Chapter 20
DUNK
Ser Duncan the Tall. That was the name he had chosen for himself. But the truth was that he was not Ser Duncan the Tall. He was Dunk. He always had been.
The name. The title. It was all a lie—a ruse.
He was no knight. He had sworn no oaths, and for many a day since the passing of his master he had wondered what he had been missing. He was strong, and while he was a lunk, he could read.
He knew enough about numbers to get by, and he was not too bad with a sword or a lance. Yet why hadn't his master knighted him? Why? What was so lacking in him that his master had not knighted him?
What?
He had hoped to find the answer in the tourney. Hoped to prove his worth here to satiate his heart and prove to himself that he was worthy of that title. That he could be more than just Dunk the Squire.
That he could be Ser Duncan the Tall.
He had seen many a knight in this tourney. He had heard their tales and their boasts. He had seen them spar, and then he had seen the bouts for a day. He had seen many more knights with his own master.
Yet he could say without pause that there was no greater knight than the Prince who stood infront of him. He stood in front of an open grave as the men carefully lowered the body into the ground.
The rain had made the soil all muddy, and with the weather in the land, many were afraid that the body would rot quickly. The tree ahead was an elm tree, and its hedge was his home.
He had no reason to be here, for she was of common birth and he a Prince. Yet he was here. Alone. With his head lowered in shame as the rain fell down hard.
Duncan had not known her for too long. All the tears he had for her were shed already, and now only sadness remained. Sadness and fear about the day that lay ahead. A day when he would stand trial for his wrongdoings. Where he would stand shoulder to shoulder with the greatest knight of the realm.
Soon enough, the dirt was placed over her, and a prayer was offered. People began to depart, until only three were left. Him. The Prince. And her uncle.
The man had his arm in a sling, and his face had bruises and cuts from the attack still.
The man faced the Prince, and suddenly prostrated himself.
"We owe you a great debt, your grace," and his voice shook as he cried out weakly.
"A debt that we can never hope to pay. You are a Prince of Royal blood, and we the scum of the Earth, and yet you defended us in that trial, and wish to stand for us tomorrow," and then he looked up.
"We are not worthy of this, your grace. I am not worthy of this," and he was crying now.
"It is no debt, my good man. I am merely doing right by my oaths," and the man shook his head.
"No man should ever be made to draw a blade against his own blood. I shall climb the gallows myself, for our crimes," and the Prince stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, and he smiled.
"The ruling has been made, and my steel vowed. Now, I need only your prayers," and the man cried and wept like a child, as he continued to kiss the Prince's hand, and lowered his head into his feet.
Yet the Prince offered him only kindness until a young man came and took Tanselle's uncle away, leaving him alone with the Prince. The rain slowed down, and by the time he gathered the courage to speak, the downpour had ended.
"Why?" he asked, and unlike the rest, he could see the fragility of that smile.
"Why would you do this to yourself?" and defending them was one thing, yet the Prince had gone beyond that. He had sought justice and restitution for them even though they were nothing.
Their blood. Their lives were nothing in comparison to his, and yet he had stood by them and demanded justice even when it had been against his own family. Even when the entire thing was tearing him apart.
"Because this is the right thing to do," he answered, and it was so easy for him.
"Fuck the right thing," and he could die tomorrow.
"It shouldn't be that easy," and for the first time, the Prince turned to face him, and he could see his face and the redness of his eyes.
"Believe me, it is not," and there was a crooked smile on his face as the Prince looked to the stars.
"It truly is not," and he wondered if this was what differentiated him from a true knight. Was this what his master had found lacking?
For years now, he had wanted to be a knight. He had hoped for it, and yet even in his death,h his master had thought him unworthy.
He had called himself a knight. The lords believed it. Egg believed it.
Even the Prince infront of him believed it.
The truth did not matter. He was no longer Dunk. He was Duncan the Tall. But would he ever be worthy of that title?
No.
"Indeed," Duncan agreed with him as he saw his pain.
Still, he stepped forward, and his feet slipped in the mud, and once he was in front of him, he lowered himself to one knee.
"I am your man," he promised him, for if he could be half the man the Prince was, then he would be a greater knight than he could ever hope to be.
"From this day, till the day I draw blood. I am yours to command, I am your man," he promised himself, and the Prince did not say anything, and then, much to his surprise, he heard a blade being drawn, and his heart began to hammer in his chest until the blade touched his shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," and he was stilled as the blade moved to his other shoulder.
"In the name of the Father I charge you to be just," and again.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent," and he could not believe his ears.
"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone I charge you to be wise. In the name of the Smith I charge you to mend what is good. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face death without fear," and the Seven oaths of a knight.
And his throat was dry, as the blade rested on his shoulder.
"Stand Ser Duncan the Tall," and so he rose at the command, and could not help but look into those eyes.
"We shall meet here again tomorrow night," and his intent was obvious.
"Do not die until then, Ser Duncan the Tall," and with that, he walked forward, as he stood there rooted to the spot.
0000
BAELOR TARGARYEN
Baelor found himself troubled. The trial was set for tomorrow, and Aerion, in his rage, had chosen the most troubling option.
A Trial of the Seven. A relic of the past, one that was last used during the times of Maegor itself. The idea was heinous enough on its own, and its history equally marred. Yet this time it would be even more dangerous for his own kin, who would be riding into battle against one another.
Aerion and Maekar would be riding against his own son.
"This is a disaster," Maekar whispered as the two of them sat in his solar, as they would in their youth with nothing but ale in between them.
"Aye, that it is," Baelor agreed as he drowned his cup.
"I curse father for sending me to this wretched place," and those were dangerous words, but his anger was justified.
"I curse the Gods for giving me those feckless, barbarians for sons," and there was mockery in that tone. Mockery and loathing.
"I am afraid I am at a loss here," he answered as he sipped his own wine and turned to look at Maekar as they sat separated by the round table in between them.
"I know what to think of mine own," and Maekar frowned.
"Be proud of him," he answered without missing a beat.
"I sure am," and he was not expecting this.
"You seem surprised," Maekar added, and he was.
"He is a better man than I could ever hope to be. Gods know I would offer them all of mine just to have one like him," and he was being serious now.
"There is no finer knight in the realm than him, and he is twice the man you were at his age," and Baelor could not help but smile.
"He is better than me," he agreed.
"He is better than all of us, and I am proud to have shaped him into the man he has become," and then he drowned his cup.
"Is there any way to stop this still?" Baelor asked, and Maekar shook his head.
"I am afraid the time for that is long past. Now we must await Seven's judgment," and so the trial was set.
"Have you gathered your lot?" he asked, and Maekar shrugged.
"I will find them soon enough. After all, I need to muster only four men," and he frowned.
"Daeron will be a liability out there. He may be your son, but he is no knight," and Maekar scoffed as he met his eyes.
"Don't I know it, but no lord or knight would fight for Aerion if his own brother refuses to fight for him. Daeron will ride with us," and Baelor was not much fond of what was happening here.
"I wish to speak to you of the Kingsguard," and Maekar nodded.
"What of them?" his brother questioned.
"I was hoping to reach an accord with you to draw none of them into this affair," and the message had come from his own son.
"We came with three of them, and if you call on one, Matarys would be forced to call on one as well. They are sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, and enough kin will draw blood on one another tomorrow. We need not condemn them to such horror," and Maekar nodded.
"I have nothing against it, but this did not come from you," he added with narrowed eyes.
"Matarys sent the missive. He is out there gathering his men," and Maekar chuckled.
"He always was diligent. Still, he will not have a difficult time with that," and Baelor did not doubt that.
"He forbade me from it," Baelor added, as his eyes fell to the floor.
"Both me and Valarr," and that was much kind of him.
"He fears for our lives," and then he looked up.
"He fears for yours as well," and Maekar shook his head.
"He is my son, Baelor. I must stand by him," and so the decision was made.
"I must go now. There is much to prepare," and he did not stop him, and just as Maekar was at the door, he spoke once more.
"I would wish you good fortunes, brother," he added in a whisper.
"But he is my son," and their eyes met.
"Goodbye, Baelor...." and with that the door closed as Baelor downed what was left in his cup.
"Goodbye, brother..."
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