Chapter Text
I.
The ring weighs in his hand like a richness too big. A three-headed dragon smirks at him on black opal, glowing in the fog. The mud encrusted all around gives it flight. Dunk has never held something so precious in his hand. He feels like a sinner, but he didn’t steal that Targaryen jewel. He found it in the ground like you’d pluck a daisy on a sunny day.
He makes up his mind quickly, before the clouds roll in to the east and leave him drenched and shivering again. A look at the sky and he’s trudging to Ashford Castle, ring in his fist. It’s worth more than all the money he would earn in a year. A decade, perhaps. What does he know of riches?
He reaches the castle doors before the rain. Regrets his decision when two guards look him up and down like he just crawled out of a wretched hole under the damp grass. He didn’t have the chance to pick up his armour yet. His sword dangles at the end of a rope at his side.
"What do you want, lad?" the smaller guard ask, squinting in suspicion.
Dunk tightens his hold on the ring. Dread descends upon his heart like thunder on the meadows. He’s never spoken to a prince.
"I- Well, I-" he gulps, mouth dry.
"If you're looking to be a stableboy, you’re at the wrong door, lad," the guard continues, not unkindly.
"I’m not- I’m not a- I have the honour to be a knight, sers, and I would like- I need to speak to the princes."
The men’s bewildered eyes travel to his sword in a heartbeat, as though they’d just noticed it.
"A knight… And what is your name?"
"Dun- Ser D- Ser Duncan the Tall."
Horses hooves down there and growling clouds above. Dunk shivers. Wonders what would happen if he just threw up at the guard’s feet. The name he just came up with ripples in the freezing air. The guards sigh. Eye his sword again. The hilt. Move aside with a shrug when the first drops of rain fall on Dunk’s cheeks.
*******
Rationing food slows your pace. Dunk’s legs- two pillars of lead, despite how little he’s eaten in the past days. But he had needed to pay for the armour, and the choice was quickly made. Even if he’ll joust with hollowed cheeks. He climbs the stairs alone. Looks at the ring in his palm. The metal’s warmer, now, like the little red dragon’s waiting to burst out of its shell.
He stops when he reaches the first floor. Forces the bile down his throat. There’re muffled voices, ruffled fabrics and drinks being poured. There are princes behind the wall and Dunk didn’t do anything wrong. So why does it feel like a vice is crushing his lungs?
"You! Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us?"
Dunk startles before stepping into the light. He doesn’t lower his eyes. He can’t. Mere feet away from him- the Prince of Dragonstone. Breakspear. Two-coloured eyes, a king’s poise and a grace to drown in- unmistakable.
"Are you mute, lad? What the fuck are you doing here?"
Dunk tears his eyes away from the heir to the Iron Throne and turns to the man standing next to him. Silky white hair and a scowl- Maekar- the hammer and the anvil- Beads of sweat roll down his spine. He lowers his eyes. Opens his mouth. Kneels and extends his palm when no sound comes out.
The silence that falls on his shoulders is so heavy that Dunk looks up again, only to find the princes looking down at him with raised brows and speechless lips.
The Hand of the King’s troubling eyes, from the ring to Dunk’s face, again and again- Stop, please-
"I- Your Grace, I- I found it on my way to- the- I-"
Baelor Targaryen reaches for the signet ring before Dunk can finish his mangled sentence. A brush of fingertips and the Targaryen heirloom is gone from his hand. He feels lighter. Doesn’t dare move. The princes look at the ring with marvel. Surprise, too, on the noble lines of their faces. When Baelor Targaryen looks at Dunk again, it’s with unfettered gratitude.
"Rise, please," the prince murmurs, frowning a little.
His brother hums in agreement, heads cocked to the side, as thought Dunk is a puzzle he can’t quite solve.
"What is your name?" the Hand of the King continues, stepping closer.
Dunk forces himself to breath. To get a grip. He’s alive. Starved, but alive. They didn’t kill him on the spot. They’re just men- these two, whose legendary feats of arms he’s heard of at nightfalls when the fire’s warm and the stars smile from above. There’s an exhaustion on Baelor Targaryen’s face, up close, that he didn’t think he’d find. It makes it easier to stand. To speak.
"Ser Duncan the Tall, your Grace."
"Ser?" The princes ask in unison, and Dunk wishes he’d come to them in richer clothes and a fuller belly. He can’t faint, not now.
"I was knighted by Sir Arlan of Pennytree, your Grace. Not long ago."
A spark, in the heir’s eyes. A corner of his mouth lifting, too. The Hand of the King is smiling at him, and Dunk feels like he can breath for the first time since he stepped foot on castle grounds.
"Well, Ser, forgive my brother’s rudeness. I don’t quite have the words to thank you for bringing me this."
"Why not keep it?" his brother intervenes, a cynical scowl on his scarred mouth, "You look like you could use the coin."
Dunk’s lips part as Baelor Targaryen gives his brother a disapproving look. When his eyes find Dunk again, there’s no pity in the blue-brown gaze. Only gratitude, and something else Dunk does not understand.
"This ring means a lot to our family, Ser," he continues, as though his brother had not spoken. "You found it on the way to Ashford, you say?"
Dunk nods, too fast. Teeters. Grips the hilt of his sword with a trembling hand.
"Ser, are you alright?" the prince asks, his hand suddenly hovering near Dunk’s arm.
Dunk gulps. Grits his teeth. Nods slowly, this time. He’s survived worse, but Baelor Targaryen’s gaze is kind. He has long thought he would be buried a hundred feet from where he was born. A lifetime of rain and swords, a signet ring with a dragon sigil half-buried in the mud, and now Dunk lays eyes upon a prince of the realm.
"Yes, your Grace, I-"
"Let us feed you supper," the prince cuts him, worry written all over his face. "As a token of our gratitude."
Another hum from his brother. Dunk flees their gazes. Looks at the window on his left. The rain batters the earth. There’s no tent waiting for him. No squire with a warm meal. Only the embrace of tree roots.
"Please," the prince murmurs.
Dunk nods in agreement. Astonished. He’s not the only one. Maekar is looking at his brother like his skin had just turned purple.
Dunk doesn’t know about riches, but surely a prince does not beg.
*******
The candlelit feast is everything Dunk could ever ask for. Lamb so sweetly cooked his eyes had fluttered closed at the taste. Fresh bread, soft and delicious, nothing like a bad inn’s rotten pieces. A fire, too, in the hearth, keeping the room agreeably warm. The seats are comfortable, the faces merry, everyone’s cheeks a little red. Servants have been pouring wine for an hour, but Dunk’s glass has remained clear. It all feels like a dream, to share a meal at Ashford Castle with such noble company. A knight, on his left. Another on his right. He has spoken with them a bit. Found his eyes being drawn to the princes all the while.
Baelor Targaryen has barely touched his plate. His glass is half full. He keeps playing with his rings. Scratches his beard with a frown as his brother leans in to murmur something in his ear. There’s an air of exhaustion about the heir that confounds Dunk. A bleakness to his movements, as though an horrid burden lays on his shoulders draped in black velvet.
"The princes are missing, did you hear?" the knight on his left whispers conspiratorially, knuckles white around his glass. Already drunk, that one.
"What?"
"Aerion, Maekar’s second son And Valarr, Baelor’s boy. Normally they’d worry about Daeron and Aegon, but-"
"I’m sure they’re just fucking some pretty wench somewhere," the knight on Dunk’s right interrupts with a chuckle.
Dunk stares at his empty plate with a frown. Risks another glance at Baelor Targaryen and his brother. Winces at the concern oozing from their tired eyes. He wishes the knights at his side had not spoken out of turn. Who he sees at the end of the table are just parents worrying for their kids. Three-headed dragons in their bloods or not.
He’s on his feet, glass in hand, before he has the chance to argue with the men. Others are starting to stand and walk around the room anyway, stretching their legs, bellies full of meat and wine. Dunk goes to the window quietly, happy to find the stars winking back at him. The rain stopped sometime before sunset, when Dunk had doubted whether a supper at the castle had been a good idea.
"I apologise for the poor hospitality, Ser."
Dunk startles at the words, nearly letting the glass slip from his grasp. The heir’s voice settles in his mind like an aborted caress. He hesitates. Turns. Baelor’s sporting that kind smile again, but there’s a world of anguish in those incredible eyes.
"I had meant to thank you tonight but have barely given you any attention," the prince continues, eyes lowered to the ring Dunk had brought him earlier. It suits him, like the lavish velvet hugging his frame.
I don’t deserve to be in such company-
"Can you forgive me?"
Dunk blinks. Struggles to believe what he just heard. Struggles to believe the fragility of the prince’s voice even more.
"Your Grace, I- there’s nothing to forgive," he finds himself murmuring, eyes darting around, as though they’d be caught in an act he can’t quite understand.
The prince doesn’t agree. He doesn’t say it. Steps closer, hands hovering between them. As though he wants to touch. To bridge a gap Dunk can taste on his tongue.
"You ate your fill, I hope?"
"I did, your Grace. Thank you for inviting me to such a feast."
"Ser, I…"
Dunk squints, frowning. The prince’s voice is too low-
"Baelor!"
Dunk almost drops his glass again. The curse on his tongue doesn’t bridge his lips. The prince’s fingers curl around his arm.
"I must go, Ser Duncan. My son and my nephew, surely you’ve heard-"
Take me with you, I’ll help-
"Your Grace," Dunk simply nods as Baelor frees his arm and leads his brother out of the room.
The prince turns to glance back at him before disappearing. Leaves Dunk speechless. He doesn’t know what to do with the attention of such a man. Doesn’t know what to do with the colossal weariness he found in that blue-brown gaze. Doesn’t know what to do with the urge to take the man into his arms. If only he could relieve him in any way-
The answer comes as he exists the castle walls and steps into the mud. He’ll help search for the prince’s son and nephew. The greater the search party, the higher the chances of finding them soon.
One of Ser Arlan’s phrases clouds his mind as he mounts Thunder.
A prince is first a man, boy. And so it must follow that a prince does as all men do: the best he can.