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The loose stone is three up from the ground. The wall itself is ten stones wide. Dunk has never managed to count all the way up to the top, as it's never light enough to do that. In the daytime, some sunlight comes in from the grate, high up above, but it only illuminates a small patch of the cell floor, leaving the rest in shadow. He has been here for seven days. He thinks. The second day, he met the rat. The third day, a robin sang in one of the trees. They didn't bring him any food on the fourth day, but he did get some water on the fifth. It rained on the sixth, and he found the loose stone that day as well. He tells the rat all of this, because it's only polite.
Dunk thinks he might be going mad.
His black eye has healed well, he thinks, but his ribs still hurt. He would like to be able to stretch out in the cell, but he can't lie down. He can angle himself and lie down, after a fashion, but his body curves around the cell like a dragon in a cave. The cell is slightly too small, slightly too cold, slightly too damp, slightly too dark. Then, it wouldn't be a punishment if it were perfect. He has maybe been here for seven days.
They throw the man in on the maybe eighth day. No ceremony to it. Just a “stand up, corner of the cell, hands above your head,” from the guard, then the door opens, and there's a man. The guard punches him, then, when Dunk moves to intervene, he punches Dunk, too. It's a clinical sort of uppercut, no anger to it, right to the stomach, setting his ribs ablaze again. By the time Dunk straightens up, the door is shut and locked and it's quiet again. Eight days.
They have thrown the man into the patch of light. He wears dark clothes. Plain. No rings. He has a beard, dark hair. He is in pain, eyes shut tight with it. He's beautiful, or maybe it's been too long since Dunk saw another human who wasn't about to punch him for him to judge beauty properly. Dunk crouches down, touches his shoulder gently. He'd ask if the man was alright, but he isn't.
“My name's Dunk,” he says quietly instead, still touching the man. “There's a loose stone, three up from the ground, and there's a rat that's good to talk to. Sorry you're here.”
The man doesn't respond. He's cold, shaking with it. Dunk leans back against the wall, legs stretched out, then he begins the painstaking business of shifting the man so he's lying on top of him, off the cold, damp floor. It hurts his ribs, his stomach. He speaks throughout it, explaining what he's doing, because horses like it when you gentle them like that, so why shouldn't a man? He's in the middle of telling him about the robin when the man's shaking slows down a little, then ceases, his breath evening out into sleep. Dunk wraps his arms around him, rests his chin on top of the man's head.
It's been maybe eight days. He thinks he might be going mad.
He must sleep a little. When he wakes up, the man is still, but it's the kind of still that speaks of alert wakefulness, something deadly in it.
“You were shaking,” he says. “I got you off the floor so you'd stop. My name is Dunk.”
He loosens his arms from their hold. His legs are numb from the weight of the man, his torso throbbing. He lets his hands drop. The man doesn't move, doesn't respond.
“You're in a cell. I'm not sure why they haven't killed me yet. They haven't forgotten me, because they bring food, but I'm from Fleabottom so they can't ransom me. Ser Arlan wouldn't have the coin to buy me back. We're in Starpike Castle. Though you probably know that already. I've already told you about the rat, but I don't know if you'll remember. He's a good little rat, truth be told. A good listener.”
The man laughs softly. “I remember the rat, Dunk. But thank you for reminding me.” He's well spoken. A soft voice, pleasant. “Thank you also for the care you have shown me.”
He quiets then, head tilted. Feet. Two sets. “Do as they say,” Dunk whispers urgently. “They'll beat you anyway, but it won't be as bad.”
The man nods.
“Stand up, corner of the cell, hands above your head,” the guard says. Dunk helps the man up, as quickly as he can, stands himself. The man drops his head when the guard comes in. He has chosen the corner that is more deeply in the shadows. He leans, a little, not trusting his strength enough to stand. Dunk doesn't know how injured he is, but he stands like a man guarding himself. The tray of food is put in the middle of the cell, under the shaft of light. Dunk makes himself bigger, looks directly at the guard, in a way he has not dared to before. He lets something of the Fleabottom hellion he used to be before he squired show in his face.
The guard backhands him, twice, the gauntlet sending a spike of pain through his cheekbone. Ignores the man. Leaves.
“That was foolish,” the man says quietly. “But not unappreciated. Do not do it again. I forbid it.”
Dunk spits blood on the floor, massages his jaw. “As you say, milord,” he says. The man stills, looks at him.
“Milord. It will do, as a name, I suppose. I will not tell you my true one. Come, let us eat.”
He sits on the floor, dignified somehow, as if this were some feasting table, though he still moves gingerly. Dunk lowers himself to the ground, hissing as his ribs protest. “What a pair we make,” the man says. Dunk tries to make him eat some of his own portion of gruel. The man refuses, stares steadily at him until he has finished the bowl. Dunk would have argued more, but they take the tray back quickly, here.
A maid takes the tray. The man stays in the shadows again.
Dunk can hear noises in the distance, swords clashing. There is a siege, perhaps. A battle, certainly. Ser Arlan serves the Crown in this battle. Dunk had been with the supply train. He'd got lost, wandered, as he often did. Came across a group of Lord Peake's men, bothering a girl from the local village, and every shred of sense his ser had tried to beat into him had deserted him in one of those fits of decisiveness that cuts through the normal indecision that plagues his every step. The girl had escaped, though. Fleet-footed as anything. Her eyes had been green, beautiful.
The man is quiet, so he is too. He looks up at the grate, paces the distance between the wall and the door. Looks at the hinges. Small calculations, quietly made. Dunk had made the same calculations, though his had been cruder, desperate rattles of the door, attempts to scale the wall that had ended with him on a heap, hands grazed. Dunk stays quiet, even when the man has ceased to pace. He stands, and waits for instruction.
The robin comes back to the grate, whistles. Dunk whistles back, laughing softly at the tilt of the bird's head, the proud puff of its chest. The robin whistles again, flies off and settles, its song becoming more distant. Dunk looks back at the man. He stands in the light, now. His eyes are beautiful. One brown, one blue. Dunk has never seen the like. He would offer his heart up if it were worth anything to the man. Would swear himself. He knows his face is battered, his clothes filthy, knows he has nothing to his name and probably never will, but what he has, he would give. He kneels, and doesn't know quite why.
The man makes a soft, almost wounded sound, steps closer to him. His hand is cold, when he puts it on Dunk's head. Too cold. Dunk leans into it anyway. “Do you know who I am?” the man asks quietly. Dunk shakes his head. “And yet you kneel,” he murmurs, strokes Dunk's hair. “Do not do so again, Dunk. It is dangerous, in this place, at this time.” His hand is gentle, despite the warning. When he steps back, Dunk wants to pull him close again, doesn't. Just stands up again, looks at the man, at his slight smile.
“I'm going to teach you a tune. We're both going to whistle it, whenever we can. It is a tune meant for a particular pair of ears. I only hope he is able to hear it.”
It is a sweet melody. The man teaches him, patiently. They take it in turns, to whistle, though it hurts Dunk's lips to do so. He licks the blood off his mouth, doesn't complain. They whistle until night falls.
It gets colder as night draws in. “Come here,” Dunk says, because the man is still cold and he will not get better if he cannot build his strength. “Please, milord.”
In the dark, it's easier to arrange the man so he doesn't touch the cold, damp floor, the walls. It's easier to hold him close and keep him warm. Dunk weighs him down and guards him. Tomorrow will be the tenth day. Or maybe the ninth.
There are necessities each of them must attend to. They ignore each other as they do, pretend walls separate them from the needs of their own bodies. It is degrading, but a perfect cell would not be a punishment. They whistle again, every few minutes. Dunk doesn't know why he whistles, but he does anyway. The guard comes with their food. Dunk stumbles a little, as if he plans to run. The guard hits the meat of his thigh with his swordblade, then with the pommel of his sword, making his whole leg numb with a sick kind of pain. The man stays in the corner, body held tightly. Head down.
“I forbade you from doing that,” he says when the guard has left.
“You're injured,” Dunk says. “And you're hiding. Eat your food.”
The man eats. They go back to whistling, taking it in turns. The rat comes out, looking at them curiously. Dunk strokes gently down its back. “A fine, sleek fellow you are,” he murmurs. “Bright eyed. Have you a wife at home, ser rat? She must keep a good house, to keep your coat in such fine order.”
When he looks up, the man looks at him as he has seen a swain look at a maiden when they dance. It goes right to his heart, sends him breathless. In the distance, a raven crows and the moment breaks. The man steps back to the window, whistles louder, desperate almost. Dunk joins him, loud as he can though his ribs hurt with every breath. Another caw, closer. A raven looks at them through the grate. The man looks up at it, his face in the light. Stands very still as the raven tilts its head to one side, lets out a single caw, then flies off. The man sags with relief.
“We can stop whistling, Dunk. Now we wait. Tell me more of Ser Arlan,” the man says. Dunk had only mentioned him once. Dunk tells him all he can, of their life on the road, the lords they have served, his kindness, his honour. It feels like another world, the road rolling out ahead of them, the stars up above, the sky and the rain all theirs. He talks until he is hoarse, misses Ser Arlan with an ache that is lodged somewhere under his ribs, an ache that used to be just for Rafe, and a mother and father he never knew, who never knew him.
This time, when it gets dark, they stand and watch the grate. The castle settles and quietens, until only owls can be heard, foxes barking in the distance. Dunk doesn't hear anything at first, but the man does, straightens up and looks to the grate, every line of his body tense.
Feet. Then, a crouch. “Brother,” a voice whispers. The man sighs, a strain Dunk hadn't noticed leaving his body at last. Above, the man pulls at the grate, quiet for all that it must test his muscles. It comes loose at last, and the man sets it quietly on the ground, breathing hard. They all stay still, waiting to be caught. When nothing happens, the man sticks his head through the grate. His hair is pale, silver in the moonlight. He looks down at them, at his brother, then at Dunk. “We don't have long,” he whispers. “Can you reach me?”
He stretches his arm down, comes a few feet short from the man's own outstretched fingers, swears fit to make a sailor blush. Dunk comes to several decisions at once, like he had with the girl from the village. He kneels down. “My shoulders,” he says. “Now.”
“But you-”
“You'll come back for me. I know you will.”
The man steps closer, holds onto the wall. Rests first one foot, then the other on Dunk's shoulders. It hurts, but he's always been thick as an aurochs and strong as one, so he grasps the man's ankles, stands up without making a sound, his legs shaking with it, breath coming out in short pants. He can feel the man's legs kicking slightly as he struggles through the opening, sags back to the floor, legs unable to support his own weight as his ribs scream at him. He can hear men in the distance. “Go,” he whispers, as the man looks down at him. “Please,” he adds.
The man's brother puts the grate back in place. It has been nine-
No. It is the first day since the man left. He doesn't sleep a wink.
“Stand up, corner of the cell, hands above your head,” the guard says, sounding bored.
He obeys. It takes a few moments for the guard to notice. Then, everything goes very quiet, and very still.
They tie him to a chair. He says 'I don't know' to everything they ask, because he doesn't. He doesn't know who the man was, or where he has gone, or who rescued him. They don't mention the grate, though they check the walls, over and over. They find the loose brick eventually, but it doesn't do them any good. Pain cannot give him knowledge he doesn't have, so he endures. If they had told him to guess, he might have tried, but they want the truth, so he retreats into a very small world, away from pain, and tells them he doesn't know with perfect, unwavering honesty.
It is maybe three days since the man left. Dunk is going slightly mad.
They leave him tied up in his cell. Don't even leave him the food, though it would have been double helpings. He must sleep, because the grate shifting wakes him. It's the silver haired man from before. “Fuck,” he whispers when he sees Dunk. Dunk wants, for some reason, to apologise, as the man stands up, has a whispered conference with some other people he cannot see. Eventually, the man is lowered down on a rope, cuts the bindings on his wrists and ankles and looks him over with a professional eye. “Fucked you over properly there, boy,” he mutters. “Right, you're not going to like this part.”
The only part Dunk has liked of this experience is the man and his beautiful eyes. The man levers him out of his chair, drags him to the wall then ties a rope around his waist. “Try not to scream,” he says. Dunk nods. “Pull him up, smooth as you can.”
Dunk tries, very hard, not to scream. Passing out is a mercy.
Things seem to happen in flashes. He's carried on a stretcher, then there are campfires, tents, then a carriage that jolts him so horribly he passes out again. Then, there's a warm tent, a maester, a reckoning of his wounds that feels like he's being tortured anew. He bites down on a belt and tries very hard to be good, but he doesn't want to be touched any more, and everyone is too close, and no one has told him anything, or explained what is happening. He cries, and doesn't know how to stop.
“Oh, lad.” He seeks the voice, seeks his ser, would have got out of bed and crawled to him if he hadn't stopped him with a warm, strong hand on his shoulder. Ser Arlan holds him and lets him cry like a babe, careful of his wounds. “How did you end up here, lad?” he asks quietly.
“I got lost, and Lord Peake's men were troubling a lass. I had to stop them, ser, so they took me and threw me in a cell. And then-- ser, do you know how the man who was with me is? He was injured, and cold, and he wouldn't let me give him my food.”
Ser Arlan doesn't speak for a bit. “He's fine, lad. Found me, soon as he could. Said you'd done me proud. He'll see you soon, I'm sure. Now, get some rest. I'll stay here with you.”
He sits next to him, holds his hand. Dunk wants to see the stars, but he slips into sleep all the same, his body leaving his mind no choice. He wakes to the maester checking him. He's too close: it makes Dunk's heart beat rabbit-fast, fear sending him scurrying back on the bed. “Easy, lad,” Ser Arlan says. “I'm here.”
Dunk nods, tries to get his breathing back under control. “Tell him what you're doing,” Ser Arlan says to the maester. “You're scaring him.”
The maester nods, begins explaining what he's checking, why. His voice is soft, a slight croak to it. His hands are cool. Dunk answers his questions, where he can. There are injuries he cannot explain, questions he doesn't quite know how to answer. He feels raw, and stupid, when the maester is done. Ser Arlan tells him he did well, and Dunk wants to believe him.
When he sees the man from the cell again, Ser Arlan kneels. The man wears black, but there's red there, too, a fine dagger on his belt, a pin on his chest. He looks...
“Your Grace,” Ser Arlan says, and something in Dunk's heart shatters. He looks down at his bandaged hands.
“Ser Arlan. Dunk,” Prince Baelor says quietly, and he sounds just like he did in the cell. Gentle, kind. “I am gladdened beyond measure to see you, though grieved at your state. You endured much for me, and I am grateful for it.”
He steps closer, puts a finger under Dunk's chin. “Look at me,” he says softly, and how could Dunk resist? He looks up, heart full of words his tongue could never express. Prince Baelor smiles, and his heart knits together a little at the sight of it, at how familiar it is. “We will engage Lord Peake's forces on the morrow, now that we are both safely out of his dungeons. He will pay, and pay dearly. You are safe now. We have much to discuss, but it will wait, I think.”
He nods. “You're warm again,” he says, because it's important. Prince Baelor's smile crinkles his eyes this time.
“Quite so,” he says, steps back. “The maester will need his tent back ere long. You will be shown to alternative accommodations.”
Ser Arlan bows. When Prince Baelor has gone, Dunk looks over at him. “Have we ever had accommodations, ser?” he asks. Ser Arlan shakes his head.
“Can't say we have,” he says.
He has to lean heavily on Ser Arlan to walk out of the maester's tent. They wanted to put him on a stretcher but he refused, and Ser Arlan didn't threaten him with a clout so he thought it was probably fine to be stubborn this time. It's slow going. Men stare openly at him as they walk. He can hear some people call him a giant, some people whispering behind their hands. His shoulder-blades prickle with the attention. Prince Baelor's brother spots him as he comes out of a command tent, walks over. He's in armour, looks like some knight from a storybook. “Don't try and kneel,” he says sharply as Dunk sees him. Dunk's knees lock in place.
“Prince Maekar,” Ser Arlan says, for his benefit. Prince Maekar snorts, looks Dunk up and down.
“Good to see you standing,” he says, nods to Ser Arlan. “A credit to you, ser,” he adds, then turns and leaves, as abruptly as he arrived, before Dunk can even thank him for coming back for him.
Their tent is big, too big. There are two beds in it, two chairs, a campaign table, a chest. Dunk can feel the canvas closing in. Ser Arlan looks at him keenly, picks up the two chairs and brings them outside. “You need the sky, lad,” he says. “Sit here, I'll be back soon.”
He sits where he has been placed. It's under a tree, at least. He can hear the hammer of the blacksmith, the sounds of a well-ordered camp preparing for war. The scent of woodsmoke and cooking hangs on the breeze. He isn't quite used to so much sunlight. He was eight or maybe nine days and then two or maybe three days in a dark cell, and his eyes water every time the clouds part. He lets them slip shut, just for a moment.
“Gods be good, you're taller than I expected,” a man says, startling him awake. He stands a few paces from him. A Baratheon, from the sigil on his chest, his colours. His hair is dark, his beard. He grins at him, teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Don't stand, lad. I wanted a look at you. You're quite the hero, you know. I'll have to do something reckless tomorrow to steal your fame, young giant.”
Dunk flushes, and the man's eyes turn kind. “I'm Ser Lyonel,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you at your full height, when you can stand unaided. You'll heal, young giant, in time.”
He doesn't step any closer. Dunk had expected him to, had dreaded it. He just salutes, a gesture of respect Dunk feels he has in no way earned, then strolls off as if he were at a feast, not getting ready for war.
Ser Arlan comes back laden with wineskins, bowls of stew. “Eat slowly, lad,” he says at the look on Dunk's face. “I won't take it from you, nor will anyone. You'll be sick if you rush.”
He takes his ser's advice, though it's hard not to eat it all quickly, to sate the hunger he has on him. It's his hands mainly that stop him. He can't move his fingers too well. Ser Arlan tears up the bread for him without being asked, watches him in a careful sort of way that makes Dunk feel both grateful and ashamed. He feels better with food in his belly. He drinks the water Ser Arlan gives him, doesn't ask for wine.
“Are you going to fight, ser?” he asks. He doesn't want him to, but doesn't know how to express it in a way that doesn't earn him a clout.
“No. The princes want you to be kept safe, away from the fighting. We stay here, ready to move if we need to.”
“We won't need to,” Dunk says, with a certainty he feels in his bones. Ser Arlan barks out a harsh laugh.
“Keen military mind you've been hiding behind those dreamy eyes, lad?” he asks, not unkindly.
“Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar won't lose,” he says stubbornly. Ser Arlan smiles.
“As you say,” he says mildly. They sit quietly, watching the sun set. The tents are all lit from within, glowing. Sparks rise, and rise from the campfires all around. It's dry, and Dunk doesn't know quite how to ask for it, but Ser Arlan pulls out their beds anyway, so they can have the stars above to sleep under.
Dunk wakes with the dawn. There's a mist over the campsite, the muffled sounds of reins clinking in the distance. He opens his eyes. He hurts less than yesterday. He sits up, tries to wipe the grit from his eyes with his bandaged hand, gives up, frustrated. He'd be helping Ser Arlan with his armour if he'd been smarter. Prince Baelor might still be in the cell if he'd been smarter, cold and alone, hurt worse without Dunk there to draw the guard's ire. He scrubs at his hair, gets out of bed. His feet are bare, but he doesn't mind it. He goes to the treeline, pisses without anyone there to observe him, a luxury he had not thought to enjoy before. There's a stout branch that will do as a crutch.
Ser Arlan snores, still. He is restless, full of a strange energy. It's from the men around him, from the sharp anticipation they all feel, like dogs before a hunt. He is glad of the stick's support as he walks, without any particular aim. He doesn't go beyond the camp, but rather into it, trying to keep out of the way as much as he is able. The men are all too absorbed with checking their armour, their weapons to pay him much mind.
He's lost before he knows it. He was under a tree, but which tree is a mystery. It doesn't worry him as much as it would have before. He is free to get lost. No walls keep him trapped. He leans on his crutch and thinks about where the sun was yesterday, when it shone on his face, tries to work out where it should be, now. Nothing. Nothing useful. He turns in a slow circle. Tents. He is surrounded by tents, and they mostly look the same, except-
The command tent. He remembers the walk from there. Now that he has a target, life feels simpler. One thing to do, then another. He aches, by the time he reaches the command tent. He leans for a few moments on his crutch, breathing heavily.
“Dunk, isn't it?”
One of the Kingsguard stands outside the tent, ghostly in the mist with his beautiful cloak. Dunk nods, mute. “Are you well, lad? Do you need anything?” Dunk shakes his head, tries to straighten up. The Kingsguard comes closer. “I'll fetch you a chair from inside. You shouldn't be on your feet yet, young fool.” He slips into the tent, comes out moments later with a folding chair, puts it the other side of the tentflap, as if Dunk's a strange sort of sitting guard. “Sit, before you faint,” he says. Dunk obeys, tipping his head back. He's earned a clout on the ear, truly this time. He just...he's been clouted too often of late, and he hadn't deserved a single one. His body doesn't know the difference between earned and unearned strikes any more. He's a kicked dog of a man.
He hears the tent flap rustle slightly, turns to look, curious. A tall, slender man with white hair and a single red eye looks down at him with faint amusement. “What a giant songbird,” he murmurs. “Come, I'll escort you back to your nest. We're riding out soon, best you don't stay lost for long.”
“Long enough to get a clout on the ear from my ser,” he mutters, levering himself out of his chair.
Lord Bloodraven raises a single pale eyebrow. “I think your clouting days are over,” he says. “Or I shall know of it. Come on, no dawdling. I've a battle to win.”
It is as if Lord Bloodraven has a shield around him that makes men simply slide around him. He moves through the growing crowd as if it isn't there, and Dunk trails in his wake. As he gets closer, he realises the man is humming a familiar tune. He stops, heart pounding. Lord Bloodraven turns, looks at him. “It's an old Dornish melody. Baelor and I were fond of it in our youths.”
“The raven.”
“A little trick of mine. And no, Dunk. I have no wife to keep my coat sleek at home,” he says, with a sly smile. “Come along, now.”
Dunk has questions, tripping over themselves on his tongue. He doesn't know which to ask first, or which the man will answer, or if he'll get in trouble for the asking. Lord Bloodraven should frighten him, but he liked the rat, and there is something kind in his eye as he watches Dunk struggle with too many words and questions.
“You'll have chance enough to ask what you will over the coming months, I think. There will be questions I won't answer, of course, but you've earned the right to ask a few, I suppose. Now, come.”
Dunk obeys, this time. As he gets closer to their tent, he can Ser Arlan standing, talking to a few other soldiers, whole body tense, pointing out towards the forest. Ser Arlan's whole body relaxes when he sees him, shoulders slumping. One of the soldiers claps him on the arm, and they disperse as Lord Bloodraven approaches.
“Ser Arlan, I have your squire,” he says, watching his knight master carefully. Dunk comes closer, prepared for the inevitable clout. Nothing comes. Ser Arlan looks up at him, relief clear on his face.
“Sit down, lad. Thought you'd been taken,” he says gruffly.
“Sorry, ser,” Dunk says. “And thank you for escorting me, milord. And for...well, all of it,” he adds to Lord Bloodraven, who inclines his head and leaves, as quietly and smoothly as he had come.
“You're getting mixed up with some strange company,” Ser Arlan says, watching Lord Bloodraven leave. He pulls a chair towards Dunk. The campfire has been lit again, a pot of stew bubbling gently on it. All of the small things that were Dunk's job have been done already. He is a terrible squire. “Now sit, I've mending to do, and you're to rest.”
“I could-”
“Lad, they broke enough fingers to make it nigh on impossible for you to do anything. Now, none of your fretting. We'll be well enough looked after that it won't matter for a bit. Sit.”
Dunk sits. Ser Arlan keeps up a steady flow of stories, some of which he's heard before, some new. Dunk only has to nod, and laugh, as Ser Arlan fixes the stitching on Thunder's harness with steady patience. The men ride out around them. Drumbeats in the distance, hooves. The camp goes quieter, until all that remain are the people who keep things running outside of the fighting: healers, cooks, blacksmiths, camp followers. Sounds travel from the battle on the breeze: the bright blare of trumpets, the shouts of men, the screams of horses. Ser Arlan listens to them all, keeps telling his tall tales as Dunk frets and wonders.
The first men are brought off the field in carts a few hours in. Dunk makes himself look, doesn't flinch away. A lad his age winks at him, grins, though the side of his face is covered in blood.
“Brave fool,” Ser Arlan says softly. “Poor brave fool.”
Ser Arlan makes him eat, though he's too nervous to enjoy it. The meat is soft, easy on his tender mouth. Ser Arlan tears up his bread again, puts the pieces in his stew to soak up the juice. He's tired, after the food, but he won't sleep, not while the outcome of the battle is uncertain. He can feel his eyes drifting shut a few times, jerks awake with a gasp, ribs protesting. More carts come, more men too injured to fight. He looks at every face, desperate for a sign of how the battle goes. He can read nothing but pain.
The sun has almost set by the time the first horses come, pennants fluttering in the breeze. “We won, then,” Ser Arlan says quietly, with a satisfied nod. “Else those pretty knights would be ransomed.”
Dunk sags back in his seat, buries his face in his hands. He had thought, deep in a dark corner of his mind, that Lord Peake would win, and drag him back. He shakes with the relief of it. Ser Arlan hands him a wineskin, takes one of his own. “Not too much, mind,” he cautions. The wine stings the cuts in his mouth, but he takes a few swigs anyway, the warmth curling in his belly, soothing the last of the fear that had sat in it.
He hears Ser Lyonel before he sees him, his great helm with its antlers resting on the saddle in front of him, black hair wild in the breeze, all black and gold, beautiful and strange. “Stormlanders,” Ser Arlan mutters behind him, but he's too busy standing, anxious to see how the strange, loud knight fares. Ser Lyonel stops his company with an upraised hand, looks at Dunk with a grin.
“So this is your full height, young giant,” he says. “Come closer.”
Dunk does, helplessly drawn, looks up at Ser Lyonel, scanning his face for injuries. “How did you fare?” he asks. “Did you do anything reckless, like you said?”
One of the men next to him laughs. “Daft cunt took an arrow meant for Prince Maekar,” he says. “He's been complaining about the dent the whole ride back.”
“Though there are worse things than having a Targaryen indebted to you,” Ser Lyonel says with a slight smile, reaching out and ruffling Dunk's hair. “As you, my lad, are like to find out ere long.”
He rests his hand on Dunk's head a few moments longer, a warm, heavy weight Dunk wants to lean into. His horse shifts restlessly, breaking the spell. “Right, come on, I need a drink. I'll be seeing you,” he says with a wink. Dunk steps back, watches them ride away. He touches his head where Ser Lyonel's hand rested.
“Now will you sleep?”
Dunk nods. Ser Arlan pulls his bed out into the open, helps him out of his jerkin. “We'll need bigger clothes for you again, soon. These seams are at their limit.”
“Sorry, I keep growing,” he says. Clothes are coin.
“You saved the Crown Prince with your height, lad. Clothes are nothing to fret over.”
“But we don't have the coin-”
“You worry about sleeping, and getting better. Leave the rest of it to me.”
He looks into the flames, as men return from battle. He has the stars above him, the breeze in his hair. He dreams of mismatched eyes and soft voices.
A Kingsguard comes for them the next morning. They've had eggs and bacon, a better breakfast than he's used to. The bread is soft, the yolk dripping. Food in his belly, the sun on his skin.
Ser Arlan makes the Kingsguard wait while he straightens his collar, damps down his hair, wipes his face. Dunk wants to move out of the way of the rough cloth, stays still instead. The Kingsguard doesn't smile, though the side of his mouth twitches. When Ser Arlan deems him clean enough, they walk through the camp to the command tent, the stick a comforting weight in his hand.
There is a large table in the middle of the tent. The princes and Lord Bloodraven sit waiting. Everyone looks up when they come in. Ser Arlan sticks close. Dunk can sense the type of stare he's giving the men, the quiet watchfulness of an old dog who has won enough fights to be a threat. It warms him, gives him the courage to look up from the ground. Prince Maekar has his arm in a sling, a bruise high on his cheekbone. Prince Baelor holds himself carefully, bruises showing on his neck above his jerkin.
They are directed to sit, opposite the two princes. Dunk doesn't know what to do with his hands. He looks to the exit of the tent. He can see the camp outside. When he looks back to the table, Prince Baelor watches him with a smile full of understanding. “Lord Peake is dead, the uprising crushed. The castle is in our hands. It came at a cost, but not too high a one.”
Dunk nods, doesn't know what to say.
“The prison guards are dead. Too quickly for my liking, but my brother is softer than I,” Prince Maekar says, his strange, violet eyes pinning Dunk, making it hard for him to breathe for a second. “And now we're saddled with the business of hostages, and ransoms, and supply lines and all the damn business that comes after the fighting.”
“We wanted to see you before we got too bogged down in that side of things, Dunk,” Prince Baelor says.
“I'd have waited, milord,” he says. “You know that.”
Lord Bloodraven snorts, quietly. Prince Baelor smiles. “I try not to take people for granted, Dunk. I may fail at that on occasion, but I try. Besides, Ser Lyonel has petitioned the crown to take you both to Storm's End, so I am minded to stake our claim on you before you can be too charmed by him, as he clearly is by you.”
Dunk can't stop his blush at that. Ser Arlan sighs, next to him, makes no comment.
“I owe you my life, Dunk. I cannot in good conscience ignore the debt, so I must repay it, in coin you would find acceptable.”
“Anyone would have-”
“They would not. You took blows meant for him. You shielded him from cold and damp. You sacrificed your freedom without hesitation. You withstood torture. Had my nephew remained there, his location unknown, we would have been unable to engage the Blackfyre forces until he was found. Had he died, alone in a cell, the loss the realm would have faced would have been unthinkable. Had his identity been discovered, the price for his freedom would have been a heavy cost. You acted out of simple kindness, an instinct to protect. That does not negate what it signifies. Much as I'm sure you wish it did,” Lord Bloodraven adds with a wry smile.
“So we must pay our debts, and do so gladly,” Prince Baelor says, waiting for him to meet his eyes. “You are not without choices.”
“And if my choice was to go back to the hedges, with Ser Arlan?” he asks.
“We would find a way to grant you your wish. Give you enough coin to keep you fed, equipped, and clothed.”
Ser Arlan shifts, next to him. “Don't be a fool, lad,” he says. “I'd welcome you back, but you've a chance I could never give you, here.”
Dunk sets his jaw.
“Would you at least hear your other choices, Dunk?” Prince Baelor asks quietly. Dunk nods, looks down at the table.
“You'd be trained, regardless, and Ser Arlan would be welcome to stay, if he wished. Your knight master's work would not be wasted. Knighthood would await you any road. You could go to King's Landing, and be trained there, among the household knights. You would have the choice of who to serve. You would be fed, equipped, clothed at the crown's expense. Or, there is Dragonstone, where I spend most of my time. Again, you would be trained, and travel with my household, as one of my men.”
“There is also Summerhall,” Prince Maekar adds. “Though you would have to contend with my brood pestering you at every turn, I should think. They'd like you.”
“Children tend to,” he says, with a smile. The choices are dizzying. He doesn't know how to even begin to think about them, each road with a different fork, a different set of worries, paths not taken. “I can't. I don't know what to say. It's too much, to decide now. Please.”
“Then choose all of it,” Prince Baelor says. “Summerhall, Dragonstone, King's Landing. Heal from your injuries, travel slowly with Ser Arlan. Move from place to place, and profit from each of them. The hedges wait for you, if you still desire them when you've trained. I will have no oaths from you until you're ready.”
“Oaths you can have now. I'm your man, milord,” he says, the certainty in his body making his voice firm and strong, eyes meeting Prince Baelor's. “Any way I can serve you, I will.”
Prince Baelor looks at him, for a long moment, then he stands, walks around the table. Dunk kneels, heedless of his injuries. He has no sword to lay at his feet. All he has is the shield of his body, the warmth of it, the strength of it. He looks up, into Prince Baelor's eyes.
“Your man. Always,” he says.
“I accept your oath, and will not dishonour it, or you.”
Dunk nods, something settling in his soul. “Then I choose all of it.”
It has been eight days, and three days, and two days since they took him, since he met Prince Baelor, since he escaped. It is the first day. It is just beginning.