Chapter Text
The incense in the King's solar smelled like dying flowers. Dunk's new boots–his only new boots, bought with his first real stipend as a sworn sword–pinched his feet, but shifting his weight made the planks beneath the Myrish rug creak like a ship in a storm. He stayed as still as the marble statues lining the room.
King Maekar stood at the great leaded window, his back to them. The afternoon sun lit the silver in his hair and cast a long, thin shadow that seemed to bisect the room into halves: light, and not-light. Dunk was in the not-light.
"And you are certain," the King's voice was flat, worn smooth by a lifetime of ruling, "that my son attempted to bribe the master at arms to falsify the squire's tourney lists?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Dunk's voice sounded too loud, even to him. He'd practiced the words, the truth was simple; he'd seen the exchange of the heavy purse, heard Aerion's hissed instructions. Saying it was the hard part.
"Lies!" The word was a silken snarl from beside him.
Aerion Targaryen stood stiffly, his own shadow a pale, narrow thing next to Dunk's hulking form. He wore black velvet slashed with blood red silk, and his silver-gold hair was pulled back so tightly it stretched the skin of his temples. He looked like a knife, but the scent coming off him was wrong, it was a deliberate aggressive perfume of sulfur and charred stone–wildfire smoke. It was meant to intimidate, to scorch the air of any softer fragrance.
But beneath it, sharp as a needle in the thick haze was something else, something sweet and cloying like overripe peaches left to rot in the sun. It prickled at the back of Dunk's throat, he didn't know what it was, only that it seemed to leak through the prince's careful mask whenever he grew angry.
His father finally turned. Maekar's face was all hard lines and deeper grooves, the face of a man who has solved every problem before him with grim determination, only to find a new, more vexing one waiting. His violet eyes, so like his son's, held none of Aerion's heated madness; They were cold, disappointed pools.
"I have already heard from the master at arms Aerion, he confessed. He sits in a black cell even now, weighing the value of your gold against his hands." Maekar's gaze sliced to Dunk. "This one merely confirms it, he gains nothing from the tale. You, however, sought to cheat; to make a mockery of my court's honor for your own vain pride."
"It was a triviality! A squire's contest!" Aerion's voice climbed and with it, the sweet rot scent grew stronger, fighting with the chemical burn of his perfume. "Beneath my concern, i merely wished to... expedite matters."
"You wished to win without earning it, as you always do." Maekar walked to his great mahogany desk, resting his knuckles upon it. "Your pride is a poison, you dress your failures in perfumes and pretend they are virtues."
Aerion flinched as if struck.
"For a prince to be without honor is one thing," Maekar continued, his tone grinding lower. "For an Omega prince to be without honor is a song the realm will sing for a century. It confirms every base suspicion they hold about your... nature."
There was that word. Omega. Dunk knew the word well enough; you couldn't grow up in the gutters of Flea Bottom without learning the weight of it. In the city, it was a scent of desperation in dark alleys, or a reason for a tavern brawl to turn bloody. But here, in the King's solar, the word felt different–heavier, wrapped in velvet and ancient tradition. To Dunk, it had always been a matter of biology and survival but to these high-born dragons, it was a matter of state, of bloodlines, and apparently, of deep festering shame. He kept his eyes fixed on a point above the King's left shoulder, on a tapestry of Aegon the Conqueror landing at Blackwater Rush, trying to ignore the way the air in the room seemed to thicken with the Prince's mounting distress. Aerion's pale face mottled with red. "My nature is that of the dragon! I am not like the common... I am Blood of the Dragon!"
"And you smell of a midden fire trying to hide a cesspit." The King's crudity was more shocking than any shout, it laid the truth bare in the ornate room. "Your pretense is an offense. This desperate masking... it is the behavior of a guilty child."
The prince fell silent, his fists clenched at his sides, his breathing audible–short sharp pulls of air that did nothing to calm him. The conflicting scents swirled in the still air, a tangible representation of his shame.
Maekar's weary eyes landed on Dunk again, studying him as one might a large, unfamiliar dog. "You, Dunk; You are the one who unhorsed Ser Rollam in the melee."
"I was lucky, Your Grace."
"Luck is a horse that throws every rider in time, you held your saddle– they say you are strong, honest. That your word is simple, but it is stone." He paused. "They also say your wits are slow."
Dunk felt his neck grow hot. "I... I think things through, Your Grace."
A ghost of something that might have been amusement touched Maekar's mouth. "A novel practice in this court. Can you follow an order?"
"To the letter, Your Grace.– "Good." The King straightened. "This is my order, my son requires a lesson in humility, he requires a reminder that strength is not in perfumes and treachery, but in conduct. He will not be confined to his chambers like a spoilt maiden, he will learn by seeing honor up close, every hour of the day."
He looked from his seething son to the bewildered knight.
"Aerion, you are stripped of your personal guard for the span of six moons. Your excess allowance is revoked, you will live on a knight's stipend and you will have a new shadow."
Dunk's gut tightened.
"Dunk of Flea Bottom," the King pronounced. "You are hereby commanded to be Prince Aerion's personal shield, you will guard his person, you will attend him in his chambers, in the yard, at table. You will ensure he comes to no harm, and more importantly, that he does no further harm to the reputation of my house. You will be his constant companion."
The silence was absolute. Dunk's mind scrambled; Guard a prince? He was fit for gate duty, for the rear guard on a march, for holding a line, not for... this.
Aerion made a choked sound. "This? You would give me a... a mammoth from the stinking alleys as a nursemaid? He is common! He smells of straw and horse!"
"I am certain his scent is an improvement," Maekar said coldly. "And he is an Alpha of proven, if unrefined, strength. Perhaps some of his simplicity will rub off on you or perhaps his presence will simply remind you, every moment, of the depth to which you have sunk my patience."
He sank into his chair, the audience clearly at an end. "You are dismissed. Dunk, you will begin your duties now, take him to the training yard, let him watch you work. I am told you have a skill with a shield, let him see it."
Dunk bowed clumsily. "Yes, Your Grace."
Aerion stood frozen, radiating a hatred so potent Dunk could feel it like heat from a forge. The sweet, rotting scent was now unmistakable, a sour ribbon winding through the smoke, it was the smell of furious, humiliated vulnerability.
Without a word, the prince spun on his heel and stormed toward the great oak doors. Dunk had to hurry, his long legs eating up the space, his boots thudding heavily on the rug and then the stone. He caught up just as Aerion wrenched the door open.
They stepped into the cooler air of the outer corridor, lined with impassive men at arms in Targaryen livery. Aerion walked fast, his velvet sleeves whispering with his frantic pace.
"Stay ten paces behind me, you lumbering oaf," he hissed over his shoulder, not turning his head. "Do not speak to me, do not breathe on me; you are a punishment, not a person. Remember that."
Dunk slowed, letting the distance grow. He watched the prince's rigid back, the proud set of his head already beginning to look strained. He smelled the war of perfumes and panic that trailed behind him like a wake.
He thought of his simple room in the squire's tower, of the honest weight of his sword belt; All of that was gone now. His world had narrowed to the space between his own broad shoulders and this furious, perfumed prince whose very scent was a lie: He had an order, Guard him.
But as he followed the shimmering silver head down the dim corridor, towards the blinding sunlight of the yard, a grim understanding settled in his stomach. His task was not just to stop blades from reaching Aerion Targaryen.
It was to stand as a living, breathing mirror to the prince's disgrace and Dunk, for all his slow wits, knew that a man who hates his own reflection will soon come to hate the mirror, and will seek to smash it.
The training yard was a wide expanse of sun-baked dirt and shouted commands. It smelled of honest sweat, liniment oil, and the dry dust that puffed up with every footfall, a normal world. Dunk breathed it in, a brief relief from the perfumed toxicity of the solar.
Aerion stopped at the edge of the fighting square, under the shade of a pillared colonnade. He crossed his arms, his posture screaming contempt for the men hacking at pells and circling each other with blunted swords. "Stand there," he commanded, flicking a hand towards a spot of sun directly to his right. "And try not to gawk like the turnip farmer you are."
Dunk moved to the spot, the heat of the afternoon sun immediately soaking into his wool tunic. He ignored the command to not gawk; it was his job to observe; He saw Ser Lyonel coaching a young squire, his corrections firm but patient. He watched two knights sparring, their movements a familiar, rhythmic dance of block and strike. This was a language he understood.
Aerion's presence, however, was a foul note in the harmony. Knights who passed acknowledged him with stiff shallow bows, their eyes sliding away quickly. Squires gave him a wide berth; The conversations nearby seemed to dampen, then resume in lower tones once they'd passed. It wasn't just the king's displeasure they smelled, it was him, that cloying, undeniable scent, poorly veiled by chemical smoke, marked him as clearly as a banner.
"He has you kennelled already, has he? The tall one." The voice came from Dunk's left. A knight, Ser Rickard, a man with a neat brown beard and a reputation for sharp wits, leaned against a pillar, polishing a vambrace. His tone wasn't unkind, just curious. "Drawing the short straw, ser?"
Dunk shrugged his massive shoulders. "The King gave an order."
"A heavy one." Rickard's eyes flicked to Aerion's rigid back. "Watch your feet around that one, he likes to lay traps, and his temper... it's not like a man's, it's a petulant thing. Unstable."
Before Dunk could reply, Aerion spun. "Do you have nothing better to do than gossip with the help, Rickard? Or has your house fallen so low you seek counsel from beggars?"
Ser Rickard's face tightened, but he offered a thin smile. "My apologies Prince Aerion, i was merely welcoming our newest brother to the yard." He gave Dunk a faint, almost imperceptible nod of solidarity before moving away.
Aerion watched him go, his lip curled. "He beds an Omega merchant's daughter from Lys; Thinks no one knows. The hypocrisy of these lickspittles chokes me."
Dunk said nothing. The politics of who bedded whom were a maze he had no desire to enter. His own experience was of the straightforward, paid for kind in shadowy cribs off the Street of Silk, where smells were simple–ale, cheap perfume and sweat. This world of hidden natures and social treachery was alien.
"You," Aerion said, his violet eyes pinning Dunk. "You reek of the stables, have you ever even been near a true Omega? One of noble blood?"
The question was a trap, Dunk knew it. "I serve whoever my liege commands, my prince."
"A diplomatic nothing, how dull." Aerion stepped closer, lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. The sickly-sweet odor intensified, crawling over the sulfur. "Let me educate you, hedge knight. What the smallfolk whisper about in their stories is a pale shadow, the reality is... potency, a pull in the blood, a weakness. My father sees it as a flaw to be managed– i see it as a chain to be broken. They call it a gift, it is a curse that makes lesser men into slobbering dogs."
He searched Dunk's face for a reaction. Dunk kept it blank, though the prince's fervor unsettled him, this wasn't just anger; it was a deep festering rot of self-loathing.
"You feel nothing, do you?" Aerion sneered. "My scent, it does nothing to you– Because you are too dull, or your blood is too thin. You're not even a proper Alpha, just a big, dumb beast."
"The king said I was to guard you my prince. not... discuss such things."
"Guard me." Aerion let out a short, brittle laugh. "From what? Honest men? Or from myself?" He turned back to the yard, his gaze landing on two squires, brothers by their look, practicing sword strokes. The younger one maybe fourteen, was struggling. His older brother, showing off, disarmed him with a flashy twist, sending the boy's sword skittering into the dirt; the younger one flushed with humiliation.
A strange, focused stillness came over Aerion. The outrage he'd carried since the solar seemed to condense, sharpening into a single point.
"Watch this," he murmured, not to Dunk, but to himself. He strode forward into the sun.
Dunk followed, a cold dread beginning to pool in his stomach.
Aerion stopped before the older squire, who immediately bowed low. "My prince."
"Your form is atrocious," Aerion said, his voice carrying. A few others paused their training to watch. "That flourish, it exposes your left side completely. A child could counter it."
The squire, eager to please a prince even a disgraced one, nodded vigorously. "Yes, my prince! Thank you, my prince. I shall correct it."
"No," Aerion said, a sweet smile touching his lips. It was the most frightening thing Dunk had seen all day. "You shall demonstrate the consequence, again; Do the move."
Confused, the squire obeyed, performing the disarm against his brother once more, the younger boy's sword clattering away.
"Pathetic," Aerion sighed, he turned to the younger boy, who was trembling. "Pick up your blade."
The boy did, his hands shaky.
"Now," Aerion said, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle tone. "He has shown you his weakness. The left side– Strike him there."
The yard fell silent. The older squire's face went pale. "My prince, it's only practice, we–"
"I gave him an order," Aerion said, the gentleness vanishing. "Strike him as hard as you can, let us see the consequence of vanity."
The younger boy looked frozen, tears of shame and fear brimming in his eyes. He looked at his brother, at the other watching knights, at the ground.
Dunk's hands curled into fists. This wasn't training, this was sport; Cruelty for its own sake, a performance to prove Aerion still held power, that he could make others dance to his own miserable tune.
The boy, under the unbearable pressure, gave a choked sob and made a weak, half-hearted swing towards his brother's exposed side. His brother easily blocked it.
"Useless," Aerion spat, disappointment vivid. "You lack the spine even when handed vengeance." He looked around the silent yard, at the averted eyes. His moment was dissolving into awkward pity; The frustration on his face tightened, the sweet-rot scent spiking. He needed a better target.
His gaze landed on Dunk.
"You." The word was a whip-crack. "You are to guard me, yes? To demonstrate your much-praised skill with a shield–very well. Ser Morton!" he called to a hulking, bald knight currently taking a drink from a waterskin. "Take up your sword; Strike at me."
Ser Morton blinked. "My prince?"
"You heard me, a true attack, let my new guardian prove his worth or his inadequacy."
Dunk understood instantly, this was the move to smash the mirror. If Dunk failed, he was shamed, the King's judgment questioned, if he succeeded, he became the man who dared to raise arms, even defensively, near the prince's person. A subtle, elegant trap.
Ser Morton, a brute of a man but no fool, looked profoundly uncomfortable. "With a live blade, my prince?"
"Of course with a live blade! Do you think assassins use blunted steel?" Aerion stepped into the open space, spreading his arms. "Come, Morton or are you as feeble as this boy?"
Trapped, Ser Morton drew his longsword. The sunlight glinted coldly on its edge. He assumed a fighting stance, his eyes shifting from the smirking prince to Dunk, who now moved, interposing his own body between Morton and Aerion.
"My prince, this is unwise," Dunk said, his voice low.
"My command is unwise?" Aerion hissed from behind him. "Your duty is to obey. Hold your shield, dog."
Dunk unslung the heavy oak and iron shield from his back, settling it on his arm, the familiar weight was a small comfort. He had no sword drawn, this was purely defense.
Ser Morton gave a minute, almost apologetic shake of his head.Then he charged.
It was not a tournament charge, it was the rushed awkward lunge of a man forced into a terrible game but the blade was real. It came in a sideways cut aimed to bypass the shield, not at Aerion, but at Dunk's own unprotected right side.
Dunk pivoted, he didn't try anything fancy. He met force with mass, he angled the shield and let the blow crash into it with a THWACK that echoed in the yard, the vibration shooting up his arm. He absorbed it, rooted and used the rebound to shove the shield forward, not to strike Morton, but to disrupt his balance.
Morton staggered back a step, his eyes widened slightly. The blow had been solid, and this big knight hadn't budged an inch.
"Again!" Aerion screamed, his voice losing all semblance of control. "Harder, you weak dog! Or I'll have you flogged!"
Spurred by fear of the prince's wrath, Morton came again, this time a hard overhead chop. Dunk raised the shield high; The sword bit into the top edge, sending a shower of splinters into Dunk's hair. Before Morton could recover, Dunk stepped in, using the bulk of the shield like a battering ram. He didn't strike the man, just drove into his chest, knocking the wind from him with a soft oof.
Morton stumbled back several paces, gasping, his sword tip dropping to the dirt.
Silence, heavy and judgmental, filled the yard. Dunk stood, shield scarred but intact, between the prince and the panting knight; He had defended, he had obeyed and he had made it look effortless, a stone wall against a gust of wind.
The victory was absolute, and it was a disaster.
Aerion's face was a mask of pure, incandescent fury. The masking scent of wildfire had evaporated completely under the heat of his humiliation, leaving only the overwhelming, cloying stench of his Omega nature laid bare for every Alpha in the yard to scent, it was the smell of naked vulnerability, of a trap that had snapped shut on its maker. He was exposed and Dunk, by simply doing his job with quiet competence, had exposed him.
He stepped up so close Dunk could see the spittle at the corner of his mouth. "You touched him," Aerion whispered, the sound raw. "You used violence against a knight in my defense; I felt the breeze of the sword. My person was endangered by your inadequate defense."
"The knight was following your command, my prince."
"I saw only a failure." Aerion's eyes were wild. "A failure I will report, you are dismissed from my presence; Get out of my sight. Go and stink in your kennel."
He turned and strode from the yard, his stride broken, almost a flight. The assembled men watched him go, then their eyes turned to Dunk–with pity, with curiosity, with a new wariness.
Dunk lowered his shield. The place where the sword had struck felt hot. He looked at the splinters on the ground, then at the lingering dust from Aerion's retreat.
The mirror was still intact but the first crack had been heard by everyone, and the prince, now bleeding shame from every pore, would not rest until it was shattered. Dunk's simple world of right and wrong was gone. He was in the maze now, and the walls were closing in.