splat 🛸💫💖

"As my king commands," Dunk said, wincing only a bit as he lifted his foot. He'd wrapped a linen around the injury hours ago — a clean one at that, since a tourney at King's Landing granted all manner of fripperies and clean bandages were one of them — and had gotten halfway through the tourney feast before Baelor'd realized that the minor nick he'd got toward the end of the melee was bleeding through a bit. "It's fine, Baelor, really."

"It's not fine," came the snippy reply, even as the boot was gently removed and his foot placed carefully on Baelor's knee. The King of Westeros and Protector of the Realm carefully rolled up the fabric of his breeches, even though Dunk would likely have to throw them out or use them for bandages in turn — blood was irritating to clean off from the fine linens he wore nowadays, and he had the coin to buy new ones with the purse he'd won just a few hours ago. All in all, it had been a fine day, even with the injury, if only Baelor would stop being such a clucking hen about it. "You're never fine after a tourney, it's always a dislocated shoulder or a lance directly to the forehead or a dagger to the leg—"

"The dislocated shoulder was Egg's fault!"

"The dislocated shoulder was because you can't resist entering these ridiculous lists just to—"

"Just to what?" Dunk asked, though he was paying more attention to Baelor's fingers teasing apart the knot of the bandage. At last he prevailed and the cloth fell away, revealing the still-sluggish bleeding from the wound. It did look a bit worse than Dunk had remembered, sitting in the maester's tent and batting away at their querulous hands as they'd tried to help.

"This would likely be easier if you were lying down," Baelor grumbled, even as he dipped a fresh cloth in the basin he'd laid beside him. Dunk stifled another snicker and Baelor's glared up at him, though his eyes were twinkling. "Not a word," he warned.

"As my king commands," Dunk promised, and only swore a little as Baelor cleaned the wound and reapplied a fresh bandage — far thicker this time, no doubt to ensure that Dunk didn't bleed through onto the bedclothes in the middle of the night. At last Baelor seemed satisfied with his work and stood, collecting the used cloths into a tidy pile for the servants in the morning.

Dunk watched him work and waited for his moment, and as Baelor turned away, likely to pour himself a cup of wine and further complain, he took hold of his elbow and tugged him into his arms.

"Just to what?" he asked again.

Baelor blinked in confusion, then frowned as he recalled the argument they'd been having. "Just to prove what needs no proof," he said, placing his hand upon Dunk's heart. "You are a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Duncan, a member of the Kingsguard and the sworn shield of the King. You have fought nobly in battles and defended the weak and innocent in times of peace. Ser Duncan the Tall has songs sung about him from Sunspear to Winterfell. And yet you still enter the lists, you still join the melees and the mock-battles. To what possible purpose? What could possibly make the risk worth it?"

"You've entered dozens of lists in your time," Dunk answered, not angry but considering it. "As Heir, as Hand. You've jousted a few times as the King, and don't give me any of that bullshit about the mystery knight from the tourney at Storm's End two years ago, I know that was you. Was that risk worth it?"

Baelor's scowl deepened, which was how Dunk knew he'd been right all along. Egg owed him five stags for that. "That is different."

Perhaps Dunk was getting old, for the lure of anger was still there, but something else overshadowed it. When first he'd pledged his heart to Baelor, years and lifetimes ago now it seemed, he had been so quick to take offense and claim hurt — a defense, he knew now, against the sheer breathless power of the man he loved. Baelor could destroy him with a word; lashing out had often been the only way he could keep himself safe, in some strange upside-down fashion. If Baelor was seeking his forgiveness, he would not grow bored of Dunk, or tired of him, or angry at him.

But years of certainty had built up between them. Baelor could still destroy him with a word — safer by far to be a god's concubine than a Targaryen's lover — but he never had, and never would. This Dunk knew as he knew the pull of the earth on his bones, the sail of the sun in the skies, the steadiness of Egg's love. So anger was put aside at this breathtaking hypocrisy, and Dunk considered what else might be possible.

"Would you keep me here, then?" he asked, half in jest but half in earnest, tugging Baelor just that much closer. "Lock me up in our rooms, take away all swords and daggers and spears that might do me harm?"

"Yes," said Baelor, instant and irate and so very, very beloved. He smiled at Dunk, curled his other arm around Dunk's shoulders to keep him close. "Yes."