Chapter Text
Baelor sleeps for three days. Dunk visits his room thrice, turned away two times by the Kingsguard and once by Maekar himself. The two nearly come to blows, stopping only at the insistent cry of Aegon at their hips.
Please, ser. Please, father. Pleasepleaseplease.
The prince relents. The hedge knight wanders back to his elm tree. Every morning, he returns. On the fourth day, Baelor awakens and asks for Ser Duncan by name. Dunk does not gloat when he is finally allowed to enter. Instead, he falls to his knees, strong fingers nearly tearing into the bedsheets beneath the healing prince. His head thumps against the bedframe as a sob threatens to escape him at the mere sight of Baelor still confined to bed rest.
"Your Grace," Dunk murmurs, half-plea and half-greeting. He quiets as Baelor raises a strong hand and brushes two fingers against the side of the hedge knight's head. Dunk doesn't question it.
"Rise, Ser Duncan," Baelor utters, softer than Dunk remembers him. He looks frail, though his attention is no less heavy as it weighs upon Dunk's face.
Dunk shifts to stand and grimaces at the movement. "If I could," he mutters, dejected by his own limits. He leans back onto his haunches instead, still tall enough to peer over the side of the bed without actually crawling inside. "—Your Grace. You called for me?"
"So I did."
The hedge knight waits. Baelor blinks tiredly and does not elaborate, so Dunk gingerly reaches up to grasp his forearm. His skin is cold to the touch, likely because of his healing. It makes Dunk no less nervous, so he squeezes ever so slightly—as if the prince could somehow leech the warmth from his own flesh. Baelor does not draw away.
Instead, he places his other hand over top of the hedge knight's and speaks again. "Your wounds—have they been tended to? Has Yormwell seen to you?"
"You needn't worry for me."
"I will worry," the prince interrupts, though his voice never strays from a warm murmur. "—until you have given me proper assurances, ser."
Dunk squirms, his face alight in warmth at the gentle cadence of Baelor's words. He cannot help some level of shame, for the maester had attempted to look him over several times after the first, though he had refused the help. He could only hope now that Yormwell would not be punished for his own stupidity. Stubborn as a prized mare, he is. Nevertheless, he takes some comfort from the prince's touch.
Even in his silence, Baelor is still patient. He raises his hand again and carefully smooths his thumb across the angry red mark forming on Dunk's forehead. His own lips tug into the tiniest of frowns at the sight; he knows that he can do nothing for him, though Baelor still laments the ache. The motion itself is inherently intimate, yet neither man shies away from the contact. If anything, Dunk leans a bit closer when Baelor's hand returns to the bed.
"You are unkind to yourself," Baelor muses. "You will not always heal so quickly."
Dunk's face warms further. "I know," he replies. He doesn't sound petulant, but it's a near thing. When the prince arches a brow at him, he clears his throat to work through some of the nerves settling in his belly, but it's increasingly difficult as Baelor continues to watch him with those kind eyes of his. "It felt wrong, Your Grace. To take your maester's time while you slept here. Because—because of me, that is."
"You did not strike me, Ser Duncan."
"I didn't," the hedge knight agrees, staring very hard down at the blanket currently resting over his prone form. "—but you were fightin' for me, Your Grace. Even I can't claim no part in it."
"Do you make a habit of persuading princes, ser?" The teasing question slips from the prince's lips far too easily. Too intimately. At Dunk's further hesitation, Baelor just hums; the sound is enough to put him off-kilter so that he feels like he's on the back foot when he attempts to speak again.
"No," Dunk argues weakly. "I don't mean to speak for you, Your Grace—in truth, I still don't know why you'd throw your lot in with me. Against your family, no less. It seemed... it seemed too good to be true until you fell. Then, I could only hear the whispers. How Prince Baelor might die for the honor of a hedge knight."
Baelor looks thoughtful, eyes shining a bit brighter against the candlelight. Dunk wishes he could open a window and see him properly, though sunlight would only aggravate the prince's current state. Already, the room is dark and near silent to prevent further harm to his senses—or so the maesters say.
"The guilt does not fall on you. Nor on my brother, in fact. It was an unfortunate blow, though I knew the dangers just as you did. As others did, too. From what I heard, Beesbury and Hardyng were not so fortunate." There's a firmness to Baelor's voice—the cool, collected note of one from the royal family, already well-practiced to rule. Nevertheless, his words feel neither cruel, nor callous. "But what I believed to be the right course of action remains. You were protecting the innocent and you did not deserve to do so alone."
Dunk's mouth tugs into a deeper frown. Again, shame courses through him, tempered only by the steady presence of Baelor beside him. As of now, he has yet to grieve for the two men, strangers as they were, who died while aiding him; something about that does not sit right with him in spirit. He takes comfort in the fact that Tanselle would no longer be subjected to Aerion's ire—and that Prince Baelor, for all that he can tell, will also survive the ordeal. Dunk does not even bother to consider the trial a victory beyond that.
"Aye, Your Grace. You have the truth of it."
A long pause drifts between them, though it's far from unpleasant. Even in the early morning, as the sun continues to rise, a warm fire crackles in the hearth on the opposite side of the room. It keeps the cold away. Dunk merely wishes that it did a better job of keeping Baelor himself from catching further chill. Perhaps he might suggest more blankets as he passes by the Kingsguard on his way out—or, if he needs to, he can always send Egg himself. The boy would doubtlessly enjoy an opportunity to be useful to his uncle, if his reaction to his collapse is any indication of his fondness for the man.
"Call me by my given name again," comes the prince's gentle request, half a minute later but no less a surprise.
Dunk blinks. "Your Grace?"
"No," he chuckles, and the sound knocks the wind out of Dunk. Makes the world feel a bit wobbly. "Baelor."
The hedge knight stares down at him dumbly, not quite comprehending what, exactly, Baelor wishes of him. Soon, the realization comes, not unlike the lance he took in the gut—followed quickly by a low, nervous laugh. The very idea is preposterous, surely. A hedge knight referring to the heir to the iron throne by his given name? To his face?
"I shouldn't," Dunk replies politely, trying very hard to decide if it's more or less of an insult to refuse Baelor's request than it is to immediately agree to it. It feels like a battle he can't really win. Seems to be the case lately, when dealing with the royal family. Not that he says as much.
"You can," Baelor says, gentler. "I'm asking you to."
He can feel his cheeks warm at Baelor's steady scrutiny. For whatever reason, he can't force himself to do it, so he just ends up looking like an absolute fool at his bedside. Perhaps that's nothing new, though it stings all the same in his current and vulnerable state.
"Forgive me," the prince waves a gentle hand, as if dispelling Dunk's trepidation. "I am not feeling quite myself, ser. Perhaps I should continue my rest, as Yormwell suggested."
It's definitely a dismissal, though Dunk doesn't make himself move just yet. There's a soft, silent disappointment in Baelor's expression that Dunk is certain he sees as the prince turns back into the security of his many pillows. He's swallowed up, really. Looks just about as comfortable as a man can, given the current circumstances.
"Nothin' to forgive," Dunk calmly replies, both hands braced on the bedframe as he finally pushes himself up to his feet. He groans a bit for the pain of it, but otherwise keeps himself composed well enough in the prince's presence. "I don't mean to disturb you, Your Grace, but I'd like to visit you again, if you're of a mind?"
Dunk offers a little half-cocked grin despite his seriousness, "My words after the trial were true. I am your man. I would do what I can for you." Dunk pauses for a moment, one massive hand coming to rub at the back of his neck. "Even if it's just company while you rest. If that's somethin' you'd like—somethin' you'd wish of me. It'd really be no bother. You're good company, I think. Or—I know, Your Grace."
Even from behind the safety of his pillows, Baelor's lips quirk into a smile. "You need also to rest, ser," the prince begins, sounding quite like he wants to lecture Dunk on looking after himself despite not having the energy to do so. "Though, perhaps, I will send for you tomorrow morning to ask after your healing."
Dunk nods, almost before Baelor is finished speaking. "Most agreeable, I think." The hedge knight gathers himself up in every way that he can and heads to the door, though he pauses just long enough to glance back at the prince still in his bed. "Rest well, Your Grace. I'll see you on the morrow."
A promise, then—between them.