demente

Dunk’s stomach twisted. A trial by combat, his best hope, his only hope in truth. Baelor might see that Dunk would keep his head, but if that was all the lenience he was granted, losing a hand and a foot was just as like to be a death sentence. A slower and more painful death than he might have had otherwise.

Prince Baelor’s words echoed in his head. Any knight accused of a crime could demand a trial by combat. If he were highborn, they might grant him one, knight or no. A gutter rat from Flea Bottom? Well he’d be lucky to have a trial at all. This is what you get Dunk, he thought. you tried to play at being a knight, and now your life depends on a lie. A lie to a prince no less. To several princes, and noble lords as well. The tally grew and grew in his head. How many times had he called himself Ser Duncan? Each another lie. Suddenly, he found he could not tell it again.

“Truly? To tell it true I am no knight at all” Dunk said. He dropped his gaze to the floor, so he did not have to look Prince Baelor in the face as the whole truth came spilling out. “The old man was going to knight me, I swear it. It’s what he always said. Only, he also said I was too young and green, and I might be a squire for years before I earned my spurs. Then he went and died, and I didn’t have nobody else to squire for. All I had was a sword, and shield, and horse. I told myself that if I could come here and become a champion then I will have earned my knighthood in my own way. Then I could find service with some noble lord and be a proper knight, make the old man proud. But it was all one great lie, and I don’t think Ser Arlan would be proud at all now.”

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. He already sounded like some stupid green boy, he would not shame himself further by crying like a maid in front of Baelor Breakspear.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was Dunk’s shaky breathing, too loud, heavy with emotion. Then, the Prince spoke. “Your Ser Arlan, he was a good man? An honest man?”

Another hot stab of shame coursed through Dunk. He hadn’t only shamed himself, he realized, he had soiled Ser Arlan’s honor as well. Ser Arlan always told him when you accept a lord’s meat and mead, all you do reflects on him, Dunk supposed it was the same of a squire and his Ser. He knew he owed it to Ser Arlan to at least set this to right.

He pushed aside his shame and made himself meet Prince Baelor’s eyes. “Aye Your Grace, he was as good and honest a man as I have ever met”.

“And he kept to his vows?”

“Aye, Your Grace”

“Remind me, what vows we swear as knights”

Dunk’s mind stalled. We. What vows we swear as knights he said. Surely he does not still think to include me. He recited the vows anyways, as he had done in his head a thousand times before, laying under some tree or another, struggling to fall asleep, and dreaming of the day he would say the vows for true.

When he finished, Prince Baelor said, so quietly Dunk was not sure if he was meant to hear, “There is nothing about honesty, is there” and if Dunk was not mistaken, he sounded faintly amused.

Any trace of amusement was gone when he spoke again, “You understand what you have done by telling me this”

All too well, Dunk thought. He had forfeited his right to his best hope, and invited further trouble besides. Despite this, a weight that had been settled on his chest since he arrived at Ashford was gone.

“I understand, Your Grace”

“Then there’s only one thing to be done for it then, though I find myself wanting for a sword” Prince Baelor said.

It was as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped over him. Prince Baelor would have his hand and foot now, or perhaps his head, for the lying, on top of it all. He’d thought, foolishly in hindsight, that he might still have a trial on the morrow. With his new crimes laid bare Prince Baelor would sooner lay the matter to rest straight away. Dunk forced himself to remain still, despite a voice in his head screaming at him to beg, plead, run, anything. He would not. This is what you’ve earned Dunk, and you’d best face it like a man.

“Kneel, Duncan” Prince Baelor said gently, like he was speaking to a spooked horse.

Dunk released his grip on the arms of the chair he sat in. His knuckles were white from how tight he had been holding to it. Wordlessly, he went to one knee. He didn’t know any prayers, to the Seven or otherwise, but he remembered something he had heard a Septon say once. Not in a Sept, but on some lonely stretch of the Kingsroad, half drunk and preaching to a band of hedge knights. He’d said, “If the Seven have permitted you some trial you must bear it willingly and with gratitude” here, he’d belched before continuing, “considering it may be for your own good, and perhaps you well deserved it”. Bear it willingly and with gratitude. Dunk turned that over in his head. He certainly deserved this, and would bear it willingly. With gratitude though. If he only takes a hand, I would be grateful indeed. That seemed unlikely. Kicking Aerion had loosened his tooth, the Princeling wouldn’t be satisfied if Dunk only lost a hand. Dunk thought harder, determined to make good with the gods, if this was going to be his last chance to do so. I could be grateful for good Valaryian steel, and true aim, he thought half hysterically. Steel. He doesn’t have a sword. Panic gave way to confusion. Even if the Prince had a sword, surely Dunk wouldn’t be put to death right here in Lord Ashford’s solar.

A hand came to rest on Dunk’s shoulder. He startled violently, jerked out of his thoughts.

“Easy now” The Prince murmured. He continued, louder, stronger, sounding at once more princely than he had all evening, “Duncan, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave”.

Dunk breathed in so sharply it almost hurt. He tried to stand, but Baelor’s hand on his shoulder pushed him firmly back to one knee. “Your grace– no, I. You. Please” he sputtered, unable to form any intelligible sentence.

The corner of Baelor’s mouth twitched minutely, as if he was fighting back a smile. “Hush, do not interrupt a prince. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.”And through the seven he went.

For the second time that evening, Dunk felt as though he might cry. From relief, from the shame of getting something he wanted so badly and did not deserve, from the sweet feeling of the Prince’s hand on him, for it had been so long since someone had touched him with such gentle kindness.

“Do you swear before the eyes of Gods and men to obey your King, to fight bravely, and do any other tasks as they are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be” Baelor asked. He moved his hand from Dunk’s shoulder then. The Prince took hold of Dunk’s chin, and titled his head up to force him to look at him. A tear did fall then, trying though Dunk was to hold it back. Softly, so softly, Baelor wiped the tear away with his thumb. He is the Seven incarnate Dunk thought. Strong, and just, and merciful. Dunk knew when he answered, he would be told to rise. Something in him didn’t want to, wanted instead to remain in this moment forever, kneeling before the prince. He allowed himself a small moment. Closed his eyes. Opened them again,

“I swear it”.