Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

At dawn, Skyreach looked as though it had been carved from fire.

The red towers rose against a sky so blue it hurt to look at. It bothered Dunk most in his left eye; since Kingsgrave he could see better, but strong light still turned the edges of things into uncertain blurs.

The wind struck the walls with violence, dragging dust, fine sand, and the dry smell of the mountains with it. In the distance, the crags caught the first light of day, as if someone had spilled burning coals across the stone.

Dunk adjusted his cloak over his shoulders and tried not to move more than necessary. The wound in his belly no longer burned as it had before, but every step tugged at the stitches. His thighs ached from riding, and his left hand was still stiff, as if it remembered the dagger. The maester at Kingsgrave had warned him not to exert himself. Then he had looked at Dunk as if he knew he would do it anyway.

Egg walked at his side, stooped under a saddlebag nearly as large as he was. Even so, he kept glancing at the one Dunk carried over his shoulder.
—Ser, I can carry yours.

—No.

—But you still…

—No.

The boy pressed his lips together, but did not insist.

Across the outer yard, Ser Qyle’s men were gathering up their blankets with rough movements and faces twisted by ill humor. They had spent the night outside the walls, out in the open, because the Fowlers had refused to allow a Manwoody escort to sleep inside the castle.

It seemed discourteous to Dunk.

Judging by the way Ser Qyle folded his cloak, it seemed like a declaration of war to him.

—Dornish hospitality —one of the soldiers muttered—. They open the gate for the prince and leave you sleeping among the stones.

—At least stones don’t snore —another replied.

—Nor do they stink of Fowler.

A few dry laughs followed.

Ser Qyle did not smile. He stood beside his horse, watching the walls of Skyreach as if he meant to set them aflame with his eyes alone.

Aerion came out shortly after.

Dunk saw him appear beneath the stone arch, wrapped in his red cloak, his silver hair pulled back with an almost martial neatness, his face so clean it seemed nearly offensive amid all that dust. He walked slowly, without limping. Or, at least, doing everything in his power so no one could accuse him of it.

Egg noticed too.
His expression changed in a way so slight it was nearly imperceptible, but Dunk was beginning to recognize such things. The boy straightened his back, as if the air had turned colder.

Aerion passed them without stopping.
—Ser Duncan.

Dunk inclined his head.
—My prince.

The violet eyes lowered to the saddlebag Egg was carrying with such effort. A shadow of amusement crossed his face.
—How touching. My brother turned pack mule.

Egg shot him a furious look.
—At least mules are useful.

Dunk closed his eyes for a moment.
They had not even left the castle, and he already needed a rest.

Aerion smiled.
—Then try not to get lost, mule. It would be a pity if your usefulness lasted so little.

—Prince —Dunk said, before Egg could answer.

Aerion looked at him.

For a moment, Dunk thought he was going to add something worse. But the prince merely adjusted his gloves and continued toward the horses.

Ser Qyle approached with the slightest inclination of his head.
—My prince. The escort is ready.

—What a relief.

Qyle pretended not to hear the tone.
—Lord Michael has ordered us to guide you to Starfall. We will do so without delay.

—I should hope so.

The knight held the prince’s gaze a moment longer than necessary.
—The roads west are not kind to those who cross them without knowing them.

Aerion smiled faintly.
—Then I hope you know them well, Ser Qyle.

A chill ran down Dunk’s back. Every exchange between them gave him the same feeling as watching two dogs bare their teeth too close to each other’s throats. His instinct told him it was better to keep out of it. He did not want to be between them when one of them decided to bite.

The Fowlers had given them provisions before they left: barley bread, salted meat, a little hard cheese, and several full skins. Enough not to seem discourteous. Not enough to be mistaken for friends.

Ser Qyle inspected the saddlebags with distaste.
—As generous as ever.

One of his men spat on the ground.
—This won’t get us comfortably to the Torrentine.

—Do not worry —Aerion said, mounting with an ease that almost managed to hide the stiffness in his thigh—. Perhaps you can milk a goat along the way. You are good at that.

Dunk heard Egg let out a small snort.

Ser Qyle’s jaw tightened.
—The prince seems to have grown fond of goats.

—Only the useful ones.

The tension tightened between them again.

Dunk had the feeling that, if he did not intervene, someone was going to cross a dangerous line.
—How long until we reach the first stream? —he asked.

Qyle tore his eyes from Aerion and fixed them on him.
—That depends on the pace of the horses. And on yours, Ser Duncan.

Dunk felt the barb, though he could not quite tell where it had lodged.
—I can ride.

—I hope so. Lord Michael asked us to deliver you alive to Starfall, not bury you halfway there.

Aerion settled the reins between his fingers.
—If Ser Duncan dies, believe me, it will not be for lack of stubbornness.

Ser Qyle fell silent. For an instant, he looked at Dunk with a strange intensity. It was not simple mockery. He seemed to be trying to remember where he had seen him before.
—So I have heard…

He was about to say more, but a sharp voice from the walls interrupted him. A Fowler woman, covered in a sand-colored veil, wished them a good journey from above. Her tone was flawless. Her words, courteous. Her expression, impossible to read.

The Manwoodys did not answer.

Ser Qyle spurred his horse.
—Move out.

The group left Skyreach and its blue banners behind, with the sun rising at their backs.

For a long while, there was only the creak of leather, the strike of hooves against stone, and the dry wind dragging itself between the rocks.

Dunk looked west.

The road rose between red crags and sharp shadows, along stony paths that seemed less and less kind to anyone without hooves.

Starfall was still far away.

And yet, as he looked at Egg and then at Aerion, Dunk had the strange impression that both of them were already arriving somewhere they would rather have stayed away from.

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The days stretched longer than Dunk would have liked.

In the sun, the stones shone like embers; but as soon as the light began to withdraw from the slopes, the heat vanished all at once, as if the mountain had swallowed it whole. Since leaving Skyreach, every stretch seemed to carry them a little higher.

Dunk had slept in the open in the mountains before. He had felt the wind of the Prince’s Pass roar against his cloak and had known hard nights beside a poor fire. But this felt different. Here, the air scraped his throat when he breathed, the cold found every gap in his clothing as soon as evening fell, and the wound in his belly turned every jolt into punishment.

The presence of Ser Qyle’s men did not help.

Their words were often as sour as the fermented drink they carried in their skins. From the first day, whenever they thought Aerion could not hear them, they had mocked Dunk’s armor, his clumsiness in the saddle, and his enormous size.

Dunk did not think they truly hated him. Some of them still looked at him with that uncomfortable mixture of respect born from hearing Harwyn Holt’s name. But respect did not take away the cold, nor did it erase the humiliation of sleeping outside the walls while the Fowlers shut the gates of Skyreach in their faces.

—The Fowlers have always had a talent for being mean-spirited —one of the men muttered—. Especially when there is a Manwoody on the other side.

—And then they speak of honor as if they had invented it —another replied.

And since they could not bite Lord Michael, or the Fowlers, or the prince without risking too much, they took it out on him.

The most irritating part was that they had reason to boast.

Their coursers were so light they seemed to dance over the slopes. Before, Aerion had seemed impossible to catch. Now he still rode better than most men Dunk had ever known, but he no longer rode at the head. Not always.

At times, it seemed as if the Manwoodys were simply giving him the lead out of sheer condescension.
He knew it.
And it seemed to vex him more than the hostile mountain weather.

—The dragon must truly have fallen low —one of the men murmured—. There is no other way to explain why he keeps the cheapest knight he could find at his side.

—Are we meant to believe those two defeated Harwyn Holt’s band? We are not even that high yet, and you can already see them struggling to breathe.

—Perhaps the bandits tumbled off the cliffs on their own. Then these two took credit for a fight they never won.

The laughter came low, quick, and cowardly.

Through the slit of his helm, Dunk saw that Egg had gone too still. He said nothing, but his jaw was clenched and his knuckles had gone white on the reins.

—Fortune certainly favors fools —someone added—. And madmen.

The snickering returned.

For all their insolence, they spoke in whispers. Perhaps they were not as brave as they pretended to be.

—Ser Qyle, what do you think?

The man addressed took a moment to answer.
—It is an interesting theory. But it does not explain the knight’s wounds. Nor the fact that the prince had Holt’s seal in his possession.

The laughter vanished.

—Holt was scum, but he knew how to spot danger. He knew when to run. This time, he measured poorly.
Ser Qyle took out his skin and drank calmly.
—Many dragons have set foot in Dorne through the centuries. They all seemed harmless at first. —He spat to one side—. And they all ended up leaving a trail of smoke and ashes behind.

The men went rigid in their saddles.

A cold sweat ran down Dunk’s back.

—Even so —Qyle added—, none of them left this place unscathed.

Egg’s mouth trembled slightly.

Dunk was certain it was not from the cold.

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The road kept climbing until the air began to feel thinner.

They had not yet reached the worst of the mountain. At least, the Manwoodys did not seem to think so. But it was more than enough for Dunk. Every breath scraped his throat, and every movement from Thunder tugged at the stitches in his belly.

Toward the end of the day, Ser Qyle’s men chose a campsite beside a wall of rock that cut the wind. While Dunk was still trying to settle himself without reopening his wound, they already had a fire lit, skins opened, and a small pot boiling over the coals.

To the Manwoodys, camping at that height did not seem like a threat. Not yet. They moved with the certainty of men who had spent too many nights among stone, wind, and meager fire. The cold hardened their faces, but it did not stop them.

For Dunk, surviving the night with dignity would already have been a victory.

There were no walls there, no roof, only a wall of rock, a small fire, and the open sky above their heads. Despite the cured goatskins he had obtained at the castle, he felt the cold sink all the way into his bones.

He could not help shivering.

Beside him, Egg coughed. He was warming his hands by the fire. He barely moved. Dunk drew the wool more tightly around him and pulled him close to share his warmth.

—Are you all right?

The squire only nodded. He was quieter than usual.

When Dunk turned his head, he noticed the soldiers watching them with a mixture of mockery and genuine curiosity. One of them tossed him an extra blanket.

—Here, Ser. Keep the boy warm. It would be a shame to have to carry you both down frozen solid.

A few rough laughs followed.

—You northerners are delicate. Especially the ones who grew up by the sea.

Dunk raised his eyebrows. Northerner? He had never felt like a northerner at all.

—How do you know?

—We are not sure about the boy, since he barely speaks. But as for you, your accent gives you away. You are from King’s Landing.

Dunk was surprised. He glanced at Egg from the corner of his eye. The boy kept his gaze fixed on the fire. He seemed to choose even his silences.

For a moment, the Manwoodys seemed less hostile to him.
All except Ser Qyle.

—You are good to your squire —said another of the men, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon—. In the mountains, we must watch one another’s backs.

Aerion, meanwhile, remained apart from the group.
Although he had his red cloak drawn up to his neck, he did not ask for another blanket. Nor did he move any closer to the fire. He remained seated, unmoving, lips pressed together and eyes fixed on the flames, as if he hated even needing their warmth.
One leg was stretched out with too much care, as if even the way he sat cost him some measure of pride.

When the rations were handed out, the provisions the Fowlers had given them no longer seemed so plentiful.
Ser Qyle’s men devoured everything with a speed Dunk found almost offensive. Pieces of bread, dried meat, hard cheese; all of it disappeared between cracked fingers and strong teeth.

Aerion grimaced.
It was not the first time Dunk had noticed, but this time the prince did not remain silent.
—I have seen horses eat with more decorum after a battle —he murmured.

No one answered at once.

They all knew that, even exhausted, he was still capable of biting.

After a moment, Qyle was the first to return the thrust.
—Curious. I always thought dragons endured heights well.

Aerion chewed his ration calmly.
—Heights, yes. Company, no.

Something almost like a smile appeared on Qyle’s face. Aerion returned it.

That sort of language had become common between them.

Dunk did not like it at all.

The conversation died there.

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The climb continued for two more days.

Each stretch seemed narrower than the last. Each turn left less room for error. The Manwoodys did not laugh as much anymore, though they still pretended those heights did not matter to them.

By the third morning, the ascent had become difficult even for them.

They advanced at a walking pace, though all of them were mounted. Mist covered the landscape like a damp blanket, blurring the edges of the road, the nearby rocks, and anything that might be waiting more than a few steps ahead.

Aerion remained at the head, upright in the saddle, his red cloak drawn tight around his shoulders and his lips split by the wind.

Dunk watched him for a moment.

The prince rode well. Too well for someone who should not yet have been fully healed. But there was a stiffness in his posture that had not been there before. A way of shifting his weight in the saddle with too much care. As if every movement cost him more than he was willing to admit.

The Manwoody soldiers whispered among themselves as they watched him climb. They seemed to be giving him more room than usual.

Soon, Dunk saw his silhouette vanish into the mist.

Only then did he think he understood. There was a pass higher up. A dangerous one. Dangerous enough that even the locals usually avoided it.

“In these mountains, accidents happen often.”

Ser Mors’s words echoed in his mind.

Dunk’s heart lurched.

He turned to Ser Qyle.

—Why did you not warn him?

The knight merely shrugged.
—It slipped my mind. It has been a long time since I crossed this stretch along the ridge.

The calm with which he said it made Dunk’s blood boil.
—Lord Michael entrusted you with protecting him. Do something.

Qyle’s men stopped murmuring.

For the first time since the climb had begun, the knight turned to look at him properly.
—My lord ordered me to guide you, Ser. I cannot stop a prince from riding ahead to prove he needs no one to lead him.

—The one who eats your bread is under your protection.

Dunk turned, startled.

Egg was beside him, frowning, his voice firmer than his size seemed to promise.
—It is a sacred duty in these mountains —the boy added.

Ser Qyle looked at him with contempt.
—And what do you know of mountains, boy?

—More than you know of hospitality, it seems.

Qyle’s face reddened.
—Teach your squire some manners, Ser. I would rather not have to do it myself.

Dunk felt the urge to reach for his sword.

He did not.

—It was the prince’s decision to ride ahead. Now he is too far. I could not reach him, not even by forcing my courser up at full speed. I cannot even see him.

—Look. There he is.

All of them raised their heads.

At a fair distance, almost at the top, the red cloak emerged from the mist, along with a flash of silver hair.

Dunk did not know what to do.

The only thing he could think to do was shout.

—Prince! Be careful!

The icy wind and damp air tore at his throat, but he did it again. Once more. And again.

Egg joined him.

It was useless.

Aerion could not hear them.

Dunk wondered how it was possible that the prince had not sensed the danger in time. Usually, he was the first to suspect such things.

Perhaps it had been pride. Too much confidence. Perhaps the frozen air had numbed his wounded leg, and pain had kept him from thinking clearly. Or perhaps he was simply too exhausted, too hungry, and too dead with cold, though he would never have admitted it.

Then came the sound of stones sliding, followed by a sharp whinny.

Through the mist, they saw the mare and her rider skid down a slope toward a deep abyss.

—Ser, do something!

Dunk felt helpless.

All he could do was watch.

From that distance, it was impossible to make out Aerion’s expression, but Dunk could almost see him clinging to the reins, more focused than ever. There were no cries. No visible panic. Only that terrible stillness that sometimes took hold of him when everything around him seemed to be collapsing.

Sweetfoot lost ground.

Then found purchase.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Against all odds, the mare began to climb.

The Manwoodys stared at her in astonishment.

And at the prince as well.

After several minutes that felt eternal to Dunk, Aerion managed to guide Sweetfoot onto safe ground. He stood at the top, his red cloak whipping in the wind, as if he had not just come within a step of breaking himself against the rocks.

The mare’s neck was still taut, her flanks heaving.

Aerion did not look back.

Dunk realized his throat was raw from shouting.

Beside him, Egg let out his breath very slowly.

Qyle kept silent.

Dunk would have sworn his men almost applauded.

But no one did.

—Not bad.

—He managed it on a common mare.

—Almost looks like a true Dornishman.

Ser Qyle’s jaw tightened.
—Yes. But not from the best side of Dorne.
Without another word, he spurred his horse.

From then on, the soldiers under his command stopped whispering behind the prince’s back.

Not out of affection.

Out of prudence.

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The road began to descend toward a dry ravine covered in gray, twisted shrubs as the sun sank between cloud-covered peaks.

Dunk did not know whether there was a higher point in those mountains, but if there was, he had no wish to see it.

The gusts whistled more fiercely than ever, dragging mist, dust, and a cold that bit at the skin. The breath of men and horses rose like white vapor in the haze.

The Manwoodys themselves were shivering, clutching their thick cloaks around themselves. By then, they had stopped talking as well.

Water was beginning to run low. The provisions the Fowlers had given them would not last another night like that either, not with so many mouths to feed.

Dunk wondered how they would survive until morning.

The answer came soon after.

Through the thick cloud, he made out a few low thatched roofs, held up by walls of reddish stone. Smoke rose through an opening above. As they drew closer, the wind carried the smell of burned dung, sour cheese, and damp wool.

And barking.

Two thin dogs came running toward them, showing their teeth. Behind them, three children peered out beside a hut, wrapped in skins too large for their bodies. One held a stick as if it were a spear.

An old woman came out to meet them slowly, leaning on a staff. Her dark, cracked face contrasted with the sharp brightness of her green eyes. She wore several layers of skins, from head to foot.
She did not look pleased to see them.
—What are you looking for? There is nothing here but livestock and mist.

Dunk expected Aerion to answer.

He did not.

The prince seemed unwilling to come any closer than necessary. Not to the hut, nor to the woman, nor to the children beginning to gather around her. It did not look exactly like fear or disgust. More like the discomfort of someone who did not know what to do when his name was not enough to open a door.

Qyle looked his way.
—What is the matter, prince? Afraid the smell will cling to you?

Aerion grimaced.
—After so many days at your side, Ser, I would say I have grown used to it.

Qyle’s jaw tightened.
—I insist. Dazzle us with your well-known diplomatic gifts.

—In truth, I think you have a far better command of her language.

Dunk frowned.
The old woman spoke the Common Tongue, but something in Aerion’s tone made him think that was not what he meant.

Qyle finally turned to her. He rested one hand on the pommel of his sword.
—You will give us provisions in the name of the crown.

The woman remained silent. She did not look intimidated.
—The only crown that rules here is the mountain —she said at last—. And it has only two laws: hunger and cold.

Qyle let a palm’s length of blade show from the sheath.
—Then I have a new law for you. The law of steel. Do as I say, or taste its edge.

Dunk clenched his jaw.

This was not right.

It was no better than stealing.

Then he looked at the children. Their cheeks were hollow, their lips cracked, their eyes too wide. The smallest still held the stick in both hands, but his fingers trembled.

The old woman did not look ready to break.

But she was defenseless.

Or perhaps not.

He was there.

Dunk did not need anyone to tell him what to do. He knew at once. He climbed down from his horse carefully. The movement sent a stab of pain through his belly, but he ignored it.

Every eye fell on him.

The woman took a few steps back as he approached. The children hid behind her.

—I do not want to hurt you.

—That is what all armed men say.

Dunk drew his sword.
He laid it on the ground.
—Not now.

Aerion said nothing, but his eyes lowered to the steel abandoned on the earth.

—Stop, Ser Duncan. Now.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dunk saw Qyle glaring at him.
—I am sorry, Ser Qyle, but you have no authority over me.

The knight’s hand closed tightly around the pommel of his sword.

Dunk kept going.
—We do not want to take your food for free.

The old woman studied him for a moment.
—And what can you give me in exchange?

Dunk thought for a moment.

He did not have many coins. Nor did he carry anything those people might truly need. No silk. No wine. No jewels. Only a sword, a badly closed wound, and a body much too large.
—I am strong —he said at last.

The old woman looked him up and down.
Her expression softened a little.
—That I can see. Perhaps you may be useful after all. Come with me.

Dunk followed her through the smoke of a fire that vanished into the mist. They passed a main hut, then followed a path of split earth and grass burned by the cold.

After rounding the huts, the old woman stopped before a partially collapsed stone fence. Part of the low roof protecting the pen had come down as well. Some goats huddled at the back, restless, their backs damp and their legs sunk into the cold mud. The rest were still scattered across the slope, barely visible through the mist.

An old man was trying to lift the fallen stones and set them back into place. His back was bent, and his hands trembled.

When he noticed them, he turned.

He looked at Dunk in astonishment. Then at the old woman.

They had to be husband and wife.

—Who is he?

—The one who is going to help us with this mess.

The man frowned.
—I can do it myself.

—Of course. And I can give birth again if I try hard enough, but that does not mean it would be sensible to attempt it.

One of the children let out a small laugh.
The old woman silenced him with a look.

—We need this repaired before nightfall. Let him help.

After a moment, the old man agreed grudgingly.
—I will go after the goats that are still missing.

—Do not take long. We have company.

Dunk took off his cloak and began to work.

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By the time he finished setting the last stone back into the fence, night had fallen.

Dunk had long since stopped feeling cold. His cheeks were flushed, his shirt clung to his back, and his breathing was heavy. His belly still ached. Perhaps he should not have strained himself so much, but there had been no other way.

The old couple’s son had been hurt earlier while taking the flock out to graze. A stone had fallen on his foot, and now he lay inside the hut on several skins, his ankle bandaged up to the calf. He was fair-haired and powerfully built, though he watched everything with a helpless fury Dunk knew all too well.

The gods knew he had hated feeling useless too.

—You came in time, good man —the old woman told him as she stirred a pot near the fire—. Otherwise, by dawn we would have been counting bodies.

Dunk looked at the repaired pen.
—Could you not have put them in the largest hut?

The other buildings served as storage or shelter for tools. Only that one had a hearth large enough to keep a family alive through a night like this. And he had seen people sleep with animals beside their beds in wintertime.

The woman let out a dry sound, almost a laugh.
—Perhaps. But I doubt we would all have fit. Only the strongest would have lived.

Through the mist, Dunk saw Egg running with the old woman’s grandchildren. The two thin dogs bounded after them, leaping and barking. One of the little ones brandished his stick like a spear. Egg laughed as he dodged an imaginary attack.

For the first time in a long while, he looked his age.

Something warm opened in Dunk’s chest.

—Are there more people living around here? —he asked.

—A few, scattered across the slopes. The ones to the south promised to come before nightfall. Then the mist came down. I suppose they decided our goats were not worth their broken bones.
She did not sound angry.
Only tired.
—I do not blame them —she added—. Some are ill. Others can barely walk. In the mountains, every family survives its own misfortune first.

Dunk bent to gather wood and straw. There was still a hole in the roof to fill. It was not a difficult task. At least, not for him.

The old woman watched him work with a curious expression.
—Look at you, son. You need no ladder. That is good.
She smiled at him.
She was missing a few teeth.

Dunk felt a warm embarrassment. His height was finally useful for something other than striking men or hitting his head on lintels.

—The others are in the main hut —she said—. You should go with them. I will bring the soup soon.

Outside, the horses had been tied beneath an overhang of rock, with blankets over their backs and a little hay to get them through the night.

When Dunk entered the hut, the scene was strange, to say the least.

The place was small. And low. He had to stoop so he would not hit his head.

The Manwoodys were huddled around the hearth, drinking something that looked like fermented milk. Some seemed more comfortable than others, but all had accepted the warmth without complaint. At the back, the old woman’s son was still watching the newcomers with distrust.
Especially Qyle.

There were not many empty spaces left.

Ignoring the knight’s stare, Dunk passed by him and went to settle beside Aerion, who had somehow managed to remain apart from the group even in a space so small.

He expected some poisonous remark.

None came.

The prince merely watched him from the corner of his eye, like a shepherd watching a goat that had just neighed.

After a while, Dunk began to feel truly uncomfortable.
—Have you discovered something interesting, prince?

—As a matter of fact, yes. I saw a giant let himself be shepherded by goats.

Dunk opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
—You mean by the shepherds.

Aerion tilted his head slightly.
—Also.

Dunk did not know whether that was praise or a low blow.
It was not the first time that had happened.
He was beginning to find it unsettling.

The prince turned his eyes back to the fire.

Dunk watched him in silence. Since Lord Michael had spoken the name of the Daynes’ seat, Aerion had spoken less. Egg too.

It was as if both of them had begun to hear something Dunk could not.

Perhaps that was why he said what he said.
—At least you have finally deigned to speak —he muttered—. I was beginning to think Starfall had frozen your tongue.

The hut went still all at once.

Egg lifted his head.

Dunk understood too late that he had said the wrong thing.

Aerion turned toward him.

He did not look angry at first. That was the worst of it. For an instant, his face went completely motionless, as if all the warmth had gone out of the place.

Then he threw the contents of his bowl into Dunk’s face.

Dunk stayed very still.

The sour milk ran down his cheek, thick and sticky.

—What is it to you?
Aerion’s eyes burned.
Dunk had not seen him so furious since Ashford.

Without another word, the prince rose and left, shutting the door hard behind him.

For a moment, only the crackling of the hearth could be heard.

Then Qyle let out a short laugh, almost thoughtful.
—How interesting, Ser. It seems you are not only good with stones and livestock. You also have a gift for making dragons nervous.

A few men chuckled.

Dunk sighed and wiped his face with his cloak.
—I did not mean to.

—Yes —said Qyle—. That makes it even better.

Dunk pressed his lips together.

—I heard the knight who humiliated Prince Aerion before half the realm was nearly two meters tall.

The laughter died.

Even the old woman’s son turned to look at him.

—How tall are you, Ser Duncan?

Dunk swallowed.
He had known this would happen. Rumors flew. It was only a matter of time before someone connected the threads.
—I am not sure, I…

—You made him eat mud —said Qyle—, and now you travel at his side?

Of course, it had to be him.

Fortunately, the old couple entered with the children at that moment. The woman carried a steaming pot in her hands. The smell of broth, cheese, and herbs filled the hut. She set it on the floor and began serving the soup.

The conversation died there.

For now.

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Later, Dunk found it hard to sleep.

He was not the only one.

Egg was whispering with one of the old woman’s grandchildren.

—What happened to your mother?

—She died.

The answer left a cold hollow in the dark.

—And yours?

—So did she.

Dunk felt his heart tighten.
A face came to mind. He had tried to drive it from his thoughts, but it still followed him at night, like a ghost.
“You are his very image! You smell of treason! Get away from me!”

Dunk started.
Someone was moving beside him.
It was Aerion.

He did not know when the prince had come back inside. In the light of the hearth, he could make out his fierce expression.
—Unfortunately, there is no more room in this cursed place —the prince muttered, settling into the only empty space—. Do not move too much, or I swear you will need a maester again.

It was a fact.

Dunk would spend the rest of the night awake.

And not because of the cold.

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With the first light of morning, they left the shepherds’ huts behind, carrying hard cheese, sour milk, and more blankets than Ser Qyle would have liked to accept.

The old woman came out to see them off, leaning on her staff. When Dunk passed by her, she patted his arm, as if assessing a particularly useful mule.
—Come back whenever you like, good man. But bring fewer soldiers.

Dunk did not know what to say.

One of the Manwoodys let out a low laugh.
But it no longer sounded cruel as it had the night before.

Later, when the descent began, that difference became more evident. At times, Thunder stopped short, making Dunk bounce in the saddle, and the stabs of pain in his belly reminded him he was not yet fully healed.
But no one made any comments about it anymore.

One of the men handed him a skin of water. Another, fermented milk. A third, beer.
—Drink, Ser. Soon we will all be sweating.

Qyle gripped the reins so hard his knuckles turned white. His mouth was twisted, as if he had bitten into something sour.

Egg rode nearby, his hood covering most of his face. Perhaps to shield himself from the wind. Perhaps out of habit.

Aerion, for his part, was even quieter than the day before. At times, he looked at Dunk from the corner of his eye. Then he turned his gaze back to the road.
He seemed to be in a foul mood.
But there was something more.
Something Dunk could not understand.

As the afternoon wore on, the gray shrubs began to give way to patches of green. Little by little, the rock mingled with grass, low branches, and damper earth. The air was still cool, but it no longer bit.

Aerion had taken off his gloves an hour ago. Dunk wore his cloak open. Even Egg had stopped complaining about the cold.

Later, Dunk heard a distant murmur. He thought it was the wind trapped between the cracks of the mountain, but the sound did not come from above. It came from below. It was deep, constant, and growing louder with every step.

—The Torrentine —one of the men said.

Egg lifted his head.

Aerion did not, but Dunk saw his fingers close around the reins.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The road descended toward the sound of water.

Soon, the path was no longer merely a scar between rocks, but a traveled road marked by wheel tracks, dry dung, and scraps of straw. When they reached the crossing, the last rays of sun were fading over the rocky peaks, and the silence of the heights was left behind all at once.

The place was packed with caravans, stalls selling fruit, olives, and liquors, and people in different clothes, accents, and colors. The bustle of the crowd mingled with the deafening roar of the Torrentine.
Dunk supposed provisions would no longer be a problem from then on.

Before them, on a ledge of damp rock, stood a stone building covered in moss. Its base had been eaten away by the water, and one of its windows hung crooked from its hinges.
It had to be a wretched inn.

—We will stay here —Aerion ordered, dismounting.

A stableboy came out to take the reins.

Qyle made a face.
—High Hermitage is behind that ridge. There you would have comfortable rooms, decent food, and hosts of your rank. This is no place for a prince.

—Better still —said Aerion.

Everyone understood what that meant.

Dunk did not.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Somehow, Egg’s hair had grown longer than Dunk had realized. The boy having spent the whole journey through the mountains with his head covered had not helped much either. When Dunk pulled back the hood, pale strands fell over his ears in a way impossible to ignore.

It was time to trim it.

He was just finishing drawing the bone-handled razor along the damp nape of Egg’s neck when Aerion appeared in the doorway.

—I want to try.

Egg went pale as milk.
—Never!

Aerion arched one eyebrow.
—You let Daeron do it. And he was drunk.

—Precisely because of that!

Aerion rested one hand on the pommel of his dagger, just enough to see Egg tense.
—Come now, little brother. I am good at cutting.

Dunk cleared his throat. He did not know whether Aerion was serious or not, but it was better to intervene.
—I do not think that is a good idea, prince.

—How little faith you have in me, Ser Duncan.

Egg clenched his fists with great vigor.
—We are talking about my head!

Voices from the adjoining rooms mingled with the noise of water rushing downhill.

In the end, Aerion took his hand away from his dagger.
—How dull you both are.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Later, Dunk went down to the common room.

His head hurt. He had struck it against the lintel when he entered, and the laughter still burned in his ears. Now he ate in silence, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left. And to go unnoticed.

It did not work.

Qyle saw him and came straight toward him.

—I do not like that man —Egg muttered.
He had barely touched his food. He was busy stroking a gray cat, thin as a shadow. He was feeding it little scraps from his own plate.

—Nor do I —said Dunk—. But he is a knight. And our guide. You must respect him.

The boy made a face, but did not protest.

Qyle settled across from them. He ordered beer. Then he stared at the animal, which was busy with a piece of cheese.
—Curious.

Dunk looked up from his plate.
—Ser?

—Cats. They like to play with what they mean to eat.
His gaze returned to Dunk.
—Tell me, Ser Duncan, did you make those cuts on his cheeks?

Dunk went still.

Qyle drank a sip of beer.

At that moment, Aerion entered the room.

He did not strike his head on any lintel, but everyone turned to look at him.

Dunk was beginning to realize neither of them went unnoticed, though for very different reasons.

—Careful, Ser Duncan —said Qyle—. There are beasts that remember every wound.

When he saw Aerion approaching, Egg shoved the cat away at once.
—Go! Get away from here!

Dunk would have preferred not to understand that.

But he did.
He watched the animal dart away and slip beneath some barrels.
He did not like seeing fear in so small a creature.

Aerion sat with them.

The hair, the clothes, the silver ornaments…
If he had wanted to go unnoticed before, he could forget it now. Every eye was on their table.

Aerion seemed used to it.

Dunk was not.

Food was brought to him almost immediately.

—Prince, have you heard the news? —Qyle asked.

Aerion looked at him. He could not hide a grimace of annoyance.
Ever since the Manwoody had named High Hermitage, his nerves had seemed drawn tight as a bowstring.

—They say in the capital that Prince Valarr now holds his father’s place beside the king —Qyle continued—. These are good times for the crown. People sleep more soundly when they believe the future rests in firm hands.

Aerion broke off a piece of bread.

—How pleasing.

Egg stopped eating.
Dunk did not understand why. Still less did he understand why Aerion’s silence, for one brief instant, seemed more dangerous than any of his threats.

Qyle set his tankard down on the table.
—Enjoy your supper.
Without another word, he returned to his men.

Egg sighed. He said he was tired and wanted to go to bed.
Perhaps it was true. It had been a long day. But there was something in his words that did not fully convince Dunk.
—Go carefully. I will join you soon.

At a nearby table, a merchant was talking about ships held at Gulltown, strange fevers across the Narrow Sea, and maesters recommending that water be boiled.
No one was listening very closely.

The landlady, however, seemed to have decided that the prince needed another sort of attention.
Before Dunk could blink, three women surrounded the table. Aerion did not even look at them.
At least not until one of them touched his hair.

Dunk swallowed.
He knew that expression.

Fortunately, they had the prudence to move away in time.

One of them came toward Dunk. She was red-haired. Pretty. She had freckles across her nose. She smelled of jasmine. Her dress was so fine Dunk did not know where to look.
—Knight, it seems your lord is not in good spirits. Are you?
Her warm breath brushed his ear.

Dunk felt himself evaporate.
He had never had a woman so close to him. Never.

For a long while, all he could do was stammer. After several seconds, his tongue finally found a way to say something coherent.
—N-no, thank you.

The girl laughed. She did not seem to be mocking him.
—You are a charming one, aren’t you? Well, if you suddenly change your mind, you know where to find me.
After winking at him, she went to another table. A muleteer welcomed her gladly.

All at once, Dunk felt very hot. His ears were as red as two pomegranates.

When he looked ahead, the first thing he noticed was Aerion’s smile.

—How adorable.
It was almost the same tone the girl had used before.
But on his lips, it sounded like a slap.

Aerion took a coin from his pocket and set it before Dunk.
It was a gold dragon.
—I will fund you, Ser. Even hedge knights deserve to discover what beds are for.

Dunk clenched his jaw.
Once again, he felt the urge to seize him by the clothes and throw him against the wall. He did not. He was not going to fall for the provocation.

Without a word, he left the inn.

Outside, a pleasant breeze touched his face.
There was a waterfall nearby. He went toward it. He needed to wet his face.

When he lifted his eyes, he saw a dragonfly pass just in front of him.
He remembered the days at Ashford. The good days, before he had become tangled up in the matter of dragons.

He smiled.

He ended up in the stable without thinking too much about it.
He went to Thunder. He opened one of the saddlebags and took out his shield. It was almost in pieces, perhaps, but the shooting star could still be seen, and part of the elm.

He could not help stroking it.
He thought of Tanselle and smiled like a fool.

—The puppet girl’s tree.
The voice startled him.
He had not heard Aerion follow him.

—She has a name.

—I know. Do you mean to use it in battle?

—No.

—Then throw it away. It is rubbish.

Dunk clenched his jaw. He put the shield back into the saddlebag.
—Not to me.

The sound of the water flowed through the silence left between them.

—I did not know you were so sentimental, Ser.

Dunk glanced at Aerion from the corner of his eye. His arms were crossed.

—Is that why you decided to come down to Dorne? Are you chasing a ghost?

Dunk could not hold back anymore. He turned toward him, fists clenched.
—What is it to you?

Aerion’s gaze lit all at once.

Dunk’s hands went to his belly by instinct.

—Your absurd romanticism dragged me here. Does that not seem reason enough?

Dunk felt a chill.

He did not know when Aerion had come so close.

—You had better survive, Ser. Or that shield will never be repaired.

The river went on striking the stone in the distance.

—And it would be a tragedy if your puppet girl had waited in vain.

-------------------------------------------------------------

With the new day, they continued the descent with the Torrentine at their side.

The ground was still rough, full of loose stones, exposed roots, and treacherous turns, but it was far kinder than the high mountains. At least there they had water within reach, shade, and enough food in the saddlebags that no one had to look into the bottom of their pouch with worry.

Fruit trees grew beside the road, bending their branches over the travelers. Now and then, the air carried the smell of damp earth, warm leaves, and citrus peels split open beneath the sun. The river’s roar was still there, deep and constant, but it no longer sounded like a threat. It seemed more like some huge beast walking beside them.

Dunk avoided looking directly at Aerion.

He had not forgotten the humiliation at the inn. The gold dragon on the table. That voice telling him that even hedge knights deserved to discover what beds were for.

He clenched his jaw.

It should not matter.

Even so, he could not help glancing at him from the corner of his eye now and then.

The prince rode with his eyes fixed on the road, as if everything around him were unbearable. He looked at no one. He spoke to no one.

Egg did not seem calm either. Dunk had tried to ask him why more than once, but the boy only shrugged or changed the subject.

So Dunk still did not understand the reason for their silences.

Near midday, they stopped beside a bend in the river. The water ran between dark, gleaming stones, raising white foam against the rocks. At that height, the Torrentine was still strong, though no longer as wild as it had been in the gorges.

They brought out bread, cheese, olives, and part of the trout they had bought earlier at the crossing. By the time they finished eating, little remained but bones.

—It is a shame we could not carry more fish in the saddlebags —one of the soldiers said, wiping his fingers on the grass—. In this heat, it would not have lasted until nightfall.

—The fish is there, right in front of you —another added, pointing to the Torrentine.

The laughter came only a heartbeat later.

—With the current that strong? Only someone very brave would dare go in.

—Or very stupid.

The men began to boast. One claimed he had caught fish with a spear during a storm. Another swore that, as a child, he had crossed a flooded river with a lamb under each arm.
But not one of them dared so much as wet his feet.

Dunk did not have to do it.
They had plenty of provisions. There was fruit, bread, and cheese. No one would go hungry that night.

But before he realized it, he was already on his feet.
He took off his shirt. Then his boots. He felt several gazes fix on his back and preferred not to think too much about it.

He remembered the gold dragon on the table.
He did not want to owe anyone anything again.
Least of all a prince.

That prince.

If all he had was his strength, then he would use it in his favor.

Several fish passed by his feet, like quick shadows beneath the sun’s reflection. Dunk drew a deep breath. He tried to ignore the mockery and the dull ache in his belly, and to focus only on the flow of the water.

It was not the first time he had done this.
But no river had ever roared so loudly.

He plunged his hands into the current.

The first time, the fish slipped away.

The second, he only managed to soak himself up to the elbows.

The third, his fingers closed around something alive, strong, and slippery.

Dunk gripped it with both hands.
When he straightened, he had a large trout twisting between his fingers.

The laughter stopped.

When he raised his eyes, they were all watching him in astonishment.

Even Aerion.

Satisfaction warmed his chest before he could stop it.

Dunk stepped out of the water and placed the fish beside the firewood.

—Not bad for a city man —said one of the Manwoodys.

—Not bad for anyone —another replied.

There was no sting in those words now.

Qyle broke off a piece of bread.
—Well. It seems the giant is good for more than bleeding.

Dunk saw Egg straighten a little, but one of the soldiers spoke before he could.
—At last, something fresh for supper.

Qyle squeezed the bread so hard it crumbled between his fingers.

He did not say another word all afternoon.

Dunk went to get his shirt. He shook it to clear away a few dry leaves before putting it back on. Then he took the chance to check the wound in his belly. It was not fully healed, but it looked much better than it had days before. The skin was still tender around the stitches, though it no longer had that angry redness from before.

When he turned, he noticed Aerion watching him closely.

Perhaps too closely.

Dunk felt the absurd urge to cover the wound, though the prince had seen it before.

It did not look like mockery.

That unsettled him more.

What was he plotting? Was he searching for weak points?

Wasting no time, he finished dressing.

-------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Ser Arlan’s name came up beside the campfire.

The trout had been roasted over the coals, wrapped in broad leaves and seasoned with coarse salt. It was no feast, but it tasted better than any dried meat they had eaten in the mountains. The men were in good spirits. Some spoke among themselves. Others drank in silence, their legs stretched toward the fire.

Dunk had sat near Egg, his back resting against a low stone.

—So you served him for eight years? —asked one of the Manwoodys.

Dunk nodded.
—More or less.

—Well, man. That is quite a long time.

—And did you travel through the Seven Kingdoms?

Dunk stirred the coals with a stick.
—Well, we crossed from sea to sea more than once. Though we never set foot in the North. Nor in Dorne either. This is my first time here.

—Perhaps not in Dorne —said Qyle—, but in the Marches, yes?

Some of the Manwoodys looked up sharply.

Dunk started when he heard it.
How could he know that?

Qyle drank from his skin.
—Calm yourself, Ser Duncan. I am no warlock of Asshai.

A few laughs followed.

—I saw you in the campaign against the Vulture King. You have changed a little, but you are hard to forget. An enormous squire, carrying the things of an old knight… with the banners of Nightsong and Blackhaven flying above you.

The conversations ceased.

The men turned toward Dunk.

He knew those looks too well.
Disdain.
Distrust.
As if, from one moment to the next, the water he had brought, the stones he had carried, and the fish he had caught no longer meant anything.

—First he brings a dragon to Kingsgrave —one of the men muttered very softly—. Then it turns out he ate the bread of the Carons and the Dondarrions.

—Such select company —another added.

Dunk did not understand what was happening.
—S-Ser Arlan served where he could.

Qyle lowered his eyes to the fire, satisfied.
—Of course. A man ends up smelling of the house that feeds him.

A dry little laugh was heard.
Aerion was cleaning his dagger with a piece of cloth, sitting a little apart, the fire reflected in the steel.
—How moving —he murmured—. They all hate one another until a king orders them to die under the same banner.

At those words, the men clenched their fists.

Dunk seized the moment to rise and go to the horses. He took hay from one of the bags and began to hand it out. It was Egg’s task, but he needed an excuse to get away from the group.

Ser Arlan had bled for the black nightingales and the purple lightning bolt.
Those wounds had weakened him. Perhaps, had he not fought in the Marches, he would still be alive.
And those lords did not even remember his name.

Dunk touched his belly. Images of Ashford came to him. Of the Trial of Seven. Of his desperation before the stands.

Ser Manfred Dondarrion and Lord Pearse Caron had been there.
They could have helped him.
Instead, they had only laughed at him.

Dunk clenched his fists.

To great lords, men like Ser Arlan were only flesh that bled across someone else’s map.

He took his hand away from his wound and lifted his eyes.
His gaze met Aerion’s.
The prince was watching him from the other side of the fire, the dagger still between his fingers and an expression impossible to decipher.

Then Ser Arlan’s voice came back to him, rough and tired, as if from some distant night.
“A poor knight cannot always choose beneath which banner he sleeps, Dunk. But he can choose not to stain it.”

Dunk swallowed.

Yes.

That was precisely what he had to do.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dawn had barely broken when Qyle began casting his first barbs at the Daynes.

They were descending through the rocky canyon with the roar of the Torrentine accompanying them from below.

—A sword fallen from the heavens —he said, with a dry laugh—. What a fine jest. If they wanted to convince us they were special, they might have invented something less ridiculous.

He spoke at precisely the right volume for his men to hear, and for Aerion, who rode at the head of the group, to pretend he did not.

As they went on, his words grew sharper.

He said the Daynes fancied themselves legendary warriors, but when the Vulture King burned the mountains, they hid behind the waters of their river. He said they would not have survived a single day among the high peaks in their silk robes and parlor courtesies. He said some nobles called themselves Dornish only when it suited them, and courtiers when there was gold to be won in the capital.

Egg’s jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed on the road.
Each insult seemed to draw him tighter.

By midmorning, the landscape began to open. The riverbed widened, and its waters grew slower and less clamorous. The stone slopes gave way to low hills, cultivated fields, and green terraces. The heat was growing more pronounced, though a breeze rose from time to time to ease the road.

Unfortunately, it did nothing to cool Qyle’s tongue.

After riding a while longer, they stopped at the edge of a slope.

In the distance, the Torrentine descended toward an enormous mass of blue and foam that vanished into the horizon. Between river and sea, raised upon white rock, stood a pale fortress that looked as though it had been carved from light.

Starfall.

To Dunk’s eyes, it looked like a crown sculpted upon the coast.

Even the Manwoodys fell silent at the sight of it.
That did not improve Qyle’s temper.

Aerion had not spoken a word all morning. When he dismounted, he did not look toward the coast either. He simply handed over the reins and disappeared among a line of lemon trees growing beside the road.

A little later, the rest of the group dismounted as well.

—Fowler, Dayne… —Qyle muttered, his eyes fixed on the castle—. They all learn to look down their noses at you when they believe their blood weighs more than yours.

They sat on the grass. They took out provisions and ate without speaking much.

Aerion still had not returned.

Dunk was giving Thunder water when he noticed that Qyle was now looking toward the path the prince had taken earlier.
—Certain dragons think themselves pure —the knight said—. But one need only look closely at their lineage to find roots they would rather tear out. Though I cannot blame them. Some legacies weigh more heavily when they are a farce.

Dunk frowned.
What was he talking about?
He had no time to ask.

Egg stood.
Dunk was too far away to stop him. When he saw his posture, his rigid shoulders, and the fury held tight in his face, he knew there was no turning back.
—You want to speak of frauds?

Qyle turned toward him. He did not seem to have expected such a fierce reaction.

—The Daynes ruled these lands thousands of years before any Manwoody crawled out of his hole in the rocks —Egg said, his voice trembling with rage—. Perhaps you should wash your mouth with sand before speaking of a house with more history than yours, Ser.

The air tightened.

Dunk saw the look in Qyle’s eyes and knew what would happen next.

—Impudent brat.
The knight raised his hand.
—I will teach you manners.

Dunk moved.

He was not quick enough.

He only saw a flash.

Qyle cried out and stumbled back. A red line opened across his knuckles.

Aerion was there.

Dunk had not heard him approach.

—Do not raise your hand to him again.
His voice was low.
Almost calm.
That made it worse.

Aerion moved through the men without haste. Then he lifted the blade and began cleaning it, with a calm that did not seem to belong to the moment.

Qyle held his injured hand with the other. Pain twisted his face, but his rage was stronger.
He looked at Aerion.
Then at Egg.
His brows rose slightly.
—How curious —he said—. A prince of your breeding dirtying his hands for the squire of a hedge knight.

Aerion raised his eyes.
For the first time in the whole journey, he truly looked at him.
—My patience for the goat stink of the mountains has come to an end, Ser Qyle. Starfall is already in sight. Return to your dusty fortress before I decide your other hand needs a lesson as well.

For an instant, neither men nor mounts moved.

Shortly after, the Manwoody escort began to disappear among the olive trees, taking their curses with them, the sour smell of their horses, and what little remained of Lord Michael’s courtesy.

Ser Qyle pulled sharply on the reins.
As he passed Dunk, he lowered his voice.
—Poor knight. Have you seen the way he looks at you?

Dunk went rigid.
—I do not know what you mean.

—Of course you do not.
Qyle smiled, showing too many teeth.
—Perhaps not all the rumors from Kingsgrave were as absurd as they seemed.

Dunk felt his mouth go dry.

—Dragons tend to break their favorite toys. From now on, I would watch my back more carefully.

Dunk did not know whether it was mockery, a warning, or both.

But for a long while, he could not get those words out of his head.

A toy?
Was that what Aerion thought he was?

Dunk looked at the two brothers.
Aerion did not take his eyes from the road.
Neither did Egg.
Neither of them seemed happy to have reached Starfall.

And Dunk still did not understand why.