Chapter Text
~~DUNCAN POV~~
The carriage wheels rattled over the last stretch of road as the city rose before him. Even from a distance he could smell it. Smoke first, thick and greasy from a thousand hearths and smithies, then the sour stench beneath it. Rotting refuse, faeces, stale water trapped in gutters that had not been cleaned in years. The smell hung over the city like a damp cloak.
Duncan shifted in his seat and pulled the curtain aside. The walls loomed ahead, crowded with towers and banners snapping in the wind. Beyond them he could already hear the noise, vendors shouting, dogs barking, carts grinding against stone. A restless, endless clamor that never truly slept. He hated it.
The carriage slowed as the streets narrowed. Duncan pushed the curtain aside again, and the sight that met him made his chest tighten. Flea Bottom.
The crooked lanes looked smaller than he remembered, though the smells were just as strong, stale ale, smoke, refuse baking in the sun. The buildings leaned toward one another like tired old men, their timbers dark with years of grime. Laundry hung from lines above the street, dripping grey water into the mud below. He had walked these alleys once. Not as a lord in a carriage, but as a boy with empty pockets and sore feet. He remembered chasing other children through those same twisting passages, remembered the sound of laughter echoing between the walls. A hot pie shared between three boys had once felt like a feast.
There had been good moments. But there had been hunger too. Cold nights with no roof worth trusting. Fights over scraps. Men who disappeared and were never spoken of again. The carriage rolled slowly past a familiar corner where a crooked tavern still stood. Rafe and I used to hide there. The baker had given out bread once every 3 moons. Duncan wondered if he was still alive. He felt the strange pull of something between nostalgia and shame. This had been his world once. These streets had shaped him long before Aerion or titles ever had. Now he rode past in velvet and silver.
A child in rags stopped to stare at the carriage as it passed. Their eyes met for a brief moment before the wheels carried him onward. He tried to bid the carriage to halt but Aerion was having none of it. He grabbed Duncan's hand tightly.
"Don't you dare." Aerion snarled. "You are not getting us killed in this shithole."
Duncan wanted to argue. To talk of the old baker, of his childhood, of the kindness showed by those who had less than nothing. But he knew better. Flea Bottom was not a place that welcomed wandering lords, even ones who had once been boys in its alleys. A fine cloak and a guarded carriage marked him too clearly now. Curiosity alone could draw the wrong sort of attention, and the wrong sort of men did not ask polite questions before drawing knives.
He would perhaps risk it if he was on his own. But he had Aerion and his two children now.
A sudden bump in the road woke up Arlan. His face contorted in disgust as the scent wafted through the carriage.
"Papa it smells bad." He whined, grabbing onto Duncan. "I don't like it."
Aerion grimaced. "Just a bit longer Arlan, it will be better at the Red Keep."
Arlan nodded, but held his nose tightly.
At last the streets widened, and the climb began. The carriage wheels ground steadily against the cobbled road as it wound upward toward the castle. The noise of the lower city faded behind them, replaced by the sharper sounds of armor and ordered voices. Gold cloaks stood at their posts along the walls, their spears bright in the afternoon light.
Duncan lifted the curtain once more.
The Red Keep loomed above the city like a mountain of pale stone, its towers rising high above the smoke and noise below. Arlan bolted from Duncan's hold to get a better view, pressing his face against the glass on the carriage as more of the castle came into sight. Summerhall was grand, broad halls, strong walls, gardens that caught the sun just right, but it had been built for living. Its beauty was quiet, warm, meant for long days and steady seasons. This was something else. The castle towered above in pale stone and red banners, its walls rising so high they seemed to swallow the sky. Built for the dragon kings. A reminder to all of their power.
Duncan caught Aerion smiling at the view. They had stood here together before, shoulder to shoulder over the great war table, lantern light spilling across the maps as commanders argued and pointed out the scattered holdings of the Blackfyres. Fingers had traced roads and rivers, marking castles to take and passes to hold. He thought of Baelor's authoritative voice and commands. He had been Hand then. He was king now. Would he receive us? He is probably much too busy.
His thoughts drifted to less...amiable...figures. Of Maekar, the new Hand. He too was instrumental to the war effort, leading the battalion against key holdings in the North. They had barely interacted, but Duncan could always feel his cold stare boring into the back of his head. He supposed he could not blame the old man. He still remembered his voice, loud and ringing during Duncan's trial of combat against Aerion.
My boy, my boy. He had cried out, as he watched a hedge knight brutalize his precious son. He had threatened Duncan after, with cold steel to his throat. If you hurt him you will die screaming. Duncan glanced at Aerion, now gently rocking their sleeping daughter. He had promised Maekar that he would not harm his mate. He supposed he had kept up his part of the bargain.
~~MAEKAR POV~~
The carriage rolled into the castle courtyard and came to a slow halt beneath the high stone walls. Maekar had come out to receive them himself. Aegon, now a boy grown, stood next to him. They stood near the steps with a small gathering of guards and courtiers, his cloak stirred lightly by the wind. The carriage door opened. Duncan emerged first, carefully lifting his silver haired grandson out of the carriage.
Maekar gritted his teeth involuntarily at the sight of the giant. Neither years, titles nor honors had not washed away his anger. Duncan's feats in the Blackfyre war had turned him into a folk legend. Among the soldiers and smallfolk, stories about him had spread like wildfire, the man who had captured the Fiddler himself, the knight who had carved his way through dozens in the chaos of battle, the giant who seemed to stride untouched through fields where other men fell. Smallfolk and nobles alike admired him. The lowborn turned lord turned warrior.
But Maekar never forgot. He could not. He still saw the brute that lifted his bloodied omega son up as the crowd cheered. He still heard Aerion's cries echoing the stadium as his arm snapped. He still remembered sitting at Aerion's bedside and listening to his pained wheezes as the maesters stitched up his wounds.
And the humiliation afterwards. It had not been enough to defeat him. Tradition had forced Aerion to give up everything to that lowborn filth. His hand in marriage, his titles, his lands. Even his small council seat, not that the halfwit giant ever attended. Even now, watching Duncan tenderly help his son out of the carriage sparked feelings of revulsion. He thought back to their wedding. How that lowly cur had stumbled through his speech, his cloak bearing the colors of the dragon house. The new lord of Summerhall. And for what? Brutalizing and torturing an omega in combat.
He had drunk his body weight in arbor wine that day. Yet later in bed, sleep would not come. The chamber was dark, the fire long burned low, but his mind would not rest. Again and again it returned to her, Dyanna, to the way she had looked at him that last night, pale but determined, her hand closing around his. She had always loved Aerion most. You must protect him. She had made him promise. The words had been soft, almost a whisper. He had given his word. But he had not kept it. Not at the trial, and not at the wedding.
He had tried afterwards, sending spies and even sparing a Kingsguard to watch their travels, even allowing Aegon to squire, though he knew he could not stop him. No letters that came indicated that Aerion was suffering, at least not until he was almost slain at the Reach by one of the Blackfyre bastards. He had heard tales of the hedge knight in that battle: the giant who had cut through dozens of men to reach the prince, the man who had carved a path through steel and blood to keep Aerion alive. He had stopped with the spies after, but still resented the knight for allowing his son to fight in the first place. He should have been locked in Summerhall.
He forced his face into a neutral expression as Duncan approached.
"My lord hand." Duncan went on his knees, his head bowed.
"You can spare the formalities. Rise." Maekar deadpanned.
Aegon let out a shout after, running like the wind towards his hedge knight, the impact of their hug almost knocking the giant over. They laughed as they embraced. Years had separated them physically, but their friendship remained bound in steel.
He turned away from them immediately to look at the others.
His expression softened when the children were brought before him. His grandson stood a little too stiffly, trying to imitate the posture of the knights he had seen, while the younger girl clung asleep on Aerion's hand.
He knelt slightly, reaching out to ruffle Arlan's silver hair. Silver hair and violet eyes. He looks just like Aerion did. With one motion he carried the boy, grunting at the weight. Arlan laughed, breathy and free. He laughs like Aerion did, before...before Dyanna went. He choked back a sob, planting a kiss on his grandson's forehead, before setting him down gently.
"Gods he's heavy for his age." Maekar chuckled.
"Takes after his sire." Aerion laughed, handing his daughter over.
Maekar frowned at that. But smiled again as he gingerly carried Rafe. The girl was still asleep. Her small head rested against his shoulder, soft curls brushing the heavy fabric of his cloak. One tiny hand still clutched at the edge of his sleeve, as if even in sleep she feared the world might shift beneath her. Her breathing was slow and steady, the faint warmth of it against his neck. She has Dyanna's nose.
He handed her back before looking at Aerion. His son had grown into the same features he had carried as a boy, but time had hardened them. The face was leaner now, weathered by years of riding and fighting, the easy youth worn away by war. War had changed him, perhaps even improved him, though the scars and lingering injuries were burdens he clearly despised. The fire that had once burned so fiercely in his violet eyes had softened, whether from childbirth or war he did not know. It had not extinguished completely however, but tempered into something steadier, and his old imperious gaze still remained.
"My boy." He whispered affectionately, pulling Aerion into a hug. It had been three years since they had last parted. The memory of that day still lingered. They had not left on good terms. The quarrel had seemed small to others, perhaps, but to them it had carried weight: a name chosen, a granddaughter named without the approval he had expected.
Rafe? He had sputtered. A peasant Dornish name. The lowborn knight had already named the first one, now he seeks to diminish the second. Aerion had stood resolute that day, his violet eyes blazing with fury at the insult he believed had been given. He had not spoken a word to Maekar till the departing carriage was prepared, his silence as sharp as any accusation. Only when the horses were already harnessed had he finally turned, offering nothing more than a curt, clipped “Goodbye.” Time, however, had worn down much of that bitterness. There was no anger now, just the weary affection of a son who had spent too long away.
"It's good to be back father." Aerion said with a smile.
They stood in silence, taking in the moment. Unfortunately, it did not last long, as the hedge knight and his former squire began...barking? Maekar bit his tongue to conceal his disgust.
That peasant knight has taken two sons from me.