Every bone in Duncan's body seemed cracked. His ribs burned when he breathed. His left eye was swollen near shut, and there was a ringing in his ears that would not cease. He had known beatings before, Flea Bottom had taught him that much, but never like this. Never with seven men and the eyes of half the realm upon him.

He had won. Or something close enough to victory to be called so. It did not feel like winning.

Egg was beside him, small and hands clenched tight.

And there was you. You had stood at the edge of the lists when the fighting ended, close beside Egg, your hands clasped before you so tightly the knuckles had gone white. Dunk remembered that. He remembered seeing you there through the slit of his helm, a pale shape beyond the clash of steel, your eyes wide and bright with something that had not been fear alone.

Baelor’s daughter. Princess of the realm. Too high for the likes of him.

You stepped closer now, skirts brushing damp earth, heedless of mud that would ruin silk worth more than all Dunk had ever owned. Your face was drawn, grief and worry warring in your expression.

“Ser Duncan,” you said softly. “How do you fare?”

Aloud he croaked, “I’ve been better, Your Grace.”

The title felt safer on his tongue. It put a wall where one must be.

Prince Baelor Breakspear entered without fanfare, Even bent with weariness, he carried himself like a king already crowned. Mud and blood streaked his armor.

Dunk tried to rise.

“Stay,” Baelor said, a hint of warmth beneath the command. “You have done enough for one day, ser.”

He came to stand over Dunk, studying him with dark, thoughtful eyes.

“The realm needs good men,” Baelor said quietly. “Men who will stand for what is right, even when it is not easy. Today you were such a man. You won the trial of seve, ser.”

Dunk swallowed. Praise from princes was a thing he had never learned to bear well.

“My prince,” he rasped, “I don't know how to thank you for taking my side and fighting for me.”

“Because I take your side and not Aerion?” Baelor’s mouth twitched faintly. “I am a knight before I am a prince. A true knight defends the rights of all.”

He shifted slightly, and there was the smallest tightening at the corners of his eyes.

“My brother strikes hard,” he went on, almost conversationally. “Maekar is strong. Always has been. I fear I shall feel this day’s work upon my head come the morrow.”

You took a step closer at that, concern plain upon your face. “Father, you should see a maester.”

“Im fine, my little princess.” Baelor said gently.

He took off his helm.

Dunk did not understand what he saw at first. There was blood matted in the dark hair at Baelor’s temple. A dent in the metal where Maekar’s mace had struck. And beneath it, The skull was caved in. Not a cut. Not a bruise. Crushed.

The world seemed to tilt. You gasped, a small, broken sound, and lunged forward just as Baelor swayed.

Dunk moved on instinct. Pain screamed through his ribs as he forced himself upright, catching the prince as he fell. Baelor’s weight sagged in his arms, far heavier than it should have been. His eyes fluttered once. He went limp.

“No,” you breathed. “No, no...”

You were at your father’s side in an instant, hands trembling as you touched his face, his shoulders, as though you might shake life back into him. “Father. Please. Please wake. You cannot-” Your voice broke.

Egg stood frozen, horror etched across his young features.

The men rushed forward, but Dunk knew. He had seen death before. In Flea Bottom alleys. On tourney fields. In the eyes of men who would not rise again.

This was death. And it was his doing. Guilt settled upon him heavier than any armor.

You bent over your father’s still form, tears spilling unchecked, heedless of rank or watching eyes. “Come back,” you whispered fiercely, as if command alone might undo it. “You must come back.”

Dunk had no words grand enough for a princess’s grief.

He shifted awkwardly closer despite the agony in his body, placing a shaking hand upon your shoulder.

“Your Grace,” he began, voice rough. “My princess-”