An Angel of Mandalor

“Ser Will is not unattractive,” Baelor said. He did not look at Dunk when he spoke, unduly focused on his breakfast.

Dunk eyed him speculatively, “I suppose so,” he said, “Is that something you're interested in?”

“Gods no,” Baelor said. He sounded appalled, as if he had not been the one to broach the topic. “I was merely thinking you might get to know him.”

“Why would I do that?” Dunk was not entirely sure where this conversation was headed, but he was quite certain he did not like it.

“I won't be around forever, I wouldn't like you to be lonely after I'm gone.”

“When you're gone?” He repeated. Baelor still was not looking at him, and was pushing his breakfast around his plate with his fork like a picky child. Dunk had half a mind to reach across the table and make him look at him. To make him repeat such foolishness while looking him in the eyes.

“Quite,” Baelor said simply.

Dunk sighed, gave in to the dramatics. “I won't be lonely, when you die I intend to throw myself on your pyre and let the fire take me.”

“Duncan.”

“What? It's okay for you to be melodramatic but I can't?”

“It isn't melodramatic to plan for the future.”

“By telling me to get to know Ser Will, who is only two and twenty I might add.”

“That is closer in age than you and I.”

Dunk dropped his fork, which had been halfway to his mouth for the entirety of the conversation, “What is this about Baelor?”

“I feel,” Baelor made a face, his mouth twisting unpleasantly, like the word tasted bad in his mouth, “old.”

“You are eight and fifty,” Dunk said. He did not twist the knife and say the obvious; Baelor was getting old. Age had not softened him overmuch, but his body was no longer all sharp lines, firm with muscle, it had yielded to a gentler form, and where in his youth Baelor might have been the very picture of the warrior, these days his appearance was closer to that of the father.

“Yes, I am aware. I do not usually feel it, but this morning I woke, and everything ached. I am tired. I feel like I am the one turning five and seventy, not my father.”

“You had a big day yesterday, nine tilts would make anyone tired.”