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.