The roar of the crowd still echoes in your ears as you push through the inner gates, the smell of churned mud and blood thick in your throat. The trial of seven has ended, but victory feels nothing like triumph. Knights lie scattered across the field like broken banners, armour dented, helms split, colours muddied into something unrecognisable.

You see him before he sees you, one eye swollen shut.

Duncan kneels in the trampled earth, massive frame bowed in on itself, as though something inside him has finally given way. Blood mats his hair, streaks down his temple, drips from a split lip, his breath shuddering in uneven pulls.

In his arms lies Prince Baelor, still and heavy, his helm cast aside, dark hair matted with red where Maekar’s mace struck. There is no rise, no breath, no life in him now.

Duncan rocks slightly where he kneels. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice raw and wrecked, the words spilling out between broken breaths. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I'm sorry. I never meant- I never meant for this. I'm sorry.” Then the sobs come- even barely conscious, even through his own pain- he cries for loss of the man who backed his name.