#(out.)

Chomp chomp

The heat is scorching—it would have been beyond intolerable with his typical garb, so Baelor is grateful that both he and his brother knew what to expect of their visit. And despite the slight discomfort, he is calmed by the weight of the sun against his skin. The same cannot be said for the member of the Kingsguard beside him. Dunk has an odd look at his face, nose slightly scrunched up as he trails behind the King at nearly a half-pace. If he wasn't watching so closely, the taller man might have been trampling all over his feet. "At peace, Ser Duncan," Baelor soothes, pausing to press a hand against the knight's chest. Dunk stares down at him for a beat before he forces his expression to relax; he makes no move to step away from the familiar touch. "It's strange to be out of my armor," Dunk huffs back, catching himself only a moment later. "Your Grace. I don't know what you mean to do here." "I do hope you find yourself capable of resting for a few hours," the king replies, eyeing him seriously in that way he does to ensure that Dunk is listening to him. "You are not required to guard me at present, ser. Seek out my nephew. I'm certain he will also enjoy your company for the time we're here." Dunk glances back in the direction of Maekar and his brood; even he cannot miss the gangly boy peering back at him from around his father's broad form. He exhales, lips pursed. "An order, Your Grace?" "None of that," Baelor quips, allowing his hand to rest on Dunk's cheek for the briefest of moments. "Off you go, my knight. I'll return to you before too long."