Pavy (Del Toro's Edition)

"What happened to her?" Dunk asked, his hand slowing the repetitive movements of grooming the destrier.

"Died shortly after she was born... The maesters say she was... " Egg thought, trying to find a word that would not insult his cousin. "Different."

"Different how?"

"I'm not really supposed to say... She wasn't my sister." And after that, Egg had refused to elaborate on it any further. Which is how Dunk now found himself with Thad, around the dying embers of their campfire.

"… She was not a problem." Thad replied, his voice quiet. It carried a reverence Dunk seldom saw. "She was only a baby."

"But, then… Why does your father say he only had two children?" The idea baffled Dunk. He had spoken with Ser Edric; and the man had been quite clear that he only had two sons, no other issue. He did not take Thad to be a liar, either. He had only really lied about one thing in the time he had known him, and, looking back on it, Dunk could see why he had done it.

"Because… Because he did not understand… He thought she was something horrid." Thad shrugged. That's all there was to it. Dunk's question of Why did not even get to cross his lips as Thad went on; "Mother had warned him of what may happen — it… It is a Targaryen condition. I don't think he believed her. So when mother had Daenys… I don't think he really knew what to do." Thad's eyes were distant as he gazed into the fire, as if he were somewhere else and no longer present. "… But, she was not a monster, despite what he says. She was so small, Dunk… You could hold her head in your hand, and her legs wouldn't have reached your elbow…" His eyes looked down at his own palm. "And her little wings… They were so delicate…" He whispered, and he was so focused on his memory that he did not catch the twisting of Dunk's face.

How small she had been indeed. A puny little thing, covered in patches of iridesence, with spindly and mis-formed wings poking from her back. Her skull had been misshapen, from what Thad could recall — he had been rather young when Daenys was born — and perhaps that had been the thing that solidified her as some sort of creature to their father.

To Thad, Orys and Daenora, though… She had been a sweet little thing, though her time in their realm had been short. Daenora had explained to her sons why their little sister had been born that way, and it was that explanation that Thad tried to relay to Dunk, the best he could.

"The story goes that, long before the Conquest, in the time of Old Valyria, the Dragon-lords used blood magic to bind themselves to dragons, to form bonds beyond the norm and control the beasts…" Thad explained, slowly. "But, as there always is with blood magic, there were… Consequences… These… Strange babes, being one of them." He sighed gently.

"They do not live for long. A day, at most, if they're lucky." He mumbled. "Most die in the womb, or… As they come into the world."

"Did… Did Daenys..?"

"Live? … Yes, for a short time. Mother insisted that she be swaddled as any other babe, and her hold her. Uncle Maekar helped her… Father and the midwives would have no part in the care of Daenys, from what I remember…" He paused for a moment, as his fingers found a fraying thread on his sleeve. "… She was born at sundown. She was gone by the Ghost hour."

Dunk fell quiet. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing. Instead, he inched his hand out, and enveloped Thad's with it.

"… She took the name Targaryen, and had a Targaryen funeral." Thad finally concluded, his voice shaking. "I don't remember much of it." He was quiet, as if he thought himself a horrid brother for not being able to remember her farewell. Dunk nodded gently, and did not push for any other details.

"She would have been a menace, I'd wager… Like her cousin. Like her brother." Dunk offered a soft smile. When Thad did not look at him, Dunk took a moment. "… I bet the Father bounces her on his knee, as she watches you from up there." He told Thad, looking up to the stars above them. Thad's face crumpled, and his shoulders hunched at such a sweet thought. Dunk felt a flare of panic in his chest. "Thad— I didn't mean—"

Thad sniffled, and shook his head, squeezing at Dunk's hand. "It… It's fine. It… Is a sweet picture, Dunk. Truly." But even as he spoke, the tears continued to roll down his cheeks. Dunk shuffled himself closer, using his thumb to try and wipe the tears. Thad leaned into him, seeking affection as he often did after sundown.

"I know that he does. That you both do. But I am as well as I was before Ashford." He stated, though by the look in Myriah's eye, she did not wholly trust his words. "I can ride, and I wish to do so."

"It is only a few more miles to Honeyholt," Daeron reasoned, waving a hand in dismissal. "It would be senseless to stop now — the Beesburys are expecting us."

"I am quite sure that the Beesburys would be none-the-wiser if we were delayed for a few minutes."

For the briefest of moments, Daeron regretted the countless lessons he had given Baelor in his youth on reasoning and debate. It was a great and necessary thing for a man of Baelor's station as Hand of the King and Heir to the Iron Throne, but it was less fine when it was used against his father. Because how was he supposed to argue with his son without looking like a hypocrite?

"Baelor." Myriah spoke, her tone holding an heir of warning. "What is this about, really?" She asked, with that look in her eye — that glint that appeared when she knew something, but perhaps couldn't quite put her finger on the specifics of it. That, or perhaps she was simply trying to coax out the answer so that Daeron, too, could hear it.

Baelor went quiet. Would it be shameful to admit the truth? That he itched to ride, not only for the act itself, but for the company he would be keeping? Ever since Ashford, Ser Duncan had never been far from Prince Baelor's side. He had insisted on remaining close, and Baelor, who had grown remarkably fond of the bumbling knight, did not deny him. In fact, he had both employed and elevated him; taking him from impoverished Hedge Knight to one of his personal guards. He was terribly fond of the man, that much was clear to see. It ran deeper than that— much deeper— but Baelor was yet to admit it to anyone other than himself or Dunk.

Neither Daeron nor Myriah had said anything at the time, but it seemed that Myriah had begun to take note of Baelor's favour towards Dunk. "It's nothing, mother," Baelor replied. "I merely wished… Wish, to ride. That is all." He insisted. Myriah fell quiet, this time. Despite this it was clear that she wasn't going to let the subject go quite so easily. She turned her gaze briefly to her hsuband, the look shared between them telling the King I will speak to him later. Daeron leaned back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap as he tried to think of a conversation topic to pass the last few miles without further disagreement or tension.

No topic came to mind.

The tourney grounds just outside the keep of Honeyholt were already well set and established. "I see Lord Beesbury spared no expense…" Daeron commented quietly.

"Neither did you, when Valarr was born." Myriah pointed out, a slight smile gracing her lips. The King hummed — he knew what she was getting at. A celebration in the name of a healthy grandchild was well-warranted.

Lord Beesbury really had gone the extra mile for the celebration — inviting not only fellow lords and houses from the Reach, but other Great and Lesser houses from further afield. It was surely shaping up to be a tourney to remember, and the first night had not even truly begun.

A few paces behind the king and queen, still dwelling by the carriage and the horses of the retinue, was Baelor. His attention was not on his mother, or his father. Instead, it was on Ser Duncan — who was still fussing over his horse, even as one of the stable boys tried to guide the steed away to be fed and tended to. "Let him take her, Ser Duncan." Baelor told him, not unkindly. "She will be well cared for, here. You have nothing to worry about."

"I know, my prince." Dunk replied after a moment's pause, letting his horse be led away as he watched on. "I can't help myself." At this, Baelor hummed, sounding thoughtful as he always seemed to.

"You are a man with great heart, Duncan." He told the knight, letting his hand rest on Dunk's upper arm — he could not quite raise his hand high enough to touch his shoulder. "There is no shame in it. In truth, sometimes I find myself wishing that there were more men like yourself in the Seven Kingdoms…." He trailed off, his eyes growing distant. Dunk's mouth opened, the knight intended to ask the prince if he was well, or if he needed to sit down for a moment. "Come, now!" The prince suddenly started again. "I wish to make note of the other Houses and Knights I may face here in the coming days…" Without further explanation, Baelor strode forward, and it took Dunk's mind a moment to catch up with the space between them.

"It seems that Lord Beesbury's invitations spanned much of the Seven Kingdoms." Baelor mused to Dunk as they walked side by side. "The majority, I would wager. I can see Algoods, Hawthornes, Royces, Pryors… And, by the looks of things, the entire Reach, all with my own eyes from here." The prince seemed rather amused by this. Dunk could only stare at the pavilions and banners that surrounded them. He wasn't even sure he recognised half of them. He had never seen so many houses in one place before — not when they spanned from all over the Kingdoms.

"All this, for the birth of a babe?" Dunk asked, sounding rather baffled as he measured his steps, careful not to walk ahead of the prince.

"Indeed… Lord Beesbury has quite outdone himself, hasn't he? Though, the Beesburys have always valued family…" That much Dunk could have guessed from the hundreds of pavilions surrounding Honeyholt Keep. All this, for a child who would not even remember it. It seemed near inconceivable to Dunk, even when surrounded by the evidence. It was more than he, or any other member of the poorer of the smallfolk, ever got.

"Come, Ser Duncan. Let us go meet our hosts." Baelor's voice drew Dunk from the spiralling thoughts of his mind, and they began the trek up to the Keep.

The Keep of Honeyholt was gorgeous in its own right. Bright, in the same way the Red Keep would be on a bright summer's day, but covered almost wall-to-wall in flowers of all kinds. Dunk marvelled at the sight of it. It was as if all the meadows of the Seven Kingdoms had come to join the celebrations.

The words of King Daeron and Lord Beesbury droned on in the back of Dunk's head as he tried to make sure he looked worthy of the armour and position Baelor had bestowed upon him; the glistening white armour still felt out of place on him, even so long after it was given. Dunk had told Baelor as much in the past, how it felt unsuited to him, how he did not feel worthy of such a thing. And Baelor had told him, time and time again, that he had not given Dunk the position, or the armour, on a mere whim. Well, not entirely, anyway. In Baelor's eyes, he had proven himself to be a kind, just and honourable man — which was more than a lot of other men Baelor had met could say.

The conversation between the assembled nobles passed quickly whilst Dunk was stuck in his thoughts. Pleasantries exchanged, blessings and luck given to one another. It wasn't until they were making their leave that Lord Beesbury called out. "A moment, if I may, your graces." Dunk turned, and immediately locked eyes with the older Lord. The man had been looking at him.

"Lord Beesbury?" Baelor asked, wondering what the man could want, especially with his eyes so firmly on his personal guard. Something hot flared in his chest, but he kept his expression schooled, keeping the appearance of the calm prince.

"I merely wished to look upon the face of the man whom my son chose to fight alongside, at Ashford." He told the Prince as he stepped closer. Lord Beesbury was an older man — just shy of King Daeron's age, Dunk suspected. Lines of a life well lived were drawn across his face, his skin tanned from his time outside in the sun. He looked… Kind. Like the kind of man who would offer shelter, or hot food, or wine, in a time of need. Dunk felt his cheeks slowly flush pink, then red, under the Reach Lord's keen eye. The man hummed, low and thoughtful, as he seemed to come to a conclusion about Dunk.

"Yes… I can see why Humfrey thought you would be the man to side with." Lord Beesbury nodded slowly. It was more like he was confirming something to himself, rather than informing Dunk on it.

"Umm… Thank you…?" There was a beat of near awkward silence as Dunk tried and failed to find something else to say.

"Ah, Lord Beesbury," Baelor suddenly interjected. "Forgive me for not asking sooner — memory eludes me, sometimes…" He chuckled — though Dunk knew this had not been true for quite some time. Though the man's mind would fog from time to time, he was, somehow, still always the sharpest man in the room. "When will the lots be drawn?"

"This evening, Your Grace. I was going to draw the lots myself — unless you would rather…?"

"Oh, no, I shall refrain — we wouldn't want the lords protesting that we have rigged the lots in my favour… But, perhaps my father would care to draw some…"

Lord Beesbury seemed receptive, even eager, to hear such a thing. "Well, of course, if it pleases His Grace…"

"I would be absolutely delighted." Daeron beamed as he respectfully bowed his head. "Perhaps we could draw one competitor each for every joust." He suggested, to which Beesbury nodded enthusiastically. Discussion struck up between the two men once more, and Baelor went to stand beside Dunk.

"Do you mean to enter the lists for this tourney, Ser Duncan?"

"Not this time, my prince." Dunk replied, shifting his stance. "For I know that you mean to compete, and I— I am sworn to protect you, best I can. I would not forgive myself if I hurt you." Baelor's eyes softened, just a fraction. He admired the sheer heart Dunk gave to everything he did. Regardless of the person he was doing it for, Dunk gave it his all. There was a pureness in that, Baelor thought, that many people could and should aspire to.

"A pity," Baelor hummed in response. "You show great promise, you know. A little bit more joust specific training and you'll be one of the finest competitors in the realm." He told his knight, but he didn't push him to compete — he only wished to show him the potential that he had. "But, there is no harm in being a spectator. A thrill all its own, I know full well."

"Are you sure you should compete, Your Grace?" Dunk suddenly asked, his hand gripping at the pommel of his sword in a bid to stabilise himself. "Only, with your head, I—"

"I will be quite alright, Ser. I am certain of it." Baelor insisted, his voice an unwavering calm. Dunk did not stop.

"I just worry, is all, if you fall from your horse—"

"I won't."

"—What will we do? If your head gets struck again—"

"Duncan." Baelor's voice continued with that mixture of level calm and decorum. "Nothing will befall me. I swear it." That didn't seem to calm Dunk down at all. "And in the event that it does, my armour fits this time. My helm most of all." Dunk finally fell quiet, but his eyes still shone with uncertainty. There would be no talking Baelor out of this, that much he knew. Likewise, there would be no talking Dunk down from the gut-eating anxiety that was already beginning to plague him.

Rationally, Dunk knew that Baelor would likely be fine — he didn't have the moniker 'breakspear' for nothing, surely. He tried not to agonise over it too much.

The hall of Honeyholt was near stifling, but for some strange reason, it didn't seem to bother Baelor. He sat beside his mother, with Dunk sat on his other side at the prince's insistence. Dunk picked at the meats on his plate, half-listening to Baelor as he spoke with his mother. The majority of it was politics that Dunk still hadn't quite got his head around just yet, but he was trying his best. It seemed at the moment, the pair of them were discussing a dispute between two of the minor Houses in the Crownlands.

At some point, Baelor had stopped talking, and was just… Looking, at Dunk. A small smile played on his lips, as if he were just happy to have Dunk in his company. "Is the food to your liking, Ser?" Baelor asked, making Dunk jump. He hadn't even noticed that Baelor's focus had shifted to him.

"Huh—?" Dunk mumbled, as he snapped back to reality. "Oh- y-yes, my prince. Yes. It is." He nodded, offering a quick, tight-lipped smile to the prince. Baelor glanced down the table to their host, a few seats down.

"I think the lots will be drawn soon…" Baelor mused, leaning back in his chair. His ring-adorned fingers linked over the silks of his midsection, and Dunk's gaze lingered there for a moment. How he longed to intertwine his own fingers with Baelor, as they had done in the weeks and months of Baelor's initial recovery. The time they had now for such displays of affection was steadily becoming rarer and rarer. Dunk wished that they could be more… Forthcoming with their affection for one another, but, Baelor had an image he had to uphold both as Hand of the King and Prince of Dragonstone.

Dunk opened his mouth to reply, but another voice spoke over him. "Half-man!" Dunk's head turned. "Half-man!" The call came again. He knew that voice — he knew that voice very well.

"Raymun…?" He called, before he had even seen the man's face. It only took a moment more before Raymun Fossoway had bounded up to where Dunk sat at the high table. He looked… Tired. Happy — very happy, by the massive grin on his face — but tired. Deep circles were under his eyes, though they were partially hidden by the creases from his smile. "What are you doing here?" The taller knight asked, gladness seeping into his voice as he sat up a little straighter. "I didn't see you when we came in…" He noted — as if spotting Raymun amidst a sea of hundreds of other knights was something he could easily do.

Raymun laughed, "Ah, no. I.. I only came down for the drawing of the lots, in truth." Dunk nodded, slowly.

"Well, are… Are you alright? You're looking a little… Tired."

"Tired? Doesn't even begin to cover it." Raymun laughed again, but he didn't seem snappy or upset by his lack of his, to Dunk. "Exhausted would be the better word… But life is good! The Missus is happy, her father's happy…. I'm happy…"

Dunk nodded, a smile coming to his face. It slipped for a moment, as his mind put the pieces together. "… Did you have another baby, Raymun?" He asked, somewhat suddenly. Raymun's grin only grew.

"Aye. Well, actually, this is my first." Raymun told Dunk, beginning to lean against the table.

"But, I thought you and Red—"

"Me and Red parted ways… Some time ago, now…" Raymun admitted, turning his gaze down to the grain of the table. "We're still on amicable terms, like. She comes and visits New Barrell from time to time. She was travellin' with a merchant, last she said." He nodded slowly, as if he were considering the woman for a moment. "But, I met Wynne — Lord Beesbury's daughter — oh… Nearly two years past, now? She's wonderful, Duncan, you'd love her! A real whirlwind of a woman… She's restin' now, though. She deserves it."

Dunk nodded. He didn't doubt that she did.

"D'you mind if I sit with you a moment?" Raymun asked, to which Dunk nodded.

"Well I can't exactly say no to you, can I?" He asked with a laugh.

"So. You're a man of the Kingsguard now?" Raymun gave Dunk an almost sly smile, "You certainly look the part — you're a good man for it, even if…. Well." He trailed off, not daring to speak more of his mind than what was proper for such a setting, though Dunk could have sworn that he saw Raymun's eyes flicker towards King Daeron.

"Well…" Dunk debated on whether he should try and explain the intracacies. He wasn't technically Kingsguard, but he did guard the prince. "Yes, I suppose so." He decided against it — he didn't want to bore or confuse the man with the details of it all.

"D'they treat you well, at least?"

"Yes, Prince Baelor treats me well… Very well." Dunk nodded. Even if Raymun did not like the Targaryens, he seemed… Happy, for his friend. "You're entering the lists, then?" Raymun nodded enthusiastically. "You're not too tired…? Shouldn't you rest?"

"What?" Raymun balked, "No! I'll ride into the lists, as a champion for my wife." He laughed. "I would even challenge you, if you were competing… Are you competing?" Dunk shook his head. "Ah… Shame. I think the only one I wouldn't challenge out of here is Prince Baelor…. Surprising, I know." He laughed at himself. "But if I want to try and champion for my love, I need to stay on my horse."

Dunk laughed with Raymun for a moment, but both men fell quiet as Lord Beesbury pushed himself to standing. A hush soon fell over the hall, without the host needing to shout for attention.

"Firstly…" Lord Beesbury began, letting the last of the few murmurs die down. "I would like to thank every one of you for taking the time to travel here for this tournament — held in celebration for the birth of my first grandchild!" He held his arms wide, clearly proud of the occasion, and many lords cheered, raising their tankards and goblets towards him. "House Beesbury welcomes each and every one of you… It is a great honour to see so many come together, for something so close and so precious to my family." He paused, bowing his head briefly so that he could clear his throat.

"And so, we come to the point of the night many of you have been waiting for! His Majesty, King Daeron the Good," Beesbury gestured to his right, towards Daeron, who bowed his head gratefully. "Has volunteered himself to help draw the lots for the jousts tomorrow! A man each, till none remain!"

The hall erupted into cheers once more, as a serving girl brought a jar filled with slips of parchment over. As the two men began to pull out pieces of paper, Baelor leant closer to Dunk. "Do you have a knight you would like to see me face, Duncan?" He asked, lowly. Dunk blinked, shocked at the question. How was he meant to answer that? Was there a right answer?

"I, uh… Perhaps someone skilled in the saddle, your Grace…" Dunk answered, unsurely. Baelor simply smiled.

"You needn't answer as if you fear my disapproval." Baelord told him, leaning almost conspiritorially close. "I am not going to be displeased with you for your answer. I asked a question, I would like an honest answer." It was said with such a honeyed tone that Dunk felt a heat begin to rise up his neck. From the left of them, King Daeron's voice rang out with Quenton Pryor, followed by Beesbury's call of Leo Tyrell!

"I do not know who would be a good match for you, my Prince." Duncan asked. Baelor laughed, gently. Steffon Fossoway!

"There are many skilled knights, it is true…" Baelor agreed, looking out into the crowd. Erwin Hawthorne! "Perhaps we will just have to see whom I am placed against, hm?" He mused, to which Duncan gave a shaky smile.

"As you say, Your Grace." Dunk nodded his head briefly. Abelar Hightower!

For a moment, Baelor just… Watched Dunk. His eyes trailed over the face he knew so well and adored just as much, taking in the way his brow had scrunched up, as if in some profound contemplation. "… Your thoughts, Ser?" Raymun Fossoway!

"Hm? Oh, I… I'm not thinking of anything, my Prince." Baelor could feel one eyebrow slowly rise. Not thinking of anything? Now, that was uncharacteristic of Dunk, or an outright lie. Baelor would bet the latter. It was rare that his favoured knight was not thinking of anything; the only time that the prince knew there was no thoughts in that man's mind was when the knight found himself on his back, with his prince above him.

Baelor hummed, letting one hand wander to Dunk's thigh. "Do not lie to me, Duncan." He warned, though there was no real bite to his words. "Tell me true. Your thoughts?" Humfrey Beesbury! And there was a moment of pure elation from the crowd; it was clear who was the tourney-favourite.

Dunk's face scrunched up again. "I just… I still worry for you, Your Grace." Dunk admitted. "I can't help myself from thinking about if you… Broke a bone, say. Or dislocated a joint, or… Or hit your head again…" He whispered, frantically. "I didn't know what to do last time… I don't know if I even know what to do this time…" He mumbled. Dunk hadn't said much to Baelor of the time he had spent by his bedside, though from the accounts he had heard from others, it had been a constant vigil. In a strange way, Baelor wished he could have seen it.

Baelor squeezed gently at Dunk's thigh, letting the clothed flesh settle in his grip after a moment. "I swear to you, Dunk, that nothing will happen to me. I have my own armour this time, I will be able to take the proper precautions…" He kept his voice even, and though he was trying not to patronise the man, he feared he came dangerously close.

Prince Baelor Targaryen!

The hall, once more, erupted into cheers. Now that was a match; the Breakspear against the home champion, Humfrey Beesbury. Even Raymun began cheering, none the wiser to the intimate conversation that had happened just beside him. Dunk went quiet again, letting the roar of the hall wash over him. Baelor did not look away, even as Dunk broke their shared eye-contact. "… Come, Ser Duncan. I tire." He told his knight — a lie, an almost blatant one, but Dunk rose with Baelor anyway. "Forgive me, Father." He murmured to the King, before bowing his head to Lord Beesbury. "Lord Beesbury."

As soon as the door to the guest chambers shut, Baelor began to undress himself, leaving his clothes neatly on a plush looking chair. Dunk stayed by the door, watching the wood and trying to be respectful in spite of the fact that he had seen Baelor in less than what was deemed appropriate many times before. Baelor chuckled gently at the sight. "Always so polite, Duncan…"

"You are a Prince, Baelor." Dunk replied, insistently. Even after all this time, it felt… Strange, to be so close to a man so far above what he felt was his own station.

"Not when I am with you. And most certainly not when we are alone." Slowly Baelor moved to stand behind Dunk. With careful hands, he reached up, unclasping the younger man's cloak to place it aside with his own garments. Dunk did nothing to stop the man undressing him, piece by piece. "When I am with you, Duncan, I am just Baelor. Not Crown Prince Baelor, not Hand of the King, none of that. For a brief moment, I am simply… Myself." When he had stripped the man of all clothing above the waist, he let his hands trail down Dunk's back. "Will you come lay with me?" He asked, voice stripped of all the courtly bravado he normally had.

Dunk turned his head slightly, craning his neck a bit to look at Baelor behind him. Tired, mismatched eyes stared back at him. "You are welcome to remain at your post, of course…" The Prince told him, when he received no reply — as if he hadn't just stripped him of his breastplate and tunic. In truth, Dunk didn't want to remain at his post. He hadn't wanted to be at his post for hours, even though he would never openly admit to such a thing. He did not want Baelor to think that he was unreliable, or unwilling.

Baelor's hand slipped into Dunk's, and the knight shook his head. "No, I… I would rather come to bed…" He admitted, as he let his Prince pull him towards the bed. Baelor guided him to sit, then to lay, his hands ever-so-gentle with Dunk, in spite of the man's size. It would have been a strange thing to behold, had Baelor not done it with such natural reverence, with a tenderness that brought blood rushing to Dunk's cheeks. To be treated with such kindness… Even after all this time, Dunk's mind could scarcely believe that it was him that Baelor had chosen to shower with affection.

"Comfortable, Duncan?" Came his lover's voice, as he too began to clamber onto the bed, settling himself in Dunk's embrace and half-curling into his side. Dunk moved his arm to cocoon the man, knowing full well he liked the physical contact.

"… Dunk, my Pri— … Baelor. Just Dunk, Baelor." Dunk murmured, as Baelor rested his head on his shoulder. He could almost see the smile that crept onto Baelor's face.

"Hm… Very well, Dunk. Are you comfortable?"

"Yes… Quite…"

"Good…" Baelor mumbled, his voice already beginning to thicken with sleep. "Rest… I want you at your best to watch the joust tomorrow…" Dunk felt the prince's limbs grow heavy as he quickly found sleep. Baelor was always quick to slumber when in Dunk's arms. The knight found it to be one of the highest honours he had ever been given. It was not his position, nor was it his favour with the King, it was not even his steadily growing reputation amongst the smallfolk.

It was, without a doubt, the fact that Baelor felt so comfortable with him. The fact that he was often the one that Baelor called for in the evening. He had no idea what he had done in this life or his last that warranted such a wonderful and cherished love from the man. Baelor would insist that it was his honour, but Dunk had always argued that he had only done what any other knight would — or should — have done.

Dunk hardly felt sleep seeping into his limbs. All he cared to focus on was the gentle rise and fall of Baelor's chest as he slept, and that fact that out of all the people in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, Baelor had chosen Dunk to be the one to share his in company.

The morning came and went in a rush for Baelor; rising at dawn, being ushered out of the chambers to eat before prepping himself for joust. Though the joust was at noon, there was much preparation ahead of him; his armour, making sure it fit, tending to his arms, to his horse, and many other little details that had probably been overlooked until he saw to them himself.

Dunk's morning felt… Slow. Without Baelor there he stuck close to King Daeron and Queen Myriah after a quiet signal from the older man. They ate together, strolled the tourney grounds for an hour or so, before they were ushered to the viewing box — where Daeron insisted that Dunk sit next to him, with a perfect view of the lists. Lord Beesbury's daughter joined them, also, looking rather tired, but happy to be somewhere other than indoors for the first time in several days. Time continued to blur as the other jousts rushed by in front of them — the crowd loved every single moment. Dunk's eyes had long glazed over as his anxieties and worries began to plague him once more. All he could imagine was having to jump over the railings in front of them, and into the mud below to get to Baelor. So engaged in his own thoughts, that he wasn't sure who had won against who. Though, besides from Raymun, he had no real stakes in the other jousts.

It was only when the crier announced the joust between Humfrey Beesbury and Baelor Targaryen that he finally seemed to snap back into the present. The crowd erupted into the loudest cheers yet — the final joust of the afternoon. The home favourite versus the worthy challenger. King Daeron and Lord Beesbury leant close to one another for a moment, Daeron craning to lean closer to the man in front of him. They murmured to one another for a moment, before Daeron held up a golden dragon.

Dunk turned his eyes away from the pair of them to watch as Baelor rode into the lists. He looked Glorious. His armour, though plain by Targaryen standards, was adorned with the three headed dragon of his house on the breastplate, and a smaller dragon, spread out as if in flight, upon his helm. There was no outrageous flair to it like his nephew Aerion. It was kept plain and functional, a matter of practicality, exactly how Dunk knew Baelor would want to keep his armour. Even with his face covered, Dunk could imagine the charming, pride-filled smile on the face underneath. He leant forward in his chair as both knights approached the box.

Humfrey Beesbury approached first, looking to his sister as he removed his helm. "I have come to ask the Lady Beesbury for her favour, in—" Humfrey began, trying to keep some semblance of propriety. His sister snorted — not unkindly, but in humour.

"I gave it to Raymun," She called playfully back to him. Humfrey couldn't help but laugh along with her.

"Give me another, then!" He told her, and his sister did not argue; the pair of them were only playing, as they often did. She tossed a little, daisy adorned wreath to him, which he caught easily, and slid over the handle of his laugh. He gave a bow astride his horse before trotting off, allowing Baelor to approach the box. He removed his helm, the same as Humfrey, but instead of his eyes falling upon his mother, or perhaps his father, his eyes fell to Dunk.

"A favour, Ser?" He called up, and Dunk froze. He could feel his face slowly turning red. He swallowed thickly — he had never imagined being asked for a favour, but of course Baelor would ask it of him.

"F-forgive me, Your Grace," He called down, somewhat warily. "I have naught I can give, as a token…" Baelor gave that infuriating, comforting smile.

"Are you quite sure, Ser?"

Dunk began to think, his mind rushing through all the things he could possibly give to his beloved prince. He could tear off a piece of his cloak, perhaps? No, he would most like get in trouble for such a thing… A bit of movement caught Dunk's eye, as Baelor twirled his wrist. To most it would have been a movement not to take any sort of note of, but Dunk saw it differently. A bracer. Without a second thought, Dunk began to undo the buckles of the bracer on his right arm; the one used to protect his sword arm. Once he worked the metal away from himself, he leant over the barrier, not wanting to throw it at Baelor, lest he accidentally hit the man.

Baelor accepted the gift graciously, and Dunk's heart stuttered at the crinkled smile Baelor gave to him. "Thank you, Ser." He spoke, gently, before placing the bracer over his own and fastening it. The contrast between the light steel of Dunk's bracer and the bracer of Baelor's own armour was stark, a visual reminder of Baelor's own favour to the knight. He could have asked his mother for something, or perhaps even Wynne, as Humfrey had done, but no. He had asked Dunk.

Both knights trotted to their starting places, and their squires quickly armed them with lances and shields. The crowd fell into a hush, anticipating the sound of the starting horn of the final challenge. The horses fidgeted in place, their hooves scuffling in the dirt and bark beneath them.

As soon as the horn blared, the horses bolted, making light work of the length of the lists. Mere seconds after the sound had rung out, there was the harsh sound of lance splintering on shield. Dunk couldn't help but flinch, watching Baelor reach the end of the list with not even a scratch. He rode tall, as he always seemed to, as he tossed his lance aside and took up a new one.

Humfrey swayed precariously in his saddle as he approached the end of the list, but managed to stay mounted. He pulled at the reins of his steed, bringing her round to face down the lists once more as he was re-armed. Dunk could imagine the determination behind the visor — Beesbury fought with a fire, and he was clearly not holding back just because Baelor was a Prince of the Realm. Opposite to him, Baelor had already prepared and was waiting for Beesbury, with a similar sort of fire. With the control he shows over himself and his steed, he looked every bit the master the stories of him spoke of.

The pair of them went again.

And again.

And again.

Dunk's attention had never been held so well in his life. He could not tear his eyes away from the lists even if he tried — even as he heard the amused laughter from the King and Lord Beesbury nearby. Each pass had seemed to be extraordinarily close, with one knight or the other stumbling or swaying in the saddle. As Baelor turned his horse to go into their fifth tilt, he looked up at the stands for the briefest of moments. And Dunk could have sworn, on his very oath as the prince's guard, that Baelor winked as their eyes met. He had spent this entire time playing with Humfrey; he could have knocked him off any time he wished, with little effort. But, of course, he had wanted people to have a good show.

Dunk couldn't stop the breathless laugh that bubbled past his lips. And, perhaps Baelor had not only wished for the crowd to have a good show, but also ensure that the Lady of the hosting House was not quickly disappointed. It was a good and honourable thing to do, Dunk did not feel so surprised now that he thought on it some more.

It was in the next tilt that Humfrey was finally torn from his saddle, landing with a wet thwack in the mud as his horse charged onwards without him and the crowd bellowed from all around them. Beesbury did not let himself be defeated so easily. He pushed himself to his feet, as his squire tossed his sword to him.

As soon as Baelor spied what Humfrey was doing, he too dismounted, calling for his squire to bring him his sword also. Before Humfrey could properly prepare himself, Baelor charged. With a yell he swung to strike, putting Humfrey on the back foot. It was then that Wynne stood, leaning close to the railing to get a better view of the skirmish. Despite being forced into defense, Humfrey put up one hell of a fight; managing to predict where Baelor aimed to strike next and parry the blow. Dunk stood in awe of the fluidity of both men's movements. He had seen duels before, of course, but this was different. This was not a squire watching his liege knight at war, nor was it a man watching any old knights joust. He was watching his Baelor. He didn't even care that he was duelling Humfrey Beesbury — Baelor could have been skirmishing with any knight in the Realm, and Dunk would have been just as enraptured.

It was a strike to the chest that finally brought Humfrey down. He fell to his knees, his sword a few paces to his left just beyond his reach. The crowds watched with bated breath as Baelor approached, step by step, raising his blade for show before Humfrey held up his hands. "I yield!" The defending knight called. Baelor lowered his sword, letting it drop to the mud, before offering a hand to Humfrey, as applause began to ripple through the crowd.

Dunk could imagine the words Baelor spoke to Humfrey. You fought well, Ser, or Gallantly fought, Ser or something else to that effect; some form of congratulation that would show Humfrey that Baelor would not gloat in his victory. It was simply not the Prince's way — he felt his victory spoke for itself. He took a single victory lap; not astride his horse, but on foot, his hand up in a wave to the stands as he made his way around the tourney arena and all the way back to the box. He bowed to his father, and his mother, and the lord Beesbury, before his eyes were on Dunk. "Ser Duncan!" He called up, before he removed his helmet, revealing that beaming smile that had captured Dunk's heart so many times before. "You best come collect your bracer!" With that, he strode off, giving another brief wave to the crowd before he left their sight.

Dunk didn't hesitate, nor did he wait for permission from the king. He rose, giving a hasty bow with a mumbled ' Your Grace' before he dashed off to find Baelor. It wasn't hard to find him, now free of his breastplate, and still with that winner's smile. "My prince—" Dunk began, as Baelor turned to look at him.

"Duncan. I trust you enjoyed the entertainment?" He asked, stepping closer to Dunk as he spoke. Dunk's breath caught in his throat and all he could do for a moment was nod.

"I-I did, yes, you were… You were a vision, Your Grace, a true vision," He praised, fidgeting where he stood, hands curling and uncurling as he struggled to contain his excitement, his sheer love for the man in front of him. "I would like to see it again, if I may… In another tourney, mayhaps…" He added, bowing his head low as a twinkle came to Baelor's eye.

"A vision…" He repeated, with a slight shake of his head — Dunk's words had amused him"Perhaps you would prefer a more… Personal, demonstration, Ser Duncan?" He asked, a smirk creeping its way over his lips. Dunk knew that look; that hungry, scheming look. He had seen it before, in their stolen moments in stairwells, or behind solar doors.

"… Your Grace?" Dunk murmured, his eyes glancing towards where he had last seen a squire milling about. He was gone now. Or, at least, Dunk could not see him. Baelor moved closer, seemingly not caring for whether or not the squire was there.

"I was asking if you would like a more personal demonstration, Dunk." Baelor repeated, a tad slower than before so that Dunk's brain could process it more easily; Baelor knew how easily flustered the taller man could get. Dunk's cheeks started to flush a deep shade of red.

"Well— I… I would… Would not…" Dunk could not find his words, they tumbled out of his mouth like pebbles into a pond. Baelor did not mock him, just simply smiled at him, laying a gentle hand onto his arm to steady him.

"Come closer, then, Ser." He prompted, beckoning with his other hand for Dunk to lean down. Dunk eagerly did so, never one to hesitate for long when an order came from Baelor. Baelor's lips were on his in an instant, and for a moment, Dunk merely froze. Instead of pressing onwards with his show of affection, Baelor broke the contact, his eyes meeting Dunk's with a look of tender concern. "Are you alright? I did not mean to as—"

Baelor did not get to finish his apology; Dunk's lips were back on his own, filled with a hunger Baelor rarely got to see, for it was usually saved for when they were certain they were alone, and the candles had burned low. Baelor let Dunk take what he wanted, what he clearly seemed to need, from him, until they were both breathless. Both of Baelor's hands were on him now, clutching at whatever they could grasp of him.

"Sorry—" Dunk began, but Baelor shook his head.

"Do not apologise. There is no need for it." He told him, gently. Dunk's face scrunched.

"But if someone was to see—" Baelor placed his fingers gently on Dunk's lips, stilling them and quieting the man.

"Then they see. I am not ashamed of you, Duncan. I never have been." Tension drained from the larger man's shoulders as the Prince spoke. "I restrain myself purely because I know you are nervous to be seen by others… And I do not blame you." Baelor knew all too well how much being seen by others frightened Dunk. He had lived almost all his life amongst the Smallfolk — to go from that, to the right hand man of the beloved Crown Prince, it was a mighty step. Baelor felt a gleam of pride for how well Dunk had managed to deal with it so far.

"I would like for there to be a day where we can walk through streets or along roads, hand in hand, without shame or fear…" Baelor murmured, as his hands slipped into Dunk's.

"And if that day never comes…?" Dunk asked, his voice unsure.

"Then it never comes." Baelor spoke, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if he had never really considered anything else; if Dunk was not ready, that was that."I am still honoured that you chose me to share your affections with."

"… I would say that I am the lucky one, my prince." Dunk spoke, his voice regaining some hard-won surety. "I mean… You are a Prince of the Blood, and I… I am just— I was just a Hedge Knight." He looked down at their joined hands. His dwarved Baelor's, making them look small in comparison, almost… Dainty. Who'd have thought, looking at them like this, that these hands had dealt so much damage in war, had dealt in so much politics, and so much more besides. Hands that had dealt in so much, but still somehow managed to cradle him with such tenderness — Dunk's heart stuttered to even consider it.

"Then we are both lucky men." Baelor decided, leaning up to press another, much more chaste kiss to Dunk's lips. Dunk tried to follow him as he pulled back, chasing more of that coveted affection from the prince, but did not quite manage to catch him. "Come, Duncan. I've plans to give you a much more… Hands on demonstration." The Prince told his guard, tugging him gently along by the hand until Dunk fell into step with him. The taller man did not resist — why would he even want to?

"Your Grace…?"

He was already married, it was true, and he did love his wife, but… What he had with Daenora was special. It was… Sacred. To have her marry that Baratheon boy… It didn't feel right to him. Then, she turned. And she smiled. He would be a cruel man indeed to refuse that smile.

"Brother!" Daenora greeted, as she shooed a maid away from her to approach him. "I thought I would not get to see you until after the ceremony…"

Maekar swallowed thickly. What was he to say to her? That he did not think the Baratheon deserved her? That he adored her so? That he often wished that he had been in Edric's place, instead?

"You look beautiful, Daenora." Beautiful was an understatement, but Maekar had never been a man for poetry. Glowing was more apt. A vision, for certain. The most breathtaking vision he had ever seen in his life. In spite of his less-than-adequate words, Daenora beamed.

"Thank you… Mother helped with my hair." She gushed, "Do you like it?" Maekar's gaze moved. Her hair lay in a ladder of plaits, crossing this way and that in a way that only made Maekar think of the amount of hand cramps that had gone into this singular style.

"It suits you." He had no idea if it truly did or not; to him, everything suited her. Except for Baratheon colours. "Daenora, I wished to speak with you about—"

"Baelor told me he saw you teaching Edric Elēnas Morghon," Daenora interrupted excitedly. "Is it true? Did you really?"

Maekar sighed heavily, and his shoulders dropped slightly. Elēnas Morghon. A Targaryen wedding tradition that spanned back far beyond living memory. A dance of trust, and of faith, and… Maekar did not want to think of it as love, but it was, in it's way. "It is. I did." He did not sully the fact with the truth of it; he had only taught the younger man so that he might make Daenora happy. He could have refrained, he could have let the man fail. And perhaps, a small voice inside him seethed, he should have. At least, then, she might not be quite so enamoured with the boy, or may see that he was not as worthy of her as she thought.

Daenora squealed in delight. "Oh, thank you, Maekar…" She grinned, overjoyed. This was to be the best day of her life thus far, and hearing that her closest brother had taught her betrothed the traditional wedding dance of their family truly lifted her spirits. The fire he had been kindling in his chest sputtered at her joy.

"… You are welcome." He mumbled, letting a comfortable silence fall between them for a moment. "… Just… Just know, Daenora, that if Edric… Ever shows disdain towards you, or you feel unseen by him in any way… You tell me. You come to me; I am your man, and I shall never be far from you."

"Where is this coming from?"

"I just… I needed you to know."

Daenora's smile dropped, only slightly. For once, her brother was not being grumpy. He was not simply being overprotective. He was, in his way, bearing his heart to her. It had always been a difficult thing for him, though Daenora could never truly figure out why, so to hear him say it out loud, so plainly, that he was her man… It struck her deeply, a bittersweet love that had long existed between them.

"I will remember it…" Daenora nodded, with a smile. "… Will you dance with me, tonight?"

"Of course." There was no hesitation in Maekar's voice.

"… And say nothing ill of Edric?" Maekar sighed at her condition. He supposed he could bear the ceremony, if only for her smile.

"I… Will say nothing unwarranted about Edric." Maekar aquiesced. Daenora did not seem entirely convinced by his wording, but she let it slide — she knew her brother, and she knew it would be the best she would get for a while.

"Thank you, Maekar."

Maekar bowed his head for a moment, a show of deference he did not even show their eldest brother, or to their father outside of courtly affairs. "I… Shall leave you, then. I only wished to make that known to you." He turned, quickly striding for the door.

"Stay." Daenora spoke, causing him to halt. "… I would be grateful for the company of my favourite brother before my wedding." Maekar snorted. He could never believe that he, of all of them, was her favourite.

"You are a minx." He told her, as he moved to take a seat in one of the plush chairs by the wall. "…Is it because you are nervous?" He asked, his frown returning for a moment. "You needn't be. You look… You look like the very picture of a princess on the day of her wedding. The Smallfolk will adore you as they always do… He will… Adore you." He admitted. But who wouldn't adore such a woman?

"I suppose a part of me is…" Daenora admitted, turning back towards the mirror. "But, I am also grateful. I am marrying for love, and shan't be more than… What, a day and a half's ride from Summerhall?"

"A day if you ride hard enough." Maekar nodded.

"Then we will not be far from one another at all." Daenora smiled again. "It is much better than the distance between King's Landing and Summerhall." She hummed. Maekar's lips quirked. Ever the optimist.

"It is, yes. Shall I be expecting you often?"

"Of course. And you shall be my first visitor for all the affairs of my immediate family." She told him, with the same flowery cadence of their eldest brother.

"Come again?"

"When I have children—" Gods help the way Maekar's heart stopped in that moment, "— You will be the first to visit them." He knew that her having children was inevitable, Gods be good, but the very thought… Baratheon children, by her womb. He tried not to think about it more than he already had.

"You seem awfully certain of that."

"I'm not a fool, Maekar. I know you care for me as much as I care for you." She laughed, finally turning again, to take his hands in her own. He stayed seated, and she did not move to make him rise right away. "Just as I will visit when your children are born."

"I will hold you to that…" Maekar's voice was gentle now, and Daenora could not help but laugh.

"You needn't hold me to it. I will be there. I swear it." Daenora told him, as she pulled him to his feet. "Now, come, or I'm going to be late."