POV: Baelor
I smiled where I must, nodded where I should, and did my best to listen without hearing. Nobles pressed close on every side—lords, ladies, flatterers and fools—each one eager to be seen near me, eager to say some pleasing word.
"A fine day for sport, Your Grace," one lord prattled.
"A fine day for the lists, Your Grace."
"Indeed, my lord."
"The knights ride well this year."
"They do."
"Your grace, you look—"
I let them speak. It cost me little. Better to give them my silence than my true thoughts.
My gaze was fixed upon the field.
Ser Duncan the Tall sat his horse at the far end of the lists. Thunder, he called the beast—a great ugly brute of a warhorse, dun-colored and stubborn as an old mule.
The kind of horse a hedge knight might buy with his last copper if he had good luck and a strong back.
Across from him, Ser Raymun Fossoway adjusted his shield. Proud and prickly, like all the Red Apple Fossoways.
The herald raised his hand.
The trumpets sang.
Thunder lunged forward like a battering ram. Raymun's lance came up smooth and straight, but Dunk shifted his weight just so, his own lance struck true.
The crack of wood on steel rang out across the field.
Raymun flew backwards from his saddle, armor and honor both crashing to the tiltyard.
The crowd roared.
I heard my own name in the noise—Baelor! Baelor Breakspear!—though I had done nothing but watch. Men cannot help themselves.
Dunk swung down from his saddle before and offered his hand.
Raymun did not take it.
He pushed himself up with his gauntleted hands, face red beneath his helm, and turned away without a word. Too proud to accept aid from the man who'd unhorsed him.
Dunk only bowed—small and quiet—and returned to Thunder's side.
A rare thing, I thought.
Most knights would have strutted. Preened for the crowd. Dunk simply took Thunder's reins and led him away.
My mind drifted as it often did these days.
Two nights past.
The puppet girl.
Aerion had her killed. And four others with her. Their heads set upon spikes like trophies from some great hunt.
Treason, he'd called it.
By the time I reached the place, the deed was done. A Kingsguard—one Dunk had bested—was hammering the last spike into the ground. The girl's head swayed gently in the wind, her dark hair stirring in wind.
I had looked into Dunk's eyes when he learned of it.
Fury. Not the kind that burns bright and fades.
And then, the very same night, the bodies vanished.
All five. Gone from their spikes as if they had never been.
Two guards lay dead in their place. Throats cut clean. A serving woman beside them.
A sellsword, some said. A ghost, said others. A vengeful lover come to claim what was his.
I thought of Dunk. I still do.
He had reason. Gods know he had reason. He had the strength. And he had the will.
But I have no proof.
And if I did?
I would burn it.
Aerion is my brother's son. My blood.
But he is rot in a fair apple, and rot spreads if it is not cut away.
The crowd cheered again. Dunk raised his helm once—just once—to acknowledge them, then lowered it and led Thunder from the field. Raymun Fossoway stalked toward his pavilion, cheeks red as the apple on his shield.
I let out a slow breath.
Dunk is not finished.
Aerion is not finished.
And justice... justice has not yet been paid.
…
POV: Duncan
The cheers had been loud that day, but by nightfall they were only echoes. Cheers always fade. They are like summer storms—loud and wet and gone before you know it.
I was unbuckling my breastplate when the knock came.
A boy stood in the doorway, thin as a stick, no more than twelve name days.
"Ser," he said, breathless. "There's a knight asking for you. Ser John."
Ser John.
There was only one man in this tourney who called himself that.
Daemon Blackfyre. The second of his name. Pretender to the Iron Throne.
Though the boy did not know so do others.
I nodded. "Tell him I'll come." The boy scurried off like a rabbit.
I found him by one of the cookfires, sitting on a log with a wineskin in his hand. Ser John the Fiddler, as he styled himself. Checkered shield, easy smile.
"Ser Duncan," he said, grinning. "A fine ride today. Raymun Fossoway will carry that bruise for weeks."
"I meant him no harm."
"No," John agreed. "But some men see harm in the wind."
He held out the wineskin.
I took it. The wine was Dornish—sweet and strong. It burned all the way down.
John leaned forward, close enough that I could see the firelight reflected in his eyes. "I hear you had cause to be angry."
My hand tightened on the wineskin.
He took that as answer enough.
"Aerion Targaryen," he said quietly, "is a blight upon house of dragons. A mad boy who mistakes cruelty for strength."
"It is a pity," he continued, "that the world is ruled by the inheritance, not by worth. That a man can kill an innocent girl and hide behind the throne."
The fire crackled between us. Sparks drifted up into the dark.
I knew what he was doing. I had known it from the moment he sent the boy to fetch me.
"There are others," John said, voice soft as silk, "who think as I do. Others who believe that a crown should belong to the man who earns it. Not the man who inherits it." He paused. "You are strong, Ser Duncan. You are just. The smallfolk love you. And you have been wronged."
He leaned closer still.
"I can give you justice. I can give you Aerion Brightflame's head on a spike, if you wish it. All you need do is stand with me when the time comes."
I drank again. The wine tasted like shit now.
"No," I said.
For a long moment, he only looked at me. The smile was gone now.
Not anger, it was surprise. As if he had expected me to leap at the chance like a hound after meat.
Then the smile returned.
"Very well," he said, standing. He brushed ash from his cloak. "Grief does not stay buried, Ser Duncan. Neither does rage. A day will come when you wish you had friends beside you. I will wait for your answer."
He walked away into the dark, his shadow stretching long behind him.
I thought of Prince Baelor, this Blackfyre don't know that I knew his a mummers dragon.
I could go to Prince Baelor. Tell him that Daemon Blackfyre was here, walking among us with a false name and a false smile. Tell him that rebellion was being sown in whispers around the tourney.
But I did not move.
…
The Next Morning
The trumpets sounded, and I rode Thunder into the lists. The cheers hit like wind—warm, loud, full of life. I steadied my grip on the lance. My name had been called first. My opponent—
"Ser John of the Checkered Shield!"
'cunt.'
Daemon sat his horse at the far end of the field, calm as a man at prayer. He raised his lance in salute, smiling that easy smile.
We said nothing.
The herald's flag fell.
Daemon's lance came fast and true, but I leaned into it, letting it glance off my pauldron. My own lance struck him in helmet.
Wood shattered. Splinters flew.
Ser John rocked backward—for moment I thought I killed that arse—but he some how stood up and drew his sword.
A hiss went through the crowd.
I slid down from Thunder's back and drew mine.
Steel rang against steel. Once. Twice. Three times. 'his fighting without any technique, like sellswords.' I thought as our sword collided.
But even with that chaotic sword play, on the fifth exchange, I sent his blade spinning from his hand. It clattered across the dirt and came to rest near the edge of the field.
I pressed the point of my sword to his throat.
He went very still.
"My offer still stands, Ser Duncan. Revenge for the girl. Justice for the wrong done to you. Say the word, and I will give you Aerion Brightflame." He said in low voice.
The point of my sword did not waver.
"No," I said.
His jaw tightened. "You throw away your only chance."
"I don't see it as chance."
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
"I yield." Daemon stepped back, and I lowered my blade.
Before he turned away, he leaned close—close enough that only I could hear.
"When the time comes, Ser Duncan... and it will come... I hope you choose the right side."
'Fuck you!'
…