pt i

“You are holding your reins wrong,”

Dunk startled, he hadn't noticed Baelor riding over to him. He looked at his reins, tangled in his fist, his grip like that of a smith on a hammer. The prince's reins, in contrast, were neatly threaded through his fingers.

“I do not mean this moment, although you should be in the habit of holding them properly even at rest. When you are riding you hold your curb rein where the snaffle should be. It is why your mount gets offended by the bridle, you employ the curb rein too much.”

Dunk's eyes darted around, looking to see if anyone else was close enough to hear. People already thought he was stupid, and now he was needing correcting on the basics of riding. Baelor had said it quietly though, and his tone was casual, anyone watching the conversation might think they were merely chatting. Still, Dunk hastily tried to rearrange his reins, sneaking another glance at Baelor's hand to see how he was doing it. Ser Arlan had taught him how to ride well enough, but it had mostly been on Sweetfoot, who was no warhorse. On the odd occasion he was allowed to practice on Thunder, Dunk had been more concerned with keeping his seat than how he held the reins, or any other trivial details. They are not trivial here, Dunk thought, as he looked around the training yard he saw that all the other men rode just as neatly as Baelor. Heat flooded his face, not for the first time he felt big and oafish and stupid. All these men were castle-trained by masters at arms; had been riding destriers since they were old enough to sit a horse, practicing military maneuvers and tilting at rings, not plodding along the countryside on some old stot like Dunk had. One rein slipped from his fingers entirely, and he fought the urge to curse.

Baelor gave his mare a small nudge with his spur and moved her closer to Thunder. She was an ill tempered animal, and pinned her ears flat against her skull when Thunder quirked an ear at her. “Oh stop that,” Baelor muttered, he was close enough now that his stirrup bumped against Dunk's with a metallic clank. “Like this,” to Dunk's surprise Baelor dropped his own reins, leaned over, and took his. Like he was controlling a puppet rather than a man, Baelor placed the reins in Dunk's hand properly, and squeezed Dunk's grip closed when he was finished.

pt ii

Dunk could feel Thunder’s flanks heaving underneath him when he pulled the destrier up. The horse was well lathered, sweat turning to foam where the reins touched his neck. Dunk himself was not much better off; he thought he might be sweating even more than Thunder, judging by the way his clothes clung wetly to him beneath his armor. Ser Leo Rosby - the master at arms at Summerhall- had been working the men, and their horses, hard today. They fought with neither sword nor lance, their only goal was to wrestle an opponent off their horse, and throw them to the ground. Most of the other men rode better than Dunk, and had finer mounts besides, but so far his size, and Thunder's, had been to his benefit; Thunder was not easily bullied by the jostling of the smaller horses, and even when his opponents could get their hands on Dunk, none had strength enough to throw him. He had lost count of the challengers he had faced, Ser Leo throwing man after man at him, but Dunk remained ahorse. It was no true victory though, as Ser Leo did not hesitate to remind him.

“You are lucky you are so big, Lunk,” Ser Leo said. Dunk did not know how the nickname has resurfaced here, but it was not said fondly, the way Ser Alran had once used it, “Otherwise any man here would have thrown you thrice over by now.”

His last opponent, Ser Addam Harte, one of Prince Maekar’s household guard, was back on his feet now, knocking dust off of his armor. He shot Dunk a look of intense loathing, and stalked off to retrieve his horse from his squire.

To Dunk's relief, Ser Leo had seen enough of him, and called forward two other men who spurred their horses into action as Dunk rode off to wait his next turn.

It was true, what Ser Leo had said, in each bout he had been out manoeuvered, his opponents dancing around him, seemingly able to control their mounts by thought alone. Thunder, though old and experienced, did not seem to obey Dunk like he had Ser Arlan, and Dunk felt half the time like he was fighting his own horse as much as he was the other men.

Egg hurried over, leaving the pack of squires that were watching, and thrust a waterskin at him. Dunk took it gratefully, raised his visor, and drank deeply.

“Take your helm off Ser,” Egg advised, “You'll faint from the heat.”

“I'm not some lady,” Dunk said, yanking off his helm and handing it to Egg, “I won't faint.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn't had to pause mid sentence to suck in several deep breaths, relieved to finally have fresh air.

Egg looked at him dubiously, “Well if you do, try and get off Thunder first. You’ve managed to stay on this long, it would be embarrassing to fall off now.”

“I’ve embarrassed myself plenty already.” Across the yard, the other men were laughing at something Ser Addam said, all of them looking at Dunk.

The world was rocking back and forth around him as he slowly blinked his eyes open. It felt as though he were at sea, or perhaps incredibly drunk. He blinked a few more times, and a forest took shape around him, oddly hazy around the edges, and swirling about in a strange motion. I must be drunk, Baelor thought. It made little sense; he had not been so drunk as this in many years. Had there been some occasional? A wedding, or maybe a tourney? But then why was he in a forest? He tried to lift his head to get a better look at his surroundings, groaning weakly with the effort, but could not manage, and lolled his head pathetically to the side instead. From this new angle, he could discern the makings of a camp. A fire, burnt down to the last coals, a bed roll, the legs of a horse, hobbled, and perhaps a mule, he could not tell, and could not tilt his head up enough to see the whole beast. It was hard to focus on one thing in any case, all of it swimming together in a sickening mirage. He screwed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolled over him, and swallowed down a mouthful of bile threatening to make an appearance. That battle was lost quickly, he only had time to think sit up, sit up or you'll choke and die, before he was vomiting. In his weakened state, he hadn't sat up, or moved at all, and was now lying in his own sick. Disgusting though it was, he hardly noticed. The effort of vomiting left him with a pounding pain in his head, and the tilting of the world grew stronger, like the off balance feeling right before you fell from a horse. The last hysterical thought he managed before he passed out alone, not knowing where he was, in a puddle of his own vomit, was I wonder if this is what it feels like to be Daeron.

When he woke again, the world was blessedly still, he kept his eyes closed, in case regaining his sight would send it spinning once more. The drunk feeling was gone, in its place a bone deep pain as if he had been struck a blow by the warrior himself. Everything ached, and Baelor had some idea that if he tried to move he would find himself unable. It occurred to him that his previous feeling had not been drunkenness; now that he felt the pain in its absence he realized someone had given him milk of the poppy. A maester perhaps. But what sort of maester would be treating him in a camp out in the woods? Even if there had been a battle, the kingsguard would have dragged him back to safety, not left him alone in a forest. A battle. The thought brought fragments of memories to his mind. A charge, being unable to break the enemies formation, being routed. Rallying his men, riding back into the field. His mare clipping heels with another horse. Stumbling, falling. A thousand other horses thundering around them. Looking up and seeing the falling body of his horse tumble towards him. Scrambling to get out of the way. Not in time. And then nothing, until his first waking.

Baelor tried to take stock of his injuries. Wiggled his toes, flexed his fingers. Good, then he hadn't managed to paralyze himself. That was where the good ended. Breathing was intensely painful, a deep breath impossible. Broken ribs most like. When he tried to lift his head, it was like lightning bolts shooting down his neck. He let his head fall back to the ground with a light thump, and groaned at the impact. Something nudged at his ribs, causing another sharp burst of pain. A boot he realized. Someone was here. He opened his eyes, flinching at the sudden brightness. Above him stood the largest man Baelor had ever seen, easily six and a half feet tall, perhaps larger. The man was dressed plainly, roughspun breeches and a simple brown tunic. He had reddish blonde hair that was tied back from his heavily bearded face, and his eyes were a startling bright blue. There was something familiar about him, but Baelor could not place it. He was not one of Baelor's own men, he was sure, but perhaps a hedge knight that had ridden along with some lesser lord.