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Chapter Text

The first time I looked at him, I didn’t understand why they called them dragons. It wasn’t that I had ever seen one before, but the old man, Ser Arlan, who had made me a hedge knight before he died, had told me the same story more than fifty times: how, when he was a boy, he had gone with his father to King’s Landing and seen the last dragon before they died out. It had been a small, sickly green female, with stunted wings.

But he, Aerion Targaryen, looked nothing like that.
I saw him for the first time at Ashford, when I went to enter the tourney. I believed that day would change my luck. I did not know it would change my life.

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ✧ ⋆ ˖͜͡✦ 𝘼𝙎𝙃𝙁𝙊𝙍𝘿 ˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ✧ ⋆ ˖͜͡✦

“Have you come to enter your lord in the tourney?” said Plummer, the castle’s steward, who was writing with a quill on a sheet of parchment.

“No, I want to enter myself.”

“Truly?” I thought I saw a mocking smile on his face, but I wasn’t sure. “My lord’s tourney is reserved for knights. Are you one?”

I nodded at once, hoping my ears weren’t turning red.

“And by good fortune, do you have a name?”

“Dunk,” I said, not knowing where the name had come from. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“And where do you come from, Ser Duncan the Tall?”

“From everywhere. I’ve been squire to Ser Arlan of Pennytree since I was five or six. This is his shield.” I showed it to the steward. “We were coming to the tourney, but he caught a chill and died. With his last breath, he knighted me with his own sword.”

“I’m sure he did.” I could not help but notice that Plummer did not deign to call me Ser.

“Are you aware that to lose in a tourney means giving your arms, your armor, and your horse to the victor, and paying for your own ransom?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you possess the sum required for such a ransom?”

This time I was certain my ears were red.

“I won’t need it,” I said, praying it would be true.

I only need one victory. If I win my first joust, I’ll have the loser’s armor and horse or his coin and I’ll be able to survive a defeat.

“I must speak with Lord Ashford’s master of horse…” The steward hesitated when he heard the blast of a trumpet, then at once hurried off toward the castle.

I was certain some great lord had arrived. It was a large company of knights and mounted archers, perhaps a hundred or more.

A stable boy ran past. I caught him by the arm and made him stop.

“Who are they?” The boy looked at me oddly.

“Can’t you see the banners?” he replied, wrenching himself free and running on.

The banners… Just as I turned my head, a gust of wind lifted the black silk standard on its pole, and it was as if the fierce three-headed dragon of House Targaryen spread its wings and breathed fire.

The standard-bearer was a tall knight whose white armor was inlaid with gold. He also wore a spotless white cloak that billowed in the wind. Two other riders were dressed in white as well. They were Kingsguard knights, bearing the king’s banner. It was no wonder the steward suddenly ran off in search of his lord.

“Boy, let go of that nag and tend to my horse,” I heard someone say a knight who had just dismounted in front of the stables. I realized he was speaking to me.

“I’m not a stable boy, my lord,” I replied.

“For lack of wits?” cut in another voice, more haughty. I turned and saw the Targaryen prince.

The prince wore a black cloak trimmed with deep crimson satin, but the garments beneath were a blazing symphony of reds, yellows, and golds. He was a slender, upright youth of middling height, and he seemed to be about my age. His face, framed by golden curls that shone in the light, looked carefully chiseled: high brow, sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and pale skin without the slightest flaw. His eyes were a dark violet that pierced straight through me.

“If horses are beyond you, bring me wine and a pretty girl,” he said, his voice heavy with irony and self-assurance, never ceasing to examine me with those violet eyes.

“It’s just that… Forgive me, my lord, but I’m not a servant either. I have the honor of being a knight,” I explained.

“Knighthood has fallen very low,” murmured the Targaryen prince, and something in his tone let me glimpse his contempt.

Just then a stable boy came running up. The prince turned his back on me, ignoring me completely as he handed over the reins.

Relieved, I went back into the stables to wait for the steward. I already felt quite uncomfortable among the nobles and their pavilions. Talking to princes was not my way.

And what else could that sharp-featured youth be but a prince? Targaryen blood came from lost Valyria, beyond the seas; their pale-gold hair and violet eyes set them apart from anyone else.

I knew Prince Baelor was older, but… could that young man be one of his sons? I had no idea who he really was.
But I was about to find out.

Without knowing it yet, that would not be the last day I saw him. Then he was only one arrogant prince among many, but what came after would teach me who he truly was… and who I would be when I looked at him again.

⋆ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙏𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙉𝘼𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏, 𝘼 𝙃𝙊𝙍𝙎𝙀, 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙋𝙐𝙋𝙋𝙀𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙍 ⋆ ˖͜͡✦

The first day of the tourney dawned clear and sunny. Even though I had filled a sack with food, so that I could breakfast on fried eggs, bread, and bacon, I had no appetite at all. My belly felt hard as a stone, though it was not my first day ever as a jouster. Just thinking about challenging the champions for the first time made me nervous.

Egg, the shaved-headed boy I had met on the road to Ashford and who had not left my side since, was now my squire, and all through breakfast he talked without stopping, making comments and predictions about this knight and that.

“Get him!” Egg cried out fiercely, so excited that he shifted his weight on my shoulders. “Hit him, hit him! That’s it! You’ve got him! Just a little more!”

We had already been watching the tourney for some time. Knights from great houses and others with no name were tumbling to the ground amid splinters and screams, shattered lances and runaway horses. Among the banners whipping in the wind stood out Prince Valarr, in his shining black armor and with nine victories to his name. But nothing we had seen could compare to what we were about to witness.

“Aerion Brightflame,” announced a herald, “Prince of the Red Keep of King’s Landing, son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall, of House Targaryen, grandson of our lord Daeron II the Good, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Then I recognized him at once, it was the same prince I had approached in the stables.

Aerion bore on his shield a three-headed dragon, but it was painted in far brighter colors than Valarr’s: the three heads were orange, yellow, and red, and the flames pouring from their mouths shone like gold leaf. His surcoat was a whirl of gray and red tones, and his black shield was edged with red flames.

“Come out, come out, little knight!” he called in a clear, powerful voice. “The time has come for you to face the dragon.”

Quickly I looked to see whom the prince was challenging, and it was none other than Ser Humfrey Hardyng. He inclined his head coldly as his horse was brought to him. He mounted without looking at Aerion, adjusted his helm, and took up lance and shield. Both took their places before a silent crowd. The trumpet sounded.
Ser Humfrey started slowly and gathered speed; Aerion, by contrast, spurred his red horse hard.

“Kill him!” Egg suddenly shouted. “Kill him, you’ve got him! Kill him, kill him, kill him!”

Aerion’s lance dipped too low. He should have raised it, or he would strike the horse. And then, in horror, I understood that he did not mean to. It can’t be, he can’t want to…

Ser Humfrey’s horse tried to shy away, but it was already too late. The lance drove into its chest and burst out through its neck in a spray of blood. The animal fell with a scream and smashed through the barrier.

The field filled with cries. Some ran to help, but the dying horse’s kicks drove them back. Aerion galloped past again shouting something I could not understand. He leapt from the saddle, drew his sword, and went toward his fallen rival, but his own squires stopped him.

Egg twisted on my shoulders.

“Let me down!” he said. “Poor horse! Let me down!”

Suddenly I felt dizzy completely dizzy. I was grateful I hadn’t finished eating, or I would have vomited at my feet. That had been a horrible sight, a nightmare. Just thinking that it could happen to Thunder… what would I do if my horse fell like that? By the gods, what would I do if I had to face such a prince, such a horrible and cruel man?

My unlucky meeting with Prince Aerion did not end there. I thought I had seen enough cruelty for one day, but the night still held something worse. It all happened quickly: one moment I was drinking wine as a guest of the Fossoways, and the next Egg came running toward me.

“Run, he’s hurting her!”

“Who’s hurting whom?”

“Aerion!” he shouted. “Her! the puppeteer! Hurry!”

And before I could say another word, I was already running back into the darkness of the field, straight toward the moment when I would stop being a spectator… and become his enemy.

When I arrived, he was already breaking her hand. Tanselle, the puppeteer, was on her knees on the ground, crying without a sound, while Aerion twisted her fingers one by one as if they were dry twigs. His guards were laughing.

I did not think. I only ran. I shoved one man aside, knocked another down, and hurled myself at Aerion. My fist lifted him off the ground and sent him rolling through the grass. Before he could get up, I kicked him and knocked the breath out of him. I stamped on his wrist with all my strength and heard something crack. He screamed.

Then I kicked him in the mouth.

At last they managed to pull us apart. I was panting, exhausted; he was touching his bloody mouth.

“You knocked out a tooth,” he complained. “So we’ll start by breaking all of yours.”

He brushed the hair from his eyes and studied me.

“Your face is familiar,” he said. “You mistook me for a stable boy.”

Aerion smiled.

“Yes, I remember now. You refused to tend my horse. Why have you come looking for death? For this whore?”

He shoved Tanselle with his foot. She was curled up, clutching her shattered hand.

“She doesn’t deserve it. She’s a traitor. The dragon never loses.”

He’s mad—completely mad—but he’s still a prince’s son, and he means to kill me. I wanted to pray, but I didn’t know any prayer all the way through, and there was no time. Not even time to be afraid.

“Have you nothing else to say?” Aerion asked. “You bore me.

“Wate, bring a hammer and smash out his teeth,” he ordered. “Then we’ll split him open and show him the color of his guts.”

“No!” cried a boy’s voice. “Don’t hurt him!”

Egg, I thought. How brave… and how foolish. I tried to break free, but they were holding me too tightly.

“Be quiet, you stupid boy!” I shouted. “Run or you’ll come to harm!”

“No.” Egg stepped forward. “If you hurt him, you’ll answer to my father and my uncle. I said let him go, Wate, Yorkel, you who know me, obey my orders.”

The words passed through me like wind, not settling. Little by little the guards began to release me.
But… I had made him carry and keep silent. I had treated him like just any child, what a fool I was!

Always thick in the head, as Ser Arlan used to say…maybe that’s why I now found myself here.

Chapter Text

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙅𝙐𝘿𝙂𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂𝙊𝘿𝙎 ˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ˖͜͡

There stood Aerion Targaryen, in his shining armor, far too beautiful for someone like him. From his squire he took a black battle lance, as if he meant to drive it straight through my heart.

He was smiling as though this were a feast; even beneath the gray sky his face was a gleam, as if the light sought him out on purpose.

Today I will die, I am certain of it, and it will be because of that pale-skinned man.

How did I come to this?

I am about to fight in a trial by combat for having struck a prince. No, worse still, I am here in a Trial of Seven.

Seven against seven. On my side stood Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Humfrey Hardyng, his brother-in-law Humfrey Beesbury as well, and Ser Raymun Fossoway, the one with the apple, who had changed his colors to fight with me when his cousin, the one of the red apple, stayed on Aerion’s side. It was he who found several of my champions, speaking for me when I did not even know how to ask for help. And then there was Prince Baelor Targaryen, how had that come to pass? How had a prince agreed to fight for me?

On Aerion’s side was his father, Prince Maekar Targaryen, three knights of the Kingsguard, and among them his brother Daeron, though he would not fight. I knew that because he had come to see me the night before.

“I can’t,” he told me. “I dreamed of you. I dreamed of you and a dead dragon. Once the Targaryens were lords of dragons. Now none remain, but we do. I do not want to die. So I ask you a favor, make sure that if you kill anyone, it is my brother Aerion.”

“I don’t want to die either,” I answered.

And it was true. I did not want to die. Then the trumpet sounded.

For a brief instant, even though all the horses had broken into a gallop, I remained completely frozen. A spike of panic ran through me, and madly I could think only that I had forgotten everything. I would cover myself in shame and lose it all.

Thunder saved me. The horse knew better than I what was required and began at a slow trot. Once in formation, I had no choice but to raise my shield to cover almost the entire left side of my body, while at the same time settling my lance.

Protect me, oak and iron, or I will end in hell.

Everything happened far too quickly.

One moment Thunder was charging hard, powerful beneath my legs, the lance steady in my hand. And the next, everything broke apart.

The horses collided with tremendous force. Thunder stumbled and I lost my lance. I felt myself carried away, or so it seemed, clinging desperately to the saddle to keep from falling. Thunder slipped in the mud, and I felt his hind legs give way. After several skids, the warhorse went down hard onto his haunches.

“Up!” I roared, driving in my spurs. “Up, Thunder!” And the old battle horse managed to regain his footing.
I felt the pain before I understood it.

A sharp fire exploded beneath my ribs, and my left arm turned heavy, useless. I looked down and saw it, Aerion’s lance had gone straight through me. Oak, wool, and steel, all had given way. From my side hung splinters of ash and black iron, buried in my flesh.

I did not think. I only moved my right hand, grabbed the lance close to the tip, clenched my teeth… and pulled.
It tore free of me with a horrible ripping sound. Blood burst out at once, hot, soaking the mail, the surcoat, everything.

The world went blurry, as if someone had dragged a filthy cloth across my eyes. I came close to falling. I heard my name, several voices, very far away, as though they were not calling to me at all.

The shield was useless now. I let it go. Oak, shooting star, and broken lance fell into the mud together, as if they too had surrendered. I drew my sword, or tried to. The pain was so brutal it nearly slipped from my hands. I could not even hold it.

Aerion, I thought. Aerion!!… Where is he?!

The question stabbed through my mind like another wound. I turned, searching for him, and then I saw him. His horse was coming at me with all the fury in the world.
There was no way to dodge. I lost my sword and saw the ground rise up to strike me. The impact shook me to the bone. Pain so savage tore a sob from my throat that I barely recognized as my own. I lay there, unable to move, the taste of blood in my mouth.

Dunk, the biggest fool of all, who had already seen himself a knight.

I knew that if I did not get up, I was dead.
I could not breathe. I could not see. The slit of my helm was packed with mud. Blind, fumbling like an idiot, I managed to get to my feet and wiped the visor clean with my gauntlet.

Between my fingers I saw the flight of a painted dragon… and then a spiked ball spinning at the end of a chain.

Then, nothing.

I felt my head shatter. When I opened my eyes, I was on the ground again, on my back, staring up at a dark gray sky. My whole face hurt. I felt cold metal against my cheek and temple.

He’s split my head open, I thought. And I’m dying. But the dragon was standing over me, by the gods… the last thing I will see will be that almost perfect face.

“Are you dead yet, lout of a knight?” said the dragon. “Beg for mercy, admit your guilt, and perhaps I’ll be satisfied with a hand and a foot. Ah, and your teeth too, but what are a few teeth? A man like you can live on mashed peas.” He laughed. “No? Then eat this.”

I saw the spiked ball spin against the sky, make one more turn, and then fall on me like a shooting star, sending me rolling.

I do not know where the strength came from, but it came. From fear, from pride, from the mud, from something. I lunged forward before I even thought to do it. I slammed into his legs, wrapped my whole body around his thigh, arm against iron, shoulder against steel. I felt him lose his balance and we went down together.

We rolled, crashed, tangled. His chain struck the ground, his hand groped for mine, I grabbed his arm, he drove an elbow into me that clouded my sight.

Aerion was strong, but I was stronger, and I outweighed him and stood taller as well. I seized his shield with both hands and twisted until the straps tore loose. Then I used it to smash again and again into the helm of the king’s grandson, until the flames of his crest were shattered.
The shield, oak with iron reinforcement, was thicker than mine. One flame broke off, then another. The prince lost his flames long before I ran out of blows.

At last Aerion let go of the haft of his now-useless weapon and reached for the dagger at his belt.
He managed to draw it, but a single solid shield blow knocked the blade into the mud.

Ser Duncan the Tall might have beaten him, I thought, but not Dunk of Flea Bottom.

Old Ser Arlan had taught him the mastery of lance and sword, but this kind of fighting I had learned long before, in dark alleys and winding passages.

I raised the visor of Aerion’s helm. The prince barely resisted anymore. His violet eyes were full of terror, staring at me wildly. I kept striking his face. I could kill him, right then… but I stopped.

“Yield!” I shouted.

“I yield,” Aerion whispered, without moving.

That… was it? I blinked several times in disbelief. I slowly turned toward the others. They were still fighting, the roar of the crowd rang in my ears, but I could only think of stopping it, I must end this. I looked back at Aerion, took him by the foot, and dragged him across the field toward the stand where the judges sat.

“Tell them!”

“I withdraw my accusation.”

Later, I could not remember how I left the field. I was still so dazed that my vision narrowed to hands helping me and voices I could not tell apart.

“Raymun…” I said, not even knowing if he heard me. I grabbed his hand as if it were the only solid thing left in a world that was still spinning. “And the others? Tell me how they are. Has anyone died?”

Raymun’s face was so filthy I could barely see the color of his skin. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Beesbury,” he said. “He fell in the first clash. Donnel of Duskendale ran him through. And Ser Humfrey is badly hurt… the rest of us are alive. Beaten, bloodied, but alive. You’re the one who looks worst, Ser.”

I felt something heavy slide down my chest.
“And the others?” I asked. “The ones who fought against us?”

Raymun made a face that almost looked like a smile.

“Ser Willem Wylde of the Kingsguard was carried off unconscious. And my cousin… I think I broke a few of his ribs. At least I hope so.”

I tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

“And Prince Daeron?” I asked, surprised that I still cared. “Is he alive?”

“After Ser Robyn knocked him down, he never got back up,” Raymun said. “His own horse trampled him when it bolted. He may have a broken foot.”

“Then his dream…” I murmured, closing my eyes. “The one about the dying dragon… it wasn’t true. Unless Aerion died. But he didn’t, did he?”

“No,” said a younger voice. I opened my eyes and saw Egg leaning over me. ”You spared his life,” he said. “You were the one who let him live.”

“I suppose I did…” I said slowly. The memory slipped through my fingers like water. “Everything’s blurry. Sometimes I feel drunk… and other times my body hurts so badly I’m sure I’m going to die.”

Someone gently pushed me so I lay flat on my back. The gray sky was right above me, still, indifferent. I stared at it, trying to understand what time of day it was, wondering whether it was already noon or whether the world had simply stopped with me.

“By all the gods…” I heard Raymun say, very close. “The tip of the lance went deep into the mail.” His voice reached me as if from the bottom of a well.

“If we don’t do something, it’ll fester,” said another voice.

“It has to be cauterized.”

“Get him drunk and pour boiling oil on it,” someone suggested. “That’s what the healers do.”

I wanted to protest, but my tongue would not obey.

“Wine,” said another voice then, deep, with a strange echo, as if it spoke from inside a helm. “Not oil. That would kill him. Boiling wine. I’ll send for Maester Yormwell… when I am finished with my brother.”

I blinked, struggling to focus. Beside me stood a huge man, so tall he seemed to stoop even when standing straight. His black armor was covered in blows, deep dents, poorly closed cuts. The red dragon on his helm was ruined, missing wings, tail, almost everything.
Prince Baelor.

“Your Grace…” I murmured. “I am your man.”

The words came out on their own, like an old promise.

“Your man… please.”

Baelor set a heavy hand on Raymun’s shoulder to keep his balance.

“My man…” he repeated, drawing out the syllables. “I need good knights, Ser Duncan. The realm…”

Something was wrong with his voice. It sounded thick, twisted. I thought perhaps he had bitten his tongue. I was exhausted. Weariness dragged me down like a tide.

“Your man,” I whispered again, and no longer knew whether I was speaking or dreaming. The prince slowly shook his head.

“Ser Raymun,” he said. “My helm, if you would be so kind. The visor is broken… and I can’t feel my fingers properly… as if they were made of wood…”

“At once, Your Grace,” Raymun replied.

I saw him take hold of the helm with both hands and grunt with the effort.

“It’s crushed in at the back, Your Grace,” he said. “On the left side. Driven into the gorget. Good steel… very good steel, to have withstood a blow like that.”

“My brother’s mace,” said Baelor. “Without doubt. He is strong. I… feel strange…”

“Here we go,” said Raymun.

The helm came free, and something red fell to the ground as well. Someone screamed. A long, terrible scream.

I saw Prince Baelor Breakspear sway against the gray sky. Where the back of his head should have been there was blood, white bone… and something else. Something soft, gray-blue. A strange expression crossed his face, as if a cloud were passing before the sun.

He raised his hand. He touched his head with two fingers, with infinite gentleness, and fell.
I caught him, not knowing where I found the strength.

“Up,” I said. “Up.” Just as I had shouted it to Thunder in the first clash. But this time it did not work.

After that… there are things I do not remember. I know the prince did not rise again.

Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm, and heir to the Iron Throne, burned upon a funeral pyre in the yard of Ashford, on the north bank of the Cockleswent.
The Targaryens do not bury their dead. They bid them farewell with fire. For they carry the blood of the dragon.

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✦ ⋆ ✦ ˖͜͡✦ 𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙊𝙉𝙁𝙇𝙄𝙀𝙎 𝙊𝙍 𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙂𝙊𝙉𝙎?˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ˖͜͡✦

Hours later, I was sitting at the foot of the elm. When I saw four soldiers in royal livery approaching my camp, I was certain they had come to kill me. I was too weak to take up a sword, so I waited with my back against the elm’s trunk.

“Our prince requests the favor of a few words in private.”

“Which prince?” I asked cautiously.

“This one,” said a rough voice before the captain could answer.

Maekar Targaryen stepped out from behind the elm.
I rose slowly, wondering what he could possibly want of me now.

The prince looked at me for a long while without speaking. Then he turned halfway, walked toward the river, and stood watching his reflection in the water.

“I have sent Aerion to Lys,” he announced abruptly. “Perhaps a few years in the Free Cities will change him for the better.”

I did not know what to say. I had never been to the Free Cities. Nor did I feel joy at knowing Aerion would be gone. So I kept silent, but Prince Maekar turned back to look at me.

“There will be some who say I wished to kill my brother,” said Prince Maekar. “The gods know that is a lie, yet I will hear whispers until the day I die. I am also certain that the mortal blow was struck by my mace. He fought only three other men, the three knights of the Kingsguard, whose vows forbid them from doing anything but defending themselves. Therefore it was I. It is strange, but I do not remember the blow that split his skull. Is that a blessing or a curse? I think it is a little of both.”

Judging by his gaze, the prince wanted an answer.

“I could not say, Your Grace”. I should tell him that I do not care, that he should go away, that I even hated him, but all I felt for him was a strange compassion. ”The blow was struck by you, but Prince Baelor died because of me. Therefore I am as responsible for his death as you are.”

“It may be that the gods have a fondness for cruel jests. Or that there are no gods at all. Perhaps what happened has no meaning. I would ask the High Septon, but the last time I sought his counsel he told me that the paths of the gods lie beyond human understanding. Perhaps it would suit you, though.” He grimaced. “It seems my youngest son has taken a liking to you. It is time he became a squire, but he refuses to serve any knight but you. You will already have noticed that he is a troublesome boy. Will you take him into your service?”

“Me?” I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Egg… I mean, Aegon… is a good boy, but Your Grace… I know it is an honor, but I am only a hedge knight.”

“That can be remedied,” said Maekar. “Aegon will return to my castle at Summerhall. If you wish, there is a place for you there. You will be taken into my household. You will swear me your loyalty, and Aegon may serve you as your squire. While you train him, my master-at-arms will finish his education.”

I looked around me: the green grass, the reeds, the leafy elm, the ripples dancing on the surface of the pool. Another dragonfly skimmed over the water, unless it was the same one. What do you choose, Dunk? I asked myself. Dragonflies or dragons? A few days earlier I would have answered without hesitation. It had been my great dream, but now that it lay within reach, it frightened me.

“I will accept your son as my squire, Your Grace, but not at Summerhall, at least not for a year or two. I believe he has seen enough castles already. I will only take him if I am permitted to carry him off along the roads, beginning with Dorne.” I pointed to old Chestnut. “He will ride my nag, wear my old cloak, keep my sword sharp and my mail clean. We will sleep in inns and stables, sometimes on a lord’s lands and other times, if need be, beneath the trees.”

☾ ✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ☾

Once Prince Maekar had gone, I leaned back against the elm’s trunk, weary to the bone, the pain of my wounds dulled by the wine I had drunk. I closed my eyes and felt myself slipping gently toward sleep. But then I opened them to look at the stars, hoping to see a shooting star. Perhaps it would give me a bit of luck before sleeping.

The silence of the fields reached deep inside me, broken only by the crackle of the fire a few steps away, and for the first time in hours, nothing tormented me. I thought about everything that had happened. How ironic it was that I had once believed I might someday be in the service of House Targaryen. And now… now all I wanted was to get away from them, to lose myself somewhere far away. Dorne sounded good. Heat, sun… it would not be so bad.

I looked up at the sky and thought that no other pavilion could have a view like this. None. Not even all the great halls of the nobles.

“Ha, ha, pavilion…” I laughed softly, more to myself than to anyone else.

I shifted slowly, settling my tired body. I was getting ready to sleep, to close my eyes and let the night cover me. And then I thought it: that “pavilion,” that elm of mine, had been visited by two princes. Well.

No… by three.

In the vile darkness, there he was. Standing there, leaning against the trunk, his tunic soaked, a bruise on him that I myself had given him. Prince Aerion Targaryen let his cloak fall from his shoulders and fixed his eyes on me.
I was certain he had come to kill me.

Chapter Text

“You!! What madness is this, coming here?” I drew my dagger in a sharp motion and sprang to my feet. I regretted it at once, the wound burning with any movement. “I ought to stick it in your belly and spare myself further trouble.”

“Quite likely,” Prince Aerion admitted, “though personally I would rather you didn’t.”

I did not lower the weapon. The blade trembled slightly, whether from the cold or from my anger I could not tell.

“Go,” I told him. “You have no business here.”

“They are looking for me,” he said quietly. “I was sent to Lys. Exiled. And I do not intend to go. I came here because it is the last place they would think to look.”

“And why should I care?” I spat. “Haven’t you caused me enough trouble already? Or do you not care either about the death of your uncle, Prince Baelor? All because of your tantrum and that cursed Trial of Seven.”

Aerion clenched his jaw.

“It was his choice to fight,” he said. “No one forced him.”

“But it was for you,” I shot back. “For your madness. And now you come to hide, as if I owed you something.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but fell silent for a moment. He merely lifted his tunic, then spoke:

“My father said to leave Aegon with you. That you would take him as your squire. That you meant to go to Dorne…”

“Take me with you. I have good friends in Dorne, they would be glad to have me as a guest,” he said, though I doubted it. Who would want such a mad prince in their castle? “I will pay for the journey with gold, and you could use it. I do not intend to rot in the Free Cities like a cast-off dog.”

“But as a fugitive, yes?” I asked. He only shrugged, and I noticed then that his lip was split.

I turned away, giving him my back. I did not want to see him, nor hear him anymore.

“Go. What happens to you is none of my concern.”

“Yes, it is,” he insisted. “You spared my life when you could have killed me. Why?”

I did not answer. In truth, I did not know. Had he been in my place, Aerion would not have hesitated to kill me. He went on:

“Perhaps that is the answer.”

I turned slowly. The fire made his skin gleam, and I hated that at any moment his violet eyes might flare into a brightness that could blind me.

I thought that I was a fool. I always had been. Too soft for a hard world.

And this was the truth of it: Aerion Targaryen would not last long on his own. Why should I care, I thought angrily. Why should it matter to me?

Then I thought of Egg, that he was his brother, and that I could not save one while letting the other die.

This was who I was, a foolish hedge knight, who would help even the man who had nearly killed him. I tightened my grip on the hilt… and in the end, I sheathed the dagger.

“Stay,” I murmured. “But know this: I am not doing it for you.”

˚ ✦ ☾ ✧ ⋆ ✦ ⋆ ✧ ☾ ✦ ˚

Egg arrived when the sun had already begun to sink. I knew it before I saw him. I looked up and there he was, in old boots, brown trousers, a wool tunic of the same color, and a traveler’s cloak.

“My father says I am to serve you, ser,” he blurted out, barely bothering with a greeting. “From now on, I am your squire.”

I nodded slowly. He smiled, briefly, as if he were expecting something more. Then he looked over my shoulder… and froze. The smile vanished from his face as if it had been torn away.

“What…?” He took a step back. “What is he doing here?”

I followed his gaze. Aerion was sleeping a few paces away, stretched out on the grass, his face turned toward the sky, so still that for a moment I understood Egg’s fear.

“Did you kill him?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Did you kill him and just leave him there?”

The words hit me like a fist to the chest. I got to my feet, shaking my head, hands raised.

“No!” I said too quickly. “Don’t say that.”

Before I could add anything, Aerion stirred. He frowned, muttered something unintelligible, and opened his eyes.

“I had the strangest dream…” he said, lifting a hand to his forehead. “I was sleeping in—”

“This is no dream,” he said, when he took in his surroundings, and especially me.

He sat up slowly, looking at the two of us. Egg stepped forward, toward him.

“What are you doing here?”

Aerion looked at him as though he had only just remembered his name.

“I’m traveling with you. To Dorne.”

“To Dorne?” Egg let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Perhaps,” Aerion replied with a shrug. “But I prefer that to exile.”

Egg turned to me, his eyes bright.

“My lord?” he snapped. “Have you lost your wits as well?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. I could not find words that would serve.

˚ ✦ ☾ ✧ ⋆ ✦ ⋆ ✧ ☾ ✦ ˚

We set out once they stopped arguing. I could not say how long we had been on the road; hours, at least. The sun had climbed high enough to warm my back.

“Are we stopping soon?” Aerion asked suddenly, without turning around. “I do not intend to walk until I drop dead.”

I opened my mouth to answer him anything, yes, no, stop complaining, but I stopped myself.

Because he was asking me as if… as if I were in charge? The thought struck me harder than I expected.

Since when did Aerion Targaryen consider me in command of the journey?

“There’s a stream up ahead,” I said at last, unsure even of my own tone. “We’ll stop there.”

I kept riding, but the thought would not let go of me. I had agreed to take Egg as my squire, not to lead a procession of princes. And yet, with every step we took, it seemed to push me straight into just that.

Was I in charge?

Were they expecting me to be?

Chapter Text

On the road we cut through the heart of a forest, grateful for the scant shade the trees provided. Even so, we were roasting. There were said to be deer in those parts, but the only living creatures we saw were flies.

They buzzed around my face as we rode and swarmed near Thunder’s eyes, irritating him beyond endurance. The great warhorse tossed his head, annoyed, snorting with pent-up fury. The air was still, thick, suffocating. At least the days were dry; at night, by contrast, it grew so cold that I shivered inside my cloak. In the Reach, nights were barely cooler than the days. Here, the world seemed determined to punish us at every hour.

We had been living like this for days. We slept in inns when we could, under crooked roofs and in flea-ridden beds, but now we were far too distant from anything that could be called civilization. There were no clear roads, no nearby villages, no smoke on the horizon.

“I’ll fetch water,” Egg announced at last, when we found a clearing decent enough to stop in.

He did not wait for an answer. He took an empty waterskin and vanished among the trees, leaving us alone once more. I watched him go and felt that familiar weight settle in my chest: being left alone with Aerion.

“We should hunt something,” I said, more to break the silence than out of hunger. “We won’t last long on hard bread.”

“Speak for yourself,” he replied. “I have no intention of crawling through the woods like a peasant.”

Even so, he dismounted.

We moved through the trees with clumsy steps, scaring off anything alive long before we ever saw it.

“You make too much noise,” he muttered. “If there were any deer, they’d already be at the far end of the realm.”

“If you knew how to keep quiet,” I shot back, “we might have better luck.”

“You know what? I’d rather die alone in this forest than keep traveling with someone so idiotic. You’re worse than a sheep, at least they know how to follow a path.”

I stopped. We stared at each other for a long moment, taut as ropes about to snap. Then we turned back, heading for the camp.

As we were about to reach it, I heard the sound of unfamiliar voices. I raised my hand to make him stop. Aerion knocked it aside with a sharp swipe.

“I heard them already,” he whispered. “Three of them, I think.”

“Wait,” I told him.

“No.”

We went on, and then we saw them: men around our belongings, rifling through the saddlebags, crude knives and swords hanging at their waists. They weren’t mercenaries, but they were armed enough to be dangerous.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “I was bored.”

“Don’t do anything,” I warned him.

“Don’t give me orders.”

One of the men saw us first.

“Look at that,” he said, looking us up and down. “And what do we have here?”

“Step away from our things,” I said, setting my hand on the hilt of my sheathed sword. Aerion stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

“Or you’ll die,” he added, with a cruel smile.

“Shut up,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“Don’t give me orders.”

The man in charge burst out laughing.

“Look at these two lovers. Aren’t they a pretty sight? It’d be a shame to separate the good knight from his lady,” he laughed, that sharp, ugly laugh. “Though I can’t say which is which.”

I felt my blood heat, but before I could answer, Aerion smiled and dipped his head.

“Maybe you could be the whore,” he said. “And if you weren’t so hideous, I might even fuck you for a coin.”

There was a second of absolute silence. Then the man cleared his throat and spat on the ground.

“Kill them.”

My sword came down in a brutal arc. I felt the impact in the first man’s shoulder, bone giving way, a wet scream cut short as I drove forward and sent him crashing to the ground.

Then I looked at Aerion, and that glance froze me for a second too long.

He dodged the spear as if he knew exactly where it would fall before the man even thought to move his arm. He pivoted on his heel, his tunic smearing with dirt, and his dagger flashed once. The thief dropped to his knees, but Aerion didn’t stop.

He grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, and opened his throat with clean precision, as if drawing a line across parchment. Blood poured out in dark spurts, soaking his hand.

And that second almost cost me my face.

A fist slammed straight into me, flashing white across my vision. I dropped to my knees, the world spinning. I heard someone laugh far too close.

“You got distracted, knight.”

I raised my sword on pure instinct. Blocked a knife meant for my throat and shoved with all my weight. I smashed him against a tree. I heard the dry crack of ribs breaking. I drove my sword into the man’s belly and twisted. The sound was awful, flesh giving way, a groan that turned into bubbling. I let him fall. When I looked up, Aerion was finishing off the last one.

It wasn’t quick. He’d buried his dagger in the man’s thigh first. The thief screamed, crawling away, leaving a red trail across the grass. Aerion walked after him calmly, breathing hard, his eyes glowing like embers.

“I told you,” he whispered, “you would die.”

Aerion planted a foot on his back and drove the dagger between his shoulder blades, pushing until the body gave one final shudder.

Then there was silence, broken only by our breathing and the buzz of flies. I let myself drop to the ground, exhausted, my face burning where I’d been struck.
Aerion collapsed too, a few paces away. On his back.

“Well,” he said between gasps, “I’ll admit they nearly killed me.”

Then I heard hurried footsteps.

“I found water!” Egg’s voice rang out. “And I brought fish!”

He burst out of the trees, stopped dead at the sight of the wrecked camp, the bodies, the blood. His mouth fell open, eyes huge.

“Oh… seven hells,” he whispered.

He stumbled forward and the waterskin slipped from his hands. The water spilled completely onto the earth, darkening it. Egg let out a small, strangled sound and ran toward one of the bodies.

Aerion, still sprawled on the ground, barely turned his head.

“Oh, great,” he said. “You take forever… and you spill our water.”

✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ✧

The forest at night was another world.
The fire crackled low, just enough to keep the shadows at bay. We had eaten the fish in silence. Egg fell asleep, exhausted, wrapped in his cloak like a puppy. We had agreed on the watch. Aerion was meant to go first, but I couldn’t sleep.

The cold crept in even inside the tent, and every time I closed my eyes I ended up giving in. I slipped out quietly, careful not to make a sound.

Aerion was sitting by the fire.
He wasn’t really keeping watch, just sitting there, his sword resting at his side, his face lit by the orange glow. He looked like an ancient statue, carved to be beautiful even in ruin.

“I didn’t know you snored so loudly,” he said without looking at me.

“I wasn’t snoring,” I growled.

I came closer and sat at a prudent distance. The fire’s warmth felt good on my face, but it wasn’t enough to chase the cold away completely. A long while passed before he spoke again.

“You should go back to sleep, or I’ll take the whole watch.”

Silence settled between us again, heavy but not uncomfortable. I cleared my throat.

“Aerion…” I began, already regretting it. “Why do you do all this?”

He didn’t turn.

“All of what? Standing watch? I didn’t have much choice.”

“Traveling like this. Sleeping on the ground. Eating cold fish. Putting up with me.” I shrugged. “It’s not exactly comfortable. And you’re not someone who loves discomfort.”

“There are men who travel for penance,” he said. “Others for glory. Others because they don’t know how to stay still.” He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I’m a boring mix of all three.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“Most interesting answers don’t.”

He snorted and added, as if talking about the weather,

“Besides, doesn’t *The Life of Hugor of the Hill* say that the true punishment isn’t exile, but the impossibility of return?”

I blinked. Most of the time I didn’t know what he was talking about, or whether he was being sarcastic just to mock me.

“Who?”

He had been staring into the fire until then. Finally, he looked at me.

“Hugor. The book.” He frowned. “You don’t know it?”
I shook my head slowly.

“I don’t read much, I mean…” I scratched the back of my neck. “I can read just enough. My name, some signs, basic prayers. But books… no.”

The fire cracked loudly, as if trying to cover the silence that fell all at once. Aerion watched me closely, and I saw mockery forming in his expression. I braced myself for the blow, looking away, but it never came.

“That explains a lot,” he said.

“If you’re going to mock me, just do it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “That would be boring. Besides…” He shrugged. “It’s not that strange. Many men can’t read. Most of them just don’t admit it.”

“I could teach you,” he added casually. “If you wanted.”

I stared at him, startled. I had expected any insult or joke, but not that.

“You? Teach me?”

“Don’t make that face,” he replied. “Not all my talents are limited to being unbearable.”

The fire reflected gold in his violet eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” I said at last.

“Do,” he answered. “Thinking does you good. Even if it doesn’t show.”

We fell silent again.
The forest breathed around us. The fire stayed alive. And for the first time since we set out, I didn’t feel that Aerion Targaryen was so far from me.

Chapter Text

We knew we had reached Dorne long before we saw anything that resembled a banner.

The air changed first. It turned dry, harsh, as if every breath carried sand inside it. Then came the heat, brutal even at dawn, and finally the landscape: red mountains cutting into the sky, white sand beneath our feet, endless.
It had taken us weeks to get there. Weeks of bad roads, of watched passes, of nights without fire. When we finally crossed the Prince’s Pass, there was no relief. Only desert.

Hunger had settled into our bodies like a habit. Thirst hurt. At night we shivered with cold, and by day we roasted alive. Thunder pressed on stubbornly, but Chestnut… Chestnut did not.

It happened suddenly, when his front legs buckled without warning and he fell heavily onto the sand. Egg, who was riding him, was thrown clear. I dismounted in a leap.

“Are you all right?” I asked Egg, gripping him by the shoulders. He nodded, dazed. I guided him aside carefully and went back to Chestnut.

“No,” I murmured, dropping to my knees beside him. “No, no, no… come on, get up. Don’t do this to me. Get up.”

I stroked his neck, spoke to him as I had so many times before, but he did not respond.

“The horse is dead,” Aerion’s voice said. “Stop.”

“Chestnut,” I said, my hands trembling over the coat already gone stiff. “His name was Chestnut. He carried me on his back for years. He never threw me. He never bit me. He never failed me.”

The sob came out of me like a clumsy spasm, utterly undignified. I cried as I dug afterward, driving the shovel into the dry, warm earth, flinging fine sand over my shoulder. Every shovelful felt like a betrayal of the body lying beside me.

A grave, I thought.
A grave for hope.

Egg knelt beside me and began to dig with his bare hands. He said nothing, and neither did I.

The hunger, the thirst, the heat… it all blurred together. The shovel weighed tons in my hands, the world spun. I saw the red mountains on the horizon, white sand beneath my feet, and then—

Then the voices came.

“Do you weep for a broken horse?” Ser Arlan said in my mind, in his old man’s voice. “And yet you never wept for me, who set you upon my back?”

He laughed softly, as if he did not wish to hurt me.

“Dunk the Lunk,” he added. “Thick as a castle wall in the head.”

“He shed no tears for me either,” said Baelor Breakspear from his grave, “though I was his prince, the hope of Westeros. The gods did not wish me to die so young.”

“My father was only thirty-nine,” Prince Valarr said. “He might have been a great king, the greatest since Aegon the Dragon.” He looked at me with his cold blue eyes. “Why did the gods take him, and leave you?”

They are dead, I wanted to scream, all three of them are dead, why won’t they leave me in peace?

I do not remember when I fell.

When I woke, the sky was full of stars, cruelly beautiful. Egg was beside me. He held my head and brought a waterskin to my lips.

“Drink, ser,” he said. “It’s the last of it.”

“Are you all right?” he asked after I drank what little water remained, and I nodded in answer.

“Aerion buried him,” Egg said suddenly. “He finished the grave.”

I did not reply. I stared at the sky without blinking, thinking of Ashford. Of the night before the tourney. Of the shooting star I had seen then.

“Look,” I said to Egg, pointing upward. “The sky.”
Egg settled beside me carefully and lifted his gaze.

The firmament was clear, immense, so full of stars it seemed impossible that anyone could die beneath them.

“It looks the same as at Ashford,” I said. Egg did not answer at once. I knew he remembered.

“Do you remember the shooting star?” I asked him. “The night before the tourney.”

“Of course, ser. You asked Tanselle to paint it on your shield.”

“And what did you say then about shooting stars?”
Egg hesitated for a moment, as if the answer no longer fully belonged to him.

“That they brought good luck.”

“That star brought me no luck at all.” I turned my face back to the sky. “Before the tourney was over, I nearly lost a hand… and a foot. Three good men lost their lives.”

“And yet,” I added, “I gained a squire.”

I felt Egg looking at me, smiling just slightly, a small, weary smile.

I thought again of that night at Ashford, of how I had looked at a star believing the gods were listening. Perhaps they were. Perhaps I simply did not understand their answer.

I looked at the sky once more before rising.

“I hope I don’t see any shooting stars tonight.”

I walked toward where Aerion was. I saw him before he noticed me, standing beside the freshly closed grave. And something in my chest shifted in a strange way. He was not the same man I had seen for the first time. He was not the arrogant prince who believed the world was owed to him. I saw someone who had buried a horse with his own hands in the middle of nowhere, with thirst, hunger, and death snapping at his heels.

Along the road he had hidden his hair whenever he could, beneath his tunic, beneath Egg’s straw hat, as if even that were a risk. But not that night. He wore it loose, falling over his shoulders, longer than I remembered. The desert wind lifted it and let it fall again and again, tangling it around his face.

Starlight etched the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hard line of his mouth. He looked… bad. Too thin. Too tired. I thought, without meaning to, that this was how a man must look before dying.

Aerion lifted his gaze and caught me watching him.

“Thank you,” I said when I reached him. “For burying him.”

Aerion did not answer at once.

“Everyone leaves,” he said at last. “Everyone. And one goes on… as if nothing happened. I… I’m sorry.”

The word lingered there, alone.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said at once, shaking my head. “None of this was.”

“Yes, it was.” He lifted his head and finally looked at me.

“When you were digging,” he went on, “you fainted. I thought you were going to die right there. You were murmuring things.”

“You asked my uncle Baelor for forgiveness,” he said quietly. “His son Valarr. My father as well…”

I closed my eyes in shame. I could not believe they had witnessed that madness of mine.

“I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You did,” he replied. “You were apologizing for having survived.”

“Why should you be the one to apologize?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why you?”

I tried to speak, to say anything at all, but I found no answer.

“You were right,” he said then. “At Ashford… it was my fault.”

“Aerion…”

“Do you want the truth?” he cut in. “Do you want to know why I did all this?”

“Because everyone believed in you,” he said. “Because when they looked at you, they saw something they never saw in me. My uncle fought at your side, and he died for you, because he believed in you, in your honor. You are not like just any hedge knight, or like any other man. Can’t you see that yet?”

I wanted to answer, but the words would no longer come, and silence closed around us. I thought, suddenly, that we would not leave Dorne. That we would die there in the desert, among sand and bones. And I thought, with terrible clarity, that I would never see him again.

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙑𝘼𝙄𝙏𝙃 ˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ˖͜͡

The whinny jolted me awake. At first I thought I was still dreaming, but the sound came again, real this time, far too close. I opened my eyes and saw shadows moving against the pale light of dawn.

Aerion was already on his feet.

His sword was drawn, his body taut, loose hair stirred by the morning wind.
Ahead of us, two Dornish riders watched the scene without haste, mounted on their horses, wrapped in pale cloth.

“We mean you no harm,” one of them said, raising a hand slowly. “Lower your sword, my lord. You stand on Vaith lands.”

Aerion did not lower it at once.

“Who are you?” he asked, curt.

“Men of Lord Qoren Vaith,” the other replied. “We guard the river. We saw you at dawn.”

“You look lost,” the first continued. “Or dying of thirst. Vaith lies half a day’s ride from here. Our lord will wish to speak with you.”

Aerion hesitated a second longer… and then sheathed his sword.

The Vaith River was not large, but in Dorne that was enough to call a place home. They took us straight before their lord.

Lord Qoren Vaith was a slender man, his dark beard carefully trimmed, sharp eyes, an expression not easily deceived. He wore light garments, without ostentatious jewels.

“State your name,” Lord Qoren Vaith commanded, without preamble.

“I am Prince Aerion Targaryen.”

There was no doubt in it. Aerion looked every inch a Targaryen prince, with his hair and eyes of Valyrian blood. The silence that followed was thick; Qoren Vaith studied him with open interest.

“A Targaryen crossing the desert without escort?” he said at last. “Is it not dangerous enough to be what you are?”

“I do not travel alone,” Aerion said. “I travel with my knight… and his squire.”

My knight, I thought. His knight.

“Ser Duncan,” he indicated me. “And the boy is Egg.”
Something in me eased that he did not reveal Egg’s true identity as well.

Qoren Vaith’s gaze shifted briefly to me, then to Egg.

“You nearly died out there,” he went on. “No one crosses the desert like this. No one who wishes to live.”

“We were fortunate,” Aerion said.

The lord gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Luck does not last long in Dorne.” He straightened slightly in his seat. “I must inform your father. Prince Maekar.”

Aerion shook his head at once.

For a moment I thought he would explode. I saw the tension in his jaw, wounded pride searching for release.

“There is no need,” he said at last. “It is a private journey.”

“Private?” Qoren repeated.

“I travel of my own will,” Aerion said. “It is a private visit to Sunspear. It requires no notice.”

The lord studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

“Then I will inform the Martells,” he said finally. “After all, you are headed for Sunspear. You are a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. It is fitting you be received as such. Princes will understand one another.”

“Do so,” Aerion replied. “If it is necessary.”

Qoren Vaith nodded.

“You will stay in Vaith in the meantime. You will have water, food… and supervision.”

✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ✧

The chambers were fresh, built of pale stone. Water ran through narrow channels along the walls; there were simple tapestries depicting scenes of the Vaith River, jugs of clean water, a tray with bread, dates, and cheese.
Real food. A luxury that almost felt shameful after the desert.

As soon as the door closed, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Do you really think they won’t notify your father, Prince Maekar?” I asked.

Aerion made a vague gesture with his hand, as if swatting a fly.

“I doubt it,” he said without looking at me.

He picked up one of the books from the table, opened it at random, and flipped through it without any real attention. Then he closed it and tapped it lightly against his palm.

“You’re still interested in my helping you learn to read, aren’t you?” he added, with a grimace that almost became a smile.

“More than I should be,” I replied. “And if he does?” I pressed on. “What if he offers a reward for knowing where you are?”

Aerion stopped and looked at me.

“Why?” he asked. “Are you going to turn me in?”

The question struck harder than I expected.

“No,” I said at once. “Never. But saying your name like that is dangerous. You could have used another one.”

Aerion let out a brief breath, set the book down, and stepped closer.

“Saying it got us this,” he replied, gesturing broadly at the chamber, the food, the water. “A decent roof. Look, if my father wants to find me, he will anyway.”

He crossed the room without looking at me and opened a low chest lined with pale fabric. He took out a bundle of clothes and, without any ceremony, tossed it at my chest.
I caught it on reflex.

“Oh, and this too,” he added. “Decent clothes.”

I looked down at what I was holding. Light fabric, clean, soft to the touch. Far too fine for me. No stiff leather or rough wool; they were garments made for heat, for moving without the body suffering for it.

“I don’t need….” I began.

“Yes, you do,” he cut in. “And I need a bath. If I stay covered in sand, I’ll lose what little sanity I have left.”

I watched him head for the door, and before leaving, he added without looking back:

“And stop thinking I’m going to die tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆✦ 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝙒𝙀 𝘿𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙊𝙍 𝘼𝙏𝙏𝘼𝘾𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙀𝘼𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍? ✧ ⋆ ✦ ˖͜͡✦

The hall they led us into was filled with light.
Not torches or heavy candelabras, but open windows to the sunset, light curtains that let the warm air of Dorne flow inside. The smell struck me first: spiced meat, freshly baked bread, ripe fruit. Real food. Food in excess.

The table was long and low, covered with cloths in sand and dark red tones. There were platters of spiced lamb, fish from the Vaith River with herbs, dates stuffed with nuts and honey, soft cheeses, black olives shining like obsidian, golden wine in finely carved jugs. I had never seen so much food gathered in one place without an army around it.

The Lord of Vaith presided over the table.
He never took his eyes off Aerion.
From the moment we entered, his attention was a constant weight directed at him.

He gestured for us to sit near him.
Aerion and I ended up facing each other, separated only by the table laden with delicacies. Egg sat at my side, too alert to everything, as always.
The lord raised his cup.

“Vaith welcomes its guests,” he said. “Especially those of royal blood.”

We drank and then we ate. The food was a gift of the gods; I couldn’t tell what tasted best—until Lord Qoren spoke.

“Tell me,” he continued, never taking his eyes off Aerion, “how long has it been since we last received a Targaryen in Vaith?”

It was not a real question. I knew it at once.
Aerion did not answer immediately, but Egg did.

“Since Rhaenys Targaryen,” he said, proudly. “During the War of Conquest. She arrived and found the castle empty. Only old men, women, and children by the walls.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the blood drain to my feet.

“Egg…” I murmured quietly, as a warning.
Too late. The lord smiled faintly. Not a kind smile. One that did not reach his eyes.

“Well,” he said. “I see the boy knows his history well.”

“The part of history that in Dorne we like to tell children,”he continued, **“is when Harlen Tyrell came after. He marched from Hellholt with the intention of crossing Vaith on his way to Sunspear with an entire army. He never returned; the desert swallowed him.”

I looked at Aerion. He had set his cup down with a soft, sharp knock. His back was straight, his expression restrained, his jaw tight. I already knew him well enough to know he was uncomfortable.

“And then… fire. Vaith burned. Hellholt burned. Skyreach burned. Plankytown burned. It was dragons, wasn’t it? Dragons never lose” Aerion said now, with a defiant gesture. “Is that a story the children of Dorne like to hear as well?”

The comment fell like a drop of poison into still water. Lord Vaith did not seem offended; instead, he leaned back against the table, relaxed.

“You will also remember,” he added, “that Dorne never bent the knee to dragons.”

I then took the piece of meat in front of me, more to do something with my hands than out of hunger. I bit into it and the grease ran down my fingers. I distracted myself wiping them on the bread, and when I looked up again, the lord was still speaking.

“People remember many things,” he said, in a light tone. “Especially here. Stories pass from mouth to mouth… There is an old saying, one you surely know better than I do,” he continued, “that when a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin into the air…”

“…and the world holds its breath, waiting to see which side it will fall on,” he raised his cup before continuing, “greatness or madness.”

I did not know much about kings or histories. I had heard names, of course. Some cruel, like Maegor the Cruel; others great, like Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator. That was all. Names repeated in other people’s mouths. Truth be told, the saying seemed to be right.

I could not help but wonder what Aerion would be like if he were closer to the line of succession. If he were not just a prince… but a king. I already knew his cruel side: the one that nearly killed me, the one that broke Tanselle’s fingers over a simple puppet show, the one that smiled when others lowered their gaze. That Aerion was neither a story nor a warning; I had seen him up close, I had suffered him in the flesh.

But I was also beginning to know another.
One who buried Chestnut with care. One who fell silent when no one was watching. One who, at times, seemed to carry something far too heavy for his age and his name.

I did not know which of the two would weigh more if the gods ever tossed that coin.
The only thing I knew for certain, seated at that table, was this: we were not welcome in Vaith.

˖͜͡✦ ✧ ⋆ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙏𝘼𝙆𝙀 𝙈𝙔 𝙃𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘿𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙈𝙀 ˖͜͡✦ ⋆ ✩ ✦ ˖͜͡✦

After dinner, Egg suggested going down to the city of Vaith beyond the castle walls.

When we stepped outside, it was a spectacle: food stalls lined up like an endless feast, fire-eaters throwing sparks into the dark sky, dancers spinning with colored fabrics that seemed to catch the light, music pouring out from everywhere at once.

We stopped in front of a group of Dornish musicians. The rhythm was unlike anything I knew—faster, more alive. The dancers began on their own, moving in wide circles, barefoot on the earth, arms raised, hips marking the beat.

At first, the crowd only watched.
Then one of them laughed and took a man by the arm. Another did the same with a woman. Fabrics brushed against unfamiliar hands, laughter mixed with the music, and the circle opened, inviting everyone in.

Egg took a step back, laughing, shaking his head.
I thought about staying on the sidelines as well.

Aerion did not.
Or at least, not entirely.

A dancer approached him, confident, unafraid. He frowned, said something I didn’t catch, and shook his head. But the music didn’t stop, and she insisted, taking his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, I thought he would pull away.
But he didn’t.

He danced awkwardly at first, stiff, as if his body didn’t know what to do with so much freedom. Then, little by little, he loosened. His steps stopped being forced.

Then he took me by the arm.

“Come on, Ser,” he said, with a crooked smile I had never seen on him before.

I didn’t know how to refuse.
I danced like a log. I knew it. Egg was laughing out loud from the outside, the crowd clapped, others joined the circle, and the space became a joyful chaos of bodies and silks.

But for me, the world stopped.
Because Aerion was smiling.

Not that cruel, haughty smile he showed the world. This was something else, more alive, more real. I felt something in my chest, strong, sudden.
A blow.

I came back to myself when someone bumped into me by accident and nearly made me lose my balance. The laughter returned, the music went on, but the moment had already passed. We pushed our way out of the circle shortly after, still laughing, our pulse racing.

Aerion ran a hand through his hair, still smiling, as if none of it had meant anything.

For me, it had meant far too much.

“Ser—” but then Egg spoke up. “I saw some puppeteers farther ahead. They say there are very good marionettists in Dorne… if you still want to look for—”

He didn’t let him finish. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed slightly. I knew who he meant; I knew that mentioning Tanselle would be a problem.

“Don’t go on,” I said quickly. “Don’t say foolish things.”

I felt my ears grow even hotter. Egg looked at me strangely, as if he didn’t understand what he had done wrong, but Aerion understood.

“Who is it that must not be found, Duncan?” he asked slowly and seriously, without a trace of that smile.

“No one,” I said. “No one.”

“Don’t lie so badly,” he said. “Who?”

I stayed silent for too long, not daring to look at him. Aerion stopped, looking at us both. First at Egg, then at me.

And then he began to laugh sarcastically, his mirth flaring into anger.

“I know who you mean,” he said. “Of course I know.”

“No, Aerion, it’s not that,” I said, shaking my head.

“But what an idiot you are!” he cut me off. “Did you come all the way to Dorne just to look for her? How stupid and romantic, Ser Duncan the most idiotic!”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t come for her.”

He grabbed my clothes roughly, bunching my surcoat at my chest. His violet eyes were blazing. Egg looked like he wanted to protest, but I waved him back with my hand.

“Don’t lie to me!” he spat. “After all… after all this… are you still looking for her? For her?! Why her?! A whore marionettist?”

“No!” I grabbed his wrists. “It’s not like that.”

“Get away from me!” he shoved me. “I don’t want to hear you.”

He turned and walked away. I tried to follow him, but I knew it would be a mistake.

“I’m sorry, Ser,” Egg said, watching his brother leave. “He’s mad. I didn’t think he’d get angry.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, we walked back toward the castle.

Egg was brushing the horses while we stood in the stables. I was only thinking about how it was getting later and later. Every creak of the wood, every footstep in the yard, every shadow stretching between the posts made me turn my head, thinking it would be Aerion.

“Don’t worry so much, Ser,” he said without stopping the brushing. “He probably went off to cool his head. You know how he is.Then he comes back as if nothing happened.”

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Egg didn’t look at me. He kept brushing the horse, slow, as if the rhythm helped him arrange what he was about to say.

“My brother,” he said. “Aerion is like that. Cutting. Cruel.
He always has been. It’s just that… you haven’t known him long enough.”

I wanted to reply, but he didn’t give me time.

“Maybe,” he added after a brief pause, “since Ashford he hasn’t been exactly the same as before.”

The brush stopped for a moment. Egg tightened his fingers around the handle, thoughtful.

“Things change,” he went on. “But in the end they always go back to what they were.”

I shook my head before I realized it.

He didn’t need to say anything more. I understood what he meant. He wasn’t talking about bad temper or wounded pride.
He was talking about something twisted at the core, about that dangerous spark some Targaryens carried in their blood.

Greatness or madness.
The saying came back to me without asking permission.

“No. That’s not it.” I shook my head again, almost roughly, as if I could chase the idea away.

“I’ll look for him,” I murmured as I left the stables and returned to the streets of the city of Vaith.

✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ✧

I found him by his laughter, completely drunk.
He was in a filthy tavern, thick with smoke and the smell of old wine. He was playing dice with men who looked like Dornish mercenaries.

“Ser Duncan the Tall!” he said when he saw me, as if he had forgotten that hours earlier he hadn’t wanted to see me. “Come on, come on, play with us.”

“We have to leave,” I told him. “You’re not—”

"Give my partner a place," he said to the others. "My life partner."

I felt my ears burn. I knew he wouldn’t want to leave, so I sat down beside him. We played; at times we lost, at times we won. I drank more than I should have, and Aerion drank twice as much. He mocked and insulted everyone. He never knew when to shut up—that mouth of his would get him into trouble, and that was exactly what happened.

“Your mother must have birthed you backwards,” he told a large man, and the man stood up.

I took a sip from Aerion’s cup. It was such a sweet wine that I couldn’t tell whether it was because his lips had been there, or because it was Dornish.

“Apologize.”

“Or what?” Aerion said with a mocking smile. “You’ll hit me?”

I looked at the mercenary. I didn’t think he would dare touch even a single silver hair on Aerion’s head—not with me there—but I was very wrong when the first blow rang against his cheek, knocking him off his chair.

I didn’t think for a second. I jumped up, shoving the table aside. Coins flew everywhere as I lunged at him. I struck his face again and again. Someone tried to grab me from behind. Another from the side. All I could see was Aerion on the ground.

I don’t remember how we got out. I only know that Aerion picked up the coins from the floor and then took me by the hand.

Suddenly we were running, disappearing into the darkness and the alleys. We turned a corner and reached the heart of the city, where there were too many people to make out faces or follow footsteps. At the first empty alley we found, we ducked into it without thinking and hid. Aerion wouldn’t stop laughing.

“Shhh,” I whispered, resting my fingers against his mouth.

His laughter died instantly.

Aerion’s gaze turned serious—too serious. I had never seen him like that all night. And then I became serious too.

*What did I do wrong?*
I had gone too far. God, I was such an idiot.

Something was happening. Something invisible but dense. A tension wrapped around us like a taut rope about to snap. We were on the edge, dangerously close, breathless, saying nothing, filled with an energy I didn’t know how to name.

I wasn’t controlling myself. I was moving closer to Aerion without realizing it. One step. Then another.

I think I could kiss him, I thought and I didn’t know why I thought it but he was so close, his lips parted and bloodied.

“Duncan,” he said so softly it was barely a breath.

Before he could say anything else, music began to sound in the distance. I startled. First flutes, soft and harmonic, then a guitar, and finally a clear voice rising above the noise of the quarter:

”On the shore, in the calm of the bay,
where the waves whisper their charm,
a barcarolle sings its fate,
beneath the moon and its mantle…”

I looked back at Aerion. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

“In every note, love rises,
in the boat that cuts the tranquil sea,
two hearts carry themselves through the night,
in an eternal and perfect dance…”

Suddenly he shoved me against the wall. He cornered me. His breath crashed against my face, fast, unsteady. I felt his heat, his presence far too close.

“Oh time, stop your fleeting march,
let this moment last forever;
in the barcarolle, our love is able
to sail through waters of burning dreams…”

He smelled even better up close. I grabbed his tunic, lost, on the edge of something I didn’t know how to stop. But then Aerion smiled—a crooked smile—pushed me away, and stepped back.

He staggered, but I caught him before he fell.
He was too drunk. I was too confused. But even in that moment, I knew we had to leave.

”Let us row together in the current of desire,
let our souls be melodies;
in this love song, our longing,
in the barcarolle of life and joy…”

We walked toward where the music was coming from. Before we left, I felt his fingers brush against mine.

He didn’t pull away, and neither did I.

And then I knew, with a clarity that frightened me,
that I was lost for Aerion Targaryen.

Chapter Text

˖͜͡✦ ✧⋆✦ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙅𝙐𝙎𝙏 𝙁𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙎 ˖͜͡✦✧⋆✦ ˖͜͡✦

I saw the servant before he saw me.

He was walking down the corridor with a tray in his hands, carrying a pitcher of water and a filled glass. I knew immediately where he was going. To Aerion’s chambers. I had been looking for an excuse to get close—any excuse that didn’t sound like I’m worried or I couldn’t sleep thinking about you—so when the boy passed by my side, I took him by the arm.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, gesturing toward the tray.

The servant frowned and tightened his fingers around the edge.

“The prince ordered that—”

“He won’t complain,” I interrupted, clumsy but firm. “I’ll bring it to him.”

I tried to take it, but the boy pulled it back. I frowned, indignant, though he seemed even more offended. The water in the pitcher sloshed when I tugged at the tray again, but the boy clung to it once more.

“Truly, Ser, I have orders.”

And I truly had an urgent need to cross that door. In the end, I took it from him almost without meaning to. The servant muttered something angrily and walked away, not without first looking at me as though I had just condemned myself.

I was left alone in the corridor. I looked at Aerion’s door and hesitated for more than a second. I thought about leaving the tray there and walking away. I took a step back… then another forward. In that foolish movement, I lost my balance. The tray tilted. The water spilled almost completely, though I managed to steady the glass before it emptied entirely as well.

“Damn it,” I murmured.

Hardly any water was left. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Come in.” Aerion’s voice sounded rough, and my heart began to race. Then I opened the door.

Aerion was worse than I had expected. His eyes were reddened, his cheek marked by a bruise, his hair disheveled as if he hadn’t slept at all. When he saw me, anger settled back onto his face like something familiar.

“What do you want?” he spat.

“They brought this for you.” I showed him the tray, awkwardly. I set it down on a table, though I kept hold of the half-full glass. I stepped inside before he could stop me. I closed the door with my foot.

I was standing in front of him… and I stayed there, like a fool.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been left without words in front of someone, but with Aerion it was always different. With other men, the silence came from not knowing what to say; with him, it came from knowing too many things at once. All of them crowded together, pushing against one another, none willing to come out first. I wanted to talk about last night. I wanted to ask if he was hurt. I wanted to tell him that Lord Vaith had set my nerves on edge.
I wanted to tell him I didn’t like the way he had spoken to him at dinner, as if he were a coin tossed into the air, waiting to land on the wrong side.
I wanted to tell him I hadn’t traveled all the way to Dorne for Tanselle, but for him—that it had always been him, the reason I kept walking the road. But none of that was exactly what burned inside me.

There was something else. Something clumsy. Something I didn’t know how to name and that, all the same, tortured me. I looked at him standing there in the room, disheveled, his shirt sitting wrong, his cheek marked… and I didn’t know what place I occupied there. A hedge knight shouldn’t think like that. He shouldn’t go mute in front of a prince. He shouldn’t feel that uncomfortable pull in his chest every time Aerion pulled away or grew crueler than usual. Maybe that was why I said nothing. Because if I spoke, something would break. And I wasn’t sure what.

“Is that all?” Aerion snapped, losing patience. “Did you run out of words?”

I moved then, almost by reflex. My eyes went to the reddened cheek before my mind could stop me.

“This,” I said, and my hand rose on its own. “It’s from last night.”

I brushed his cheek, the touch brief, but enough to feel his warm skin beneath my fingers. For a moment, I thought he would pull away at once, but he didn’t. He stayed still and looked at me for a second.

And in that second I understood why I had been left voiceless from the start. It was not knowing what to do with what I felt when I was near him.

For one second—just one—he let himself be touched, looking at me with his violet eyes, the ones I dreamed of. The room seemed to fall silent. Then he reacted, taking hold of my wrist and pushing my hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said as he crossed his arms. “Why did you come?” he demanded.

Standing there in front of him, I knew I had to say something. Anything. But the words I wanted weren’t words I knew how to use. I had never learned how to name them; Ser Arlan had never taught me that.

So I took the easiest path. The safest one.

“I think we should leave Vaith,” I said at last. “I don’t know how long this hospitality will last.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t everything I wanted to say either. I saw the change in his face, the quick shadow of something I couldn’t read. Maybe he had expected something else. Something more. I had expected it too, though I didn’t know what.

“Was that it?” he said coldly. “That’s why you came up here?”

He turned his face away, irritated, as if my answer had knocked the air out of him.

“Fine,” he added after a moment. “We’ll leave.”

He looked at me again, wearing that expression he used when he didn’t want anyone getting too close.

I nodded and took a step toward the door, the glass still in my hand, when his voice stopped me.

“Wait.”

I stopped. I didn’t turn right away, and I didn’t know why, but I didn’t have the courage to look at him.

“Answer one thing for me first.”

Then I turned. Aerion was standing there with his arms crossed, staring straight at me. I wondered if I had ever seen him look this worried before… worried—I didn’t even know if I had ever seen him worried. He was never worried.

“Us…” he said slowly. “What are we?”

The question left my mind blank. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I didn’t understand the question.

I stared at him, waiting for him to say more, to explain himself, but he didn’t. He just waited, as if it mattered. As if it mattered too much.

What was I supposed to answer?

We had traveled together. We had endured hunger and heat. We had fought together. We had slept under the same roof—when there was a roof—and shared silences that never felt uncomfortable to me.

Didn’t all of that mean the same thing to him?

I felt a strange pang in my chest, as if I were suddenly doubting something I had always taken for granted.
Of course we’re friends, I thought. Or did he not consider me his friend?
It seemed so obvious to me that it felt strange to have to say it out loud.

“Friends,” I finally answered, with certainty. “I mean… that’s what we are, right?”

I even felt a little foolish for having taken so long. Friends was a small word for everything we had lived through. It felt as though he had been a friend my whole life, or already a part of me, and that was why leaving him would hurt.
A friend. More than I had almost ever had.

Aerion didn’t say anything right away.

His expression shifted, just barely. It wasn’t anger, it was worse. A quiet disappointment, as if he had been expecting something else and didn’t know why.
I had never had friends. Most people told me I was stupid, and maybe they were right, for thinking a prince would consider me his friend.

“Friends,” he repeated, no longer looking at me. I thought I saw him nod once, slowly. Then he turned away.

“You may go,” he said. “We need to leave soon.”

He never brought it up again, nor did he speak of that night—and neither did I.

˖͜͡✦✧⋆✦ ˖͜͡✦ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙇𝙀𝙎𝙎 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙍 ˖͜͡✦✧⋆✦ ˖͜͡✦

The summer sun had hardened the road until it was like baked brick. The ruts were deep enough to break the leg of a careless horse, so I led Thunder along the higher ground, searching for the ridges between one groove and the next. Even so, the dust rose thick, working its way into my mouth, my eyes, my thoughts.

My ankle ached; I had twisted it the day we left Vaith. I said nothing. A knight had to learn to live with aches and pains, old Arlan used to say.
“Yes, lad,” he always added, “and with broken bones and scars. They’re as much a part of knighthood as your swords and shields.”
I accepted that in myself without protest. But sometimes, when I looked at Aerion or at Egg, I wondered what place pain and renunciation had in the life of a prince. One of royal blood. Raised among nobles and their castles.

We had already slept in every kind of place in Dorne: stables that smelled of damp hay, noisy taverns where the floor stuck to your boots, ditches by the roadside with the sky for a roof. We shared bread with passing septons, prostitutes who laughed too loudly, actors who changed their names from city to city.

And yet, every time I thought about the last place where I would be with Aerion, something tightened in my stomach. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had enjoyed his company—more than that of anyone else I had ever shared the road with.

Some nights—not all, but enough—Aerion would take out a book. He always said he couldn’t allow me to keep “stumbling over letters like a blind ox.” He swore the book wasn’t stolen, merely badly parked.

“If no one misses it,” he said, with that crooked smile, “it’s because no one deserved to have it.”

We would sit near the fire. Egg pretended not to listen, but he did. Aerion read first, his voice clear, as though every word belonged to him by right. Then he made me repeat them. He would lean in then, just slightly, enough to see the page over my shoulder. Sometimes his hand brushed mine as he pointed to a word. A brief touch, but enough to make me lose my place in the sentence. He corrected me without mercy. Sometimes he mocked me. Sometimes, when I got it right, he simply nodded in silence.

Once, our hands lingered too long together on the book. Neither of us pulled away at once. Egg cleared his throat on purpose, as if to remind us we weren’t alone, and then Aerion withdrew his hand, slowly, as though he didn’t want to draw attention to the gesture, and we went on reading.

In those moments I saw him differently, almost as an equal, sitting in the dust with me, sharing something so small and so strange as the effort to understand a page. But he wasn’t. He never would be.

I had been raised in the lowest corners of the narrow streets of King’s Landing. He, on the other hand, was a son of the house of the dragon. Of Aegon’s high hills. Of the Red Keep.

Sometimes, as we moved forward beneath the sun, I watched them walking ahead of me and thought that the road wasn’t only carrying us toward Sunspear. It was also pulling us apart. And the closer we came to our destination, the harder it became to pretend I didn’t feel it.

We reached a market. It wasn’t a simple cluster of stalls, but a swarm: overlapping voices, billowing fabrics, animals tied to stakes, children running, the air heavy with spices, sweat, and split fruit. The sun fell mercilessly over it all, making the stones gleam and drawing steam from the ground.

Aerion stopped short.

“No,” he said at once. “I’m not going in there.”

Before I could say anything else, he tugged at his horse’s reins—and at Thunder’s as well—guiding them toward a low wall of pale stone. He vaulted up with ease and sprawled atop it. He stretched his body along the heated surface and let one leg dangle, swinging it slowly.

“What are you doing?” I said. “It’ll only be a moment.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he closed his eyes.

The sun struck him full on the chest, which he wore bare. His open tunic let the air and light pass freely, and he seemed to relish it. There was no discomfort in his posture, no hurry, no irritation at the heat that already weighed heavily on my shoulders. He never sweated much. He liked the heat.

In Dorne he walked like that, chest open, letting himself bronze without care, as if the sun belonged to him as much as the sky did. While others sought shade, he offered himself to the fire.

I, on the other hand, felt the sweat trickle down my back.

I watched him a moment longer. There wasn’t a single bead of sweat on his skin. His pale hair barely stirred in the warm breeze, and his face was calm—almost arrogant in its rest. *Dragon blood,* I thought.

Who had ever heard of a sweating dragon?

“I’m not bringing you any food,” I said, pointing at him. Egg sighed.

“I’ll go with you, ser,” he said. “He can stay if he wants.”

I nodded, but before moving on, I looked back at him once more. Aerion didn’t open his eyes. He only shifted the foot dangling in the air, as if he knew exactly where I was without needing to see me.

Then we entered the market, leaving behind the warm stone… and Aerion, gleaming in the sun like something that didn’t quite belong to the world of men.

“Dunk the Lunk!” someone shouted from behind. “By the Seven, I swear old Ser Arlan used to call you that, didn’t he?”

I stopped and turned slowly. At first I didn’t recognize him; he was thinner, more weathered, with a poorly kept beard and a grin of dirty, red-stained teeth.

“Bennis,” I said at last.

“The very same,” he replied, spitting a red glob onto the ground. “Or what’s left of him. Thought you’d died on some road, Lunk.”

“They don’t call me that anymore,” I said, not returning the smile. “Now I’m Ser Duncan the Tall. I’m a knight.”

Bennis let out a dry laugh, the kind that never comes from the chest.

“A knight?” He looked me up and down, lingering on my dust-caked boots. “The gods must be short of men these days.”

Egg frowned, but said nothing. I clenched my jaw.

“What are you doing this far south, Bennis?”

“Work,” he said with a shrug. “Or something like it. And you? Don’t tell me you’ve come begging the Martells for a place.” He laughed again. “Though at that size, they might set you to holding up a tower.”

“I have business in Sunspear,” I said, offering nothing more.

“Always so discreet,” he mocked. “Same as when you couldn’t even read your own name.”

Egg stepped forward.

“My ser can read,” he said sharply, but Bennis only looked at him, amused.

“Oh, can he now? And who are you, tadpole?”

“My squire,” I said before Egg could open his mouth.

“Of course he is,” Bennis said. “All great knights have one.” Then he turned back to me. “Well then, Lunk..Ser Duncan. If you really are a knight now, maybe you’ve got the stomach for real work.”

“What kind of work?”

Bennis leaned a little closer, as if sharing a secret, though he spoke loudly enough for half the market to hear.

“In Standfast. I serve Ser Eustace Osgrey. Ever heard of him?”

The name meant nothing to me, so I shook my head.

“He’s got troubles,” Bennis went on. “The kind that end in blood. The Red Widow stole his water. Took the river and dried it up. Says the land’s hers now.”

“There are truths and there are truths, Lunk,” he added, spitting at the ground. “Some of them aren’t worth a damn. The gods make droughts. A man can’t do a cursed thing against the gods. The Red Widow, though… that bitch can. And she did.”

“Eustace is looking for men,” Bennis continued. “Knights, if he can pay them. Peasants, if he can’t. You—” he tapped my chest with two fingers “—you’re worth two knights. Even if you’ve got barely half the wits of one.”

He smiled, pleased with his own cruelty.

“And what would I get out of it?” I asked.

“Silver,” he said. “Not much, but enough. Food. A roof. And maybe glory, if the gods are asleep. Besides, you’ve already crossed the desert to get here.” He fixed me with his gaze. “You know what happens when the water runs out. When the water’s gone, hope goes with it.”

“Think on it,” Bennis said, stepping back. “Don’t take too long. If war comes, we’ll need tall men. And you were always that, Dunk the Lunk… tall.”

He walked off laughing, leaving the stink of sweat behind him.

Egg was the first to speak.

“Do you think it’s true, ser?”

“These are times of drought,” I said. “And in times like these, people do terrible things.”

“Are we going to Standfast?”

I thought of the road ahead. Of what a knight was meant to do. And I didn’t know why, but I thought of Aerion—though I knew that when we parted, I would have to find a life for myself.

“Perhaps,” I said. “We could serve Ser Eustace for a time. Maybe train those peasants Bennis mentioned.”

Egg’s eyes widened, and he made a face of indignation.

“Do I have to serve commoners?”

“Not serve. Help. We’d need to turn them into soldiers.” I looked toward the horizon, where the sun fell without mercy.

“If the Red Widow gives them enough time. If the gods are kind, some of them will have received instruction before then… but most will be as green as summer grass, more used to gripping hoes than spears. Even so, the day will come when our lives depend on them. How old were you when you first held a sword?”

“I was small, ser. The sword was wooden.”

“Common boys fight with wooden swords too—only theirs are sticks and broken branches.”

I leaned a little closer to him.

“Egg, those men may seem beneath you. They won’t know the proper names for the parts of armor, nor the sigils of the great houses, nor which king abolished the right of the first night… but treat them with respect, as equals. You’re a squire born of noble blood, but you’re still a child. Most of them will be grown men. And a man has his pride, no matter how low his birth.”

Egg thought about it for a moment. Then he smiled, just a little.

“I could teach them the sigils of the great houses, and how Queen Alysanne convinced King Jaehaerys to abolish the right of the first night. And they can teach me which herbs are best for making poisons.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as we took up the road again through the market.

✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ✧  ✧ ˖ ✦ ˚ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ˖ ✧

Sunspear was unlike anything I had ever seen. Walls of pale sandstone, almost golden, that reflected the light instead of absorbing it. Rounded towers, open courtyards, narrow channels where water ran slow.

The air smelled different there. Not only of salt, though the sea was close, but of citrus, of flowers I didn’t know, of heated stone. There was shade everywhere, but it wasn’t a closed kind of shade; it was cool, generous. I thought that if one had to live in Dorne, this was the only place to do it.

They received Aerion as what he was.

All at once, he was no longer the sharp-tongued boy who had slept in stables and ditches, but a Targaryen prince—and everyone seemed to remember it at the same time.
I stepped back without thinking.

We were separated quickly. Egg was waiting for me with Thunder ready, but I was first directed to a place where I was to wait. Aerion remained there, standing, the courtyard light tracing his profile. He didn’t look any more comfortable than before, but he did look farther away.

When we were finally alone, the space between us became too large.

“Do you trust them?” I asked.
My voice sounded lower than I expected.

Aerion tilted his head, as if weighing the question from a distance.

“Trust?” he repeated. “That’s a heavy word to use so soon. They’re Martells. They won’t kill me.”

“And after?” I pressed. “What will you do now?”

He leaned against the stone, crossing his arms.

“I’ll find something to do. I always do.”

He spoke as if none of it mattered, as if the road we had walked together had been nothing more than a minor detour. But his fingers wouldn’t stop moving, tapping against his arm again and again. An idea struck me, and I swallowed before speaking.

“You could come with us.”

Aerion, who had been distracted, finally looked at me, and a mocking smile began to form.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not much,” I went on, stumbling over my words. “I don’t have a castle or gold. Just… work, when there is any, but—”

His laughter cut me off.

“Have you lost your mind? I’m a prince.”

“You’re an exiled prince,” I said, before I could stop myself.

That struck home. I saw it in his eyes, though he lifted his chin at once.

“And you expect me to wander the Seven Kingdoms with a hedge knight and his bald squire?”

I looked down, ashamed. It was true. Had I gone mad? Or had I simply forgotten I was speaking to a Targaryen? Everyone was right—Dunk the thick-headed.

“No,” I said, closing my eyes for a moment, as if that might erase what I’d just said. “No. It’s a stupid idea. You’re right.”

I turned, humiliated and hurting, ready to leave. I moved forward even as my body begged me to stay and insist.

“Ser Duncan the Tall.”

His voice reached me before I could leave entirely. I felt his hand take my arm and stopped, but I didn’t look back at him.

“Thank you,” he began. “For bringing me here. I promised you that—”

“Don’t thank me,” I said.

I heard the soft, close sound of gold, and perhaps something inside me sounded too—perhaps the sound of something breaking.

“Take it,” he insisted. “It’s only fair.”

I turned then. All the gold in the world couldn’t pay for the pain I was feeling in that moment.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t do it for you.”

That surprised him—and me as well—but it sounded right in my mind. This was the end. I couldn’t stay silent now, not when I had decided that being far from him was better.

“I did it for your brother.”

Silence fell between us, heavy as the afternoon heat. Aerion closed his hand around the coins. He said nothing more. Neither did I.

I turned and walked away without looking back.