Chapter Text
Maekar is the picture of a chastised little brother, never mind that Baelor hasn’t spoken to him in such way. It reminds him of when they were still green boys and Maekar would defy him in one breath and beg for his forgiveness in the next.
Maekar is also a merciless father. The trial left two Targaryen princes bedridden, and yet, one has gone unvisited. Baelor knows this without having been told—he knows his brother. Aerion’s foolish attempt at bringing their family honor and respect has had the opportunity to accomplish the contrary, just as he predicted. Maekar’s boy never knew the true meaning of honor. None of them ever bothered to teach him.
But after his beating, Ser Duncan might have succeeded where they failed.
“Do not move from your place. The maester—"
“I know my own limitations, brother,” Baelor says wryly, sitting up on the bed. The wound on the back of his head pulses along with his heartbeat, but the pain has finally numbed slightly. “How is Aerion?”
Maekar’s face twists with an ugly expression before he turns away, glancing outside the window. “I do not care to know.”
“Of course, you do,” Baelor counters, softer. Of course, his brother cares. He nearly killed Baelor for his son, after all.
“He has embarrassed our family, put another stain on the Targaryen name. Hurting that puppeteer, losing against a hedge knight of all people—I have half the mind the send him to the Free Cities and be done with him.”
“And Daeron?”
Maekar scoffs, crossing his arms. “Daeron. I do not know what I did, to sire a drunkard and a mad man. Only Aegon was able to come to me with the truth of the matter—the knight never kidnapped him. Daeron drank too much, never had the intention to come to Ashford, and a child slipped out of his grasp as easily as a whore opens her legs for some coin.”
Baelor knew Ser Duncan was innocent from the moment he heard Daeron’s tale, but he hums along.
“And that knight. He rejected my son to be his squire. Can you believe that?”
Baelor’s brows jump to his hairline. “He did?”
“Yes. He rejected a prince, that idiot man.”
“And you want Aegon to squire for him? Truly?”
“I—do not know." Maekar finally turns back to him, mouth curled down. “It’s clear that I am unable to raise my sons to be great, if not good, men. But Ser Duncan… Hedge knight, he might be. A gnat from Flea Bottom, he might be. But no one can deny that he is a true knight. Truer than most in attendance. Truer than my sons. I understand why Aegon desperately wishes to not be parted from him.”
“And he said no?” Baelor asks.
"I'm done with princes, he said.” Maekar huffs. “No one can be done with princes. Not even hedge knights.”
I’m your man, Your Grace. Your man.
“Perhaps he can be convinced,” He murmurs.
“Perhaps,” Maekar grunts. “Aegon thinks he can change his mind. I—hope he does. He’d benefit greatly from it, as much as I detest it.”
“Aerion, too.” It slips out before Baelor can temper it, but he’s not wrong.
Maekar glances at him sharply. “How so?”
“You wish to send him to the Free Cities?”
“He is a stain upon our name.” Maekar looks pained to repeat it, no matter how true it is.
“He could learn not to be.”
As always, his brother is able to read between the lines. “You wish to—? Have you gone mad with that hit? Aerion is a knight himself, not some green boy that can learn at the feet of a nobody.”
“A knight with no concept of honor is no knight,” Baelor levelly says. “And your son is a conceited, spoiled brat who has had everything handed to him. He has never learned at the feet of anyone because he respects no one enough to let them teach him. But Ser Duncan, as unskilled with a sword and a lance as he is, dragged Aerion through the mud and humiliated him in the eyes of hundreds. If that does not call for his respect, perhaps he is a lost cause. I simply assumed you do not want him to be one.”
Maekar reels back, works his jaw, but he does not deny any of his claims. “He will never stand for it.”
“He will have to.”
“And Ser Duncan. He rejected Aegon, whom he cares for. He will not take Aerion either.”
I’m your man.
“Leave him to me," Baelor murmurs. “You trust me, do you not?”
Maekar’s face unwillingly softens.
Baelor’s little brother—of course he trusts him.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
"Yes," Baelor sighs. He hopes so, too.
Ser Duncan looks far worse than he remembers, though Baelor would wager that Aerion has him beat in that one regard. Half his face is swollen, a bruise that seemingly doesn’t end running down his neck, and, when he sees Baelor, his eyes widen as much as they’re able to, and he hurriedly stands up, hissing through his teeth from the pain.
“Do not kneel, Ser Duncan.” Baelor stops him with a raised hand.
“But,” The knight looks like a hurt little lamb that lost its mother. “Your Grace.”
If Baelor recalls correctly, and he always does, Ser Duncan was stabbed multiple times. Took a mace to the head more than twice. And yet, he kept standing. Baelor remembers seeing him lying in the mud, Aerion proclaiming his death, remembers being disappointed. But Ser Duncan got back up. Half-dead as he was. Maimed as he was. He got back up and made Aerion eat his words, and in turn, made Baelor feel exhilarated in a way he’d thought he wasn’t capable of anymore. It was akin to what he felt as a boy watching tourneys before he was able to join and cheering on his favorite knights.
How peculiar, then, that a simple hedge knight brought that back to him. Ser Arlan of Pennytree must have had a better eye than Baelor thought, and still, he can’t believe that a man like that could raise up a man like the one before him. Ser Duncan must have been good since birth.
“It’s alright, Ser. We fought together. There’s no need to kneel now, especially for one with as many holes in his body as you.” Baelor quirks his lips up, rounding the table to sit beside the knight. “Sit down.”
After a few seconds where Ser Duncan looks like he’ll refuse, he sits back down. “Oh, you don’t—you needn’t worry about me, Your Grace. I’ve had my rest, and I’m good as new. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I—”
“Out of my hair?” Baelor echoes, leaning his chin on his fist.
“Yes,” Ser Duncan nods, though he stops abruptly with a squint of his eyes. Good as new, he said. “I am very thankful for your—uh. For the maester and the room in the castle, but I don’t need all these fancy things, truly. Just my horse and a road.”
“You wish to leave?”
Duncan hesitates, “I don’t want to be a bother, Your Grace.”
“You’re not. I wouldn’t offer you my hospitality if you were, Ser," Baelor says. “But if you’re certain, I’d ask you to consider waiting until you’re better healed. The roads are hard and long. It’d be a shame to see you die of an infection after everything.”
“I won’t,” The knight denies the possibility. “I’m tough, Your Grace.”
Yes. Everyone that was present at the trial could attest to that.
I’m your man.
“My brother tells me you have denied Aegon as a squire.”
Ser Duncan’s face falls, and he simply murmurs, “Yes.”
“How so? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Aegon want something so desperately.”
“Princes have no business being a hedge knight’s squire,” Ser Duncan says, brows furrowed. “The boy—The Prince could find a much better knight to squire under. I’m hardly even one.”
“Not one person who watched the trial could deny you being a true knight, Ser,” Baelor rebukes. Ser Duncan ducks his head at his words, pink peeking through the bruises in his face. It’s hard not to be endeared by it. “But as I understand it, you told my brother that you are, and I quote, 'done with princes.' I told him that could not be so, as I remember you kneeling and pledging yourself to me.”
Ser Duncan reels back, wide-eyed, and whispers, “I didn’t think…”
“Hm?” Baelor encourages him.
“Your Grace, there was a moment there—it looked like—” Duncan frowns, lips downturned. “Well, it looked like you were dead.”
“I’m not dead, Ser Duncan.” Baelor says, not unkindly.
“I know. But I passed out right after you did, thinking you were, and when I woke up, no one bothered to tell me that I hadn’t killed you for the longest time," Duncan says. “When Aegon finally told me, I just thought—I am not worthy of—I shouldn’t have asked you. I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
This man.
Baelor sighs, closing his eyes as he leans back into his chair. Despite it all, he is glad he came to Ashford.
“Even if I had died, you wouldn’t have killed me. Aerion, maybe. My brother, definitely. I knew what I was getting into, Ser. I asked you what made a good knight. How could I stand back and simply watch as you showed me?” He murmurs, opening his eyes to meet the other man’s gaze. “You said you were my man. Would you deny me if I asked you to keep your word?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Good. So you will take Aegon, will you not?”
Ser Duncan nods. “If that’s what you ask of me. Egg is a good squire.”
“Good,” Baelor repeats, sighing deeply. “You will come with us to Dragonstone, then, with a stop at Summerhall. I’ll have an armor made for you, and you will learn under my Master of Arms before you go.”
“What?” Ser Duncan startles. “That’s not—”
“You are strong and good with a sword, but your skills are unrefined,” Baelor interrupts him gently. “It wouldn’t hurt to polish them a bit.”
“I don’t want to take advantage of…” Ser Duncan trails off, and Baelor has to swallow the urge to roll his eyes. It wouldn’t do him any good in this moment.
“It’s in good faith. You’ll be taking care of my nephew, after all,” Baelor says, before he hesitates. “There is a favor I must ask of you, though.”
“Anything.” Ser Duncan answers seriously, as quick as lightning. It’s helplessly charming.
“Aerion,” He begins carefully, watching as his knight’s face twists.
“What of him?”
“His father believes exile is the best option for him,” Baelor explains. “I believe he could learn much from you.”
Ser Duncan blinks, perplexed. “What?”
“What I mean to say is—” Baelor sighs. There is no way to embellish his words, not with a man like Ser Duncan. “Would you take Aerion as your squire as well?”
The knight stares at him and numbly asks, “What?”
“We have sheltered his cruelty all his life. Aerion could stand to learn some humility from you.”
“But Egg—Prince Aerion is a large part of the reason why he’s so eager to get away.” Ser Duncan says, disbelief coating his tone.
Baelor understands Aegon’s admiration for this man the longer he speaks with him. He almost died thanks to Aerion’s whims, and yet, his first worry is a boy he met not a fortnight ago.
“You will protect Aegon, I’m sure," Baelor affirms. “And perhaps they’ll learn to love each other as brothers eventually.”
“He will try to kill me as soon as I turn my back.”
“He will know better," Baelor reassures him. “And he will be your squire. He will answer to you, not the contrary, and you may punish him as you see fit. Aerion is smart, as much as he sometimes appears not to be. He’ll learn quickly that his status will not help him this time.”
A pause.
Ser Duncan breaks their gaze, jaw clenching as he looks down at his hands. “This is what you’d ask of me?”
“If you allow me, yes.”
“You are the first—” The knight whispers, breaking off abruptly. “I am in your debt, Your Grace. Eternally. If this is what you want, then… of course, I must do it.”
Baelor has heard men swear themselves to him, has had countless of them kneel before him with the same admiration shining in their eyes, has been called worthy, strong, the hope of his house, of the realm—everything one could possibly say about the Crown Prince, but this man. This man.
He clenches a hand around his thigh and dearly wishes he could simply add Ser Duncan to his guard and be done with it, but he has never been allowed to be selfish. This time is no different. He must simply content himself with the promise of it in the future.
They overstay their welcome at Ashford, but it cannot be helped. Baelor feels for Lord Ashford and his family, especially his daughter, whose nameday celebration nearly ended in a tragedy. It was ruined enough by Aerion’s actions. He’ll have to keep them in mind when winter comes, make it up to them in some way. Having the royal family visit your tourney shouldn’t have such consequences on any lord.
He was right—the roads are long and hard. For the first time in years, he makes use of a carriage. Riding that many hours on a horse will do him more harm than good, and displaying the Crown Prince’s weakness won’t do their name any better either, no matter how fast the honorable cause of his injury has travelled.
People talk about them, Baelor knows—about Aerion and his humiliation, about Maekar and his attempt at kinslaying, about Baelor and his honor. About a knight as tall as a mountain facing the dragons for an innocent girl and winning. He thinks there are already songs being made about it, a fictional love story between Ser Duncan and the puppeteer, and is glad for it. Perhaps Ser Duncan will hear them and stop thinking himself so unworthy.
Aegon, who should have been his companion inside the carriage, insisted on riding with his newly acquired master, using the knight’s spare horse instead of the prized stallion his father gifted him for his last nameday. The knight himself probably shouldn’t weather the journey on a horse, but he’s healed considerably fast, and one could not figure out how many times he was stabbed by simply observing him for a short time anymore.
Instead, Baelor is shackled with his two other nephews—Daeron because his father wants to avoid another disappearing act and Aerion because of everything else. Baelor, in his most unsympathetic mood, thinks that if Ser Duncan is able to ride a horse for hours on end without screaming in pain, then Aerion should be able to do so as well and follow his master’s example.
But Aerion is not Ser Duncan’s squire yet, and if he finds himself incapable of swallowing his humiliation at the moment, Baelor can show some kindness to his nephew and look away for the time being. Aerion will have plenty of time to get accustomed to humiliation.
It is a pity, though, that Baelor is unable to use the time spent inside the carriage to simply spend time with his nephews. Daeron, forbidden to drink by his father, dozes off most of the daylight hours—or at least pretends to. It’s a wonder how he’s able to sleep at night. Baelor wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t.
And Aerion stays alarmingly silent, day after day after day. He barely looks at Baelor, angry at his participation in the trial, nor at Daeron. Not even his father is free from his indifference, though to call it that would be a stretch. Only one man is safe from it. The only person that manages to pull his attention from the nondescript ceiling of the carriage to the window, out where a hedge knight and his new squire dwell.
Baelor only manages to catch it because he finds himself observing Ser Duncan more often than not as well. Whenever he looks out the window, it’s with the reassurance that the knight will be there, and if not, he’ll be behind them, trailing after the carriage. He does not like it—Aerion’s attention, that is. It reminds him of how obsessive a person he’s always been, though that has never been pointed to another person, at least to Baelor’s knowledge. He supposes that if there’s anyone who could capture it so fully, it’s only normal that it’s Ser Duncan who does.
But the silence is the most worrying thing. What could possibly be hidden under it? Rage, surely. Whatever follows after that can be anything but good. Yet Ser Duncan demonstrated he is more than capable of dealing with Aerion. If it ends up being too much for him, then Aerion will find himself in the Free Cities, and Baelor will stop feeling guilty for shackling him onto a perfectly good knight.
As it is, when they finally reach Summerhall, there is nothing he wants more than to fall into his bed and not come out for days. No one would begrudge him for it, not with the slowly healing wound at the back of his head, but someone like him cannot afford to wallow in his weakness.
Maekar, still guilty over his actions in the trial, asks him to stay until his wound no longer needs to be bandaged, so they do. It is only a few days in that Baelor comes upon them, the first time he’s seen Aerion and Ser Duncan interact since the trial.
“—so you must take accountability, Ser.” Aerion sneers the title, his voice trickling through the corner Baelor just rounded up.
He slows his footsteps instinctively, silently creeping down the hallway.
“Take—” Ser Duncan’s incredulous voice comes next. “I already took accountability. In the trial that you asked for and that you lost.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, you imbecile,” Aerion hisses. “I’m your prince, and you’ll address me as such. Has your ego grown too much already to make you forget your station?”
Baelor reaches the next corner and keeps his figure hidden, simply intending to observe. This is the fruit of his choices, after all.
Ser Duncan is holding a basket in his hands, his knuckles white where they clench the wood, and that is the only thing separating them, for Aerion is pressed as close as he can be, neck stretched taut as he tries and fails to look down on the knight.
“Aye, you’re a prince, and a sad one at that,” Ser Duncan argues, frowning. “But you are also my squire, and I—I will address you in whatever way I see fit.”
“Will you?” Aerion cackles. “My father—“
“Your father wanted to exile you,” Ser Duncan interrupts. “You should be thankful I accepted you as my squire instead.”
After a pause, Aerion says, in a dangerously calm voice, “Perhaps I should just kill you and exile myself to Lys so that I can finally be done with you.”
“You’ve already tried to do so, and yet, here we are.”
Baelor can see Aerion’s face flush with anger even in his limited field of vision.
“I’m a better fighter than you, oaf.” He says lowly.
“You are a good fighter,” Ser Duncan agrees. “It’s everything else that you lack.”
“You stupid man,” Aerion curses him. “Why did you accept if you hate me so much?”
The knight frowns, looking down at his basket, and murmurs, “I don’t hate you.”
“Really?” Aerion laughs humorlessly. “Fine. You think I’ll just follow you along and do as you say like my idiot brother?”
“You will, or—or you’ll get a clout in the ear. And you’ll learn to be a good squire. Like Egg.”
“So you’ll hurt me until I listen to you?”
“Hurting you is the only way to make you listen, isn’t it?” Ser Duncan suddenly looks up, locking his gaze on Aerion’s in a silent battle.
Eyes stuck on the pair, Baelor leans his head on the stone wall as he sighs imperceptibly. His knight is smarter than he looks—he’ll manage Aerion just fine.
Aerion curls a hand around the edge of that basket, presses closer, walks Ser Duncan back until his back collides against the wall. The knight, for all his tension, lets him, looking perplexed and almost ready for a fight that doesn’t come. Instead, Aerion murmurs something too low to make out, and then he—
Baelor straightens abruptly, stepping forward without realizing it, but there’s no need for his intervention. Barely a few seconds pass before Ser Duncan pushes a struggling Aerion away, holding him back by the collar of his tunic.
“What’s wrong with you?” The knight sounds mystified most of all, like Aerion just blew away all his expectations and left nothing in his wake.
“You’re what’s wrong with me, Ser, so take accountability.” Aerion grits out.
“Why would you—Do you truly liken yourself to dragons so much that you’d bite someone instead of—”
Aerion breathlessly laughs. “That was a kiss, you stupid man. I only bit you because you pushed me away.”
“A kiss?” Ser Duncan’s voice warps with disbelief. “Are you mad? Where did you even—who told you that’s how you kiss someone?”
“Why? Is that something else you’ll teach me, Ser Duncan? How to prepare your horse, how to mend your clothes, how to kiss you, how to f—"
Ser Duncan clouts him in the ear, making Aerion break off into a pained yelp. Baelor’s nephew holds his ear, wide-eyed, and instead of backing away, the idiot tries to kiss his knight again. Ser Duncan pushes him back harshly enough to make him stumble and takes a few hurried steps in Baelor’s direction, holding his basket protectively over his chest.
“You are out of your mind,” He enunciates clearly, pointing a finger at Aerion as though it’ll keep him in place. “How can—Seven Hells. Why did I agree to—you must go to your room and—and pack your bags. The essentials only, as I have already told you.”
Aerion laughs at his flustered state and lets the knight stride off without any more protesting. Ser Duncan is too preoccupied with what looks to be the eggs in his basket to notice Baelor a few feet away from him as he passes, but that suits him just fine. As the knight disappears in the next corner, Baelor watches as Aerion stays in place, leaning against the wall as he catches his breath.
“Must you be so shameless?” Baelor asks, finally stepping into the hallway.
Aerion snaps his head toward him, face twisting uglily, only to roll his eyes when he realizes who he is.
“Uncle,” He greets in a bored tone.
“Answer me.”
Aerion hums, closing his eyes as he leans his head on the wall. “Am I shameless?”
“You are to be Ser Duncan’s squire. To play with him so is distasteful, nephew.” Baelor says, glaring at him.
“Well, I find a man fighting against his nephew to be distasteful as well, but here we are.” Aerion smiles sardonically at him.
“You’ll learn many things from Ser Duncan,” Baelor smiles back. “I hope that one of them is that you cannot have everything you want. It would do you well.”
“Really?” Aerion pushes himself off the wall. “My father told me he hopes that I learn that I must work for the things I want. I find that a better alternative. But don’t worry, uncle. I’ll be a good little squire and learn at his feet, and mayhap, Ser Duncan will learn a thing or two from me as well.”
“Do try. It’d be one more humiliation for you if little Aegon managed to best you at this.” Baelor says mildly.
Aerion’s smile withers into a cold thing. “Right. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack my bags. Essentials only.”
It is, in hindsight, not too surprising. Aerion has always been unpredictable, of course, but he has his patterns if one knows how to look for them. Baelor wasn’t present when Maekar presented him with his options, but he knows his nephew raged for hours on end and, what does it say of him, that the boy ravaging his room was deemed as mild by his father?
Maekar had been surprised, even relieved, that was the scope of his rage. They’d both been expecting more. Baelor wonders what Maekar would say, if he knew that anger had been channeled into wanting Ser Duncan carnally. It’s not something Baelor intends on telling him. He likes the hedge knight—throwing him to the wolves is not something he’s fond of doing.
What is surprising is Ser Duncan’s attitude. In the multiple conversations they’ve had since Baelor came upon them, there has been nigh mention of it, not even when Baelor asks how he’s faring with Aerion. He seems uncertain at times, but not flustered or embarrassed, and he clearly tries to put up a sure and tough exterior, especially in front of Aegon, though it doesn’t fool anyone—his knight is soft inside, and that is what makes him so valuable.
Though, Baelor muses, perhaps Ser Duncan is afraid of disappointing him, and that is why he has not said anything. Perhaps he thinks that Baelor will retract his trust and his words of praise if he knew of Aerion’s actions.
The journey to Dragonstone is long, and Baelor finds himself remiss for letting Ser Duncan begin it without some sort of reassurance.
“Your Grace?” Ser Duncan crouches to fit through the entrance of his solar and, as always, kneels before him. “Egg said you wanted to see me.”
“You do not need to kneel every time you see me, Ser,” Baelor reminds him gently, motioning with his hands to the spare chair in front of him. “You may sit.”
“Sorry.” The knight coughs as he sits, the chair creaking under his weight.
“I wish to speak to you about something, Ser,” Baelor explains slowly. “If you could be honest with me.”
“Of course. Always.” Ser Duncan says, as truthful as he’s ever seen.
Baelor purses his lips to avoid smiling. This man. “I must admit that I may have intentionally overheard a private conversation you had, Ser. With my nephew.”
“With Egg?” Ser Duncan asks, confused.
“With Aerion,” Baelor clarifies carefully. “It was when we first arrived at Summerhall, Ser. You were… conversing in a hallway near my solar.”
Ser Duncan stares at him blankly for a few moments before realization strikes him and his face falls. “Oh, Gods.”
“Quite.”
“That is—I am so sorry, Your Grace.”
“I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for,” Baelor says. “But it’s not needed. If anything, I should be the one apologizing.”
“Not at all,” Ser Duncan explains, standing up abruptly and hitting his head on the metal chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. The candles in it flicker as it swings, but none of them extinguish. The knight steps back, holding his head. “Your Grace, I’m sorry. I should have told you about it, not—not wait until you—I broke your trust, and for that I am sorry.”
Baelor exhales amusedly, lowering his hand. “Sit down, Ser. You’ll hurt yourself even more.”
“I didn’t mean to hide it. I just…”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. One is allowed to have his privacy, even from the Crown Prince,” He answers. “You needn’t be embarrassed or sorry. My nephew is a peculiar being; we both knew that when I asked you to take him. I simply wished… to make sure you are not burdened by his actions.”
“No,” The knight denies it, probably missing the true meaning of his words. “I’ll keep my word, Your Grace.”
“I know.” Baelor murmurs.
“And I pushed him away, I promise.”
“I know. I saw,” He replies, watching the blush that overcomes the other man’s face.
“I wouldn’t have let him get so close if I’d known that’s what he was planning. I thought he was just trying to intimidate me.”
“Has Aerion repeated his… advances?” Baelor asks carefully.
“Well, he—the prince is…”
“Like a whore desperate for some coin.”
“Stubborn.” Ser Duncan finishes, wide-eyed.
“That too, I suppose,” Baelor says wryly. “I don’t need to tell you to pay him no mind, do I?”
“No,” The knight denies vehemently. “I won’t disappoint you like that, Your Grace.”
A pause, after which Baelor hears himself ask as though he’s outside of his body, listening in. He regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. “And if you hadn’t pledged yourself to me?”
Ser Duncan looks caught, his blush darkening high up in his cheeks. “I have no business doing that with a prince.”
“And if he wasn’t one?” He presses.
“I don’t know. Aerion is hateful, but—pretty.”
“Yes, I suppose so," Baelor sighs. Aerion is pretty. It’s everything he hides behind that which makes him ugly.
“You are very handsome as well, Your Grace.” Ser Duncan is quick to reassure him, nodding seriously.
Inevitably charmed, Bealor has to hide his smile behind his hand. “I’m glad you think so, Ser.”
The knight jumps, as though he only just realized what he said to Baelor. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace.”
“None taken.”
“I simply… You don’t have to worry about that, no matter how pretty Aerion is,” Ser Duncan says, getting a queer look in his eyes. “He’s very strange, but I think he simply likes a good fight. Like when men say war makes their blood hot.”
Baelor tilts his head, squinting his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Ser Arlan told me that’s why there’re so many whores at tourneys and such.”
“Really.”
“Yes, though I’m sure you already knew that, Your Grace. I’m sorry. What I mean to say is that Aerion—well, that he—he’ll realize he won’t get what he wants and get bored quickly.” Ser Duncan stutters through his explanation.
Baelor stretches his neck to face the ceiling and laughs. He doesn’t know what’s worse—that Ser Duncan believes that Aerion got the beating of his life, learned the meaning of humiliation at his hands, and it made him want to fuck the hedge knight so much he practically begs for it, or that he’s not wrong.
No. The worst part is that the hedge knight is naïve enough to think Aerion will get bored of him and simply move onto some other thing, instead of doing anything and everything to incur his wrath once again. If he knows his nephew, Aerion will do so thinking anger will melt the knight’s inhibitions away like it did on that field.
“Is that why you wished to enter the tourney, then?” Baelor asks amusedly.
“What?”
“To find out if Ser Arlan was right,” He clarifies. “It’s a pity you didn’t get a turn. Perhaps I should prepare my own tourney to let you experience it fully.”
“What? No!” Ser Duncan’s eyes widen with realization, and the blush comes back with vengeance. It is, as always, helplessly endearing. “I have never even—Seven Hells.”
“Mm,” Baelor swallows down his laugh. “Never?”
“Your Grace.” Ser Duncan looks at him beseechingly.
“Ah, I apologize,” He chuckles. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Ser. I hope that you are right. It wouldn’t do for Aerion to chase you away.”
“He couldn’t.”
"Good," Baelor murmurs. “Good.”