Chapter Text
“Ser Duncan!” Egg calls.
It’s a sweet sound.
Daeron’s body aches, but his feet feel lighter than they have in years. He dismounts his horse and settles his heels onto the soft, wet earth. He lets the reins slip from his fingers and steps quietly after Egg, who’s already bounding across the small meadow toward the hedge knight.
He puts away the dream of the night before, the one that had riddled through him while the Maesters sewed him back together. He tucks it as far back as it will go without the aid of copious wine, not wanting to dwell on it today. One dragon has fallen, only to be replaced by another. A new nightmare, repeating every time he closes his eyes, unsettling allusions he can’t quite make sense of, until it’s too late, of course. It’s always too late. He’s got a bit of time now, precious little, he can tell. But he intends to make the most of it.
He takes a deep, ragged breath. The air here is pure as it passes over his lungs, unencumbered by stone walls and stuffy decorum. There’s something like hope lodged in the back of his throat as he watches Egg throw himself into the wide arc of Ser Duncan’s arms. The knight smiles despite what must be considerable pain and it stokes a place in Daeron he didn’t think could be warmed any longer.
The smile falls when Duncan glances over Egg’s tiny shoulders, as he catches sight of the elder Targaryen, still some lengths away.
Daeron swallows thickly; swallows down the nausea creeping in after mere hours withdrawn from the drink. He tries to stomach the words exchanged the last time he and Duncan met. He doesn’t have to swallow his pride—all that’s left of it now is the pretentious husk of high-born rearing. He uses it to hold the knight’s gaze, chin level, and expression neutral.
As with everything, despite his monumental privilege and good fortune, he falters. He always does.
Ser Duncan slowly lowers the boy down to the grass, eyes trained on Daeron, and Daeron’s lips part around a sharp intake of breath. He tips his face downward, unable to weather the scrutiny, suddenly regretting the way he’d tied his hair back that morning. It did feel nice to have the tresses scrubbed free of his imbibing, of the carnage in the arena. But now he can’t hide behind the typically tangled veil, can’t disguise the cowardice that has split him open, quite literally, from cheek to ear.
The knight speaks briefly to Egg and his little brother nods, turning to pat the flank of one of the horses, a sturdy brown stot. And then Duncan is closing the distance between them, a hitch in his step that wasn’t there before. Daeron does remember, vaguely, that he’d favored one side in the pavilion before. Perhaps it just looks worse in the daylight.
Daeron waits for him.
Rain is threatening from a canopy of grey clouds overhead, but it will likely hold off until late afternoon. A swift breeze ushers through the overgrowth and trees, seeming to spirit Duncan toward him, ruffling his reddish-brown hair and sweeping the loose leaves of an elm past his long legs. They catch in the folds of Daeron’s coat just before the knight arrives.
“My lord,” Duncan greets, still a good yard away, voice pitched low and cautious.
The Flea Bottom accent is a strange comfort to Daeron’s ears. Or, well, the ear that is still working properly. The knight rests a palm over the pommel of his longsword, secured once more to his intricately woven belt.
Daeron’s aware that his presence here is unexpected and probably unwelcome. That’s been the way of it between them, thus far. And he can hardly fault the man for his apprehension, after all the violence he’s endured at the hands of Daeron’s wretched family, because of Daeron’s own actions.
“Surely we are past titles,” Daeron answers timidly. They do seem utterly ridiculous now.
He lifts his eyes from Duncan’s feet up to his abdomen. He can’t see any evidence of the near-mortal wound Egg had described, but he doesn’t doubt it’s there, somewhere beneath the stained linen and parted vest. What Egg told him of the trial after Daeron took his hit had horrified him, and he was no stranger to horror. Mustering his last shred of courage, he finds Duncan’s face, cataloguing the now-familiar features and noting with ample grief his incredibly swollen left eye.
The knight doesn’t respond at first, shifting awkwardly at Daeron’s suggestion they dispose of formalities.
“Egg will come to squire, then?” He asks instead, seeking confirmation. His hand tightens at the hilt, by habit or because of nerves, Daeron can’t know. “On the road?”
Daeron nods, mouth lifting at one corner. That he should be considered an authority, to anyone, is fairly laughable. But he will keep his and Egg’s secret—that they’re not here by any official capacity—for now. It’s not important. What’s important is that they get Egg as far away as they can, that they give him a fighting chance. Daeron knows, if nothing else, he and Duncan have that wish in common.
Duncan’s smile resurfaces and Daeron feels grateful for his kindness, his openness, in a way he can’t really explain. He has other wishes, too. Foolish ones that flared the moment Duncan laid him, supine, over that table. He tucks those wishes away with his cursed dreams.
While Daeron was lost in thought, Duncan had looked over his shoulder, fondly watching Egg attend and talk to his horses. When he returns his gaze to the other prince, the anomaly of their meeting seems to finally register.
“And you would…“
“—insist on accompanying you,” Daeron offers quietly, diplomatically, in explanation. “If you’ll have me,” he amends, despising the weakness it casts over his petition.
Duncan looks bewildered and it conjures something truly sobering inside Daeron. It’s kind of humiliating, the way he hadn’t really considered this part going sideways. He can feel moisture behind his eyes and the injured one stings disproportionately, still a bit cloudy and crimson.
The knight steps closer. His expression tempers, but he’s clearly still conflicted. He raises a hand, and if Daeron flinches, it can’t be helped. If only he were drunk so he could deaden this awful, raw feeling, this exposure. He simply stands there, frozen, awaiting whatever this mass of a man has in store for him. It can’t be worse than lying prostrate in the mud after being trampled by one’s own horse, he figures. Though, there is vivid memory of a dagger pointed at his neck and a thick, heavy arm laid across his throat.
Nothing of the sort comes.
Instead, Duncan places his large hand over the side of Daeron’s face, so light it’s almost hovering. A thumb lands more firmly on Daeron’s chin as Duncan boldly turns the prince’s face this way and that, carrying out some sort of inspection. The same thumb skirts beneath the raised, slightly uneven trail of dark stitches in Daeron’s cheek. It’s sore to the touch, but Daeron doesn’t mind. He’s too relieved.
“Seven hells, they got you good,” Duncan laments as some of Daeron’s shame escapes: a tear rolling silently down his wounded cheek and pooling against Duncan’s thumb. Duncan doesn’t comment on it, just wipes it carefully away. He looks very serious when he adds, belatedly, “We kind of match, don’t we?”
Daeron huffs, trembling, not entirely convinced it’s an effect of the crisp weather or the withdrawal. It’s absurd that Duncan would compare their injuries, given the alarming severity of his own. It’s a miracle he’s standing at all, especially so soon after.
“I am glad you didn’t die, Ser Duncan the Tall,” Daeron whispers, hoping it gets caught in the wind.
“Come, now. You said no titles.”
Daeron laughs at that—a desperate sound—nodding further into Duncan’s touch. Who could fault him for feeling a bit greedy, indulgent while he’s allowed it?
“I’m glad you didn’t die, Daeron,” Duncan mutters in return.
It would seem they’d both survived Daeron’s lie. And now here he is, ensnaring this unbelievably decent, truly good man in another deception. Some hell awaits Daeron, it’s certain. Though, he’s already without his wine.
“Oi! Let’s go!” Egg hollers impatiently from behind them.
Duncan’s boldness seems to begin and end in that meadow, much to Daeron’s disappointment. The knight withdraws from him at Egg’s bellow as though he’s been broken from some spell. They saddle up and stow their scant supplies without further discussion of the matter.
Daeron can still feel the heat of the man’s calloused fingertips on his face, the weight of concern in his pale eyes. It’s alien to Daeron, but achingly welcome at the same time. He doesn’t dwell on it for very long, though, as all his senses are quickly occupied by his worsening condition.
Duncan sits astride his war horse, Thunder, and Egg is riding Chestnut, whom Duncan has generously entrusted to him. Daeron returns to the saddle of his own horse, a mild-mannered palfrey named Sable that he was gifted many years ago, despite his seldom riding. They start trotting down the nearest road, headed wherever the hedge knight deems fitting for Egg’s apprenticeship.
Duncan keeps a formal distance from the eldest prince, turning only to make sure Daeron is still in tow now and again. He mostly rides alongside Egg, maintaining a steady conversation with his young squire. Daeron enjoys their banter. It’s clear to him now how close they’ve become—almost like brothers. Something twists in Daeron’s chest at the thought. He can’t recall the refuge of such brotherhood.
The sky does eventually open up, as Daeron had predicted. Egg and Duncan grouse when the deluge begins, but Daeron is glad for how the rain cascades over him, dousing the cold sweat beading every inch of his skin. The noisy rush of downpour drowns out his labored breath, and perhaps with the hood of his coat pulled far over his head, his companions won’t notice his eyes drifting closed ever so often.
He follows the robust clip as best he can, narrowly avoiding a wayward branch to the temple and the slick side of a jutting boulder. The storm recedes and the air empties, but the sun remains trapped in the clouds. A persistent breeze casts a chill over Daeron’s seizing muscles.
They are rounding a bend in the road near a towering Willow tree when it happens.
He’s been shivering uncontrollably for the better part of an hour and his vision is swimming back and forth in counter to the natural sway of his horse. The last thing Daeron remembers is the wispy, wet tendrils of the Willow dragging over his face as Sable clops on dutifully beneath. He slips sideways, one of his boots catching the stirrup, and then everything goes black.
He doesn’t dream.
It’s all he can think about as he floats back into consciousness—not the darkness of night enveloping him, nor the rigid trunk of a tree at his back; not the glowing fire snapping close by, or his cloak, removed from his shoulders at some point and draped over him.
He groans, overcome by nausea before he can even piece together how he came to be here. He manages to keep the bile down, shuddering with the effort and shifting further up the tree behind him. It’s an ancient, imposing oak that seems to climb forever when he tilts his bleary eyes to the star-studded sky.
Quite the beautiful place to be feeling so awful, Daeron decides.
“Brother!” Egg exclaims, apparently having noticed Daeron’s meager movements.
The boy is at his side in an instant, thrusting what feels like a small metal cup into Daeron’s hand. It’s water, he discovers, as he spills half the contents over his weak fingers and across his lap.
“There you are,” Duncan says from across the fire. He’s seated, looking down at his hands with a measure of concentration. The vigorous flames between them color the hedge knight’s face in warm hues. They crackle and pop as Duncan works on something with a small blade. “We were getting worried, weren’t we Egg?”
“Yes, quite.” Egg agrees, straightening the cup in Daeron’s hand.
Daeron feels a renewed sense of shame wash over him. How many times has Egg had to see him like this—drunk out of his mind, stumbling about in a daze? How many times has he watched Daeron claw his way to near-sobriety, body sick and sweaty and frail, only for him to fail and reach for the drink again in his weakness?
“I’m alright,” he assures his brother, knowing it’s a senseless claim even as he makes it. “Just a cold from the rain.”
Egg, of course, doesn’t buy it for a second, glaring at him. “You’ve stopped again, haven’t you?”
He always was too clever. Duncan lifts an eyebrow at the siblings’ exchange.
“Egg, I-“ Daeron starts, but the world is slanting and the bile quaking his belly finally wins out. The cup rolls off his fingers and he heaves forward, pushing Egg away from him before emptying the paltry contents of his stomach into the dirt. There’s a flurry of movement and then strong hands are grasping him by the shoulders.
“Egg, go fetch more water. And get a clean…well, the cleanest cloth you can find from my pack.”
“Aye Ser,” Egg mumbles, sounding reluctant, but he heeds the knight’s directions.
Daeron is listening, but he’s no longer able to watch what’s transpiring around him. If he keeps his eyes open too long, everything blurs. But the hands on his shoulders are tight and stable, and he is relieved to feel Duncan’s touch again, despite the layer of fabric in between.
“Duncan,” he whispers, grimacing at the sour taste on his tongue, at his lips. He’s not quite sure how to ask what he needs to ask, and the words are difficult to come.
“My lord?”
Daeron shakes his head at the title.
“Sorry,” Duncan says, sheepishly. He eases Daeron back up against the tree, one hand leaving his shoulder to cradle his head. Something soft is placed behind it.
“Don’t—“ Daeron pauses at an unpleasant tremor. “Don’t let him see me like this,” he begs through clenched teeth, once it passes. “As much as you are able, please. Keep him busy?”
He knows there’s likely not much Duncan can do about it, out here in the middle of the woods, just the three of them. Still, he trusts the man to understand his plea.
“He’s seen enough of it,” Daeron slurs. If he speaks any more he will retch again.
“I’ll do my best,” Duncan insists stoically.
Daeron thinks he nods, but he can’t be sure. A few quiet moments pass. Insects are chirping in the trees. A waft of smoke from the fire fans against his slick skin. And then there’s a cool cloth running across his forehead and dabbing at the corners of his mouth.
“We’ll train,” Duncan says, sounding faraway. “You rest.”
Daeron’s not sure if what transpires can be called rest, strictly speaking.
He’s in and out of consciousness as though stricken ill with some maudlin disease. Though, he supposes, the reality is not far off. He has become something of a disease to his family, walking through life as though a ghost, any decisions he makes balmed by wine or ale and bitterness. He pays it back twofold as it’s leeched from his body now.
At some point he is laid out on a blanket and a thin canvas is secured overhead. He misses the stars one evenfall while fleetingly coherent, coughing himself to wakefulness and surprised to see a swath of material above instead of the bed of starlight he’s expecting.
Duncan props up Daeron’s listless head and forces him to sip at a cold cup of water, even as Daeron tries to bat the knight’s hands away with his clammy fingers. He feeds Daeron a few pieces of what must be roasted fish, but it doesn’t stay down for very long. Duncan cleans him up again and turns him to the fresh side of the blanket, muttering something soft under his breath to Egg.
The next time Daeron wakes, he’s assaulted by painfully bright, scorching sunlight. He groans, squeezing his eyes tight against the attack on his senses. His arms feel weak, almost numb from disuse. They shake rather pitifully as he sets his elbows down behind him, leveraging his upper body into a sort of half-sitting position.
Gods, how long has it been?
He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the sun and its relentless warmth. Last Daeron recalls, he couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t wrap his coat tightly enough to combat the cold in his bones. Now he feels as though he’s being baked alive, positively suffocating.
With incredible effort, he pries the heavy fabric from his shoulders, flinging it haplessly behind him. He’s left dressed in the same formal, black riding outfit he’d set out in, what feels like a lifetime ago. There’s now a layer of perspiration between the chintzy material and his skin. He feels disgusting and he must look it too. He wants so badly to bathe, to wash his hair.
He tries to pinpoint the whereabouts of his companions. The fire is out, a pan and some cutlery placed to one side of it. A short distance away there are two more blankets, rolled up in a tidy fashion—where Duncan and Egg have been sleeping, he supposes. The horses are grazing in a small clearing to Daeron’s left, munching happily on clumps of clover, their coats shiny and bereft of tackle. Sable lifts her head and whinnies at him softly.
Daeron can make out a faint bubbling, indicative of a stream nearby. The hope for some clean water, even if just to splash his face, has him struggling to his knees. That movement alone is enough to sap his energy, hunching him over until the creeping blackness recedes from his vision.
“Ashford’s chair!” Duncan’s voice carries in, not far past the wood. Daeron is momentarily perplexed by the most unserious-sounding curse.
It’s followed by a trill of childish laughter and the distinct clack of thick oak to heavy iron.
Daeron manages a small smile, glad to witness the sounds of a well-kept promise. He’s even more pleased by the contentment, even delight, he hears in Egg’s voice. After everything, after Baelor falling. After Aerion—
Daeron shakes his head free of the distressing thoughts and focuses instead on the stream. He places a palm onto the nearest tree, pressing his full weight against it. His legs wobble precariously beneath him, but he manages to stand. He leans into the trunk, gasping for breath and scraping his forehead over the bark, just in time for Duncan and Egg to come bounding back into the camp. Two sets of feet kick noisily through the underbrush and then the hedge knight materializes beside him.
“Hey, hey. Whoa, there.”
A hand at his back, easily spanning the space between his shoulder blades, grounds him so effectively that Daeron can dismiss being pacified like an anxious horse. He turns his face to greet the owner, temple still resting against the tree.
“You’re awake,” Duncan breathes, stating the obvious.
He looks genuinely relieved. There’s a smudge of dirt on his chin and his hair is tousled from an apparently intense practice.
Daeron smiles at him weakly, pivoting to the most pressing matter at hand. “I’d like to wash up, if…”
“Of course,” Duncan says. He glances away for a moment, Daeron figures to summon Egg.
He tells his squire to start the fire anew and cook something simple for a midday meal. Egg gripes that this is what he was doing, “Ser.”
Daeron smiles a bit wider at that.
He lets Duncan guide him to the source of the water, which turns out to be a spring, clear as crystal and flowing upward from a deep chasm in the earth. It’s surrounded by bushes dotted with dark berries and bordered by smooth, shale-like stones along the perimeter. Duncan leads him to where the water laps onto one of the larger, downward-slanting rocks and then lets go of his arm. Daeron does his best not to sway face-first into the spring.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
Duncan nods—a single, succinct dip of his head. He watches Daeron closely for several seconds, seeming unsure of what he should do next.
Daeron huffs and begins working open the clasps of his riding top. He’s only managed to unhook two when he does, unfortunately, lose his balance and keel forward.
It’s almost comical how quickly Duncan seizes him, fist taking hold of the loosened fabric before Daeron so much as stumbles. The action pulls his shirt free of one shoulder and Duncan’s eyes land where sunlight dapples through the trees onto Daeron’s milk-white skin.
The knight swallows, lips parting strangely.
Something pleasant flutters through Daeron’s chest. He lays his hand over Duncan’s fist and it seems to startle the taller man out of a stupor.
“Get me to the edge?” Daeron requests.
Duncan nods again. “It’s not so deep here,” he assures, the tenor of his voice a bit rough. He clears his throat. “You can stand to the knee.”
He helps Daeron settle onto the firm surface without further incident, squatting behind him and releasing the clasps Daeron hadn’t gotten to. A true portrait of chivalry, Duncan turns his back as Daeron tugs the sweat-drenched tunic over his head, as he shimmies free of his tacky breeches.
The water is overwhelmingly cool on Daeron’s heated skin, but the shock of it feels good. It reminds him that he’s awake. He scrubs at his face, minding the slash on his cheek just beginning to knit closed. He laments the fine fuzz sprouting over his jaw, but there’s not much he can do about it right now. He cradles handfuls of water over his hair, pulling his fingers through the matted strands until he’s worked every knot and tangle free.
Despite the sun beaming through the trees, the cold water eventually takes its toll. Daeron’s starting to shiver and prune when Duncan insists on pulling him out, hands placed ever so prudently and gaze directed anywhere but Daeron’s pale, dripping frame.
Duncan doesn’t touch Daeron again unless he has to.
Daeron understands why, in multitudes. They are both grown men and he’s of noble birth, so it’s improper no matter how you look at it. And what are they to each other, anyway? They’re not exactly friends. Daeron is a nightmare of a prince, consumed by his nightmares, who almost got the man killed; Duncan is a hedge knight of debatable origin who, upon bizarre happenstance, took up with his little brother for the sake of a jousting tourney.
Daeron is also a cog in the system that threatens Egg’s survival, whether he wishes it or not. He’s never once stood up to his father or to his uncle, or even to Aerion. Not in any way that matters. He just simmers in cynicism then slithers away to an inn or brothel and drowns his dissatisfaction in whatever beverage is on offer.
Daeron makes peace with it. It’s not so difficult, given the serenity inside this piece of wilderness they’ve excised from the world for themselves.
He sits at the base of ‘his tree’ and studies Duncan whittling the same totem he’s been working on for days. He watches his little brother fry up the last of the bacon and eggs from the stalls at Ashford with something akin to pride. He’s so capable and Daeron never knew.
He braves a few mouthfuls of stale bread from a loaf Egg passes him after removing the rest of the sizzling food from the fire. The boy eyes Daeron with reasonable wariness.
“Chin up, Aegon,” Daeron says, using the full name with teasing intent. He chews a piece of crust and cuffs a much steadier palm over Egg’s bald head.
Egg ducks out of it, but is unable to suppress a grin at Daeron’s gentle ribbing.
“Dunk and I decided you could sleep through a whole siege,” Egg tells him ardently. He rips off another hunk of bread, holding it out, and Daeron accepts it as a show of goodwill.
He huffs. “Not always. But I do feel quite well-rested.”
Egg doesn’t seem entirely satisfied. He looks at Daeron like he always has—with adoration Daeron’s never deserved and a question in his eyes. How long will it last, this time?
Daeron is so tired of disappointing him.
The day carries on. He observes, with great amusement, how Egg and Duncan assemble their own lunch by placing the greasy slabs of ham and crispy fried eggs between the sliced remains of the bread—truly massive things.
After they’ve finished, Egg sprints off to wash the runny, yellow yolk from his hands and Duncan sets to clearing the area around the fire.
Daeron knows he shouldn’t stare, but he can’t help himself. Not with the way Duncan’s broad shoulders fill out the top of his rough-spun shirt; how his upper arms test the limits on the fraying seams when he curls them at the elbow; the sheer diameter of his thighs as he drops into a crouch, scraping residual fat and oil from the rusted skillet.
Daeron really is destined for some fiery miasma.
He clears the sudden dryness at the back of his throat, mostly for self-preservation, but also because it earns him Duncan’s full attention. The man rises to height, sauntering over to where Daeron is still lounging against the tree, tipping his head down at the prince.
“I’m glad you are better, m’lord,” he says. It’s painfully earnest.
“Daeron.”
“What?” Duncan looks confused until it dawns on him. “Oh, that’s right. Seven hells,” he curses.
Daeron laughs.
“I’m glad you are better,” he amends: “Daeron.”
It still sounds a bit awkward, as though Duncan fears the simple informality will somehow strike him down as soon as it’s uttered. Daeron hopes he grows used to it, because hearing his name on the knight’s tongue with his common accent and friendly cadence affects Daeron the same way the man’s formidable build does. Perhaps more so.
“Thank you,” Daeron replies softly.
Duncan bites his lip and then closes the remaining distance between them, shuffling his feet a bit before dropping down at Daeron’s side.
“You’ve got to stop that,” he implores, voice low and discreet, like he’s about to tell Daeron a secret. Or maybe he suspects Egg will be back from the spring soon.
Daeron raises an eyebrow at the rare demand. “Stop what?”
“Thankin’ me,” Duncan clarifies, eyes wide and serious, like it should be so obvious. Daeron could swear his ears turn a touch pink as well.
“Why?” He’s genuinely curious, but also enjoying the effect this conversation is having on the other man.
“Because, it…” Duncan hesitates, visibly struggling. “It makes me want to do more,” he eventually mutters, ducking his head.
He doesn’t need to explain it any further. Daeron understands perfectly. For the first time in ages, his heart is beating wildly from something other than a restless, troubled sleep.
The following days are a fog, but the pleasant sort. He sleeps, mercifully dreamless, well into the afternoon and his companions allow it. Once he proves steady on his feet and can keep his meals down, Duncan teaches him the basics of tending the horses. Daeron is grateful to have something to do, to take care of, even though it’s filthy work. It feels like something he won’t destroy by simply touching.
At every dusk, he watches Egg and Duncan train in a clearing not too far from camp. They invite him to join in the exercises, but he declines. A sword never felt right in his hands. He doesn’t have the taste for it, can’t even feign for the sake of his royal duty, much to his father’s perpetual disappointment.
He’s content to observe, heart throbbing as Duncan walks Egg through the motions of knighthood with such extraordinary patience. It’s a temperament Daeron has never possessed, but wishes he did.
And how Egg improves! His skillset and stamina advancing from sunrise to dusk, across hours that bleed into more days, then a week. At the same time, Duncan’s limp gradually rights itself and he stops favoring his side. His swollen eye becomes a dark bruise, then just a faint shadow.
Daeron is sitting at the edge of their spring beside Duncan, a knee folded to his chin, when the knight tells him it’s time to move on. He tears his gaze away from the rippling water, glancing behind them. He watches the rise and fall of Egg’s chest as he naps, sprawled like a cat across a sun-bathed rock in the delirious inertia of late afternoon.
He looks back at Duncan, still whittling away—something he picks up whenever he’s not training with Egg, brushing the horses with Daeron, or trying to smack the grime out of their clothing. Daeron is honestly shocked there’s any wood left to whittle at this point.
“Will we go where your Ser Arlen took you?” Daeron asks. He wants to know more about that time in Duncan’s life, he realizes. He wants to know everything.
Duncan pauses, the scratch of his knife falling silent. His eyes challenge the unreasonable blueness of the spring water when they meet Daeron’s.
“Egg would like so,” he murmurs. He sets the knife aside and leans in, much closer to Daeron; almost touching him, but not quite. Duncan hasn’t touched him for a while now. “Is that what you want?”
Daeron pulls a shallow breath. “I want what you want,” he says.
It’s the truth, he realizes, whatever comes.
It’s several days later—at least Daeron thinks so, he’s beginning to lose track of time—when they emerge from an actual thicket. Duncan’s made them battle through it, often resorting to hacking the stubborn brambles clear with his sword.
“It builds character,” he insists.
Daeron tries not to scowl and fails. Egg giggles at his duress and Duncan threatens Egg with a clout to the ear they all know he’ll never deliver on.
Daeron doesn’t mind any of it, not really, because Egg is happy. He can tell by the mirth in his brother’s voice as he recants the most profane tale Daeron’s ever heard about a woman and her arm (Duncan snorts when he realizes what song the little prince is singing). He can tell because there’s a light back in Egg’s eyes, curious and committed to their quest; no longer haunted by relentless tedium and the volatility of their shared blood.
Daeron feels much the same as Egg, though his spirit dampens periodically when he remembers why they are able to be here at all. The guilt of it, especially of keeping it from Duncan, makes him yearn for a drink nearly as much as his dreams do.
And there’s the matter of the dreams: he hasn’t had a single one since he ceased drinking, and that terrifies him. It’s never happened before. If anything, they’re usually more intense when he’s sober, as though the alcohol was keeping the dreams trapped behind a wall and they were stacking up, waiting to be unleashed. The threat hovers over him, baiting him, as though he’s on the precipice of something unspeakable the next time he closes his eyes. It’s only a matter of time, really. It can’t possibly last forever.
He tries to put it out of his mind as they traverse an enormous field of wheat where thousands upon thousands of flaxen rods sway in the breeze, brushing rhythmically against the bottom of Daeron’s boots.
At the edge of the field, they find an old road. It's been turned into mud down the middle and along the outer edges from endless carriage wheels and cattle hooves. On the other side of the road is a sloping hill with a curiously bent tree at the top. Duncan grins at the sight, clearly pleased by something. Perhaps the sight is familiar to him.
“We’ll stop here,” he announces, climbing down from Thunder and patting the horse’s muzzle.
Egg and Daeron follow suit, although Egg is much quicker about it. They’re both unused to so much travel on horseback, but Egg has his youth and enthusiasm to rely on, whereas Daeron is simply exhausted. He’s appallingly sore from the long hours spent astride and it must show in the cautious way he dismounts.
Despite his weariness, he sets to work on feeding and watering the horses from the sacks they’ve kept relatively full. He offers them oats and some of the berries from the spring he already misses. If someone had told him just a month ago that he’d be on the road, sober, and enjoying having a horse lick directly from his palm, he’d have thought them insane.
But it’s worth it. He shifts his gaze from Chestnut and Sable chewing on their refreshments to where Duncan and Egg have begun an impromptu sparring lesson.
He’s just in time to witness Egg land his first solid blow on the hedge knight, his wooden sword sounding a firm thwack over Duncan’s left knee. It looks like it properly stings. Daeron has never been so proud of his little brother.
Egg is elated, of course. He whoops and hollers at the small but certain victory while Duncan winces and hops about in a circle, clearly making a show of it for Egg’s benefit.
Daeron’s breath catches. He’s overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions: immense happiness for his brother’s accomplishment, the fierce gratitude he feels toward the knight, and something right on its heels; too intense to consider just simple affection.
Gods help him.
Apparently finished with his act of suffering, Duncan launches a counter-attack. He tosses his sword to the ground and scoops up his squire with one arm, chuckling as Egg struggles and gripes and beats at his shoulders.
Daeron shakes his head, smiling at their antics. He takes up the strigil and begins brushing over Thunder’s flank. He’s so engrossed in his task that he misses when Egg yanks hard at Duncan’s hair, effectively freeing himself, and runs back toward the road where Daeron is tending the horses.
There’s a high-pitched howl and then Egg launches himself at Daeron, as if Daeron can offer protection from the fast-approaching knight. He impacts Daeron’s chest with such momentum that the older prince topples backwards—right into the gully in the road. He lands with a splat amidst the claylike ridges, almost immediately embedded in the muck. Egg, having landed relatively unscathed atop Daeron, scrambles off with thoughtful haste.
Daeron just sits there for a moment, embracing his fate. The mud squelches through his spread fingers. He can feel it soaking the back of his breeches. Some has even infiltrated his boots.
“I’m so sorry, brother!” Egg swears, and to his credit, he does look rather contrite.
“Bit of poor luck, that,” Duncan adds helpfully, having joined them, chest heaving from chasing the mischievous squire across the field.
Daeron rolls his eyes, then has a wicked idea. He slings a mud-caked hand out towards the knight, knowing Duncan won’t deny him. As expected, Duncan eagerly accepts his hand in a strong grip, dirt and all. He’s caught completely off guard when Daeron grins and drags Duncan down into the sludge with him.
Duncan squawks, his big arm shooting out to keep from landing on top of Daeron. It’s successful at first, but then his fist simply sinks into the viscous mud, throwing him off balance, and toppling him onto his side into the trench.
He lies there, stunned. And then he starts laughing and won’t stop.
Daeron and Egg both squint at his levity.
“What could possibly be so funny?” Daeron asks, leaning forward, grimacing as he tries to peel himself free.
Once Duncan catches his breath, he does his best to explain.
“Y’see, I said to your father—” he wipes at his eyes with the back of his clean hand. “I told him you’d never seen a ditch,” he snickers. “Didn’t take long to remedy that now, did I?”
Daeron’s face falls and Egg furrows his brow.
“When did you tell my father this?” Daeron questions, a pit growing in his stomach.
Duncan seems to realize very suddenly that something is amiss, that all the amusement has been siphoned from the afternoon by his revelation.
“Well, when he said I couldn’t bring Egg with me,” Duncan answers, eyes darting nervously between the two princes. “At first,” he clarifies. “I’m glad he came around, obviously.”
Daeron looks at Egg and his brother peers back at him, dark expression reflecting his own.
“He did—” Duncan is starting to sound quite alarmed. “He did consent, didn’t he?”
Daeron swallows, feeling sick. This is not at all how he wanted Duncan to find out, if he ever did. His insides churn and he claws through the mud until he’s standing, utterly stained with it. Duncan does the same, having an easier time with all his brute strength.
“Egg, I’d have a private word with Ser Duncan, if you don’t mind,” Daeron requests, raking some of the mud from his fingers.
“But it’s not your fault!“ Egg protests immediately.
“Please, Egg,” Daeron snaps.
The tension swells as Egg eventually obeys and begins walking toward the twisting tree atop the hill. There’s not really anywhere else for him to go.
“Daeron, what—“
Daeron cuts Duncan off, raising a soiled hand in the air between them.
“First,” he breathes, hating the way his voice wavers so predictably. “You must not blame Egg. This is my doing. My responsibility.”
Duncan just stares at him for several long moments—moments that seem to stretch on for an eternity, long enough for the sun to be blotted out by passing clouds, drenching their surroundings in a dull grey. Daeron is beside himself, increasingly morose with every second. When he feels like he can’t possibly take it anymore, the knight finally speaks.
“Prince Maekar doesn’t know,” he says flatly.
He looks so angry. It reminds Daeron of how he’d looked at him in that tent all those nights ago, when Daeron thought for sure he’d doomed the man, doomed them both.
Daeron shakes his head. There’s no use denying it. He can’t meet Duncan’s eyes and moisture is welling in his own. He almost wishes Duncan would charge at him with the same fury he had before the trial, the same ruthless energy. At least then he’d be touching Daeron and Daeron wouldn’t feel like he’d just lost him, lost Egg’s liberator, lost everything.
“He’ll fucking kill me, Daeron,” Duncan snarls. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t come any closer. “Completely, this time! You must know that?”
Daeron shakes his head again, desperate. “I won’t let him,” he vows, knowing full well that there is precious little he could do in the face of his father’s rage, especially when it comes to the care and keeping of his youngest.
Duncan scoffs, the sound an agonizing shot through Daeron’s belly, like an arrow being launched at something behind him; as though he’s ancillary, simply in the way.
“I’m starting to think you enjoy this,” Duncan accuses bitterly. “Playing with people’s lives, like we’re nothin’.”
Daeron sniffs, casting his gaze across the road where a strong wind is rippling the wheat. It’s more than just stray clouds—a gale is rolling in.
What Duncan says is rash and untrue. Daeron is selfish, he knows. He always has been. And a coward. But he’s not spiteful. He doesn’t wish harm to anyone, it just seems to befall those around him. He doesn’t argue the point, though. Duncan has a right to his anger.
“I did it for Egg,” is all he says.
Duncan nods, the movement agitated, and Daeron can already feel the weight of his resentment. He stands by the road long after Duncan walks away, joining Egg at the tree where they quietly set up a makeshift camp. He stands there even as the rain starts, hoping it might rinse the mud off his clothes.
He’s falling.
He thinks for a moment that he’s flying, but his arms are not wings and they don’t capture the wind.
It’s dark as pitch. Only brief, crackling bolts of lightning pulse through the smoke-like clouds. There are booms of thunder so great they echo inside him as he plummets; the tumultuous sky seemingly endless.
He seeks purchase, but can’t even see his own hands in front of him. They grasp at nothing but needle-like rain and too-thin air.
Words are spoken somewhere far above or below him—he can’t tell the difference. They’re familiar, some of them his own, but the voices don’t sound right.
I have seen you, Ser.
Lightning licks his skin. He should be burning, boiling, turned to cinder, but somehow he isn’t. He just absorbs the pain like he’s a vessel for it, letting it build within him, expanding with it.
Make it ring, not too loud.
But it is too loud, the ringing in his ears so shrill and relentless he forgets how to breathe. Or maybe that’s the rain—no longer just whipping harshly against him but trying to strangle him. Water fills his mouth, clogging his throat, cascading over his lungs.
Those men are dead because of you.
There’s one final burst. He’s no longer inside himself but watching his body fall from a distance. Lightning illuminates the blackness surrounding him.
He disappears with a sharp clap and all that’s left in his place is a massive silhouette, the shadow of a monstrous thing.
A dragon.
Daeron wakes with a reedy gasp. He feels like he’s still drowning, unable to replace the water from his dream with the air he desperately needs. He wheezes, chest convulsing around emptiness as someone urgently shakes his shoulders and shouts his name.
He opens his eyes, choking as his lungs finally permit a breath. It takes several seconds to make sense of his surroundings: burlap and bedrolls, damp ground underneath, the patchy canvas they’d secured to the tree. Two companions.
Duncan has Daeron’s arms in a deathly tight grip, but is no longer jostling him, seeming to realize Daeron is finally conscious. Egg looks terrified, kneeling just beyond the hedge knight, his tiny hands twisting the thin fabric of his smock and watching it all with wide, wet eyes. It occurs to Daeron that Egg has never actually seen this—seen Daeron dreaming, witnessed the violence of it.
Still breathless, Daeron wriggles loose from Duncan’s hold and scrambles to his feet. His ankle gets caught and he trips out of the blanket he’d cocooned himself in mere hours before. He lands hard on the wet earth outside, taking handfuls of grass with him.
“Brother!” He hears Egg call, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head back and forth like it will make the shame, the embarrassment go away.
Duncan is after him in a heartbeat and Daeron wants to hate him for it.
It’s still raining, but not as profusely as when they’d settled for the night, forgoing a fire and cooked meal for a ration each of salt beef. No one spoke much after the events of the afternoon. Daeron eventually lay down and willed himself to sleep in lieu of watching Egg look guilty and Duncan glare at the lump of wood he was carving in short, jerking motions.
“Daeron!” Duncan yells over the rain, following him out from under the canvas and knocking it awry in the process. He grabs for Daeron’s bicep, underestimating just how rattled the prince is.
Daeron yanks his arm wildly out of Duncan’s grasp, stumbling backwards from the force of it. He feels crazed, crowded, and worst of all stupid for thinking he could manage this, that he was strong enough on his own.
But Duncan won’t relent. He’s on him again only a half-second later, trying to reel Daeron into his arms, to subdue his hysterics.
The rain keeps falling, soaking them both anew. Thunder thuds, quite mild and clearly far off, but Daeron flinches at it, remnants of the dream flashing across his eyes. Fearing it might tug him back under, he starts shoving at Duncan’s chest in a blind panic.
“Get off me,” he cries.
He knows he’s only successful at extracting himself because Duncan allows it. The knight stares after Daeron with the kind of sadness in his eyes that just makes Daeron angrier. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity, especially not Duncan’s.
“Daeron—“
“Let me be,” Daeron mumbles, pushing his wet hair off his face with a trembling hand.
He steps back further. It looks like Duncan wants to say something, to reach out again, but Daeron turns away before he can do anything else. He straggles down the hill and collapses in a heap at the bottom. He feels barren.
He feels it pulling at him in a way it hasn’t for weeks.
They arrive at a small inn off the same treacherous road a day later.
Daeron and Duncan hadn’t spoken one word to each other since Daeron shoved him away in the early dawn of the previous morning. They’d ridden through the night with Egg valiantly bridging the silence, singing riding songs, and then pub songs, and finally cheeky songs he recalled from their childhood.
Except Egg still is a child, Daeron thinks mournfully. He shouldn’t have to shoulder this, any of it; the price of being Daeron’s kin.
They leave their horses with a scrappy-looking stable boy, compensating him with extra copper. Duncan seems hesitant to let the trio out of his sight, but concedes after some plying from Egg and the promise of an apple for each of them.
For Daeron, the whole setting is too eerily similar to how this all started: the remote inn, the stables, the nondescript tavern. The knowledge that he’s hiding from something bigger than him.
The pull.
He feels prickly and untethered. He feels weak. All at once he longs for the comforts of his room in Summerhall, despite its perilous proximity to family. He misses the big, tufted chair by his lattice windows facing the courtyard. He misses the servants and clean clothing and his books.
He misses the drink. Badly.
He can’t fathom another night without it, another dream, another distressing ejection back into the waking world. He can’t take the possibility of Duncan looking at him that way ever again.
So when he and Egg take their leave from the stables and head around the corner of the inn to train a little before the sun sets, Daeron slips away too.
The ground floor of the inn is the same as any other, and every other. They all start to bleed together after a while, and Daeron is practically a connoisseur. The heavy door slams shut behind him and he cringes at the noise, but the sparse patrons pay him little mind—probably because he’s coated in mud and his stringy hair is covering his eyes. In this state, he’s not likely to be identified as anything other than another weary traveler.
He slides onto a rickety bench behind a crooked table in the furthest corner, moving the lit candle away from his face.
The barmaid, a stout-looking middle-aged woman, could also be the same one Daeron’s encountered at all of these establishments—no-nonsense, reliable. She raises a tankard, Daeron nods in her general direction, and she plunks it down in front of him, amber foam sloshing over the edge.
For a while, Daeron just stares at it. He’s almost afraid to touch it, even withdraws his hand when the dripping nears his fingers. He knows the second he gives in, it’s over, all of it for naught. He can’t change his nature, can he? Not really. No matter how much he wants to, for Egg. For Duncan.
Duncan.
The first sip burns down his throat like the lightning had across his flesh. He signals for another round before he’s even halfway done.
He wonders if his father misses him as much as he surely does Egg. If he misses him at all. If he hates Daeron. He wonders if Sable got her apple, and becomes impossibly sad at the idea she didn’t.
He loses track somewhere after the third tankard. He swipes over his mouth with his hand and realizes, dimly, that he’s just added dirt to the ale on his lips.
Eventually, he begins to suspect the old woman has stopped serving him. He’s about to complain most egregiously when he spots a full mug to his left, untouched. He realizes, dourly, that he’s been trying to drink from the same empty cup for several minutes. Further tragedy befalls him as he reaches for the full ale; a mighty force snatches him up by the hood of his coat. He yelps, scrabbling for the dagger he usually keeps at his waist, but nothing’s there.
“For fuck’s sake,” Ser Duncan exclaims, hand shifting to the nape of the prince’s neck like Daeron is some disobedient turnspit dog.
“Can’t believe it! First chance you get?”
Daeron has rebuttals, but they’re trapped like molasses on the tip of his tongue. Not that he thinks they would accomplish much, given the speed at which the knight is dragging Daeron from the tavern. All Daeron can really do is drag his feet after them, so he does, smirking when Duncan curses again.
He stops smirking when Duncan lifts him off the ground instead, throwing Daeron over his shoulder like he would a sack of grain, like he had done to Egg in the field. But Daeron is not a child, and he won’t be treated as such, so his blows to Duncan’s shoulders and back land with considerably more force than Egg’s had. He hopes.
Vaguely, he realizes they’re ascending a narrow flight of stairs. The rise and fall of each step makes the drink slosh about his stomach and Daeron groans, fists turning aimless and ineffective. He might as well be fighting the air. He hears a door creak open and then close. The jolting footsteps pause and Daeron is almost relieved.
And then Duncan drops him.
It’s freezing, and deep. It’s over his head as soon as he hits the surface, sinking under and gasping, which achieves nothing but a mouthful of icy water. Duncan is still dramatically berating his choices from above but all Daeron can make out is the rush of water in his ears.
There’s no lightning.
Just as soon, he’s being pulled up by the front of his shirt. He emerges from—he looks dazedly about—a wide, barrel-shaped tub, sputtering and feeling slightly more sober.
His hands are shaking fiercely as they close over Duncan’s own, which are fisted in his shirt and yanking him in close. The knight’s eyes are blazing, but for some reason, Daeron’s not afraid, just thoroughly humbled by the turn of events.
Duncan shakes him, once, twice, like he’s terribly frustrated. Like he’s—
“Are you mad?!” He shouts in Daeron’s face, shaking the prince once more, for good measure.
Daeron laughs and it sounds a bit frantic. He’s drunk, yes, but he’s been worse off. He can still see clearly; the room isn’t tilting yet, and when he concentrates hard enough, Duncan centers into focus before him.
A breeze ushers through an open window somewhere and a few lit candles nearby flicker but don’t go out.
Daeron shivers, his eyelids fluttering. Duncan’s expression softens, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. In fact, he pulls Daeron in closer, dangerously close. He searches his eyes for something for the briefest moment before smashing his lips against Daeron’s parted mouth.
It’s more of a firm seal than any kind of kiss. Duncan seems intent only on melding them together, or perhaps he’s just not too practiced in this. Daeron doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the mind to and his body reacts the only way it knows how—by chasing the heat; the warm, dry relief of the larger man upon him.
He moans against Duncan’s lips, his quivering fingers leaving the knight’s fists, still tangled at his front, and reaching for his face. He traces down Duncan’s cheeks and over his tensed jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollow of his throat until he simply can’t anymore—appendages gone numb from the cold water and effect of the alcohol.
“Dunk,” he rasps, pulling away just enough to speak.
Duncan swallows. He huffs and his breath is a warm puff across Daeron’s chilled skin.
“First time you’ve called me that,” he says. His voice is hoarse.
Daeron tries to smile, but it’s really more of a wince. That’s when his legs, still submerged to the knee in what he suspects was once a feeding trough, decide to fold and send him drooping wholly into Duncan’s chest.
Duncan curses, immediately pulling Daeron from the tub, dragging him over the edge of it, and settling them both on the dusty floor. He shucks Daeron’s water-logged coat from his shaking frame and tugs him in, enfolding him entirely.
“I don’t,” Daeron whines against his shoulder. “I can’t—“
Dream.
Duncan hushes him and tightens his arms. He doesn’t placate Daeron with words of comfort or understanding, doesn’t profess empty promises that things will get better. He just holds Daeron close for several long minutes.
It’s enough.
He’s nearly fallen asleep when he feels Duncan shift again beneath him. He moans, not from pleasure this time, but a rush of nausea. Duncan apologizes. For what, Daeron has no idea. He has little idea of anything right now and Duncan seems to recognize that.
Later, he’ll recall the following in ephemeral glimpses: Duncan peeling off his shirt and wrapping him in a thick, heavy blanket; removing the sopping boots and stockings from his feet and trying to warm them with his hands; carrying Daeron to some soft, dry berth in a different room, even as he protests the lurching motion of it.
It’s a bed, Daeron realizes absently, curling onto his side and burrowing into the scratchy covers. Duncan’s hand lingers at the round of his shoulder and then he’s pulling back, stepping away.
Daeron can’t bear it.
He reaches out, fingers snagging on the knight’s trousers. Duncan’s breath catches and he does pause, flexing his hands at his sides and then turning around.
Daeron feels the strain in his body evaporate as Duncan kicks off his own shoes. He sighs in relief as the larger man lies down behind him, the lumpy straw mattress dipping with his weight. Duncan turns onto his side as well, facing Daeron’s back. So carefully, so very slowly, he scoots in closer, draping an arm over Daeron’s middle.
“This okay?” He seeks, quietly.
Daeron nods, then realizes that Duncan can’t see it. “Yes,” he whispers.
His own voice sounds far away and his eyes feel heavy. There’s distant chatter from downstairs, the errant clinking of glasses, and the intermittent thumping of the front door.
“I don’t know much—” Duncan is talking again, low and soft. “—about blood magic and dragons, and dreams that come true,” he mutters. His warm fingers pulse against the cool skin of Daeron’s belly. “Ser Arlen was never much for history lessons.”
Daeron just listens, feeling both fond and soothed by the rumble of the hedge knight’s voice.
“But I think,” Duncan continues, “I think if there’s nothing you can do about ‘em, if you can’t change anything anyway…what’s the use in letting it destroy what you’ve got, while you still have it?”
Perhaps it’s the ale, but it sounds a lot like wisdom. Daeron chews at his lip before replying. “What do I have, Dunk?”
Duncan brings him closer still, slotting Daeron’s back against his chest. Daeron shudders, resisting the urge to turn in Duncan’s arms and find his mouth again.
“You’ve got Egg,” Duncan reminds him, emphatically. And then, a beat later: “You have me, you damned fool.”
Daeron’s eyes fall open. His heart is thudding so strongly he thinks Duncan must be able to feel it through the hand on his stomach, through his very ribs and back.
He blinks away the fuzzy dimness of the room and notices a small cot across the way. His little brother sleeps soundly, dwarfed by his own pile of scratchy blankets. He looks comfortable and safe.
The ale does its job. Daeron passes the night in a regrettably familiar state—mind blissfully subdued by his transgressions. He wakes with a nagging headache, but otherwise intact.
He wakes up alone.
He frowns, sitting up much too quickly for his present condition, and places a hand where Duncan had lain beside him. It’s still warm, somehow. The man was like a furnace.
Daeron glances over to the cot. It’s empty as well, bedding bunched down halfway. Egg is gone, too.
His stomach flips, filling with dread. He kicks at his own covers and scrambles onto his knees. He’s about to leap off the bed when the door suddenly swings open. Duncan, the giant oaf, knocks his head directly into the upper frame of it as he walks in.
“Arse,” he grunts, nearly dropping what he’s got in his arms—several hard rolls and an indistinguishable hunk of cheese, Daeron notes.
Duncan looks sheepish and in good spirits, until he notices the worry etched across Daeron’s features.
“Where’s Egg?” Daeron demands, wringing his hands as he watches Duncan set their breakfast on a small table nearby. He extracts something from his pocket and places it there as well.
“Down with the horses,” Duncan supplies, wiping crumbs of bread and cheese on his pants. “He’s taken a liking to the stable boy. Mourning his prior occupation, I think.”
Daeron sighs in relief but glares at the attempted witticism.
“That’s awful, Dunk.”
The knight just grins, unabashed. He walks over to where Daeron is kneeling at the end of the bed and Daeron suddenly recalls his state of undress. He’s wearing only his riding breeches and the patchy quilt, which is now hanging off one shoulder. He rights the blanket, pulling it tighter around his bare upper body. Duncan tilts his head at the movement, but doesn’t comment on it.
“How much did he see?” Daeron asks, grimacing. “Last night?”
Duncan shakes his head, grin going soft around the edges. “Nothin’. Had him tucked in before I plucked you from the pub. He just knew you weren’t around.”
“And…” Daeron drops his gaze. He refuses to blush. Princes don't blush. Daeron doesn't blush. “And this morning?”
Duncan places a roughened fingertip underneath Daeron’s chin, pressing upward until Daeron meets his eyes again. Daeron wants to drown in them, in this returned boldness.
“I was up first,” Duncan provides. “Don’t think he knows anything.”
Daeron nods, relieved. He sighs and Duncan steps closer, easing into his space. He settles one hand flat on the mattress beside Daeron, leaning over him, tipping his head back even further.
Daeron’s lips part as Duncan brushes his thumb over the scar on his cheek. He does so much firmer than he had all those weeks ago in the meadow at Ashford. It doesn’t sting anymore.
“That’s healin’ up nicely,” Duncan says, a bit awed as he studies Daeron’s face, caresses his mangled ear.
“I—“ Daeron starts.
Duncan speaks again at the same time:
“I’m sorry I kissed you.” He sounds utterly chastened.
Daeron raises an eyebrow. He’s not offended, or even disappointed. Because he knows that Duncan, with all his incorruptible goodness, is only worried that he took advantage of Daeron the night before. Which is ridiculous, but also incredibly charming. He decides rather quickly that austerity is the best path forward here.
“I’m not.”
Duncan blinks at him, eyes wide.
Daeron makes his point by placing a hand on Duncan’s neck and pulling him down the rest of the way. This time Duncan meets him with restraint, open-mouthed and gliding over Daeron’s lips with maddening hesitation. Daeron smiles into it, tugging him closer and deepening the kiss.
Duncan is a good student, he finds. Easy to teach, quick to learn, and so very determined. It’s not long before he’s mastered the give and take of it, even if his rhythm is a bit inelegant. He cups Daeron’s face as Daeron laps eagerly into the seam of his mouth, groaning and permitting the prince entrance in a single, labored breath.
His large hands move from Daeron’s face down to his neck, stroking beneath his jawline before treading lower across his collar. Then he’s gently pushing the quilt off of Daeron’s shoulders and Daeron is gasping against his lips as the crisp morning air hits his skin. The hands travel lightly down his spine before Duncan is decidedly tired of stooping over. In one brisk motion, he’s lifting Daeron from the bed, a hand wrapped under each thigh, and turning to sit on the mattress with Daeron in his lap.
Though, it would seem Duncan didn’t put much thought into the arrangement, because the moment Daeron settles his knees on either side of Duncan’s legs and rolls his hips into position, the knight is cursing loudly, hands flying up to grasp Daeron at the waist and halt any further movement with palpable desperation.
Daeron huffs, merciful, and suspends the motion of his lower body over Duncan’s telling hardness. He cards his fingers patiently through Duncan’s short, russet hair as Duncan buries his face in Daeron’s neck.
“Easy,” Daeron whispers.
After a few moments of stillness, the vice-like grip on Daeron’s waist recedes. He imagines the imprints Duncan’s fingers leave on the skin there and wishes he could keep them for a while. Duncan sniffs and noses at him, lifting his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, the centers of them blown large and dark and hungry; a mirror for Daeron’s own desire.
“M’sorry,” Duncan breathes another needless apology.
Daeron shakes his head. “There’s time yet,” he says.
He kisses Duncan again, trying to memorize the way they feel, fused together like this. Duncan groans, hands slipping up Daeron’s bare sides before reaching to brush his long hair away from his face. He breaks the kiss and looks regretful to do so.
He looks at Daeron like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“I should fetch Egg,” Duncan admits, pressing his forehead against Daeron’s own. “We should get moving.”
“Yes,” Daeron agrees. They should. There is so much more to see and do. To talk about.
“Left something for you,” Duncan adds. “Over there on the table.”
With that mysterious proclamation, the knight stands, taking Daeron with him. Once Daeron is steady on his feet, Duncan pulls away with a parting smile and heads for the door, ducking much further this time than strictly necessary. He pauses on the other side to catch Daeron’s eyes again.
“I won’t be long,” Daeron assures him.
He gets dressed, listening to Duncan and Egg saddle up the horses and secure their supplies below the room’s small window, their lighthearted conversation like a song.
After he laces his boots, still a bit soggy from the plunge, he wanders over to the table, seeking out the gift Duncan had mentioned. He finds it quickly, chest constricting as he takes it up in his hands:
A small wooden carving, painstakingly whittled over weeks, startling in its detail. Two great wings spread wide in flight. Clawed feet, curled under a sloping abdomen. Its mouth, a beak, set open in a forceful cry. Toothless and fine-feathered, not a scale in sight.
A bird, free.