Chapter Text
In the night, Baelor dreams of it. It’s not a memory. He’s looking over his own body crumbled in the arms of the hedge knight he barely knows but chose to defend against his own kin. In the dream, the scene is drenched with blood. You would expect it to be so, with the way the injury had been described. The Fossoway lad had looked downright green as he recounted how he and the blacksmith had removed the helmet to reveal Baelor’s crushed skull. In the gatehouse of Ashford, the actual gore is still etched into the stones despite efforts to erase the proof of it. A dribble and a splotch. As he stood over it before they left, it struck him how insignificant the remains looked compared to the monumental turning point it could have been had he actually died. Soon, it will just be another stain in the courtyard.
His actual memories of it are somehow startlingly clear yet fractured and hard to decipher. Like a painting on a plate that has splintered against the floor. He remembers seeking the hedge knight out to congratulate him on the victory. He remembers the man on his knees and pledging himself to him. Clearly out of it, but the conviction in his tone as he said the words is lodged in his mind. He had looked up at him with what can only be described as devotion. Bloodshot as they were, his eyes were still such a clear, vibrant blue. What an odd thing to latch onto as the last thing before apparently dropping dead.
There is a time of silence and cool, dry nothingness.
Then he was awake again. Head pounding, and struck with a feeling that penetrated the marrow of his bones that something was very, very wrong, but not being able to put a finger on it. It was quickly pushed aside as he realized he was swaddled in a funeral shroud and laid out in a basement. There had been shouting. The sight of Maekar tearing into the chamber only to fall to his knees with a wounded howl will haunt him forever.
His pondering is interrupted by a heavy knock on the door that resounds loudly in his quiet office in Summerhall, where he has been sent to “recuperate”. He takes a moment to rub at his eyes. He’s gonna throw something if it's a messenger with more missives. The inconsequential nonsense currently spread across his table is more than enough. His mind drifts towards that cold, quiet place before he catches himself and wrenches back control of his thoughts. He wonders if whatever reformed his skull left a hole for his thoughts to drift out of. Then again, leaving completely unchanged is probably too much to ask of one miracle. They still don’t know the cause of it. Be it the will of the gods or some nefarious power that will reveal itself later in time. Until then, the only thing he can do is live on. He is relieved when it’s his brother who steps through the door. Thankfully, not carrying any more parchment. Maekar has taken over most of his councils for the time being. Even as he stands before him, he still can’t look Baelor in the eyes. It should probably shake him more that his own brother had killed him. Another man might suspect him of having done so on purpose to get closer to the crown. That rumor has already taken hold in court. They should talk about it. Brother to brother, but then again, what is a bit of fratricide between Targaryen?
“Any news of your boy?” he interrupts before Maekar manages to open his mouth. He doesn’t have to say who he’s referring to. Daeron is down the hall, probably in the company of a casket of wine, Aerion has been quietly banished to Lys, but Aegon? While their retinue had been scrambling in the wake of his miraculous survival and in their eagerness to leave, little Aegon had apparently found his opportunity to slip away and disappear with his hedge knight. Scouts have been sent out to look for Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, but they can’t let it be known that a prince of the realm is out there with nothing but a hedge knight to protect him. Maekar clenches his jaw, shakes his head once, before he starts his summary of his meeting with the advisors. Baelor lets his voice wash over him.
Two months pass.
Baelor hadn’t really put much thought into what circumstances would make the boy return. Markar had scoffed and said that he expected him to be back when he realised that the hedge knight was no more chivalrous than any other man. That or when the novelty of sleeping in the ditch wore off. Baelor isn’t so sure about that. A blind man could see how tightly the child had latched onto the knight. He wouldn’t be surprised if the lad would follow him to the end of the world.
That's the reason why it is so startling when Aegon turns up in the courtyard alone.
The lad is a pitiful sight as he stands there in the wide empty plane. Drenched to the bone from traveling under the current heavy downpour. His practical and well made tunic and cloak, raged and caked in mud. He’s shuffling in place like he’s straining against something. Aegon keeps looking behind himself until his attention turns sharply to them as they approach. Maekar, who might as well have been running down from the tower in his hurry to reach his boy, stops an arm's length away, like someone pulled his chain hard. Father and son stare each other down. Like usual, neither knows what to do with the other. Baelor stops a few phases away, his eyes roam over the yard to give them a bit of privacy. There is no trace of the tall frame of Ser Duncan.
“Where’s the hedge knight? Did he leave you to return by yourself? “ Maekar grouses out in a quiet, restrained tone, but the guards on the other side of the yard can probably sense his murderous intent.
“He asked me to run ahead. He’s waiting on the bridge!” Aegon exclaims in a hurry. Letting the boy run ahead to get a scope of their reception is a wise choice considering the circumstances that he and Aegon left under. But Baelor still read Ser Duncan to be the sort of man to turn up and face the repercussions in spite of knowing the sentence to not be in his favour. Something is off. Maekar looks like he’s about to add something. Aegon has turned his back on them, presumably to run and fetch his man. Yelling can be heard in the distance. Something heavy hits the stones of the yard somewhere. Aegon has barely managed to take more than a step before two horses come thundering through the yard and straight towards them.
“Chestnut!” He yells, and Maekar has to throw himself over his son as he tries to run towards them. Guards come running to quell the loose beasts. Aegon looks on, wide-eyed. Something like fear passes across his features. As the horses have been settled, he wrenches himself out of his father's grasp and takes off like a bolt towards the gates. Baelor and Maekar follow in a hurry. They find the boy standing on the bridge, no hedge knight in sight.
“He said he would be waiting,” Aegon says in a small voice that pulls at Baelor’s heartstrings.
“He can’t have gone far,” he says in a low mutter that was probably meant for only himself. Aegon turns his gaze back up on them with a resolved look. “We need to send a patrol out to find him!” He says with authority befitting a prince of the realm.
“For what reason?” Maekar says with an indifferent scoff. He tries to put a hand on his boy's shoulder, but Aegon sidesteps. Maekar squints down at him, unflinchingly despite rain droplets dripping from his lashes. His brother is a man who doesn’t like being given orders and doesn’t have much patience for people not doing what they are told. Aegon knows this, and yet the child still sets his jaw in a very familiar stern way and meets his gaze head on, even if he has to crane his neck back to do so.
“Ser Duncan is unwell. He’ll die out there.” He says in a clear, concise voice, as if he expects proper annunciation will get him what he wants. A quality that Maekar is more likely to react positively to, but there is a fearful, shrill lilt to it that will betray his cause. Something like concern twangs in Baelor’s chest. He had the Maester who treated Duncan give his report on his condition after the trial of seven. A regular man would have died if he were subjected to even half of the injuries, so what kind of illness could threaten a man like that? After surviving the Ashford ordeal, to let The Stranger take you because of some common illness? What an injustice that would be.
“If that is so, he still decided to leave on his own accord. Let the man live by his own decisions." Maekar retorts with an air of finality. He would probably be relieved if he could call the whole thing done. He motions for Aegon to follow him back inside, but the boy stays where he is.
“As his squire, I swore to have his back, should it come to it.” He shouts back. His narrow shoulders are shaking. Be it from the cold or because of the scrutiny he is under. If he is crying, then it cannot be distinguished from the rain sliding from his bald head and dripping from his chin.
“Is he such a lousy knight to have come to rely on a boy to fight his fights?“ Said boy grit his teeth in a snarl.
“Dunk is a good man and a great knight!” he says with a stomp of his foot. It splashes mud onto their boots. Maekar steps back and shakes a leg like it will rid the boot of dirt.
“Then let him prove it.” Aegon looks like he wants to scream and curse out his father. Maekar is used to being yelled at by his own blood, but Baelor doesn’t think he will take kindly to Aegon doing it.
“Duncan has served the crown well. He deserves respect, or grace at the least!”
“By dragging you away from your tutors and making you rub elbows with small folks?” Maekar presses on with a sneer. “By all reasoning, I should have him flayed for kidnapping a prince of the realm.”
“If you will not aid me, then I'll do it by myself then!” Aegon shouts. He would have stormed down the bridge and into the woods if not for Maekar reaching over and burrowing a firm hand in his soaked cloak.
“Out of the question.” He says between gritted teeth. Aegon pulls at his cloak and sucks in a long breath.
“I will give the command if you agree to go inside.” Baelor cuts in before Aegon lets out the shriek he was winding up for. Maekar looks at him in betrayal, as if he did not see a blow coming from him.
“Brother–” Aegon is looking at him with mounting hope. Baelor level a raised eyebrow at him, which makes him straighten up.
“We can’t stay in the rain. Or we will all catch our death,” Baelor says. It only seems now that the boy realizes he is shivering. Maekar turns around to collect himself. His shoulders do a great heave before he turns back as the unruffled lord he is supposed to portray.
“The boy needs a warm bath and dry clothing,” Baelor continues. He reaches out a hand to his nephew. He doesn’t take it, but he does let himself be led along. Together they go towards the castle.
-
Aegon spent the rest of the day by the window overlooking the yard to watch the patrols come and go. By nightfall, with no news and the efforts halted, he has turned even more quiet and sullen. Over dinner, he refuses to speak anything but short answers to his father, but Baelor does manage to pry a bit of description about the condition of the hedge knight out of him.
Apparently, it started with a sensitivity to light. The knight had complained about headaches for a while, but he hadn’t admitted to the severity of it until Aegon had accidentally blinded him with a hand mirror at a marked stall, and caused a headache so severe that they had to stay in a shaded cove for two days before he could open his eyes again without flinching.
Next came the aches, which really should not be a surprise considering his injuries from the tourney, but it wasn't those. A physician Aegon had bullied him into seeing, claimed the injuries looked astoundingly well healed considering how recent and severe they were. Duncan had also assured him that those weren't the issues. Something was off about his back, he said off handedly, and waved off Aegon's concerns. “But that is all” he had apparently promised as if that was the end of it. Aegon had taken notice of how clumsy his fingers had suddenly gotten. How his joints looked red and swollen, and the way that he had started limping with the stiffness of an old man. Something was visibly off about his back when he took off his shirt to bathe. He claims that he could hear loud cracking sounds when Duncan moved in his sleep.
Fever and confusion had set in, either caused by the prolonged headaches or whatever caused the pain. He had apparently been so out of it, that he had barely been able to walk in a straight line or string a coherent conversation together, and then out of the blue, he had insisted they seek out his family, and he hadn't budged until he had agreed. Not that Aegon had put up much of a fight. Aegon had hoped that this was Duncan seeking help, but no. They manage to somehow get here, and the knight still decides to disappear to gods know where, in the middle of the worst rainstorm the realm had seen in ages, because gods know what reasoning his fever addled mind had conjured up, Aegon had exclaimed. Dunk hated the thought of being a burden, he mutters, and then completely discarded the fork he had been using to poke at his barely eaten meal. He had gone quiet and excused himself after that.
Baelor had looked at Maekar. Neither of them had to voice the thought. A man in that state. What chances does he have alone in the woods?
Ser Duncan made sure to deliver his nephew to safety, and then he wandered off to die out of view of his squire.
They sent guards and dogs out again the next morning. At this point, the rain has stopped which is a blessing, but it’s also a curse in the sense that it reveals just how hopeless the hunt is. Maekar forbids Aegon from joining the search party. Claiming they are already indulging Aegon’s whims as is. It is beneath a prince to take part in this sort of menial task, especially for something as lowly as a hedge knight. The boy had raged as only a dragon can, but his demands that soon turned into bargaining and then pleading fell on deaf ears. They end up shutting him in his quarters after the second escape attempt. Baelor, knowing his brother. He’s one of the few people who sees past his icy demeanor and recognizes the actions for what they are. Maekar is trying to be merciful. A man might have easily disappeared in the night under the cover of heavy rain, but as dawn illuminates things previously hidden. They might be lucky and be able to haul a very lost knight back to the castle, or they might stand with a mudlogged corpse on hand, and Maekar might at times be cruel in his lessons, but even he can take pity on a boy who might have lost someone he cared for even if Maekar cannot say he approved.
The guards and dogs come up short of a man or corpse, and in private, Baelor exhales a breath of relief. It is naive, but a part of him would like to believe it means that the man is still alive out there. It’s a thought that doesn’t get to linger for long, because the search has brought up something completely different and far stranger that needs his attention urgently.
-
A delegation of the search party has found a strange site. Trees are pushed askew and covered in mud at a height of nearly three meters. On the ground, there are deep craters that look like something big has dug into the mud and pushed it away with great force. Great big gashes are etched deeply into the cliffs and trees. As one of the riders came to describe it. It looks like a monstrously sized boar has torn through the landscape. They followed the trail of destruction until they reached cliffs leading down to a hollow. They got two men guarding the spot and waiting for further instructions. It doesn't take more than that for him to go have a horse saddled and take off along with a handful of armed men.
He knows they are in the vicinity, before the first signs show up, when he realizes he hasn't heard as much as a bird tweet in a while. Below him, his horse snorts. A shutter goes through its great frame. It’s pulling to change course, but he keeps steering it in the direction of where the scout is leading them. Something is stirring in the back of his mind. He’s not sure if it is anticipation or dread.
The signs of destruction start to appear. First, as suspicious scuff marks, and then whole trees and bushes torn up by force. He cranes his neck to look up at mud splattered high above what any rational means he can come up with could do. Dirt makes way for cliff sides when a rider clad in their colors suddenly comes barreling towards them.
“It’s moving!” He yells before he pulls the horse to a halt. Both the man and the horse are heaving for air. A tremor shakes the man’s frame. He reaches to push back his mail coif only to stop mid-track to stare at his own quivering hand. That is also the point where he seems to remember he’s holding something. It’s a length of woven rope. On it are the remains of a sword scabbard. Baelor only cares for one man who carries his sword like that.
“Where did you find that?” he says as he gestures to the thing in the man's fist. It takes him a moment to collect himself. Be it because he realizes he’s talking with the hand of the king or because he is at his wits' end doesn't matter. What matters is that Baelor doesn’t have the patience for this for much longer. His stern cough seems to shake him out of it.
“In front of the hollow. We went down to get a closer look– ” He trails off to stare past Baelor's left shoulder, like the man is looking at something only he can see.
“It growls," he says in a thin voice.
“Did you get a look at it?” The man swallows something that sounds like a moan thickly before he answers.
“It’s big– think it got mange, and whatever it is is very, very angry. It snapped a thick branch clearly in half. When we tried to poke at it.” Baelor looks at him in astonishment. He can’t decide if the man is brave or just very, very stupid.
“Lead us to the creature.” He settles on. The man looks like he would rather do anything else, but he still turns around with a sharp nod of his head, and then they are off in a trot.
The man leads them to a cliff side where two more riders are standing around and talking in a low voice to one another. They straighten up sharply as their retinue gets down from their horses.
“Down there,” one of the riders says and points further away. There is a slope leading down to a hollow that almost looks like the entrance of a mine shaft. The bottom is muddy, but somehow it hasn’t been filled with water. Something has scored deep gorgeous into the stones around it like it forced its way down. It looks like claw marks. Something stirs in his chest. He feels his pulse in his throat. That hollow in his skull where thoughts have been draining from ever since he got that mace to his head, is being filled with something tangible that doesn’t slouch around.
Numbly, he picks up a stone and aims it at the entrance. A sucking splashing can be heard like boots in mud. Something scrambles against stones. A great growl reverberates from the hollow. The men he brought with him take a step back as murmuring breaks out. Something beyond pride roots him in place. The animal part of his brain understands that the thing down there is a predator larger than himself. He should be afraid, but he is not. He throws another stone, and the scraping sound intensifies. A long shriek like roar rings out that almost resonates through the bones. Whatever is making the noise is big and barrel chested. The hollow must end in a blind end. The creature is pressing up against the back wall, cornered and aware of it. It’s not angry. It’s afraid.
“You can come out. My men will not hurt you– I will promise you that.” The familiar tone of the words almost surprises himself as he speaks them. The growling is undercut with a shrill groan.
“M’lord–” someone says from behind him, and he doesn’t care for anything except the thing that answered. He waves at his men to pull back as he slowly makes his way halfway down the slope towards the hollow. He feels like he’s dreaming. He should be afraid, or at least cautious, but he just keeps walking like he expects to wake up before anything bad could befall him. A stone tumbles down into the depths and lands with a cracking sound. Something scrambles against rock and mud. The growl intensifies.
“My name is Baelor! Baelor Targaryen, hand of the king.” The growling stops. Its absence is almost louder than when it rang out. Something shifts in the dark. A great shape comes into view. There is a gasp from the men behind him.
He should be surprised, but he’s not. This feels like it was always meant to be, and he had just unknowingly been waiting around for it to happen.
Head low and shoulders hunched. Great wings are held tightly to its body as it slowly crawls out. It’s drenched so extensively in mud that the color of its hide is unextinguishable, but its eyes are a clear blue. A dragon is standing before him. It stops at the mouth of the hollow. A great horned head pointed towards him.
And around its neck, it bears the remnants of clothes last spotted on his nephew's hedge knight.
The logical thought should probably be that the dragon ate the man, and somehow got entwined with his clothing like that, but there are no signs of blood in either the surroundings or on the beast itself, and the dragon isn’t big enough to have swallowed a man that big whole. The dragon's head is around the size of a big draft horse’s. A monster if a man had to take it on, but small for a dragon. How it has managed to fit in the hollow is beyond him. Baelor was never blessed with dragon dreams, but somehow he knew that he would one day meet the knight again.
There is a murmur from the men as they push forward, spears poised to strike, making the dragon scramble back. Baelor waves at them with a stark bark of an order to stand back.
It takes a moment to remember how the sounds are supposed to feel in his mouth, it takes a couple of tries before he dares to sound out the vowels, but the “Ser Duncan?” does in the end ring out clearly in the clearing. The rustling sound from the creature in the hollow stops. Slowly, it reveals its head again. Its attention is turned towards the men still pointing spears at it until it slowly turns its great head towards him. Its eyes are alight with something that can only be described as tentative hope. It takes another slow step forward. It curls in on itself, like a dog expecting a strike, and yet it lets out what can only be described as a crooning sound of relief. It pulls back again with a snort as he slowly lets himself fall down to sit on the trunk of a felled tree. It opens its mouth and lets out another long, low croon. Somehow its questioning tone comes across clearly.
Baelor stares up, past the green foliage and towards the now clear blue sky where dragons used to roam and now might roam again. It's the same color as the eyes of the dragon.