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Morning fog rolls in, overtaking Ashford. The bustling folks of Westeros were beginning to rise, tending to their usual activities around the tourney grounds. Others tended to their seven lords, while Egg was already awake with Dunk, helping prepare breakfast and care for the horses. They made their way to the grounds and watched another fine match of jousting before eventually finding themselves stretched out along a hillside overlooking the Ashford. As time passed, Egg decided to return to camp to check on the horses, whilst Dunk chose to get some training in.
‘Might as well kill some time,’ he thought to himself, before heading towards the outskirts of Ashford.
Upon reaching an open field, he unsheathed his sword and began practicing strikes and parries, facing invisible foes conjured by his own thoughts. He stepped back and forth, then side to side, cocking his blade before committing a full, sweeping turn, ending only when he came to a steady halt. Only a few feet away stood a figure wearing their regal black and red colors. The same colors he’d seen coming the day the Targaryens arrived to Ashford. The colors of the dragons. The son of one of the lords that Egg mentioned: Valarr.
They stood there, their stares locked in a suffocating silence. 'What was a Targaryen doing here???'
Dunk’s stomach dropped. His mouth went dry, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt until his knuckles ached. His heart hammered so hard he was sure the prince could hear it. 'Am I dead???? Is he going to kill me??? But for what???' The thoughts crashed over one after another, leaving him lightheaded and slow.
Then, the young prince began to walk toward him.
Each step was measured, unhurried. The sword slid free of its sheath with a quiet, deliberate sound that set Dunk’s teeth on edge. There was no anger in the prince’s face. No heat at all. Just a cold, empty focus that made Dunk’s skin prickle, as if he were being sized up like a beast at a slaughter. Dunk swallowed hard. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He had to say something, anything, before his legs gave out beneath him.
‘C’mon on, you idiot!’
“Milord!!!” he bursts out, “Whatever it is that I may have done, I swear it was never meant with ill intent!”
The prince answered with steel.
A quick, precise slash bit into Dunk’s arm, followed immediately by another to his leg. Feeling the pain flaring hot and sharp. His grip nearly failed him; his boots slipped as he fought to stay upright. It was dangerously fast. A third strike came without pause, but Dunk stumbled back just in time to escape it. Breathing hard, he dragged his sword up, throwing every wall he had in place. His hands trembled despite his grip, his shoulders burning as he braced himself. There would be no more talking as the prince had already decided.
Life or death.
Dunk forced a breath through his clenched teeth, steadying his stance, fixing his aim. He had to live. For himself. For Egg. And he was not about to let this dragon prince stop him from walking into the marrow.
Steel rang again as Valarr pressed forward, his blade moving in a tight, efficient motion. He gave the hedge knight no time to breathe with each step measured, each strike probing, searching. Dunk met them as best as he could, hacking and shoving, forcing the prince to give ground through sheer size and stubbornness. Dunk swung low, then high, a rough combo meant to overwhelm. The dragon prince slipped inside it, close enough that Dunk could see his eyes: cool, focused, already knowing the outcome. The prince pressed the advantage, his blade a silver line darting in and out of Dunk’s guard. He overreached, never committed more than he had to. Each strike had purpose. Testing angles, measuring Dunk’s reactions, waiting for fatigue to betray him.
He felt it creeping in. His arms burned. His breath came ragged, each inhale scraping his chest. Still, he forced himself forward, swinging wide and hard, driving Valarr back with raw strength and stubborn will. One blow clipped the prince’s shoulder. Not deep, but enough to make contact. Dunk surged, hoping to turn momentum into survival.
Valarr gave ground for exactly three steps. Then he changed rhythm.
A quick feint high drew the hedge knight’s blade up. The real strike came low, slashing across Dunk’s calf. Pain exploded, his footing faltering for half a heartbeat. Dunk growled and answered with a brutal shove, steel crashing against steel as he barreled in close, turning the fight ugly and cramped. They locked for a moment, hilts grinding, faces close enough for Dunk to feel the prince’s steady breath against his cheek. Valarr twisted free with a precise turn of the wrist and punished the opening immediately. Sharp, controlled cuts that forced Dunk back again.
He swung anyway. Not because it was right, but because stopping meant dying. His blade whistled past Valarr’s head, then came back around in a rough backhand meant to catch him surprise. The prince slipped it by inches and answered with a quick strike to Dunk’s shoulder, numbing the arm and sending a jolt of pain down to his fingers. He stepped inside Dunk’s next swing, turned the blade aside, and struck. Not deep, not reckless, but perfectly placed. The hedge knight’s knee buckled as Valarr swept his leg and drove him down with controlled force.
Dunk went down hard.
His sword slipped from his grasp as he hit the dirt, the breath knocked clean out of him. Pain flared through his leg, refusing to obey him when he tried to rise. Before he could gather himself, Valarr’s blade was there. It’s point hovering just beneath his chin. The prince stood over him, steady as stone. No triumph. No hesitation. Only the quiet certainty of a fight decided. Dunk swallowed, chest heaving. He didn’t beg. If this is how it ended, he’d face it on his feet or as close as he could manage.
“Do it then,” Dunk rasped, “But leave the boy out of it.”
Valarr’s blade did not move.
“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Dunk went on, forcing the words out past the pain. “Egg’s just a squire. A good one. Smarter than me, braver than he knows. He don’t deserve to lose his knight for whatever foolishness I’ve done.”
For the first time, something flickered across Valarr’s face. Brief, restrained, but there. His eyes shifted, not to Dunk’s wounds, but to the fallen sword at his side to the dirt-stained man who still spoke of duty even now.
“You fight to live for another,” Valarr said at last, his voice calm and measured.
He met his gaze, “Aye. Someone’s got to look after him.”
The sword lowered. Slowly. Deliberately. Valarr stepped back and sheathed his blade. Then to Dunk’s disbelief, he extended his gloved hand.
“Then stand,” the prince said.
Dunk stared at it for a heartbeat, stunned. Then he took the hand, gripping it with what strength he had left as Valarr hauled him upright. The pain was still there, sharp and burning, but he was standing. Alive. The prince released him soon after and took another step back, already distancing himself, his composure fully restored.
With the moments passing, they found themselves propped against the trunk of a large fallen tree, looking out into the empty clearing as they spoke. Dunk worked at bandaging his cuts, scrunching his face each time he tightened the cloth around the wound.
“You sure did get me good. You’re very well versed in sword play.....shit!” he muttered, hissing as he finished the last bandage before leaning back properly.
“It’s important that I am,” Valarr replied calmly, “Especially in a world such as this.”
Dunk hesitated, then glanced at him, “Now, if it’s all right, ser...may I ask something?”
Valarr nodded.
“Why did you attack me all of sudden? Was there something I did wrong? Because like I said before, I meant no harm at all...”
The dragon prince shook his head, “You did nothing wrong. I wished only to test your abilities. My father, Baelor, told me of a hedge knight who would participate in the tournament. I wanted to see for myself. To know whether you carried a flame within you or not.” He paused, then added, “You do. But I knew even before we crossed swords.” Valarr’s gaze drifted, caught in a moment of recall. “During the previous joust in the evening, when we rode towards our opponents...I saw you. I saw you and your young squire.”
Dunk’s brows lifted slightly.
“He was perched upon your shoulders,” Valarr continued, “cheering us on as though we were heroes from some song.” He lets out a quiet breath, “You truly care for him, do you not?”
Dunk nodded slowly, “I do. He’s....he’s more than a squire. He’s like a little brother to me.”
A small, almost hidden smile touched the prince’s face. That seemed to be all the confirmation he needed.
“Then, as an order from a prince of House Targaryen,” Valarr said, “Do you swear to see that he is well cared for. That you will work together and protect one another, during and after the tournament?”
Dunk did his best to bow despite the pain in his limb. “I swear it, milord. I’ll do everything I can to look after him and we’ll look after each other.”
The distant call of a jousting horn sounded across the fields, announcing another bout of high renown. Valarr knew the sound and who would be riding. He turned back to Dunk one last time and gave him a single nod.
“He is in your hands now, hedge knight,” the prince said, “I expect we shall meet again on the field soon.”
With that, Valarr turned and walked away, leaving Dunk by the log. As he departed, a broader smile finally surfaced, unseen by the knight behind him.
‘You will be in good hands, little cousin,’ he thought, ‘I can see why you chose him.’
Dunk takes another deep breath. Lingering for a moment longer before heading back. Walking tall and proudly, knowing that he’s not alone anymore.
He promised that he will grow stronger and protect his squire until the end.