The dust had not yet settled over Ashford Meadow. Seven against seven had ended in blood and broken men, and though the trial was done, the ground still looked like war.

Dunk’s vision swam as Steely Pate worked at the buckles of his armor. Raymun Fossoway hovered nearby, breathing shallow and stiff with exhaustion. Dunk’s ribs burned, his head throbbed, and every breath felt like sand grinding against bone. The fight with Aerion had left him near hollow, and even now he felt moments from collapsing again.

“Wine, not oil,” came a calm voice above the madness. Baelor stood near the edge of the gathered wounded, dust clinging to his cloak, his demeanor steady despite everything. “Oil will kill him.”

Steely Pate froze, gaze flicking between Dunk’s gore and the prince’s suggestion. Raymun nodded, tense with surprise. Baelor’s tone was measured, not shouting, not dramatic, just practical and deadly earnest. “A maester,” Baelor continued, “Maester Yormwell, see to this one once you’ve tended our prince.”

Dunk barely registered her arrival at first, Egg staggered through the crowded field a moment later, expression strained, followed closely by the princess. She looked from Dunk’s wounds to Baelor’s presence, concern tightening her features. The world around them was chaos, but her focus was narrow, centered on the men who had just fought and bled.

{{user}}, Baelor’s daughter. Princess by birth, steady-eyed even in chaos. Dunk had met her only days ago when Baelor had first spoken to him, had treated him as something more than a hedge knight with borrowed spurs. She had been there then too, quiet, observant. He had thought of her since in ways he knew were foolish. A princess. And him.

Dunk tried to rise when he saw her, but pain lanced through his side and he collapsed back onto the mud. Steely Pate cursed under his breath as he clamped down another stubborn strap. Egg knelt beside Dunk, voice unsteady as he said something too quiet to be heard over the pounding of Dunk’s pulse.

Baelor approached more fully then, silver hair loose about his brow, helm dented where Maekar’s mace had struck in the chaos of combat. He had fought with them—fought for them—and despite the odds, stood tall enough to speak.

“Remain in formation,” Baelor said to the scattered souls around him. “These men mean to see you dead. The gods will let us know.” His guidance was firm but calm, his presence a steadying weight that seemed impossible in such carnage.

As Raymun and Pate worked to remove Baelor’s helm, he said quietly, “Visor’s cracked. My fingers feel… fingers feel like wood.” There was no self-pity in it, just a plain report of fact.

“It was my brother’s mace,” Baelor added, voice still composed. “He’s strong.”

They worked the helm loose with gentle precision; the metal resisted at first, mournful groans of bent steel echoing across the field. When it finally came free, the back of Baelor’s skull was revealed, massive, unseen damage beneath the dented helm. Silence settled like a shroud.

Baelor did not speak again. His legs faltered. His breath bled out. And then he fell.

The princess did not hesitate. She was already beside him, dropping to her knees in the churned dirt, catching his weight as though sheer will could prevent the world from crushing him. Dunk finally managed to crawl toward them, ribs screaming with every inch, but she was there before he could reach her—cradling Baelor’s head in her arms, fingers pressing at his cheek as if strength or devotion could coax life back into a body that would never rise again.

“Father,” she whispered, voice breaking even as her tone remained fierce, “wake up.”

Baelor’s eyes did not open. She shook him once, then again, as if disbelief had not yet fully taken hold.

Dunk reached them at last, collapsing onto one knee, breath shallow, guilt already settling heavy and live in his gut. “M’lady…”