Chapter Text
“You are dirty.”
From his place on the ground, Dunk turned his attention away from the stick he was whittling and looked up at the young boy in front of him. Of course he was dirty, he and Ser Arlan had been traveling for a fortnight. What business that was of the little lordling, Dunk did not know.
“My sister says that dirty boys get sick and die,” the child continued before Dunk could even think to respond.
Brat.
He was a handsome lad, though a more accurate word may have been pretty. His hair was cropped short, perhaps to push his appearance away from delicate and more towards boyish, and the violet shade of his irises seemed to glow in the dusk’s light despite his narrowed eyes.
Ser Arlan spoke of women and omegas from Essos with white hair and purple eyes like the dragon lords of old, but Dunk had never seen a person with such coloring himself. It was just as striking as one might think.
“Only if they have wounds that fester,” Dunk said. Much to his surprise, the boy dropped down into the dirt to inspect him. He’d never expect a noble to kneel on the ground so carelessly.
Though, now that he had longer than a moment to look at him, the boy was not dressed like someone of high standing. His clothing was not as ratty and patch-filled as Dunk’s, but it was also not the garments of a wealthy man’s son. How odd, that a peasant child could carry himself with such haughtiness.
“Do you have wounds?”
“None at the moment.”
“Is that old man your father? He’s just as dirty as you.”
“No, Ser Arlan is the knight I squire for.”
The boy scoffed and tugged on Dunk’s tunic with a pinch of two fingers, as if any more contact would infect him with some disease.
“Knighthood has fallen on sad days,” the child said with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“You’d do well to show some respect. I’ll have you know that we’ve just come from a noble battle.”
Well, noble was generous when it had been nothing more than a petty squabble between minor lords, but the insolent boy did not need to know that.
“There has been no battle of note since the Blackfyre rebellion, and you look too young to have fought in that. You too young, your knight too fat.”
Dunk had known his fair share of cruel children, but he’d met few so casual about it. The boy didn’t even seem to be intending to offend, though he was very skilled at it. It was all very strange, but no less infuriating.
“Ser Arlan did fight in the Blackfyre rebellion!”
The child didn’t react to his hand being slapped away from Dunk’s tunic, he was too busy staring at him with widened eyes.
“…Truly?”
“I do not lie.”
“Did he fight for the red dragon or the black?”
While Ser Arlan often made his allegiance clear when speaking of the battle, Dunk had never heard someone ask so bluntly, nor had he ever seen someone so eager for the answer.
“The lord he fought for was loyal to House Targaryen.”
If expressions were audible, Dunk was certain that the one on the boy’s face would have been a squeal of delight. Gone was the haughty little lord, replaced by an awed child who was now far too close for Dunk’s comfort.
“I wish to meet him.”
“Ser Arlan is likely… busy at this time of day.”
Drunk.
“What could a hedge knight possibly be busy with at an inn? I saw you both enter and only you left. Come, take me to him.”
The boy hopped up and attempted to drag Dunk to his feet by a hold on his wrist. His grip was stronger than Dunk would’ve guessed, but that meant little when he was still half Dunk’s size. He dug his heels in the dirt and tugged for a moment more before dropping Dunk’s arm with a huff.
“Fine then, I’ll find him myself.”
“I doubt the innkeeper will be pleased with you poking around,” Dunk said as he, perhaps foolishly, stood to follow the boy’s self assured steps.
“Where else am I meant to poke around?”
The child pushed open the door to the inn with more than little effort and walked inside as if he belonged there. Dunk realized that he had no idea if he did belong there. The innkeeper had looked too young to have a child of his age, but Dunk had not observed her so closely when Ser Arlan arranged their lodging.
“Are you the innkeeper’s boy?”
Dunk watched the boy’s unveiled excitement shutter into something bristled and defensive. He could not imagine the question was that insulting.
“And what if I am? Father may not be a knight, but he’s strong enough. Jeyne says he once killed half a dozen men,” the boy said, nearly drowned out by the laughter and jeering across the room.
“I meant no disrespect.”
Dunk shifted between his feet as his face was studied for a long moment, and the innkeeper’s son seemed to be satisfied with what he found. He grabbed Dunk’s hand to drag him this time, his own far smaller but equally as calloused.
“Come on. Introduce me.”
The laughter grew in volume as they approached, and Dunk was unsurprised to find Ser Arlan at the center of it. The man was rather solitary by nature, but it was not unusual for him to draw a crowd with his stories when they passed through a more social village.
“Ah! There he is, my squire! Come, come, I was just telling the tale of your first time skinning a rabbit.”
Dunk’s face heated at the resumed chuckling and he hoped that Ser Arlan was not drunk enough to repeat the embarrassing story in front of the innkeeper’s boy. Luckily, it seemed the boy did not care at all to ask.
“Your squire says you fought on behalf of House Targaryen in the Blackfyre rebellion. Is that true? Were you there in Redgrass Field?”
A few wearied groans could be heard around the table, and Dunk wondered how often the boy spoke of such things to garner that reaction. Ser Arlan’s grin wilted so slightly that Dunk knew he would be the only one to notice.
“Nothing so esteemed. I fought beneath Lord Hayford.”
In his excitement, the innkeeper’s boy dropped Dunk’s hand to shove himself between two men seated in front of Ser Arlan, and Dunk didn’t realize how warm his touch had been until it was gone.
“Lord Hayford swore fealty to the crown. You fought beside—Move, Lucas—Did you see it? Did you see the hammer and the anvil?”
“Pay no mind to Alec, Ser. He’s always been fond of the dragon. I say it’s the hair,” said one of the burly, bearded men who had been displaced by the boy. He gave a rough but affectionate ruffle of short white hair, and ignored the glare he got in return.
“It’s not. I say it’s only natural that a future Kingsguard reveres the house he’ll serve,” the boy— Alec, apparently, said with his nose in the air, entirely uncaring of the laughter his statement earned. Even Ser Arlan looked amused, though his chuckle held no mockery.
“Future Kingsguard, eh? You must be training hard for that ambition.”
“I train every day. No boy in town is better than me with a sword.”
“With a stick, you mean,” the man beside him corrected.
Alec spoke as if he could not hear the laughing.
“Only because no blacksmith here makes a sword worth the coin. Once I reach King’s Landing—”
“Oh, enough,” one of the drunker, less cheerful patrons interrupted. “The Kingsguard would never accept an omega, much less one so little. Two and ten, and barely past his father’s hip.”
The truth and bitterness of his claim killed the jovial spirit of the conversation quite masterfully, and Dunk’s eyes naturally fell on Alec, who had grown oddly unreadable. Two and ten? Given his height, Dunk would’ve assumed him to be years younger, but they were not terribly different in age. The boy’s voice was carefully measured when he spoke again.
“Prince Maekar is an omega, and he is the Anvil himself.”
Alec’s blank gaze did not leave the man who had disrespected him, even when the one beside him attempted to mend the awkwardness.
“That he is, little knight. I’m certain that—”
“The Anvil is a prince. You think he would’ve been allowed to fight if he wasn’t? You think the crown has any use for an innkeeper’s runt when the Kingsguard is full of highborn alphas?”
“Gawen, that’s enough. The boy is plenty capable.”
Said boy suddenly wriggled out of his seat and rushed to the hearth, fetching the two thinnest logs he could find from the pile of wood beside it and returning to the table.
“Ser Arlan, spar with me.”
At least Alec’s unbridled confidence was enough to return smiles to several faces, Ser Arlan’s being one of them. He raised his hands in surrender to the boy who nearly matched his seated height.
“Afraid I’m too far into my cups for that, m’lord. Give it to Dunk, he’ll fight you.”
Dunk’s brows shot to his hairline while Alec’s furrowed.
“Who is Dunk?”
“It—that would be me.”
Alec whipped his head around to scrutinize Dunk once again, this time from his head to his feet.
“Does he know the sword?”
“Eh, he’s a squire, he knows well enough.”
No, he absolutely did not. He knew the very basics at best, and even those he was not particularly skilled in. Dunk was not afraid of playing swords with sticks, certainly not with someone a head and a half shorter than him, but he was afraid of embarrassing himself.
“Ser, I’m not certain—” Dunk began, but was cut off by a stick being shoved against his chest by the scowling boy who seemed even smaller up close.
“Won’t fight an omega?”
“That’s not it. I just… I’m only a squire.”
The malice drained from Alec’s expression at Dunk’s obvious nervousness, but he did not back down until Dunk accepted the stick.
“I won’t hurt you. Not too badly, at least.”
The taunt did not even reach Dunk’s awareness as he was pulled to the biggest open area of the room after Alec instructed several patrons to help him clear it. Dunk could not imagine so many people to know him by name, much less to listen to him. Alec’s parents must have been very well liked.
“Take your stance, squire. I’m certain you know at least that.”
Dunk did know that, though he proved it might have been all he knew when their sticks only connected twice before his flew from his sweaty hand. Alec waited kindly for him to retrieve it as their audience cheered, but only half a breath’s time passed after it was back in his hands before the boy was lunging forward again.
He moved like a viper, making up with speed what he lacked in size, and it was not long before Dunk found himself disarmed a second time. The cheers turning so wholly in his favor was almost equally as humiliating as his disappointing performance.
Alec snatched up the stick with a frown and smacked Dunk in the arm with it before handing it back to him.
“Fight me truly.”
“I’m trying…”
“Clearly not. Come on, use that size for something.”
Dunk took a deep breath and nodded before Alec struck again. He finally managed to dodge, only for the boy to twist at the last moment and strike him in the ribs.
“Alec, you’re torturing the poor boy!”
“He can do better,” Alec answered without taking his eyes off of Dunk.
For a boy who found mercy so insulting, he did not seem to be hitting Dunk very hard the next few times he found an opening. Though, it did feel like he moved faster with each success, and the subsequent shouts that followed.
Blocking Alec’s attacks was not difficult in terms of the strength required to do so, but he would adapt faster than Dunk could move. Dunk was certain that he had a nasty bruise growing on his side by the time he realized they were following a pattern. His first success in blocking three consecutive strikes raised the volume of the room substantially, but Dunk was only aware of the shocked expression in front of him. Alec stepped back with his eyes still wide, but his face broke into a grin before he darted forward again.
Even if Dunk was not failing completely anymore, he was still focused on defense alone, and Alec’s renewed enthusiasm had Dunk losing ground quickly. He felt his heel hit the wall behind him, and in a final effort to avoid total humiliation, he swung his stick down from above his head.
Unfortunately, being poked and smacked for so long had irritated Dunk past the point of restraint, and he did not think of how small his opponent was when he moved with his full strength. Very, very fortunately, Alec was fast enough to block it—which made all the difference between a broken shoulder and a broken sword.
The sound of wood cracking felt deafening even in the boisterous room, and time seemed to slow as the thin log snapped above Alec’s face, the momentum carrying it fast enough to scrape his cheek.
Dunk froze where he stood, watching Alec look between him and the splintered wood in his own hand as blood welled up in the scratch on his face. That was exactly why Dunk did not want to fight him. He knew he would only embarrass himself with his lack of skill, and the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt someone solely because he was too—
The sound of a young boy’s laughter yanked Dunk back into the present moment before he could fall further into his panic, and the collective sigh released in the much quieter room told him that he hadn’t been the only one fearful of his opponent’s reaction. Alec turned to show their audience his broken stick, and the bearded man who had previously defended him was the first to clap.
Dunk wished desperately that he could sink into the wall as Ser Arlan’s table and the other patrons who’d been drawn in by the commotion erupted. He’d never had so many eyes on him in his life, and he didn’t think he’d even done anything noteworthy, other than look a fool and cut the face of the innkeeper’s son.
Speaking of which, while Dunk felt stiff and uncomfortable under so much attention, Alec preened in it. He laughed and grinned and insisted to all who would listen that he still would’ve won if they’d been using real swords. His presence seemed far too big for such a small body, too big for such a small place. Too big for the world, perhaps.
Dunk made his way back over to Ser Arlan, smiling awkwardly at the repeated congratulations and compliments, and sat down heavily beside the man once he reached him. He was exhausted, and the sun had barely set.
“Time for you to bed down?” Ser Arlan asked, and Dunk’s eyes strayed back to where Alec was still speaking animatedly despite the man attempting to clean the blood from his face.
“Maybe not yet?”
Ser Arlan’s smile was far too knowing for a man as drunk as he had gotten, but Dunk was saved from having to address it by a woman’s shrill shout that managed to carry above all others across the room.
“Alec!”
The boy in question paled instantly and his bearded friend laughed heartily.
“Better run, little knight. Your lord’s callin’.”
Alec took off without a moment’s hesitation, but he was caught by the elbow before he made it far. Dunk recognized the woman from earlier, but her face had looked very different when she’d welcomed them to town. Now, she was leaned down to scold Alec quietly, with fury etched into every line of her expression.
“Jeyne, leave him be. He was only—”
“You, shut up. I’ve told you he’s not to speak to travelers, and you allow it every time.”
The bearded man stepped closer to Jeyne, saying something softly enough that Dunk could not hear, and Alec used the woman’s distraction to wrench from her hold and sprint up the stairs. For a moment, it looked as though she would follow him, but she only sighed.
Ser Arlan turned to Dunk again.
“Now are you ready to sleep?”
It took Dunk some time to check on the horses once more and make his way to their room, with Ser Arlan choosing to stay downstairs with the townsfolk for a while longer. His mind did not stray from the innkeeper’s boy for a single moment, which made it understandable that he assumed he was imagining things when he entered their room to find Alec laid flat on the bed.
“Why did you take so long?”
“I had to see to the horses.”
“My brother did that earlier.”
“Yes, but I wanted— Sorry, why are you here?”
Alec sat up with the softest frown he’d worn since they met, and Dunk scrambled to correct himself.
“Not why as in— I meant, is there something you need, Alec?”
The boy shrugged and shuffled sideways with the clear intention for Dunk to sit beside him. Dunk went along with it the way one might accept a wolf’s invitation into their den.
“Not really, I’m just bored. I’m always bored. And I don’t like that name.”
“Mine?”
“No, stupid. Mine. Jeyne calls me Aerion when we’re alone. She says it’s pretend, but it feels more real than Alec.”
“Aerion? Like the prince?”
Alec, or Aerion, turned towards Dunk, which made him uncomfortably aware of their close proximity.
“Yes, but he’s dead, so why shouldn’t I get to use it?”
“I never claimed you shouldn’t.”
“Good,” he said with a sharp nod.
“I think it suits you.”
The small space between them shrank as Aerion leaned forward with hopeful eyes. Dunk had to look away.
“Really?”
“Aye, you look more like a prince to me than an innkeeper’s son.”
Dunk was tempted to add that he acted like one too, but he was already uncertain if Aerion would take offense to what he’d said.
“I agree. I think Father agrees as well, and he hates it. He always makes me cut my hair or put color in it, but he’s not here, so I can do as I like.”
“Oh. Your father does not have white hair?”
“No, his is black. Though it does have gray in it now. Jeyne says my mother probably had white hair, but neither of us knew her. Father told me she died when I was born, just like Jeyne and Mark’s mother, because we were all such fat babies. I think he’s lying, Jeyne says I was so small she would lose me in my cradle.”
Years of traveling with one man alone had evidently left Dunk with lacking social abilities, because he could not for the life of him think of the right thing to say.
“Both of my parents are dead.”
Yeah, it probably was not that.
Perhaps Aerion was not especially better than him, because he simply hummed and continued the conversation without thought.
“Did you know them?”
“I knew my mother, not for very long though. I never knew my father.”
“I wish I never knew my father. I hate him, I only like Jeyne. Someday, when I have a real sword, I’ll put it through my father’s heart,” Aerion said, jumping to his feet and acting out the promised stabbing with an invisible sword. He dropped his hand with a sigh.
“But I can’t do that yet. Mark is useless, Jeyne does not want to run the inn alone, and I’ll be no help if I’m hanged for murder.”
Dunk realized, quite embarrassed that it had taken him so long, that there was something deeply wrong with his new acquaintance. Just as embarrassing was the fact he did not like him any less for it.
“Knights can still be punished for murder.”
“Not Kingsguards. I’ll tell everyone that my father had to die for the good of the realm, and they’ll have to believe me in my white cloak.”
Aerion turned to Dunk with a smirk.
“And you, the second best knight in the nine kingdoms, will support me.”
“Second best?”
“Of course you can’t be the first, that will be me, but you broke my sword today—”
“Your stick.”
“My sword, and my sword could not have been broken by a nameless, forgotten hedge knight. I’ll not allow it. So you must improve your sword wielding, you must not forget me, and you must support me when I slay my father.”
As peculiar and bloody as Aerion’s demands for the future were, Dunk could not help but be charmed by them. He did still feel strange sharing a smile with the boy over plans that involved killing his father.
“Aye.”
Dunk expertly ducked below the inn’s doorframe as he entered, steadying his shaking hands by grabbing the strap of what had recently become his shield. He had not been so nervous to see Aerion in years, but traveling without Ser Arlan for the first time left him feeling untethered.
“How many rooms?”
“Just the one,” Dunk said, smiling for the first time in days when Aerion’s head snapped up from the book he was lazily flipping through, seated on a stool behind the inn’s counter. He did not match Dunk’s grin, but he never greeted warmly when he deemed the time between visits too long.
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry.”
Aerion waved him off with a suspiciously casual roll of his eyes and leaned to look around Dunk’s shoulder.
“Where’s the old drunk? He owes me a trip to the lake.”
Despite his best efforts, Dunk’s dimming smile betrayed the truth before he could speak it, and Aerion’s face went blank.
“Oh. How?”
“I believe it was a festering wound, but I could not say for certain.”
Over their sparse visits in past years, Dunk had learned the tells of Aerion’s feelings quite wholly. For instance, it was not difficult to see the difference between an angry scowl and one that existed only to redirect grief.
“Old fool. What have I always told you about cleanliness? This was bound to happen eventually.”
“It’s not so easy to stay clean on the road.”
“Then he should not have been on the road. He should’ve known he was too old. How could he be so—”
“Aerion…”
Aerion went quiet quickly, and Dunk made his way around the counter to pull him into his arms. He knew that hearing of Ser Arlan’s death would upset the boy who’d come to think of him as a sort of strange uncle, and he’d spent the journey there learning to hide his own grief so as to keep from adding it to Aerion’s. Dunk did not need to be held through tears when holding someone else felt so much warmer.
“Get off of me, brute. You reek,” Aerion said as his arm raised to wrap around Dunk’s back.
“I’m sorry, I’ll bathe before supper.”
“You’d better. Jeyne will wish to see you, and you stink so badly the babe in her belly will smell it.”
Dunk laughed and knew better than to address the way Aerion was tucking his face into his neck to chase the scent there. His clothes probably did smell something awful, but since they presented, Aerion had not been very shy with his appreciation for Dunk’s natural scent. Though Dunk would not have expected anything different from such an improper omega.
In full honesty, Dunk likely would have never known the societal rules that Aerion broke if he did not complain of people scolding him so constantly. Dunk always knew his friend to be a rude and somewhat twisted child, but he’d never thought of it in any sort of relation to his gender. Dunk was glad Aerion behaved the way he did, a more polite omega would have likely been married by then.
“How long are you staying?”
The most wretched question for a nomadic man with something to return to.
“Not as long as I’d like. I hope to compete in the tourney at Ashford meadow.”
Aerion pulled back to frown at him.
“Compete?”
“Aye, Ser Arlan knighted me before he passed...”
Dunk worked very hard not to look away as Aerion studied him with narrowed eyes. He let out a soft sigh when Aerion simply returned to his place against his neck.
“Ashford is not terribly far.”
“It’s not.”
“I do not want to miss the first time you’re knocked from your horse.”
Dunk smiled against Aerion’s hair, still cut short, but long enough to tell him his father had been away for months.
“You want to join me?”
“Is that not my right?”
“I plan to sleep outside.”
The wrinkling of Aerion’s nose tickled Dunk’s neck, and he was briefly worried that he’d already dissuaded him, that he’d again lost the opportunity to travel with Aerion.
Once, Jeyne had approached reluctantly and asked if they would ever consider taking Aerion on the road with them. Before Dunk even had the chance to beg him to agree, Ser Arlan had said yes.
Unfortunately, Aerion’s first heat began not two days later, and Jeyne had changed her mind. The disappointment Dunk felt when he went from believing that he might see Aerion more often to having to leave without saying goodbye could not be overstated.
“I will bring my own bedroll, and if it rains, you will shelter me with this giant body.”
Dunk laughed again and went willingly when Aerion pushed him away.
“Shut up. And go clean yourself.”