has not gone quite as we hoped,” Baelor corrected, soft yet firm. “In fact, it has proved to be quite the embarrassment for our house.”
“I never meant for that, Your Grace,” Dunk said, heat in his face. “I only—”
But Baelor raised his hand to stop him, and the words died on his tongue. “Do not mistake me, ser, I do not blame you. I merely consider the best way forward from all this. A path which I believe involves yourself. That being said, I have a particular position in mind for you, Ser Duncan, though it is your right to refuse.” Baelor’s manner was calm, but Dunk did not understand his words.
Before he could dwell on them too much, Maekar spoke, “I would not be surprised if you have wondered what is to become of my son after all this.”
Dunk, who had spent much of the last few days wondering whether Aerion would live or die, had not considered it at all. He thought it best not to say so, and kept his mouth shut.
“I considered exile,” Maekar went on, voice devoid of feeling. “The Free Cities were discussed.”
Baelor inclined his head slightly. “Yet I believe it would be more prudent to keep him closer than that—where he may be observed.”
Dunk frowned, trying to follow. He was no good with maps, and for all the roads he had travelled, Essos might as well have been another world. He wasn’t even sure exactly which kingdoms of Westeros lay next to eachother, let alone name a place fit to send a prince. “Forgive me, my lords,” he said at last, “but I am as much at a loss as you.”
Maekar exhaled sharply. “You misunderstand. We are not asking for your counsel.” There was a note of impatience in it, as though Dunk’s slowness was irritating him.
“We have decided against sending him across the Narrow Sea—or anywhere else, for that matter,” Baelor continued. “Though we are agreed that a change of surroundings may do him some good.”
Maekar’s mouth tightened. “He will not be returning to Summerhall.”
“He will go to King’s Landing,” Baelor finished, calmly.
“I see…” Dunk said, though he didn’t at all.
Baelor folds his hands before him, his voice measured. “My brother and I intend to address Aerion’s conduct. His temper is volatile; it has caused great harm, and it is our intention to see it brought under proper control. We have considered several strategies by which he might be guided toward better judgment, and I believe there are certain disciplines I may yet impress upon him.”
“I do not think him beyond guidance,” Baelor continues quietly. “There is still time for him to change; I would not have given up hope of that.”
He looks to Maekar, seemingly waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t, so Baelor continues: “In the meantime, however, he will require… careful oversight. For his own sake, as much as for the sake of the realm. We believe we may have found a suitable arrangement.”
He pauses a moment, as if weighing his next words.
“What my nephew needs, good ser, is a sworn shield,” Baelor says, his eyes steady and endlessly patient. “Will you serve?”
“The Prince needs a sworn sword?” Dunk blinked at the two brothers, certain he must have misheard.
“A sworn shield,” Baelor corrected. The distinction seemed to matter.
A thousand objections surface at once: his low birth, his lack of formal training, his ignorance of life at court, as well as how Aerion will take it. He didn’t know how to express all of this, so instead he simply said, “But m’lords, I’m only a hedge knight.”
Baelor’s gaze was steady, almost kind. “You stood your ground when others quailed. You spoke for a girl with no voice and faced a dragon for it. Such men are rare at court, Ser Duncan. Rarer still in my nephew’s company.”
Dunk flushed at that. “I am no courtly man.”
“Just so,” Baelor said. “You will be a living reminder that there are bounds even princes must heed.”
The Anvil regarded him shrewdly. “If you take this offer, the master-of-arms at King’s Landing will finish your own training. Your Ser Arlan did all he could for you, I have no doubt, but you still have much to learn.” He went on, measured and certain. “You’ll have a place in the royal household. You’ll bear our sigil. All the privileges due a knight of such standing will be yours.”
Maekar continued, not quite desperate, but queerly determined, as if he wasn’t used to this method of persuasion but wanted to get it right: “You won’t want for food, nor lie awake wondering which hedge you’ll sleep beneath come nightfall. You needn’t fear illness or injury. There are many a maester in the capital. Hell, if you’ve a mind to it, we can teach you your letters.”
Maekar glanced toward the window. “King’s Landing is full of squires—green boys and seasoned ones alike. We’ll find you a good lad. One who’ll serve you well.”
“I see… And what of Eg—that is, Prince Aegon?” Dunk asks, feeling a surge of sadness at having anyone save the boy squiring for him.
“After I have escorted Aerion to the capital, I will return to Summerhall with Aegon and Daeron,” Maekar says, impatiently tapping his foot, “and try to knock some sense into my first son, where I have clearly failed with the second.” He mutters the last part half under his breath.
Baelor glances briefly at Maekar, an expression Duncan can’t quite place crossing his face, before looking back at him and speaking again. Maekar is looking at Dunk so intently that he doesn’t notice.
“The title will be spoken publicly as a reward. A reconciliation. The prince you fought against now honours your valour and accepts that the Gods judged you to be innocent. A tale of chivalry restored, of a dragon gracious in defeat. Songs will smooth the rest.”
“And in truth?” Dunk asked before he could stop himself.
Maekar did not look away. “In truth, you will ensure my son does not forget what that day has cost.”
“You would have me... watch him.”
“I would have you guard him,” Baelor replied at once. “My nephew needs protection; from blades, from poison—“
“—and from himself,” Prince Maekar’s voice followed harder.
There is silence for a few moments. Maekar sighs. “I know you must hate him—”
Dunk shakes his head. “I don’t hate him,” he says, before he’s even considered if it was true. Did he? He knew he had during the trial, but he could not recall exactly when the feeling began. He remembers only urgency when prying him off Tanselle and panic when the prince demanded his teeth broken, followed by shock when Egg had revealed himself to be Prince Aegon.
The only time he remembered truly hating the Prince was when he was above him, fists pummelling down on his helm, demanding he yield.
You hated him then, didn’t you? Don’t lie. You wanted to take one of his purple eyes between steel fingers and burst it like a grape. You would have seen him dead if he hadn’t asked for mercy, and even when he whispered that he withdrew his accusation, you still wanted him dead—I know you did. You thought about finishing him right there. No one would have known he yielded had you not dragged him to the podium after. No one would have faulted you. The Bright Prince would have been gone from this world forever, but you had to be knightly.
But even as he recalls that moment, Dunk cannot summon that same strength of feeling now. It isn’t quite dead, but it was buried under everything else. It was like remembering winter on the first day of spring: while you can be grateful the cold is gone, you cannot feel the chill in your bones quite the same way. Perhaps he should hate Aerion more; perhaps other people were capable of feeling more than one thing at a time, but the old man had always said he was as thick as a castle wall.
Dunk thinks all this before realising with horror that he’d just cut off a prince from talking.
Baelor prompts him to speak freely. He leans slightly forward in his chair as he does so, resting his hands on his knees, open with encouragement.
“The thing is, Your Graces. I’ve never sworn my sword to a lord, but I heard my old master, Ser Arlan, swear his many times, and if I’m right, it’s part of the lord's vow to ask no service which may bring dishonour upon his knight—or some such words to that effect,” Dunk says in a rush, tripping over his words in his anxiety. “I am not sure that Prince Aerion would swear such a thing,” he adds nervously, avoiding Maekar’s eyes as he says so.
Maekar’s jaw tightens. “You are sworn to him. But you are a knight of the realm as well. Should those vows ever war within you... You will choose wisely.”
It was no answer at all.
“I understand your confusion, good ser,” Baelor says gently, his one brown eye and one blue shining in equal measure. “In truth, my brother and I are asking something of you which may never have been asked of anyone before. But we believe you are up to the task. My nephew had four guards with him the evening he attacked those puppeteers; had one of them intervened before things escalated, then the girl would not have been harmed, and you would never have been drawn to. This incident need never have occurred. Of course, I do not blame those men. It is no small thing for a sworn sword to defy their lord. But you have demonstrated you will not serve cruelty, no matter who commands it. That makes you a rare thing, so far as knights are concerned.”
Or does that make me a fool? He wondered miserably, remembering Tanselle’s play.
“Of course, you are not to strike him,” Baelor clarified.
“Certainly not,” Maekar agreed firmly.
“We merely mean you to restrain him if he becomes…”
“—violent,” Maekar inserted.
“—overwhelmed, as it were. You would be there to stop him from bringing harm to himself or to others until he has calmed down, either of his own accord or with help.”
“You think I can do that?”
“Well, you’re certainly large enough,” Maekar remarked dryly.
Dunk turns the idea over in his head. Sworn shield to a prince of House Targaryen. Ironically enough, it is everything he would have given his right arm for a moon ago. But now… after everything that has happened… and this prince? Dunk closes his eyes and sees the pain in Tanselle’s face as her finger snapped in two. But wasn’t this precisely what Baelor wanted him to prevent? If he walked away from this task, who's to say he wouldn’t be sitting in a tavern someday and hear some similar tale of another deed Aerion had done? Or worse still? Could he really just walk away now, when the chance to thwart such a thing happening was laid before him?
He thought again of Prince Daeron’s warning… “I dreamed of you… you stay away from me, do you hear? You stay well away.” But then again, could he really listen to that drunk? As convinced as the luckless prince was of the things he had seen, those dreams of his may have much more to do with all the wine he drinks than prophecy, Dunk reasoned. The image of a dragon lying dead atop him swam to the top of his mind then. And even so… hadn’t Daeron tried to thwart the dream by running away, only for it to come to pass partly because of his avoidance?
Besides, Baelor had fought for him when no one else would, saved him from a wretched fate even when it meant turning his steel on his own blood. Dunk had no family of his own, but he remembered Baelor’s sad smile as he spoke to them before the melee. It was no small thing for him to side against his brother and his sons. Now, Baelor was asking for help; who was Dunk to refuse? What kind of man would that make him? What kind of knight?
That thought settled it. “Yes,” Dunk found himself saying with a force that surprised him. “I’ll do it. I’ll be his shield, as you say.”
Maekar, for his part, seemed somewhat surprised. He turned his head to his brother, blinking faintly—an expression his brother didn’t share. Baelor’s gaze was entirely steady on Dunk; he didn’t look the slightest bit fazed and was nodding shallowly in approval. Something like fire flared in his mismatched eyes then, reminding Duncan that while Baelor didn’t have the Valyrian features typical of House Targaryen, there was still every bit the same amount of dragon’s blood within him. It was as if he’d known this would be Dunk’s answer all along.
Dunk’s gaze went to Maekar’s hand at Baelor’s shoulder. “Does His Grace know?”
Baelor held his gaze a moment longer than was comfortable before standing and raising his voice a fraction. “Ser Donnel,” he called to the guard beyond. The door to Ashford’s solar opened in answer.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Would you be so good as to fetch my nephew? Tell him his father and I require his presence.”