Chapter Text
“Yah!”
Egg planted his foot firmly in front of him as he attempted to parry Ser Duncan’s slash, only to be easily overpowered and have his wooden sword knocked from his palm.
“You’ve got to work on that right handed parry boy.” Ser Dunk shook his head, thumbing his nose idly as he watched Egg scurry away to pick up his sword.
“But I always swing with my right hand, Ser. I’ve got no choice.” He put his hand out in front of him and wiggled all five of his fingers. “I’m right-handed, you see.”
“Don’t be smart with me!” Dunk raised an admonishing finger. With the tip of his sword, he gestured towards the right of him, tapping lightly at his side with the flat of the blade. “I mean when someone’s coming at you from the right.”
It was a nice day to train. The sun beamed down gracefully, warming without burning, while the cloudless sky seemed to stretch on endless. Even though it was approaching evening, it was still bright and warm, and before Duncan got started on dinner, he’d thought that he would run a few drills with Egg, who was desperate to begin training with a real sword before the year was out.
They traded a few more lazy strokes, the both of them clearly getting tired, all while Chestnut and Thunder looked on a ways away, chewing idly at stalks of sweetgrass.
“Ser,” Egg protested. “I’m quite hungry.”
“Alright.” Duncan acquiesced. He’d push him more, normally, but today had been a busy one. He had started the morning by fixing the wall of the inn they had supped at last night at the behest of the innkeeper, a young widow with four rowdy children. Next, they had spent the rest of the morning at the auction of a parcel of land some miles away near Horn’s Hill on behalf of an ailing farmer, who had no family and was in no condition to make the trip. They had closed out the workday by wandering around the forests, collecting honey to be mixed into a poultice for the widowed innkeeper, who’s youngest daughter had been stung by several after getting into a hive.
Dunk saw a movement over Egg’s head, and he wrote it off as the flick of one of the horse’s tails, or a passing bird, until it began to get closer and closer, the outline beginning to form against the horizon: a man.
Dunk took a step back, taking hold of Egg’s shoulder before pressing him to his side.
“Ser?” Egg questioned
He looked curiously up at him before turning to see the man approaching them.
The closer he got, the more the details of his appearance filled in. He was a boy just approaching the threshold of manhood, wearing a plain gray smock and a belt of rope, much like a maester’s. He sat astride a common black pony, who stopped walking periodically to take a nibble of the field before being coaxed back into action by his master’s firm kick.
“M’lord,” He said genially to Egg. He quickly hopped off the horse to kneel to him, before presenting him with a script of paper wrapped tightly with black twine, and emblazoned with the red seal of House Targaryen. “’Tis a message from your lord father.”
Egg looked disdainfully at the letter, hanging onto the very edge of it as if were caked in dirt, and he was loath to get his hands dirty.
“Thank you,” Dunk told the messenger, since it was clear from Egg's face that he wouldn’t, hoping this would bid him adieu.
Still, the messenger stood their anxiously, hands clasped together as he watched Egg take the letter in. “‘Tis a matter of extreme urgency, my prince. I must bring back a response at once.”
Frowning, Egg tore viciously into the twine, unwrapping the letter with little consideration or cautiousness, and quickly read it. His manner was unchanged as he did so. “Yes,” he said finally.
Nodding to himself, the messenger took off without another word. Well. “Took off” was generous phrasing. The horse’s pace was still unhurried.
“In quite a hurry, that one!” Dunk jested.
He nudged Egg genially, but his countenance remained dour and withdrawn.
Slowly, Egg drew back his cloak and tucked the letter into his pocket, before letting it fall and conceal it. “I should like to have my supper now, if you please Ser.”
Supper was dried fish and thick slices of bread toasted over the open fire. The bread had been Egg’s job, and he had been so unfocused that it was nearly burnt, and after five minutes alone, had become nearly unbiteable. Thankfully, this was joined by some honeycomb from the innkeeper. It was rare for Dunk to have anything sweet, and each bite into the honey-crusted matrix of the comb made his tongue tingle ever so slightly.
“So.” He swallowed, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s the letter say?”
Egg stared into the fire. The light from the flames flickered haphazardly around his face, creating odd shapes and patterns. He was turned ever so slightly away from Dunk, and the portion of his face he could not see had been cast into a deep shadow. Egg was hardly a melancholy child. Doubtless, there was only one sort of matter which could provoke such a reaction from him.
“It’s my brother, Ser,” Egg said hollowly. He peeled a bit of the crust off his bread, and nibbled it thoughtfully. “They say that he is very ill.”
Dunk’s stood up straighter at the words. Even the slightest news from Egg’s family made him terribly uneasy. “Truly?”
Egg reached into his cloak and took out the letter once more. He had put it away without folding it, and now it was wrinkled and crumpled around the edges and in the center. He smoothed in brusquely and held it up to the fire as he began to read.
Aegon,
You must return to Summerhall at once. Aerion is gravely ill. The maesters know not what ails him, nor how much longer his fortunes shall remain with him. I know there have been many difficulties between the two of you, but the Gods do not look kindly at those who turn their backs on their kin. You may tell Ser Duncan he can accompany you.
Love, Father.
He handed Duncan the note, and he stared blankly at the letters. They might as well have been carvings on a pub table for all they meant to him, but despite his inability to understand the words, he knew from the thick, messy scrawl of ink and the various inkblots scattered around the letter that it had been made in haste and desperation. Right underneath the last line were two discolored shapes, which looked to Dunk like they might have been from water. Perhaps the messenger had gotten it wet on the way
Dunk swallowed. He was loath to see the rest of Egg’s family again, though he had known it was inevitable. He just hadn’t thought it would be under such dire straits.
“Ah...”
Dunk folded the paper, and he attempted to give it back to Egg, only for him to shoo it away.
“If I touch it again, Ser, I shall toss it in the fire,” He mumbled, kicking at a roughened patch of dirt near his foot.
Dunk’s brow furrowed, but instead of rebuking him, he tucked the letter away, folding his hands before him as they both stared into the fire.
“Well,” said Egg. His chin rested in his palm. “I suppose we’ve got no choice but to head for Summerhall on the morrow.”
“Aye.” The fire crackled softly, and Duncan threw a stray branch into the fray to feed it. It was shaping up to be a cold night. “We don’t.”
They were on their horses before the break of dawn and trotting away just as the sun's peeking out past the horizon.
They had eaten a meager breakfast. For once, Egg did not complain of the toughness of the hard salt beef, nor did he jest with Dunk as they packed. He was somber as a man leading a funeral dirge. Even Chestnut’s steps were slow and plodding, as if he too shared his master’s ill thoughts on the destination of their journey.
Dunk knew not what to say. If Egg were any other boy, and Aerion any other brother, he would doubtless comfort him, but in this matter, he suspected any kind word towards Aerion’s benefit would be of no reassurance to the little prince.
It had been a year since Dunk had laid on eyes on Prince Aerion, and as far as he’d been concerned, their ill-fated meeting at the Ashford tourney had been their last, especially now that he had been sent to Lys. As he and Egg had left the fields of Ashford, he had sworn to never let another thought stray to him. Now, as they rode, he was all Dunk could think about. His cruel, bright eyes and pale, unblemished skin. The mirthful, sadistic set of his jaw. The way the pink tip of his tongue had peeked out of his mouth to lap at his own blood.
It was hard to imagine him ill. Even at the trial, the sight of him beaten and bloodied by his own hand had felt unreal. Immaterial, like he’d been granted a glimpse of the other side of the curtain that separated the world of Gods and men. It was something he had not been meant to see, and he had known that someday he would be called to answer for this overstep. The dragon ought never lose, indeed.
He regretted their fight, even if Aerion had brought it upon himself. It was wrong to lay a violent hand on any omega, even if the prince was more than deserving. Ser Arlan had hardly trained him in the courtly manners, but he had made it clear to him how the fairer sex ought to be treated. These morals were something Dunk had never dared to break, until he’d seen Aerion wrap the meat of his hand around poor Tanselle’s finger and snapped it as though it were a peanut, and forced him to do otherwise.
They stopped at nightfall. They were close to Blackhaven now. It would only take another day or so for them to reach Summerhall. Luckily, they’d stumbled upon the hall of some landed knight, Ser Elmund, and had been permitted to spend the night in a room in the servants’ quarters. Egg however, denied him. He wanted to see the stars, he’d said,
“You should count yourself very lucky you’re in a bad way,” Dunk grumbled to him as he settled onto his pallet. “I’d have given you a good clout, otherwise! You should never deny the generosities of a knight.”
Egg ignored this and closed his eyes.
“Ser,” He said. “If Aerion dies, what do you think shall become of him?”
Dunk stilled. Even if the prince had been silent all this while, in his heart he still held his brother in some consideration, poor as it was. He felt a pull at his heart for the boy’s predicament.
“I’ve no place in such matters,” He mumbled, closing his eyes. “I’m no maester, nor am I a Septon. I’m but a simple hedge knight.” He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Let’s not speak of such things.”
Egg spoke no longer, and the two drifted off to sleep.
They arrived at Summerhall just after sunset on the third day.
The hall was truly beautiful, although the occasion for which they’d journeyed to it made this beauty a bit difficult to appreciate.
They were received quite well, even Duncan. The horses were put in the royal stables, and they were quickly divested of their burdens, which were sent to their respective rooms while Dunk and Egg were sent straight to the baths.
He couldn't remember the last time he had a warm bath, much less one with delicacies like scented soap and washcloths. He stayed in the water until it was tepid as any river’s, partly out of enjoyment, but mostly because he was dreading his audience with Prince Maekar.
Suddenly, there was a sharp rap at the door, and Duncan jumped, splashing some water on the floor.
“Ser Duncan!” Egg called, his voice dulled by the barrier between them. “Have you finished bathing?”
Duncan sighed, splashing his face with water twice before pulling himself out of the bath.
“Aye. I’m nearly done, lad. I’ll be just a minute.”
“I’m waii-ting,” the prince said imperiously. Dunk thought he could hear him pacing outside the doors.
He dried himself off and put on his clothes, and the minute he was out the door, the prince put his hand in his and lead him towards his father’s study.
“You musn’t be afraid of him the way you used to be,” Egg counseled once they were outside the door. He stood on the tip of his toes and brushed off a stray, imperceptible piece of dirt from his tunic. “He won’t respect you otherwise.”
"I’m not afraid of him,” Dunk protested weakly, batting Egg’s hands away as he attempted to straighten his collar. In truth, Maekar was the Targaryen Dunk dreaded seeing least right now, sad as that was. “Go inside, he’s expecting you.”
Egg nodded, before slipping into the room, leaving Dunk to ponder his fate in the hallway and pull at his clothes. He fingered the seam of his belt and felt an odd texture, and when he looked down he observed a dark, crusted stain, so small he would have missed it were it not for this sudden interest in possible stains on his person that Egg had provoked.
He couldn’t tell if it was blood or dirt, and as he considered trying to wipe it off with the still-drying moisture behind his neck from the bath, the door shot open, startling him.
In the months since he had seen him, Prince Maekar's face had aged considerably, grief and stress carving lines into the shadows of his face and mouth which had not been there prior.
“You a thief?” Prince Maekar demanded.
Dunk’s heart leapt. Had the prince forgotten his face?
He stepped away from the wall and stood straight. His hands were behind his back, but then he realized how suspicious that looked, and he put them out in front of him like a thief waiting for his hands to be clapped with irons, clasping and unclasping them.
“N-No, sir, I would never dare—“
“—So for heaven’s sake, Ser Duncan, what are you doing skulking about my halls like some rat?”
Dunk blinked rapidly, his heartbeat falling. “Ah...um...”
He put his hands out, gesturing to the door. “’M waiting.”
Prince Maekar scoffed. He widened the opening of the door and gesturing inside, where Egg sat in an ornate chair facing the desk, kicking his feet idly.
“Come inside,” He grumbled.
Prince Maekar came in behind Dunk, the heels of his boots clicking against the stone floors before he settled into his seat at the desk, letting out a sigh as he did so.
“So.” There was a quill on resting on the desk, still wet with ink, and Maekar picked it up and returned it to it’s stand. “I’m sure Aegon has made you aware of the circumstances that have caused me to summon you two.”
“He has, Your Grace. And I must say, I’m deeply sor—”
Maekar cut him up with a raise of his hand. “I have no need for your platitudes, Ser. There was no need for your coming here. However, I appreciate your coming all the same. I know you were likely far from eager. And I suppose I must apologize for keeping you from whatever business you have in the South, your...” He gestured vaguely. “Berry picking and carpentry and such.”
“We only pick berries sometimes father,” Egg protested.
Without another word, Maekar reached over to Egg and gave him a soft rap with the point of his knuckles atop his shiny, bald head.
“Ouch!” Egg yelped, his hands flying to his head, though Dunk was certain that Maekar had not used enough power to truly hurt him.
Maekar snapped his fingers at him and pointed towards the door. “Out.”
“But father—”
“Out!” Maekar raised a finger. “You swore to me that you would not speak a stray word while I spoke to Ser Duncan, and you have well and truly broken your oath. Now, go and see to your brother.”
Grumbling and rubbing at his head, Egg left the study, with Maekar craning his head to watch him as he went. Once he was out of sight, he got up to close the door before returning.
“A man must be taught to keep his oaths,” He said aloud and seemingly to no one in particular. His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere besides Dunk’s head. “A man’s honor is a priceless thing, and not easily recovered.”
Dunk blinked. “Uh, aye, Your Grace.”
Prince Maekar folded his arms, and sighed deeply.
“The boy respects you deeply....what aspect, I’m frankly not certain, but he respects you all the same.”
Maekar’s eyes closed, and his jaw tightened, muscle cording through as though he were in pain.
“And so I must....” He grinded his jaw. “Ask that in these trying times, you give him good counsel.”
“I wouldn’t dare give him otherwise, m’lord,”
Maekar nodded slowly, considering Dunk’s words. “Alright,” He decided. “I’ve said all my piece to you tonight, hedge knight.” He swept him away with the flutter of a hand. “Away with thee.”
Dunk nodded, bowed, and made for the door. There, he realized that he hadn’t bowed quite deeply enough and he turned around again and hastily bent forward.
“Enough of that!” Maekar thundered. “Begone!”
Dunk couldn’t scatter out of the room fast enough. However, as he began weaving his way around the halls of Summerhall, he soon realized that he did not know where his room was, and he became lost to the point where he could not retrace his steps back to the entrance, or the study.
He turned into a hallway, wondering how long this would go on before he would stumble upon another person and be sent in the right direction, and just as he was about to turn right back, he paused.
Somewhere in one of the rooms came a powerful scent. It was that of fire and brimestone, and something acrid and volcanic, like the sulfur baths Ser Arlan and him had once stumbled upon in Dorne. It was laced throughout by the scent of open air in the morning after days spent cooped inside, and the dew on the underside of flower petals. The farther he walked down the hall, the stronger the scent got, until he came upon the room which was the source of it. It was ajar ever so slightly, and without thinking, Duncan pushed it open.
It was like stepping into the sulfur baths with Ser Arlan all over again. The air was sweltering, suffocating. Each breath Dunk took was so thick that felt like it ought to be chewed before he swallowed it. The humidity in the room was uncharacteristic of Dorne, much less a palace in the Stormlands, and with each step he took, Dunk felt moisture bead up behind his ears and neck.
As he stepped deeper into the chambers, Dunk saw a four poster bed made of dark wood, draped into gauzy red lace for a canopy. There was someone in it, he could see, and staring down at them was Egg. His face was distant, and his hands wrung urgently at a soaked white washcloth.
“Egg?” Dunk called out.
Egg turned to look at him over his shoulder. His mouth twitched.
Duncan drew closer. Just as he was close enough to see the bed's contents properly, Egg dropped the washcloth as though it burnt him, and fled from the chambers.
Aerion Targaryen was as beautiful as the day they’d fought, and he looked more poorly than a thousand wounded soldiers. His complexion was pallid, and the veins of his chest and arms stood out starkly from the skin. His lips were terribly chapped, and at the corners of them were two roughened patches of skin, as though he had not drunk much water. Worst of all, of course, was his temperature. Even without touching him, Duncan could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. Two circles of red burned high on his cheeks, and pink spread all the way from his face to his heaving chest. Were it not for this hint of color, he would be a living corpse.
He had an arm thrown over his eyes, to block out the sun perhaps, though all the windows in the chamber were already drawn, and he was muttering something lowly in a language Duncan could not understand. He could not tell if he was conscious or not.
He spent ages watching him, the way the vein on the inside of his arm seemed to pulse in time with the weak rise and fall of his chest, his slackened mouth. He was sick enough to have foregone modesty: his tunic lay crumpled at the end of the bed, though his sheets were pulled up just below his collarbone, and thus he maintained some decency.
Dunk chewed at the inside of his cheek. Wicked as he was, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity to see what Aerion’s illness had reduced him to. This cruel, domineering prince who had once terrorized the knights of the Ashford Tourney now lay confined to his bed, lame as a lamb. He truly might die, Dunk thought. The thought briefly chilled him, before he quickly tamped it down.
He bent forward and picked up the washcloth, which was still dripping. He turned to his left, where a basin full of water with a variety of herbs soaking in it stood on Aerion’s bedside table, and dunked the cloth into the water.
Dunk wrung the excess moisture from the washcloth and looked at his mouth thoughtfully as it shaped the words of his mad chatterings. He thought he saw something that looked like “water” or “wa-ra.” He wasn’t really sure.
Against his better judgements, Ser Duncan held the washcloth over his mouth, close enough so some droplets could land on his tongue, and each drop that made contact let out a hiss, and thin lines of steam followed it.
With trembling hands, Dunk folded the washcloth and pressed it to Aerion’s head. Some more steam rose as water beaded down his forehead and temples, but this seemed to calm him a bit. His mutterings ceased, and his skin seemed less red.
A stray drop dripped down his jaw and into the divot of his neck, where his scent was strongest, and without thinking, Dunk traced the path it had taken with his thumb.
Quick as a viper, Aerion’s hand closed around his wrist like a vice.
Dunk yelled in alarm and pulled his wrist free from Aerion’s grasp. He knocked into the side table, and the impact sent the basin crashing to the floor where it rolled around aimlessly, its contents to seep into the floor.
Dunk, of course, turned tail and ran. He burst out of the room, turned, and nearly knocked Egg over. All this time, he had been standing next to the door, as if standing sentry.
The two stood in silence, one huffing and heaving as if he’d been chased by a hundred thousand demons, and the other as composed as a Maester, if a bit too silent.
“I thought that I would feel different when I saw him,” Egg whispered.
Dunk wiped at his brow, where a stripe of sweat sat. Me too, He thought nauseously. “Well. Did you?”
Egg continued to look down at his feet. “What were you doing in there for so long, Ser Duncan?”
Dunk licked his lips quickly. “I think we ought to head to bed now, Egg.”
Egg looked at him carefully from the corner of his eye, and reluctantly nodded.
Even though he slept on a bed of the softest goose down, and clean, fresh sheets, Dunk tossed and turned all night, plagued by dreams filled with cruel, smirking mouths and pale hair.
Two days later, while they ate lunch in the garden, Egg recounted what his father had said to him in the study.
“He says that he is a scoundrel, and that he can be very wicked, but he is also an omega, and most importantly my brother, and I must try and forgive him before he dies,” He lamented, peeling an apple the size of his fist with a pocketknife.
Dunk swallowed thickly. He had hardly spoken a word since lunch had been laid out. It was probably close to being the best meal of his life, until Egg brought Aerion up. “Well, I know you don’t what to hear it, but your father’s right.”
Egg sighed, and bit at the apple rind he’d just peeled off. “You too?”
Just then, a servant came rushing in, his thin cloth shoes threatening to fly off as he ran.
“Sers--”
He gasped, trying desperately to catch his breath as he rested his hands on his knees.
“Sers, I beseech the--”
Another gasp, and finally he caught his breath. He cleared his throat.
“Ser Duncan, the prince is calling you.”
Dunk cocked his head. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of Daeron and Aemon, and was unsure if the later was even here. Maekar had been busy all afternoon in a meeting with the maesters taking care of Aerion. Egg and him looked at one another, and he gestured awkwardly towards him.
“No, Ser.”
The servant turned and pointed up at a balcony high up on the palace’s face. He could not see clearly from down here, but he swore that there was a glowing, violet eye peeking out at him from the part in the curtains.
“It’s Prince Aerion.’