Chapter Text
“You have officially diminished the last of my patience for you.”
Maekar all but spits out, bringing a hand to rub at his temples as if the action will ease his frustrations. Across from him sits his second son Aerion, his face a mask of absolute joy, guilt nowhere to be seen for his acts. He picks up a wine cup, taking a few swallows before sitting it back down and speaking in an even tone.
“The cunt got what he deserved, to be so disgraceful in the presence of a dragon will never go unpunished.”
—
A boy no older than ten years had begun serving House Targaryen that very same day. His skittish nature could be seen in the way he trembled with the pitcher of wine in his hand; the way the child's muscles seemed to tense when he poured Aerion a cup.
As the drink began to trickle into the goblet, the boy's hand slipped and wine splashed along the front of Aerion's tunic, staining the dark cloth. Horror spread across the servant's face as tears sprung from his eyes, ramblings of apologies fell from his mouth as he dropped to his knees begging for forgiveness.
Even though he started working but a few hours ago, he knew that something as simple as spilling wine was unforgivable in the presence of the Second Prince.
As if to make the boy's thoughts reign true, no more than a second later Aerion was already on his feet, hatred blazing in his violet eyes. “Is anyone in all of the Seven Kingdoms competent enough to pour a fucking glass?” He picks up the cup full of wine, pouring the remaining liquid onto the trembling boy on the floor, a smirk playing at his lips.
Aerion grabs the front of the boy's robes, dragging him into the chest of a nearby guard. “See that he is properly punished, a lash to the back for every year of his age should suffice, no?”
The boy wails out at the order, begging for a lighter punishment as his knees go slack and his weight falls into the chest of the knight he was pushed upon. Apprehension crosses the knight's face as he crinkles his brow but nonetheless, he follows the prince's orders.
He grabs the boy by the elbow carrying him through the doors and away, his weeping heard through the halls till the sound of the shutting door muffled his cries.
—
“The boy was no older than ten years past!”
Maekar throws his hands up in frustration, he then brings them to gesture at his son, disbelief raking across his features. “You were no better with a sword at that age Aerion. Swinging the blade around carelessly, destroying everything in your wake-”
Maekar opens his mouth to continue his lecturing before thinking better of it. He realizes that if he could not get through to Aerion after he threw Aegon's cat in the well, he surely would not break through to him now.
He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to reason with his most sadistic son, but he truly finds none. He pushes his chair back, standing up from the table before taking a few strides away to the fire blazing behind him. He gazes into the flames, hoping for some kind of sign but comes up empty again.
He takes a few more seconds before speaking, trying to even his voice and level his head.
“Yes, he embarrassed the crown and must be punished like all mistakes should, but you went too far-” He takes another pause, carefully deciding how to deliver his next words.
He knows Aerion will take the words horribly no matter the delivery, but he grasps at a single shred of hope that he will see the intent behind his decision. That this is for the good of the kingdom and an opportunity to better himself. To give up this false hope of dragons and a past lineage that died along with the Dance of the Dragons.
Gathering up his words, Maekar turns back to his son, a facade of absoluteness, but hidden beneath the heartbreaking truth of the action he’s about to take.
“-and I have decided I can not let this undignified stunt go on any longer. You’re to be sent to Dragonstone on the morrow.” His tone leaves no room for argument but if Aerion notices, it falls on deaf ears.
Disbelief is evident by the part of his lips, opening and closing for a second as he realizes what his father said. When the shock wears off he rises from his chair, sending it to the floor in a loud clatter of wood on stone.
The air turns stark and icy for a moment, everyone witnessing the spectacle too scared to breathe as they wait for what their Prince might do next.
Aerion's question comes out carefully and calculating, as if he is trying to understand the weight Maekar's suggestion–if he means what he says. “You are to banish a dragon from his rightful place all because of the punishment I gave to a mere servant boy?” Aerion bites out, baring his teeth at the thought of such humiliation.
He side steps the table and takes three strides to meet his father at the opposing end, face to face. The betrayal he feels can be seen through his eyes, shining violet like a raw jewel before an artisan decides to cut it, destroying its natural purpose.
“You’d rather take his side than your own sons?” Aerion decides for himself.
He feels no less than a dog lashing out at its abusive owner, only to be tossed aside and judged by the people as dangerous rather than for defending its base instincts.
“Banishing me just like that, kicking out a Prince because he decides to act like the noble he is.” He swipes his hand over the table, sending a goblet flying across the room, a wake of red wine following in its path.
His next words come out cruel, no hint of warmth found in his voice, only the grueling sound of a dragon on the verge of a rampage. “Do you really think sending me across the sea will do any good? I will find a way to cause hell there just as I have here. If you-”
Maekar's voice spreads across the empty room, echoing down the hall. The voice of a King deciding to spit back his own fire, one to teach its enemies and allies alike just who reigns and who falls.
He takes Aerion by the collar, a man grabbing a dog by its scruff to hold it still. “Enough of this incessant whining! I am the King, my word is absolute and you shall do as I say.”
He releases his hold and slams his fist against the wall, obstinate eyes meeting those of absolute, unadulterated rage.
“Now go pack heavy, the journey is all but pleasant and you shall not be coming back till I see you have reflected on your ways.” The King rubs his palms to his temple as a frustrated sigh escapes his lips.
His final attempt to get through to his son has been strung and he hopes the rope can hold a little longer before breaking. Maekar drops his hands, exhaustion evident in his posture and turns his back to his son, signaling the discussion is over and his word leaves no room for interpretation. “Take your leave.”
“By the Seven you will regret this.” Aerion starts towards the door, footsteps heavy and with purpose. He opens the iron doors himself, shoving off the guard who dared to step in his way when he is in such a foul mood.
He turns back to offer his final word to his coward of a father, “When you realize just how much this kingdom needs me, when you call for my return… know this.” He all but sneers his last words, lip rising to show off his pointed teeth.
“You have dug your own pitiful grave, and I will not heed your return. I will stand on my solid stones, watching your own fire turn you into ash and dust.” Aerion recedes into the hall, the door slamming shut behind him.
In the eerie silence of the room, Maekar is left to his own thoughts. Whether he regrets his decision now or not, the stones have been cast. He now has to helplessly watch at how they fall.
—
Across the Kingdom in Ashford Meadows, situated in the Reach and east of Highgarden, resides a boy no older than 18 past. Having just lost his master and only companion, Arlan of Pennytree, Dunk is left alone to fend for himself, only the teachings of his Arlan left to guide him.
After spending a few days to grieve and collect himself under the protection of an elm tree, Dunk decides he will make a name for himself and show off Arlan's training just as he always planned.
After hearing word of a jousting tourney going on in Ashford for the Lords daughter's name day, Dunk realizes this is his one shot at proving himself. His one opportunity of becoming the knight he had always dreamed of. He swiftly packs up his few belongings and starts making the long trek to Ashford.
The day before he were to walk onto the tourney grounds is the day Dunk realized a man of his size can not simply rely on dried meat for days on end.
If he is to win and be crowned the victor, he has to be his very best self, and his very best self requires a nice meal. As a last resort, he ties up his horses and makes a venture off into the woods. What to catch… he did not know, but he decides whatever it is, he is not coming back empty handed.
Living as a hedge knight you would think surviving off the land came with the skills to catch one measly animal, but that seems to not be the case for Ser Duncan.
He has concluded that due to his unnecessarily big size, he can not be as stealthy as he wishes to be, therefore, the animals tend to notice him before he can notice them. He has also concluded that the act of catching fish possibly could be easier as he wanders upon a stream during his failing hunting adventures.
As he starts to take off his boots and step into the stream he notices something akin to a campfire smoke coming from a distance off in the woods. Dunk decides that instead of standing in a freezing cold stream for hours on end which does not even guarantee the catching of a fish, he would rather take his chances on scoring a meal from, hopefully, a kind stranger.
At best they could both end up in the stream hunting supper, four hands is always better than two.
He puts back on his boots and starts his new walk to the lone camp. As he journeys closer to the smoke he realizes it is no camp at all but that actually someone’s home. A small hut comes into view with signs–besides the fire–of someone living there. Dunk passes a rope tied between two trees with a purple dress strung from it, blowing in the slight breeze.
Dunk then concludes a lady must be living here and he starts to worry about the possibility of scaring her off. What would he do if he was a lady and a big brute came barging into his home in the middle of nowhere?
He comes up with the best course of action, which would be to shout out that he means no harm and all he wants is food… if she is offering.
“Hello, is anyone there?” Dunk walks around to the front of the hut, looking for any signs of where this mysterious woman may be. “I mean no harm. I’ve been traveling out ere’ for days, all I seek is a pleasant meal.”
That's when Dunk starts to notice something is unsettling.
When he walked up to the hut the forest became awfully quiet, the birds quieting their songs, as it still is now. Something in the air shifted and a tingle racked up his spine, causing him to shiver.
Not to mention the funny looking decorations this lady liked to use. They reminded him of the straw dolls the little girls used to run around with back in Flea Bottom, but only these seemed to hang from the trees with all sorts of flowers strewn about them.
Finding that the woman was nowhere to be seen outside and his growing urge to take refuge inside and away from this feeling, Dunk turns his direction to the wooden door of the hut.
He knocks once and calls out, “Hello? Are you in there?” Deciding it might be better to introduce himself first he yells out his name as well. “Im Ser Duncan the Tall, I am a knight sworn to protect the innocent… so there is no need to be afraid!” Hearing no response he decides to knock again, though this time a little harder.
As his knuckles graze the wood a second time the door creaks open, on its own or due to Dunk miscalculating his strength he did not know. Either way, he takes this opportunity as an invitation to step inside. As soon as he plants both feet across the threshold, he is hit with an aroma that makes his mouth begin to water and then he sees it.
Between the bottles of unknown liquids and what looks like all different kinds of herbs, is a freshly roasted chicken—that looks like it could not have been taken off the fire but moments ago.
Dunk all but floats to the table, saliva pooling in his mouth at the thought of even having one piece of the delicious looking bird. He can not remember the last time, or if ever, that he has had the chance to eat something like this.
In that moment, hunger overtook his logical decision making skills. By the looks of it only one person lives here and if the garments outside are any indication, that person is a woman. There is no way one single lady can eat a whole chicken by herself he reasons, so what better knight would he be than by helping her not let the food go to waste? Still, he must show some chivalry before diving right in.
“I assume you won’t be eatin’ all of this, so it’ll be alright if I just take a few bites surely.” He calls out into the hut, hoping whoever resides here can hear him in the distance. He brushes his hands off on his breeches before reaching out and grabbing ahold of one of the legs, snapping it clean off by the bone. “I promise not to eat more than half.”
As Dunk begins to lick his thumb clean of grease, a chill starts to form deep in his bones and he feels as though he is being watched. He spins around as quickly as his feet will let him to meet the eyes of nothing short of a creature from a story the older girls from Flea Bottom would tell him for him to have nightmares all night long.
Grey and white hair that sticks out at all ends, as if rats have taken nests in it. Eyes as black as midnight that seem to hold uncanny secrets best kept in the dark. A complexion akin to a dead man walking, with rotten teeth that Dunk can not fathom are still in her gums.
He falls to the ground in one big ungraceful lump. Words stuck in his throat at the sight of nothing less than a monster from the deepest pits of old Valyria in front of him. “I meant no disrespect,” he croaks out.
He reaches for his sword at his side, only to realize he left it back with Thunder and the rest of his horses. Silent pleas begin forming in his head to whichever of the Seven were looking down on him right now that he be spared for another day.
The witch gazes down at him, a wicked smile crosses her decaying face. “You impudent little rat. Are you less than an animal off the street that can not control its urges.” She shrieks out, her voice sharp and high pitched, making Dunk wince at the unpleasant sound.
She steps closer to where Dunk landed on the ground, reaching out to point one long, bony finger at him. “Do you know what they do with animals like that?” She asks, expecting no response, she doesn’t get one as Dunk is frozen to his spot, petrified just like the animals she mentioned.
She responds for him. “Me? Oh, I'll kill them.”
This seems to shake Dunk from his trance as he scrambles from the floor, pushing himself up by his hands as he runs for the door. The witches cackle can be heard from behind, as if this is all just a fun game to her. He makes it out the door, all but busting it off its rusted hinges, but makes it no farther than to the tree line, something stopping him as if there is an invisible field keeping him captive.
“I beg you,” he pleads, sinking to the forest floor. “If I have caused you offense, let me repay it, but not with my life.” He turns his head, watching as the witch emerges from her hut, the smile still ever present on her features.
Dread settles in the pit of Dunk's stomach as he realizes he is at the mercy of a demon with no escape in sight. He can only hope to get through to her and find reasoning, however small that chance seems to be shrinking too.
The witch picks up a woven doll from a tree stump, only this one is not in the shape of a person as like the others, but instead seems to be in the shape of a dragon.
“You will repay what I have lost, but not with your life Duncan the Tall.” She talks of his name as if to mock him, no praise evident in her voice. “No, I have bigger plans for a man of your stature.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some kind of green dust, sprinkling it onto the doll. She approaches Dunk's side and extends her finger, swiping her nail across his face.
He hisses out in pain before bringing a hand to his cheek, pulling away to see blood coating his palm. She takes his blood, rubbing it across the doll's back as she starts chanting in incantations Dunk can not begin to uncypher.
“Ānogar hen zȳhon ānogar,” Dunk's body begins to warm to an uncomfortable temperature, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Ābrar bound naejot ābrar,” as she continues her chant Dunk begins to cry out in agony, falling to the forest floor, grasping at his body as it feels as though he is being torn apart, bit by bit.
“Till mēre accepts se tolie, kostagon pōnta dōrī sagon sigligon!” As she finishes her curse, Dunk's vision begins to darken at the edges.
The last thing he sees before he succumbs to the pain is the witch burning the dragon and the forest beginning to shrink under his ever growing size.