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When the boy had finished telling Baelor his tale, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood ramrod straight, waiting for his uncle’s judgment.
Baelor sat back in his chair, tapped his fingers on the desk in front of him, and let Aegon feel his disapproval bleeding through the silence. His nephew kept his eyes trained on his boots.
“So,” Baelor finally began. “You ran off with this hedge knight of your own free will, did you?”
“I did, ser,” Aegon said quietly.
“And I suppose you are not aware that your father has finally located your brother and that according to his story, a tall robber knight stole you away by force in the night—Ser Duncan himself, presumably?”
The boy’s head shot up. “He didn’t! I asked him to take me with him, and when he refused, I followed him. He would never—”
Holding up a hand, Baelor silenced him. “I do believe you, Aegon. I’ve met the man and do not take him for a criminal. But the story is the story already. In the eyes of the public now, either the hedge knight is a villain or the dragon is a liar.”
“Daeron did lie,” Aegon insisted hotly. “He’s just trying to save his own hide—”
“And in that I expect he will fail,” Baelor interrupted once again. “But none of this would even be a matter of discussion if not for your actions, boy. They fashion you a liar as well, do they not? A liar and a runaway.”
The boy’s gaze dropped back to the floor.
“You will look at me when I speak to you, Aegon,” the Hand commanded, without raising his voice.
The deep violet eyes dragged themselves upward to meet his uncle’s stern black-and-green ones. “I am sorry, uncle.”
Waving a hand toward his small, round head, Baelor inquired, “Is that why you’ve shaved your hair as well? To secure the ruse?”
“That was Daeron’s idea,” Aegon said in a small voice. “But I prefer it. I don’t like to look like Aerion.”
“Hm,” Baelor mused, tapping his fingers again. “Speaking of whom, this business with Aerion does not speak well in Ser Duncan’s defense,” he continued briskly. “To strike a prince of the blood in front of witnesses—”
“He struck Aerion because Aerion would have killed that puppeteer girl!” Aegon burst out. “He did what any true knight should!”
“And is that what you wanted the man to do, when you decided to fetch him?” Baelor questioned, his eyes boring into the boy. “When you chose to run to Duncan, instead of to me, despite knowing full well the consequences of a commoner laying his hand upon a prince?”
“No, I…” the boy stammered. “I did not mean…”
“You did not mean,” Baelor repeated. “That is the heart of it. One need not intend harm to do it.” He exhaled slowly. “Make no mistake, lad. Whether you meant to or not, you have placed Ser Duncan in a perilous position. He may lose the offending hand and foot if he is lucky, or his life if he is not. Aerion is not a forgiving soul. Nor is your father.”
Aegon looked stricken. “Can you not help him, uncle?”
Regarding the lad with some pity, Baelor rubbed at his forehead. “I cannot bend the laws of the realm,” he said after a moment. “But I will endeavor to see justice done within them, as well as I can. Perhaps this hedge knight can yet weather the storm you and your brothers have loosed upon him.”
He didn’t miss the way Aegon’s face tightened at the phrase: you and your brothers.
“Come here,” the Hand ordered, gesturing next to him.
The young prince obeyed, avoiding his uncle’s intense gaze as he shuffled to his side and Baelor turned the chair to face him.
“You say you don’t wish to be like Aerion.” Baelor leaned forward, tipped up the boy’s chin with a knuckle, and brushed his other hand over the thin layer of silver fuzz emerging on his shaved head. “The color of your hair has nothing to do with that. Playing with men’s lives is another matter entirely.”
“I wasn’t trying to play with lives,” Aegon answered, though he sounded uncertain of it. “I only wanted to be a squire, and…and have an adventure, and not be a prince for a little while.”
“A prince cannot pretend his birthright does not exist,” Baelor told him. “When you hide it, you force others to bear the risk of it unknowingly.” He rested a hand on Aegon’s narrow shoulder. “I do not begrudge you curiosity. But you will learn this now: a prince’s smallest whim can cost a common man his life. If you do not wish it to be so, then you must first understand what your name does to the world around you.”
Aegon swallowed hard. “Yes, uncle.”
“Is there anything more that you wish to offer in your defense?” the Hand asked.
“Only that I really didn’t think—” Aegon started, his voice thin and reedy.
“Is thoughtlessness truly an excuse you believe I should accept?” Baelor asked, his eyes sharper than his level tone. “From you or any other young prince of the realm?”
The boy went silent, then shook his head. “It is not, ser.”
“Do you wish to be held to a higher standard than that?”
This time, a nod. “I do, uncle.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” With a nod of his own, Baelor released Aegon’s chin, and then he slid back in his chair and patted his knee. “And I intend to hold you to one right now. Over my knee, Aegon.”
Aegon remained where he was, twisting his hands, eyes darting between his uncle’s hand resting on his knee and the stone floor beneath his own feet.
Why wasn’t he moving to do as he was told? Baelor wondered. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the position. The lad had served as a page for two years in King’s Landing, and with his father often home at Summerhall, he’d certainly had cause to feel his uncle’s hand time enough when his curiosity had crossed the line to mischief around the Red Keep. But perhaps he knew that this evening he faced a harsher reckoning than the day he’d loosed a kennel hound in the castle and the beast had knocked down a lesser lordling in the hallway before making off with a roast chicken from the kitchens.
Interpreting the procrastination as defiance, Baelor put a sterner edge on his voice. “Do not keep me waiting, boy. Not when you understand full well that you ought to be punished.”
“It’s not that,” Aegon stammered. “It’s only… If my actions have cost Ser Dunk his life or limbs by the trial’s end, then it seems hardly fair for me to face only a child’s consequence for them.”
Searching the earnest young face in front of him, Baelor softened. “You are a child, Aegon,” he said. “And I do not wish to convince you that this blame rests upon your shoulders alone. You did not name Ser Duncan a kidnapper. You did not break a girl’s fingers over a bit of theater and compel a man of honor to defend her. You behaved recklessly, yes, but without malice. Regardless of whatever outcome may arise, I would not have you bearing any share of guilt that is not rightfully yours to carry. I will punish you only for the share you have earned.”
The tension in Aegon’s shoulders collapsed a little, but his eyebrows furrowed. “But—are you certain, uncle? Perhaps you should take a strap to me at least.”
“It’s for me to decide the price, Aegon, and for you to pay it,” Baelor answered, and then paused. “If you do not feel you have paid enough by the time I release you from my knee, you may inform me of it then,” he added, beginning to roll up the cuff on his right sleeve. “But I believe by that point, we may agree on the settlement of the matter.”
Aegon swallowed, nodded, and took a step closer, then practically threw himself across his uncle’s thigh. He felt even lighter and smaller than he looked, Baelor thought as he arranged his nephew, deftly folding his tunic to his waist and tugging his leggings to his knees, baring the boy’s pale bottom amidst a frame of black and crimson fabric. The latter shade, he expected, would match his target well enough when they were through.
“The world will treat you as what you are, not as what you may wish to be,” Baelor told him as he landed the first firm slap to the boy’s backside. “Remember it and act accordingly.”
His nephew managed a “Yes, ser,” before the second swat fell, and then Baelor began to spank him at a pace where words could no longer fit into the gaps.
The lad was young, and his remorse seemed genuine, Baelor reflected as he watched his handprints overlap on the white skin and gradually meld into an even pink from the top of Aegon’s bottom to his thighs. Perhaps most importantly, the boy did not wish to become like his brothers. That was a start, but desire alone would not be enough to avert such a fate. There was hope for Aegon yet, but only if he was firmly corrected when he strayed from the path that a wise and honorable young prince of the realm should walk.
And Maekar, gods love him, his harried, prickly, impatient brother who was more likely to curse his children’s names or ignore them entirely than to take the time to really look at them and see what they were asking him for… No, Baelor thought. For Aegon to walk that path, he could not be guided by his father’s hand alone.
Perhaps he could have a word with Valarr—ask his son to take the boy to squire, keeping him at King’s Landing and close to hand. Baelor could see to his raising, and he knew Jena would love the motherless boy as a son. Aegon’s cousins were already better brothers to him than the ones he’d been assigned by blood. They were all rather fond of the bright, inquisitive lad…and Maekar had his hands full enough with his elder boys…
Filing the idea away for later contemplation, Baelor looked down at the boy as he felt small fingers gripping into his leg. Aegon had managed to remain relatively still and silent thus far, but his composure was cracking now, as surely as his uncle’s hand continued to crack down upon his seat.
It would do so for some time yet, Baelor resolved as he heard the first gasps and yelps escape the lad. The sting of consequence was most effective when it lingered a good while. So on he spanked, and although there were a few moments where he felt a sharp intake of breath and thought the boy was about to protest, Aegon lasted until his bare backside was going from a deep pink to a proper red and Baelor’s hand was falling harder and harder.
And then—“Uncle, please!” the little prince finally squeaked.
Baelor stilled his hand. “Yes, Aegon?” He knew full well that this plea was the one instinctive to all boys in the process of having their bottoms blistered over the knee of a man they answered to: please stop. And while Baelor did not intend to grant such a request, he wanted the boy at least to ask it precisely.
Aegon was breathing hard, and his backside looked stinging and sore already, but he said nothing.
“Please what?” Baelor prompted, with a tap to one of the reddened cheeks.
His nephew shook his head rapidly. “Nothing, ser. I’m sorry.”
“Then I’m going to continue,” the Hand informed him.
Squirming ever so slightly, yet without moving himself out of the necessary position, Aegon responded only with a sniffle and a “Yes, ser.”
“Good lad,” Baelor praised, and promptly set back to his task. There was no shame in an impulsive request for mercy under duress, especially in one so young. But when given a moment to consider it with his higher faculties, Aegon had refused to repeat it. He had chosen to accept accountability, and that small act was cause enough to earn his uncle’s pride. This boy would not grow to be his brothers—to be undisciplined and intemperate like Daeron or pompous and cruel like Aerion. Especially not while Baelor Breakspear was there to see to him.
Lessons such as these were best learned early and thoroughly, so even as Aegon finally let go and began to heave with tears, Baelor did not ease. A boy who had earned himself a long, hard spanking would be served well with nothing less, and guilt was cleansed best by saltwater.
So Baelor’s palm smacked down again and again on the small bottom over his knee, and Aegon yelped and cried and did not beg clemency, even as each new slap must have burned more than the last. Hells, Baelor’s own hand was stinging now, and the weathered skin he wore there was better suited to endure such encounters than its soft and tender opponent.
“You will learn to think before you act,” he lectured as his nephew’s buttocks approached the glowing scarlet of the soundly punished. “You will not sneak about, act deceitfully, and rope innocent people into your games and schemes. You will conduct yourself as your heritage befits, or you will answer for it.” As I hope your brothers will answer as well, he thought, resolving to have a word with Maekar about Daeron and Aerion when his brother returned with his recalcitrant heir in tow. “Am I absolutely understood?”
Aegon’s nods and yes, ser!s were becoming more frantic beneath the final onslaught of his uncle’s hard hand. Even so, he did not kick or wriggle away, keeping his bottom presented perfectly for its punishment until the last two swats had crashed into the underside of each hot, throbbing cheek and Baelor told him it was done.
“Unless you find yourself still in a mind to petition for a strapping?” he joked gently as he helped the tearful boy of nine replace his clothes and eased him off his lap.
“I—” Aegon sniffed, dashing a sleeve across his wet face, “I think perhaps the matter is settled, uncle, as you say…”
“You bore it well,” Baelor told him, holding the boy out by his shoulders. “I know it wasn’t easy, but I’m proud of you for facing your discipline with dignity.”
He could feel his nephew’s posture straighten again, freshly infused with the approval of someone he respected. “Thank you for… For teaching me, ser. I won’t forget the lesson.”
Baelor could never help but smile at the way his youngest nephew always tried to sound so mature, despite the high pitch of his voice through his sniffles and—at the moment—the way he was shifting on his feet, clearly desperate for a moment alone to begin recovering in peace. He gave the boy a nod and released him. “Go collect yourself,” he instructed. “Don’t dawdle. When you’re ready, you’re going to bring Ser Duncan some supper, beg his forgiveness, and inform him that you’ve been punished for your behavior.”
A flush crept up Aegon’s cheeks, but he only nodded. “As you command, uncle.”
“When he’s finished eating, you’re to accompany him back here. I wish to speak with him.”
“Yes, ser,” his nephew agreed, and turned towards the door.
“And if you give the man one more whit of trouble or fail to obey me in any way, then I will give you your first proper thrashing, no matter that you’re already sore,” Baelor warned him, and he could see the lad flinch and duck his head one more time before he slipped out.
When his cell door creaked open, Dunk was surprised to see Egg walk in first, holding a lantern, followed by two guards and a man from the kitchens. “You can leave the food and go,” Egg said without looking at them, and was obeyed without protest. That struck Dunk: the swiftness with which three grown men followed the word of a small boy.
Once they were gone, Egg met Dunk’s gaze and spoke. “My uncle says I must beg your forgiveness for deceiving you.”
“Your uncle?” Dunk asked as he tore into his bread.
“Prince Baelor.”
Dunk peered up at him incredulously. “The heir to the Iron Throne?”
The boy only stood and looked at him wordlessly, which was confirmation enough, and then he shuffled over to the wall and sank down into the hay. “I never meant to lie.”
“Aye, but you did,” Dunk returned. “About everything.”
Egg drew his knees up into a huddle, looking miserable.
“So why’d you do it?” Dunk demanded. “Was it some jape? Make a fool of the stupid hedge knight?”
Egg told him the story—how he was supposed to squire for his brother, who was apparently more interested in hiding out and getting soused at the inn than in entering the lists. “I just wanted to be someone’s squire, ser,” the boy finished. “I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.”
“Of course you did,” Dunk rejoined. “That’s why you lied.” Noticing the bright shimmer of threatening tears as Egg was stung by the reprimand, he shook his head and turned back to his food. “Dry your eyes.”
The boy did, and then he was quiet for a moment, hesitating, before he said, “My uncle also commanded me to inform you that he’s…he’s punished me for what I did, ser.”
“Oh, aye?” Dunk asked, scanning the lad and finally noticing the telltale shifting of a boy who had been recently parted with his ability to sit comfortably. He was glad to see that the shield of nobility didn’t extend quite low enough to offer protection for a wayward little lordling’s arse. “Good, then,” he decided. “If I didn’t think hitting another prince would look especially poorly for me now, I’d give you a clout in the ear myself.”
He didn’t know why that of all things would get a small smile from the lad, but it did.
It made Dunk wish suddenly that it had all been real, and that Egg was his squire, and that he could clout him in the ear when he needed his sense knocked back into him. He’d somehow grown rather fond these past days of having the bald-headed little lad trotting along at his side, chirping nonsense.
“I wanted to be someone’s squire, ser,” Egg repeated what he’d said a moment ago. “And I wish I could change how it all happened. But I am glad that for a few days I got to be yours.”
“Aye,” Dunk sighed. “Aye. If it was different…”
Egg scooted closer to him, wincing as he did, but then he turned his head and gestured. “The guards aren’t here. No one would see.”
It took Dunk a moment to understand, but then he snorted and his eyes flickered up to the barred panel in the door to confirm the absence of observing eyes.
“And in any case, they can’t cut your hand off twice, can they?” Egg added with a cheeky little grin.
Dunk's mouth twitched too, despite himself. And he cuffed the boy more gently than the old man ever had him, but he couldn’t deny that there was satisfaction in it still.