Chapter Text
It was after his seventh name day that Dunk’s life became considerably more interesting.
Though he seldom stayed away from trouble, he did not feel he purposefully looked for it either. Trouble was something that he found himself in, embedding itself into his life like a painful splinter under his fingernail. Rafe was less bothered by this, and she would often tell him that it’s better to be up to no good than to get a beating without a reason. Dunk wasn’t quite sure he saw her point, but he didn’t argue.
They would leave the city wall behind often enough, but on that particular spring day, Dunk went on alone, sick of the stench and noise of Flea Bottom. Once he reached Rosby Road, he felt like he could breathe better in no time, and his mood, as always, also improved as he set his eyes on the sparkling waves of the Blackwater Bay. He planned to walk along the shore until his feet began to tire, and then turn back. The sight of the sea always made him yearn to leave the capital behind, but then his guilt would creep in once the memory of his mother flashed across his eyes. He knew eventually he would need to deal with his feelings, but that day was not the day for it. He didn’t manage to walk very far from King’s Landing before he noticed a boy climbing an apple tree.
Dunk stopped walking at once, his mouth parting in surprise. The boy was a prince without a doubt; it was apparent not only because his hair was silver-gold but also because his attire was much too fine to be climbing a tree in. Dunk didn’t see any trace of a guard around, and the boy kept climbing higher. Suddenly, a branch snapped under the princeling’s grasp, and having lost his balance, he was now dangling from the tree. Their eyes met in a shared panic, and Dunk hurried closer to him, ready to catch him if he must.
“Are you okay, my prince?” Dunk asked, brows furrowed. He couldn’t imagine why a prince would possibly be alone and outside the walls. “What are you doing up there?”
The boy grunted and knitted his eyebrows in a much angrier manner as though it was Dunk that caused the tree branch to break off.
“Climbing a tree. As though that’s not obvious,” the prince replied.
“It looks to me like you’re hanging from a tree,” Dunk said slowly, unsure if pointing out the prince’s failings could be considered a crime of some sort. Rafe would be furious if he lost his head because he insulted a prince.
“Ah, so you were blessed with eyes after all,” the prince smiled sardonically. Then he pressed his lips together in a thin line, and using his legs, he turned his body around and hoisted himself up on a thicker branch that could support his weight. He sat up straight, cleaning wood pieces off his black-red clothing. “You’re in luck.”
Dunk blinked. “I am?”
“Indeed, you are. For you are about to witness a dragon flying,” the prince said confidently.
“I-I am?” That made Dunk not only confused but nervous as well. It’s been a well-known fact that dragons ceased to exist, and if they were to exist again, Dunk didn’t think he wanted to meet with one. That ought to be trouble. “M’lord, I’m not sure I am worthy to—”
“That doesn’t matter because now that I think about it, it is better if I have a witness, so you can tell my father what I did,” the prince said enthusiastically. Dunk narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whose son the prince is. He looked young, around the same age as Dunk, but his clothing didn’t tell him too much, and Dunk doesn’t know all that much about the Targaryens. He knew their names, of course, and how the king looked, but all the other faces eluded him.
“What is it that you’re planning to do, m’lord?”
The prince stood up, one hand on the tree trunk. “I’m going to jump off from here and fly.”
An alarm went off in Dunk’s head at once. He didn't think himself to be the smartest there is, but even he knew that jumping down from so high up was a terrible idea that wouldn’t end well. Gods, the prince could die, and he would be framed for it.
“My Prince, I-I don’t think—shouldn’t we look for a smaller tree?” Dunk asked, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, looking around to see if any guards were advancing toward them. Surely, someone must have noticed that a prince is missing by now.
“This one will do. I need the tree to be fairly tall in case I don’t catch flight right away,” the prince explained to him. “Daeron said it’s better to do it here than from the castle wall.”
Dunk knew of a Daeron Targaryen. If they were brothers and not cousins, that would make the prince in front of him Aerion Targaryen. It was possible.
“Do you really have to?”
The prince raised his eyebrows. “The dragon waits for nothing.”
“Aye, but—”
“Stand back—” The prince paused for a second, tilting his head to the side. “What is your name?”
“It’s Dunk.”
“Stand back, Dunk, and don’t try to intervene, or I’ll have your eyes plucked out,” the prince threatened, and Dunk felt rooted to the ground. His skin crawled; every part of him wanted to do something to stop this, but he didn’t want to lose his sight. Curled his hands into a fist, he stared at the prince in fear. “Good, don’t even blink or else you might miss it.”
The prince bent his knees slightly, then he jumped, and for a heartbeat, Dunk made himself believe that he could stand by and watch. Another heartbeat, and he realized that the prince would break both his legs at best. He didn't wait for him to hit the ground; he caught him somewhere between too late and just in time. Like a barrel, they rolled around in the grass, then the momentum died down, and Dunk was on his back, staring up at the nearly cloudless sky. A pathetic whimper came from the prince.
Dunk shot up, pain blooming in his own body, to look at the prince lying near his knees, teary-eyed, red-faced, and looking worse for wear. A button was missing from his fine shirt, but that would be the least of his problems because he was also holding onto his left ankle.
“I am the dragon,” the prince snapped, but his voice didn’t sound nearly as angry as he might’ve meant it to be. “I am. I am.”
“You are,” Dunk agreed, feeling a little lost. “Never said you weren’t, but you’re hurt. You need a Maester. You shouldn't be here.”
“You should pay for what you did to me. I was very close.”
Dunk let out a noncommittal hum.
Close to the ground, maybe. He wanted to say it, but he wouldn’t. A wounded pride might be worse for a prince than a broken ankle. He crouched down, preparing to slide one arm under the prince’s knees and the other behind his back, but before he could go through with it, a hand pushed him back forcefully, and he landed on his ass.
The prince scowled at him, his upper lip twitching as he said, “You will not carry me. That is undignified.”
“My apologies, your grace, I assumed you couldn’t walk,” Dunk said, feeling the heat bloom across his cheek. He didn’t mean to embarrass himself, but he thought he ought to help the prince. It was not as though there were anyone else around.
“Of course I can walk,” he snapped, but his words were mostly filled with anger and not a lot of confidence. Dunk bit back a ‘can you really?‘ and instead stayed sitting in his spot, watching the young prince push himself up from the ground, wobbling on one leg since he was keeping his left leg in the air. Then the prince added, “Or hop.”
“Is that dignified?”
Their eyes met again, and Dunk was surprised to see how beautiful purple eyes truly were. He’d never seen anyone have eyes like that before.
“Shall we have a philosophical discussion if it’s better to be assisted by someone from Flea Bottom or to hop back to the city on one foot?”
“Does it matter where help comes from?” Dunk said, eyebrows knitted together. “There’s no one else but me. I won’t ask for anything for my help—”
“If you were smart, you would—”
“—so let me help you back to the wall and the city guards can take you to the Maester,” Dunk insisted, feeling very much like his duty to lend a helping hand. “I only want to help you, Prince, uh—”
The prince narrowed his eyes, but amusement laced his features. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“There are many princes about.”
“Not that many,” he huffed, and then extended an arm toward him. Dunk shot up, wrapping his arm around the prince’s back. “I’m Prince Aerion, and you would do well to remember it.”
“My apologies.”
“I accept your apologies, so help me back to the city,” Aerion huffed, still not sounding too chuffed about the idea, but Dunk felt even more eager to help.
Their pace was slow, even with Dunk’s help to alleviate Aerion’s weight off of his bad ankle, but at least they were finally moving instead of arguing uselessly. Dunk tried his best not to notice how clean Aerion smelled, hints of lavender and something woody sticking to his clothes. Most certainly, he didn’t smell good at all. It must have been nearly a week since he dipped his toes into the water.
“What it is that you were doing out here?” Aerion asked suddenly after the silence grew between them.
“Nothing much. My aim was to walk some distance before returning to the city,” Dunk said honestly. “I like the air here. I like the trees too.”
“I imagine not many trees or good air in Flea Bottom,” Aerion said simply, and Dunk smiled at the ground, shaking his head.
“No, not at all,” he confirmed. “I wonder what you’re doing in King’s Landing. Your lord father is the prince of Summerhall, I thought.”
“So he is, but it doesn’t mean we never visit the king,” Aerion told him. “We stay for a while still before going home. It always is an enormous bore.”
“Is that why you’re trying to learn to fly?” Dunk asked. He has been bored many times in his life, and yet he would’ve never thought of jumping off a tree. Granted, the idea terrified him, but he thought it would scare most people, not just him. “Passing time?”
“In a way.”
“Won’t your lord father be upset that you got hurt?”
Quieter, Aerion said, “I’d be surprised if he notified it at all.”
“Wha—”
“I’m tired of talking,” Aerion interrupted quickly. “I want to keep going in silence.”
Dunk pressed his lips together, stealing a glance at Aerion from the corner of his eyes. Things didn’t sit well with him, though he also didn’t quite understand Aerion. He wanted to ask more about everything, from Summerhall to the King, but he held his tongue. He kept his eyes on the distant walls of King’s Landing, and they kept walking.
When they were nearing it, he noticed a group of guards advancing toward them, and he felt half-relieved. That is, until Aerion was ripped from his arm and he was seized like a criminal. Two pairs of strong arms were clutching at his arms and shoulders painfully. He let out a yelp.
“Idiots,” Aerion sneered. “Release him in this instant. Is your visor in the way of seeing that he has been helping me?”
The guards let him go, but Dunk kept his eyes on them, not just in fear but in awe, too. He could breathe better now, rubbing a sore spot on his arm. As abruptly as he spotted the prince in the tree, that is how fast the guards circled him and started escorting him back to the palace. Dunk couldn’t do much; he just stared after Aerion, feeling a little odd because they didn’t even have time to say goodbye.
Just before they were too far to see, Aerion turned to look behind him. Dunk couldn’t read the emotions on his face, but he felt surprise blooming in his chest that the prince looked back at him at all. He dropped his eyes to the ground, and the tips of his ears felt hotter than the sunlight.
“You can have Aegon and train him as you see fit, but first he must return to Summerhal,” Maekar says. The muscles in his jaw have been tense since the moment Dunk entered the room. “Much has changed since we left, and I cannot let him leave right away. In the meantime, see to it that Aerion reaches Lys. By the time you return to Summerhall, everything will be dealt with.”
Dunk blinks slowly, repeating the words that he just heard. He might be as dumb as Ser Arlan said after all, because this makes little sense to him.
“M’lord, my apologies, but it is as though I heard you say that I should accompany Prince Aerion to Lys,” Dunk says, and that seems to be the wrong thing to say because one of Maekar’s eyes twitches slightly. The prince steps closer to him, spine straight as a pin, eyes a stormy purple.
“That is what I require of you,” Maekar says curtly.
Dunk doesn’t understand it anymore, so he frowns and starts, “Surely, such a long journey should require someone more fit for the role. As you said, I have more to learn and—”
“If you think yourself capable of teaching Aegon, you should also be able to handle Aerion. You already did so. He still has a lot to heal, so he ought not to give you too much headache,” Maekar says with a thin-lipped smile. It lacks all warmth. “We don’t have kingsguards to spare.”
“Even so, the prince wouldn’t be glad to see me among his traveling companions,” Dunks says, and lets out an awkward laugh. “I think not.”
“You’re not incorrect.” Maekar looks at him, and he has a certain look in his eyes as though Dunk is supposed to catch onto his meaning, but the point continues to elude him.
“I don’t understand.”
Maekar rolls his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “Take it as a punishment of a sort.”
“For me?”
“No, for him,” Maekar replies, shaking his head. “He successfully ruined the joust, and as a consequence, we are paying the price of that. There is no place far enough that I could send him that would undo all the wrong that happened thesepast few days. But this—your presence should be an added weight on his conscience.”
“M’lord,” Dunk says. His throat feels dry all of a sudden, and the words just won’t come.
“Ser Duncan, do you have a father?”
“Not one I can recall,” Dunk replies.
Maekar nods, turning away, his hands behind his back, fingers laced as he walks closer to the window. Pleasant, warm light falls through it, illuminating the dark gray color of the castle, but when it shines on Maekar’s face, it doesn’t seem to fill him with life. He seems more like a man than a prince, one who has been chewed and spat out.
“Will you do it then?” the prince asks without looking at him this time. Dunk wants to say no, but his stomach feels like it is filled with stone and mud. He can’t shake the wrongness of the request, so it just sits inside him.
“I will if it pleases you,” Dunk says, looking away from the shape of the prince. He swallows, and he tastes nothing but regret on his tongue.
Egg didn’t like the idea of them parting as expected, but there wasn’t much that he could do when his father ordered two guards not to leave his side until they got to Summerhall. Although Dunk has no desire to follow them there, he can’t help but take one look at their shrinking figure in the distance before they begin to journey toward Sunspear.
Their party is made up of three guards, a maester, a carter, their horses, Prince Aerion, and Dunk himself. It’s not as though he can hide himself or stay completely out of sight, but he still chooses to trail after them so he would only need to see the back of the prince’s head. He tells himself it’s so he can keep his eyes on him, but that lie only lasts until the prince looks back at him, his expression indescribable from all the swelling and the bruising, then looks away.
It’s enough for the rocks in Dunk’s stomach to roll around uncomfortably. Perhaps he should’ve been more forthcoming and told Prince Maekar the truth, but the truth was not only scary, it was also hard to believe. Aerion hasn’t told his father anything either, so to Dunk, it felt wrong to be the one to offer it up now.
Hard to believe. But it is the truth nonetheless.
A lifetime ago, Aerion used to know him as a child, less than a knight, barely more than a whimpering rat of Flea Bottom. Dunk saved him, and Aerion was kind to him. Sometimes he really was. Dunk was enamored with him because of his status as a prince. Because of his eyes. Because of his lavender scent and his gifts that weren’t gifts at all.
More than ten years have passed since then. Dunk is a knight now, and Aerion can’t recognize him — that must be the reason why he didn’t say anything about them to his father. It has to be. Much to his dismay, Dunk remembers him all too well. From the fish he caught in the river to the gradual softening of his mocking smiles. He remembers, and nobody would believe him.
“The prince summons you,” says one of the guards.
They stopped just before reaching Prince’s Pass, in a small village that has no name and just one shabby-looking inn. No doubt they were recognized as soon as they rolled onto its dirt paths; one does not need to be a highborn to recognize the three-headed dragon on Aerion’s chest. Rooms and their best food were offered at once. Though even in his state, Dunk chooses to sleep outside, he accepted the food graciously. Their dinner was roasted chicken, buttered bread, and ale, and Dunk could practically feel life seeping back into his body.
Then it starts to drain out of him at the request. He was about to go outside and find a suitable place to sleep, but instead, he presses his lips together, stealing himself as he turns around and marches up the stairs. He saw Aerion go up to his room with the Maester a while ago, but neither of them returned.
Dunk spots the old man by a door and walks up to him. The man looks at him and lightly touches his arm and says, “If you need me to look at your wounds, find me afterwards.”
“Thank you,” Dunk says, somewhat surprised. He didn’t want to assume that Aerion’s healer would be willing to look after him as well. He doesn’t need it, but the thought is calming.
The Maester inclines his head slightly and walks away without another word. Dunk only hesitates for a moment, then he steps into the room, quickly taking in his surroundings. The room looks pleasant with its warm brown wooden floors, sparkling fireplace, lard candles, a bed with a worn-looking red blanket over it, and a—
Dunk averts his eyes, clearing his throat. His cheeks feel overheated, and his stomach heavier than it was before. He’s starting to think that being involved with the Targaryens is not a good idea.
“No need to look away, Ser Duncan. I called for you,” Aerion says, and he almost sounds amused.
Dunk forces himself to look up. He doesn’t think the prince is unattractive, so it’s not exactly unpleasant to look at him, but he wasn’t expecting to find Aerion lunging in a wooden tub, one leg hanging out on the side of it — the one that Dunk sliced open. Naked. If he had the guts to stare at it harder, he could most likely see the wound and more.
“I did not know you were taking a bath,” Dunk admits, carefully keeping his eyes on Aerion’s face, not letting them stray elsewhere. They both caused each other tremendous harm during the trial, and yet, even with cuts on his face, Aerion looks very much like the prince that he is.
“Matters not what I do,” Aerion says, his head tilting against the rim of the small tub. “I have questions for you that can’t wait.”
“If it is about the trial, our case was settled. I won’t seek more fights over it,” Dunk says, straightening his posture fully. He has no delusions about Aerion’s cruelty, but he hopes that reason hasn’t completely left the prince.
“The Gods favored you, yes. Nothing further to discuss about it,” Aerion agrees. “Our ways should’ve parted after that, but you are here, and I don’t believe that was your choice. Why did my father put you up to this?”
“You needed to be escorted by guards, and he asked me to be one of them,” Dunks says, only sharing as much about the truth as he needed. Aerion shouldn’t know the whole truth of it.
“That doesn’t explain why it is you,” Aerion says and makes a face, though Dunk can’t tell if he’s wincing from pain or if he’s just simply annoyed. “My father has many guards, and the kingdom has many knights. Most of them are more skilled at fighting than you. I’d be safer with a different knight.”
Something sparks in Dunk’s chest at those words.
“Aye, so I defeated you without any skills then,” Dunk says without thinking.
“Be careful, Ser, I could still have your head by the end of this journey,” Aerion hisses, sitting up in the tub faster than Dunk thought he was able to. “Don’t act like a fool. You understand my meaning. You lack the training that most receive at Summerhall from our master-at-arms. You have advantages. Such is your height, strength, and reach. Gifts you can only use in melee.”
“Those are more than enough for me and perhaps for your father as well,” Dunk points out. Something inside him urges him to attempt to appear more confident in his own skills than he actually is. Aerion does not need to know about his nervous vomiting.
Aerion lifts a brow. “What did he promise you for your service? A place at Summerhall?”
“No, I won’t stay under your family’s roof. After this, I’ll take Egg—Prince Aegon with me, and we’ll travel wherever we wish to go,” Dunk tells him fair and square. That is the only life he has known since Ser Arlan found him, and it is the only one he would like to share with Egg.
“So all this is about my sweet little brother,” Aerion muses to himself, his voice slightly quieter. “He’ll squire for you and live like a peasant without a home.”
“There’s merit in being a hedge knight,” Dunk insists.
“Is there?”
“It’ll take a while before we reach Sunspear. You might end up seeing the merits yourself,” Dunk says. He wouldn’t expect Aerion to like it. He’s not even sure why Egg is so determined to stay by his side, but he suspects that maybe the boy is just happy to be far away from home, no matter where that away is.
“Most unlikely,” Aerion grits through his teeth. Dunk can’t help but notice just how much he sounds like his father. He wonders if Maekar looked anything like Aerion when he was younger.
Aerion looks at him for a while, almost like he’s studying him, and Dunk looks back at him. He tries to keep his breathing steady, but as he inhales, he catches the familiar scent of lavender and something else that is new. Targaryens are known to keep their subgenders a secret until an engagement is agreed upon, so Dunk has no way of knowing what Aerion is, but he’s more than certain that the new scent is in connection with his wolf.
“What is it that you see in Aegon?” Aerion asks after a moment of silence, slowly lowering himself back to lean against the rim again. He looks way too comfortable being naked in front of Dunk, almost like he’s flaunting his body.
“A good lad, a bit impertinent at times, but a good one nevertheless,” Dunk says, wetting his lower lip with his tongue.
“No, I meant what do you hope to achieve with him squiring for you? You must have something in mind if you were willing to come along,” Aerion keeps probing, but Dunk has no answer for him.
“I—I don’t have plans for him.”
Aerion blinks questioningly. “You don’t have plans?”
“No.”
“I cannot tell if you’re an idiot who’s making me think that you plan to kill me by accident, or you’re simply just a fool without aims,” Aerion lets out a huff of laughter, void of any joy.
“No—Of cour—I’m here to take you to Sunspear and go back to Summerhall. Nothing less, nothing more,” Dunk says quickly, tripping over his words. Seven forbid, he makes Aerion think that he harbors some ill intent toward him. While his heart is filled with regret that he couldn’t at least say goodbye to Tanselle, nothing could fix that now. Especially not revenge.
“Help me out of the tub,” Aerion says, holding his hand out toward him.
Reluctantly, Dunk goes over to him, keeping his eyes carefully on the wall as he holds out his hand. Aerion’s palm feels wet, warm, and calloused in his own, and something stirs inside Dunk. He sees just the top of Aerion’s head from his peripheral vision.
He sees the way Aerion doesn’t reach for a towel or move away. Dunk’s cheek heats up as he glances down. Aerion stares back at him, his head cocked to the side, bruised and swollen still. The other scent is stronger now, but Dunk still can’t name it. He’s about to take a step back when he hears Aerion inhaling deeply, and he freezes in his spot.
“An alpha?” Aerion asks. His voice has been reduced to a slight purr.
“Yes,” Dunk nods. Though Aerion must have known it long before today, he still asked, and Dunk couldn’t refuse to answer him. He has the right to know. “Although…”
“Although?”
“It’s, uh, nothing,” Dunk replies, feeling foolish for almost telling Aerion something that he doesn’t need to know. His head feels heavier; something about Aerion’s presence is overpowering his thoughts.
“Do you often stutter, or is something distracting you?” Aerion asks teasingly. Dunk can only manage to look away for a moment before Aerion snaps, “Look at me.”
Dunk does and struggles under the weight of those violet eyes.
“It’s been a long day of riding,” Dunk says to him, his jaw set. “I’m as hurt as you are. Forgive me if I seem distracted.”
“It’s never a good idea to look distracted in front of royalty, Ser Duncan,” Aerion snorts, still managing to look full of himself.
Is it a good idea to stand naked in front of an alpha? Dunk wants to ask. He bites back the burning question because surely the answer would be no. He doesn’t understand why Aerion is so flippant about it. Sure, the prince asked for him to fetch someone during their meeting at the stable, so Aerion cares little about decorum. But this… is too much. He wonders if the other knights have seen him naked as well.
“I suppose you’re right,” Dunk says curtly. “Is there anything else you wish to discuss? If not, I’d like to find myself a place to sleep now.”
“No, that’s all for now. There are still many rooms empty, so take your pick,” Aerion says, and finally he reaches for the towel to wrap around his body. Dunk finds that sight doesn’t make him feel any lighter.
With a tight-lipped smile, Dunk says, “I’d rather sleep outside if I may.”
“Outside?” Aerion asks, incredulous. “Where? In the stable? Or under a hedge?”
“Wherever,” Dunk says, shrugging sheepishly. “Hedge knights are not the picky sort.”
“Clearly more picky than you claim if an inn won’t do for the night,” Aerion shakes his head. “Sleep wherever then. You won’t be woken up by either of us, so if you don’t wake up in time, you’ll be left behind.”
“It’s no problem, I wake with the sun,” Dunk assures, taking a step back. Sleeping in an inn for once doesn’t sound too bad, but he finds himself worried about Aerion’s scent following him to his room and assaulting his senses throughout the night. Outside is much safer. Plenty of air and scents to replace Aerion’s. Another two steps, and as parting, Dunk says, “Rest well, My Prince.”
“I will,” Aerion nods. Dunk turns his back on him and reaches for the doorknob, relieved to step outside. Way too loudly, Aerion says, “We’ll break our fast here before we go. You should, too. I’m no longer in the habit of helping scruffy orphans from Flea Bottom.”
Dunk freezes mid-step. He blinks several times, taking in the words and feeling sick to the stomach from them. His spine feels like a solid blade of a sword, and his heart is racing like a warhorse. He wants to turn back and asks Aerion what he means, but he’s not that dumb.
The last sentence could only mean one thing:
Aerion remembers him. This whole time, he knew who he was.