Chapter Text
MAEKAR
.˳·˖✶𓆩 𓆪✶˖·˳.
The road to Ashford was a misery of mud and misfortune. Above their heads the trees wept under the relentless spring rains. For Maekar Targaryen every metre was a fresh insult as he hated this type of scenery the most, he favoured Summerhall, but even King’s Landing’s dry summers was better than this.
He sat heavy in his saddle, his cloak humid and plastered on his shoulders like a second skin. The scene of the meadow did nothing to soothe the burning irritation in his chest. His sons were gone. Daeron, his eldest, mastered the art of being a disappointment before he’d even mastered a horse. And Aegon, his little Egg, who should have been under Daeron’s watchful eye, was instead lost in these gods forsaken downpour. He sighed, his chest aching for his son’s presence.
Ashford received them with mud, grey walls, and the particular indignity of a place that had never been worth the journey even in fair weather. By the time they reached the gates, Maekar was a dragon statue, his patience worn out. He was exhausted, his joints ached from the damp and his mind spiralled through every dark possibility regarding his missing boys.
They followed Lord Ashford inside, Maekar barely acknowledging the man’s bows. Manners in this moment were for men who hadn’t lost their heart and temper on the muddy roads.
“I am sorry, Lord Ashford, but my brother has been a bit tense since his sons have gone…astray,” Baelor, his brother, said in his usual smooth and calm voice.
Maekar rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. ‘A bit tense’? Every pore in his body was sick with worry.
“The spring rains have swollen many of our streams. Perhaps the young princes have just been delayed?” Lord Ashford’s voice was thin, trying to bring hope.
“Fuck me…” Maekar growled, ripping his cloak off and tossing it across the nearest table. He paced to the window, staring out at the miserable meadow. “Delayed? They are not delayed.”
“Do not curse our gracious host,” Baelor repressed softly, almost like their father.
“I said ‘fuck me,’ not ‘fuck him.’ It’s not his fault Father bade us attend this miserable circus.” Maekar didn't turn around, but he heard the silence that followed, Lord Ashford’s ego bruised under Baelor’s pitiful gaze.
“Might we discuss this another time?” Baelor tried to pivot.
“I say we go hunting,” Maekar said, his voice humourless. He stared at his own reflection in the glass. Maybe slaying a boar would keep him from slaying his own eldest son when he finally found them.
“Daeron has done this before,” Baelor said, his voice a cool balm that only served to irritate Maekar further. “You should not have commanded him to enter the list.”
Maekar turned from the window, his eyes narrowing as he poured himself a cup of wine. “You’d be more concerned if it was your son, I wager,” he reproached, gulping the cup in one go and taking some grapes to savour.
“They have only been missing a day,” Baelor reminded him. “No doubt, Ser Roland will turn him up and Aegon along with him.”
“When the tourney is over, perhaps,” Maekar spat. He began to pace again, his boots heavy on the castle stones.
“Daeron belongs on a tourney field no more than Aerys or Rhaegel,” Baelor said, trying to soft his brother’s irritation.
“By which you mean he’d sooner ride a whore than a horse,” he said humourlessly as he chewed his grapes angrily.
Baelor’s lips twitched in a brief smile, an amused glint in his eyes that he quickly tried to suppress. “That is not what I said.” It was what he thought, though. Maekar knew it well enough.
Maekar groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, as he finally threw himself into a heavy oak chair. The wood protested under his weight. His mind a jagged map of every road where his sons might be lying dead or drunk. Or both.
“I do not need to be reminded of my son’s failings,” Maekar hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrate. “He can change. He will change; gods be damned. Or I swear, I’ll see him dead.”
The grape on his fingers was about to pop, but his head snapped up. His alpha senses caught a shift in the air, a scent of elm and wet soil, confusing him as the smell belonged to the meadow, not inside the castle. His eyes locked on the open entrance, catching a glimpse of a cloak’s edge.
“You!” he barked, standing so abruptly the chair scraped back. “Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us? Show yourself!”
Maekar had always thought himself a tall man, but the boy that emerged from the shadows looked monstrously tall. He couldn’t do anything else but stood there dumbly, his mouth forgetting to chew as it gasped. The stranger not only stood out by his tallness, but also for his pale blue eyes that looked too honest for his own wellbeing.
“Um…” the boy started, his voice cracking slightly as the sandy coloured locks almost covered his eyes as he looked down. “My Lords, I do apologize for my interruption. I, um…” He doubted, smelling like an omega to Maekar’s incredulous stare. “I have asked Ser Manfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I might enter the lists, but he has refused to do so,” the omega spoke, steadier, this time not hiding his face, as he approached them.
Maekar stared at the giant. “Who?” His brow furrowing in sheer, baffled surprise. “What the fuck is going on?” He asked his older brother.
Baelor stepped forward, his expression softening into that infuriatingly graceful diplomacy. He looked at the dishevelled giant and then back to his brother.
“We are the intruders here, brother,” Baelor said gently, gesturing to the room they had essentially commandeered. He turned his attention back to the entrance. “Come closer, Ser.”
The boy stepped forward, despite his clumsy hesitation there was a stubbornness in his pale blue eyes. “And others, too,” he stammered, his voice deep but shaky. “You see, they say they know not Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But he served them. I swear it. I have his sword and shield.”
Maekar sat down again as his brother had now the situation under his control, his violet eyes not leaving the omega’s face as he kept grabbing food from a near plate.
Lord Ashford let out a derisive scoff, glancing at Maekar. “Sword and shield do not make a knight,” he spat, his lip curling into a mocking smile that the silver haired prince didn’t bother to acknowledge. “Unless you have better proof to support what you say. Some writing or…” Added the lord, searching for Maekar’s approval.
The omega looked up, his face pale but his pale blue eyes hopeful, a look in an omega that would have been considered endearing if he wasn’t built like a castle’s tower. “Do you remember him, Your Grace? It was many years ago. You may have forgotten,” the hedge asked directly his brother, obviously.
Baelor analysed the omega, head to toes, his gaze amused and thoughtful, debating between seeing the giant as a mere omega or a hedge knight.
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree,” Baelor repeated the name, tapping a finger against the black grape in his hand. The scent of the room shifted as Baelor’s memory worked. “He never won a tourney that I know. But he never shamed himself, either.”
“Yes, ser. I mean, no. No, he didn’t,” the boy said, his words tripping over each other in his haste.
“He overthrew Lord Stokeworth in the melee at King’s Landing and years before, he unhorsed the Grey Lion himself,” his brother memorized.
“He…he told me of that man a time,” the hedge replied stuttering, his hope overflowing as a cup of wine.
Baelor’s eyes sharpened, calculating. “Then, you will recall the Grey Lion’s true name, I have no doubt.”
Maekar found interest in his brother’s methods of testing people, the scene in front of him almost made him forgot about his missing sons. Almost.
The giant looked caught off-guard by the question as his expression showed his brain working for the answer. “Ser Damon Lannister. The Grey Lion, he’s Lord of Casterly Rock now.”
“So he is,” Baelor conceded with an approving nod. “And enters the lists upon the morrow.”
“How can you possibly remember some fucking hedge knight,” Maekar started speaking, looking purposely at the boy when he said ‘hedge’. “Who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?” He looked away from the hedge as the boy was looking stupidly behind him, not grasping Maekar’s pointed look.
“I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes,” Baelor replied simply.
“And why would you deign to joust with a hedge knight?” Maekar’s scent, that burning iron and charred cedar spiked as he inquired with curiosity.
“It was many years past, at Storm’s End,” Baelor explained, his voice softening with the memory. “Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him.”
“It was seven,” the young man blurted out.
Maekar’s jaw dropped slightly. He looked at the giant, then at Baelor, and then he let out a short, high-pitched laugh. The sheer audacity of this mud-stained boy correcting the Crown Prince was almost enough to break his foul mood.
The omega’s face went red. “I be…believe.”
“Tales grow in the telling, I know,” Baelor said, smiling kindly. “Do not think ill of your old master, but it was four lances only, I fear.”
The hedge bowed his head, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “As you say, Your Grace.” He said kneeling. “I…It was four. I do apologize. The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say that I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”
“No harm was done, Ser. Rise,” Baelor commanded gently.
The hedge stood, but he wasn't done. He looked at Baelor with a raw blue reverence that made Maekar’s stomach churn. “You gave him back his horse and armour and took no ransom. Ser Arlan often told me that you were the soul of chivalry…”
“Ugh,” Maekar groaned, rolling his eyes and turning back to the food. He couldn't stomach the sentimentality unlike the dried dates.
“…and that one day, the Seven Kingdoms would be safe in your hands,” he finished.
Baelor’s expression turned solemn. “Not for many years yet, I pray.” He said looking at Maekar.
The omega’s eyes went wide, realizing the implication of his words. “No, I…I did not mean that the King should—”
“You wish to enter the lists. Is that it?” Baelor interrupted, saving the boy from further embarrassment.
“Yes.”
“The decision rests with the master of the games, but I see no reason to deny you.”
“As you say, m’lord.” The boy let out a short, heavy sigh of relief that seemed to fill the room with that strange, meadow scent again. “Your Grace…”
“Very well, Ser, you are grateful,” Maekar snapped, having reached his limit. He didn't want the boy’s reverence at his brother; he wanted his own sons back. “Now, fuck off!”
Baelor’s voice lowered to a more personal tone. “You must forgive my brother, Ser. His sons went astray on the way here, and he fears for them.”
The omega looked back, his gaze flickering toward Maekar’s tense face. “Of course,” he said softly. “I trust they will not be found dead.”
Maekar stiffened at the word ‘dead’, his weight shifted on the chair as the omega bowed and turned around to leave.
“Ser,” Baelor called out before he could vanish. “You are not of Ser Arlan’s blood?”
“No, I am not.”
“By law, only a trueborn son is entitled to inherit a knight’s arms,” Baelor advised, his tone practical. “You must needs find a new device, Ser. A sigil of your own.”
The omega nodded, a newfound determination settling into his oversized frame. “I will. Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely. You’ll see.”
The room watched the young man trying to leave. “It’s this way,” informed them as he found the path towards the exit.
Maekar still stared at the empty entrance, almost speechless. The scent of elm and wet soil lingered, far more potent than it had any right to be.
He turned his head toward his brother, his nostrils still flaring as he fought to categorize that confusing aroma. Under the dominant, wild smell of rained meadow, there was a faint, milky sweetness, something like sun warmed hay and old parchment. It was a scent that tugged at a very specific, very paternal corner of his mind, but his irritation wouldn’t allow him to grasp the memory.
“A hedge knight…” Maekar repeated, his voice a low rumble. “He looks more like a tree than a boy.”
Baelor didn’t answer immediately. He picked up a fresh cluster of grapes, examining them with the same focused intensity he had used on the giant. “He seems to have a good heart, brother. And a long memory. There is a rare sort of gravity in an omega who stands that tall and speaks that truly.”
“There is a rare sort of stupidity in it, too.” Maekar snapped. He began to pace again, his boots echoing like hammer blows. “Like in my son…Daeron it’s probably face down in a cask of ale, and Egg…gods know where my Egg is...”
He stopped, turning back to the entrance of the room. The secondary scent, that familiar smell, was fading, leaving only the sharp tang of his own alpha frustration.
His brother rose. “We shall look in on Valarr,” Baelor said as he padded his back, walking off.
Maekar sighed but followed suit. “Did you smell it?” He asked abruptly, his violet eyes fixed on Baelor.
“The meadow? Or Lord Ashford’s desperation to please us?” He jested as they were walking in private.
“The boy,” Maekar hissed. “He smelled of the meadow, yes. But beneath that…there was something else. Something that felt too...” He tried to explain vainly.
Baelor’s expression shifted, his diplomatic mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of genuine concern. “He is an omega, Maekar. Their scents can be complex when they are distressed. The boy was plainly distressed.”
“It wasn’t distress,” Maekar muttered, more to himself than his brother. His leather boots getting filled with mud as they walked towards the arena.
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DUNK
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ᨒ↟
Dunk practically stumbled out of the castle, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He felt like he had walked through a dragon’s den and come out with his skin still on. The cold Ashford air felt like a blessing now, washing away the suffocating scent of Prince Maekar’s ardent iron and charred cedar.
He found Egg tucked near the tree in the small camp, the boy’s bald head gleaming.
"I’m in, Egg!" Dunk gasped, hauling the boy up by his armpits and nearly tossing him into the air. "Prince Baelor... he gave me the rights. I’m to enter the lists!"
Egg’s face transformed, a grin splitting his small features. "I knew it, Ser!"
To celebrate, Dunk led the boy toward the colourful tents of the camp. The puppeteer’s show was a full of noises and colour. They watched the wooden knights clack against one another, and for a moment, Dunk forgot he was a mere hedge knight.
After the show, he approached the puppeteer girl. Up close, she was even more beautiful, her movements graceful as she organized the puppets.
“Hello there,” Dunk said, his voice sounding rougher than he intended.
He flicked a coin in the air, landing on her hands. He hesitated, then pulled out another one, his ears reddening. “And…one for last night.”
She looked up, and both chuckled softly. She had a kind look in her eyes, like he wasn’t just an omega, but a man.
“That was great,” Egg chimed, his eyes filled with excitement. “How’d you do the fire tricks?”
She smiled, grabbing some pollen dust and threw it in the fire, creating a reaction between the two elements.
Egg leaned in, his eyes widen, gasping in surprise. “Is it pollen?”
“Yeah, we…we collect it on the way,” The beta explained, her hands moving with a grace that Dunk found mesmerizing.
“I’ve never seen such giant puppets,” Egg continued, his curiosity piked. “Do you make them yourself?”
“My uncle builds them, but I paint.”
Dunk cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Could you paint something for me? I…I have the coin to pay. I… just…” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I need to paint something over the chalice.”
The beta shook the pollen from her hands, her gaze turning warm. “Well, what would you want?”
Dunk’s mind went as blank as a new linen. “I…I don’t actually know.” He let out an embarrassed chuckle and looked shyly at his boots. “Sorry, you must think me a fool.”
“All men are fools, and all men are knights,” she said, her voice carrying a weight of wisdom that caught Dunk off guard.
“Yeah...” Dunk cleared his throat, his omega instincts making his pulse jump.
She stepped toward the shield. “The gray is a bit drab.”
“Aye…Yeah, the field should be the colour of sunset cause the old man always liked sunsets and…”
“An elm tree!” Egg interrupted, his voice bright. “A big one. Like the one by the river with the brown trunk and the green branches.”
Dunk looked at the boy, then back to the beta. “Aye. An elm tree, that would serve. But with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”
She tilted her head, imagining the design.
“Thank you…I’m…I’m Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The beautiful girl let out a laugh, a sound that made his heart hammer against his ribs. “I’m Tanselle. The boys used to call me Tanselle TooTall.”
Dunk felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked at her height, impressive for a beta girl but dwarfed by his own. “You’re not too tall. I mean, you’re just right for…”
“For?” she inquired, her eyes dancing on his red face.
“Puppets!” Egg blurted out, saving Dunk from his own embarrassment.
“Yeah, puppets,” Dunk echoed, his chuckle sounding a bit strained. Egg sighed, his face giving away for a second that he thought of Dunk a fool. “Okay, I will…”
He turned to walk away, his heart tight, before Egg’s voice pulled him back.
“Wait. The shield.”
Dunk stopped dead in his tracks. “Yes, sorry. Yes, the shield.” He fumbled to hand it over, his face burning.
“Yeah,” she said, taking the heavy wood from him, her fingers brushing his just for a second.
The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat as Dunk and Egg manoeuvred through the crowded lanes of the Ashford camp. Dunk’s mind was still back at the puppet stage, his chest tight with a peculiar kind of nerves that had nothing to do with entering the lists. They found the camp’s tavern, Dunk went to buy some ale as Egg claimed a table.
“Was that ill handled?” Dunk asked, his voice low as he sat down on the bench.
Egg looked at him, blinking confused as he grabbed the cup Dunk offered him.
“The puppet girl,” Dunk clarified, his ears warming. “It just…it didn’t feel well handled.”
“She is painting your shield,” Egg said plainly, as if that settled the matter of social grace.
“Yeah, for pay,” Dunk muttered. Feeling like he needed some anchor. How badly he wished to be an alpha right now.
Egg thought about it for a moment. “You are both gigantic,” he added casually.
“Is that promising?” Dunk asked, genuinely unsure.
“It’s a… commonality,” Egg replied with a shrug.
“Right, yeah…Commonality.” Dunk repeated the word, trying to find the comfort in it. He was an omega built like a mountain, and she was a beta too beautiful and elegant for a hedge like himself.
“Do you think I’ll ever make a knight one day?” Egg asked suddenly. The boy looked smaller than usual.
“Sure, why not? You’re a likely lad.”
“I’m a bit puny,” Egg admitted, dropping his head.
Dunk let out a soft chuckle. “You’ll grow.”
“Even for my age. Everyone’s always told me so.”
Dunk felt a pang of kinship. He knew what it was to be told you didn’t fit the mold you were born into. “Everyone’s always told me I was stupid.”
Egg stopped walking, his big blue eyes sharp. “And?”
“Hm?” Dunk let out an unsure sound, not understanding what Egg was asking him.
“What?” The child’s gaze lost.
“What?” Dunk asked, confused.
“What did you do when people said you were stupid, Ser?”
Dunk shifted uncomfortably, the scent of elm and wet soil sharpening as his anxiety spiked. “What business is that of yours? My problems are my own.”
“I thought… Aren’t you trying to help me?” Egg asked, his voice small but persistent.
“Help you what? Grow?” Dunk snapped, then immediately felt like the ‘stupid’ aurochs Ser Arlan claimed he was.
Before he could apologize, Ser Lyonel Baratheon shouted at him.
“Hedge knight, you!” His alpha presence filling their space like a physical weight. “What is this piss froth?” He said, snatching the cup from his hands and throwing it away. “I need muscle. Will you heed my call to war? Aha! Good. Go! Get up, come!”
Dunk found himself hauled by the Laughing Storm with the force of a stag. The alpha guided him with a firm grip on his shoulder toward a thick, hemp rope. The men were divided, gripping the rope with desperation.
“Ready!” Lyonel roared, his eyes wild with joy. He shoved a knight aside. “Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt. We’re not in your sister’s chambers now. Ready?”
Lyonel spat on his hands and grabbed the rope with decisive look. “Go! Pull!”
The tension was immediate. Dunk’s boots slid in the mud as the opposing team gave a strong pull.
“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Lyonel roared, his laughter booming over the groans of exertion. “Come on! Pull! Pull! Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!”
Dunk felt the raw power of the men around him, their alpha scents clashing with his own. He closed his eyes, anchored his massive legs, and pulled. He wasn't just pulling for a game; he was pulling against every person who had ever called him slow or weak.
Suddenly, the weight in front of him changed. Lyonel had let go.
“Lyonel! What are you doing?” Dunk shouted, struggling to maintain the line.
“I’m thirsty!” the Laughing Storm yelled, swaggering toward a flagon of ale while his team groaned under the sudden strain.
“Lyonel!”
“Pull!” Egg was shouting as he tied his legs around the rope, his face red with effort, trying to not fall and make the team lose.
“I’m thirsty, cunt!” Lyonel yelled back, taking a massive cup and drowning himself with it. He looked back at Dunk, a wicked glint in his eye as he smacked the omega’s bottom. “Looking good! Fucking pull!” The alpha chuckled as he started pulling again.
With a final, desperate roar, Dunk gave one last pull. The opposing team collapsed in a mess of tangled limbs and curses. The people around them erupted in joyful cheering. Dunk stood there, chest heaving, his scent of elm and wet soil thick in the air, feeling accomplished.
As the sky turned darker, Dunk and Egg were breathless from so many games, the child beaming by his side.
“That was…” Egg started, laughing. “Amazing, I never had so much fun.”
Dunk nodded beside him, his face split in a wide grin. Suddenly, the Fossoway boys attracted their attention, Raymun’s cousin bragging off his new armour.
“Ser, do you have an armour?” Asked Egg, recovering his breath.
“Huh…Ser Arlan’s armour doesn’t count…” Dunk replied, an embarrassed smile on his face.
Raymun, who was watching them with his usual kind eyes spoke. “There’s a smith here, Steely Pate…He armours men with better steel than my cousin’s.” He informed, chuckling.
Ser Steffon, offended at the insult pushed Raymun almost at the floor. “Fuck off, green apple, you barely hold blunted steel.”
Dunk and Egg exchanged glances as Ser Steffon walked away toward a group of highborn knights.
“Beast…” Raymun muttered, his face red. “You should go and fetch Steely Pate now, armour yourself and beat my cousin’s arse as I am still yet too ‘green’,” spat Raymun.
He only nodded, giving the boy a small kind smile, calming Raymun almost instantly. He got up, not wanting tonight’s joust to catch up with the little time he had on his hands to find the smith.
Dunk’s oversized frame cast a long shadow in the flickering orange light of the camp. He stood in front of the smith, Steely Pate, his frame almost equally large as his in tallness but surpassing him in weight.
"You do good work," Dunk said, his voice low, almost shy, as he looked at the armours around them.
"None better," Pate replied without looking up from his work.
Dunk shifted, his elm and wet soil scent mixing with the ardent smell of hot iron. "I need some armour on the morrow. Gorget, greaves, and great helm."
Pate finally paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "Are you jousting or working?"
"Both, perhaps."
The smith looked him up and down. "You’re a big one, though I’ve armoured bigger. I have some pieces in the wagon that might do. Nothing prettied up with gold or silver... Mine’ll serve you better if you take a lance in the face." The man informed as he threw a helmet in Dunk’s hands.
"That’s all I want. How much?" Dunk asked, looking at the helmet sturdy steel.
"Eight hundred stag," Pate said. "For I’m feeling kindly."
Dunk’s heart sank. "Eight hundred? Perhaps I could trade you some armour made for a smaller man. A half helm, a mail hauberk."
“Steely Pate sells only his own work.” The beta said unfriendly.
At the denial of the offer, Dunk couldn’t do much but place the helmet on the table softly, sadness written on his face as he turned away.
Pate sighed, the sound lost in the clink of his tools. "I could make use of the metal. If it’s not too rusted, I’ll take it and armour you for... 600."
The coins jingled in his hand. "I only have two stags."
"Buys you a day," Pate grunted. "Send your squire along with the rest, or else I’ll sell me wares to the next man."
"You’ll get it all back, I swear it," Dunk promised, his gaze hardening with a desperate sort of hope. "I mean to be a champion here."
Pate let out a dry, rattling laugh. "Do you, now? And the others all came just… just to cheer you on?"
Dunk looked at the beta, his mouth opened and closed, his mind unsure at the man’s words.
“No, but I mean to make them.” Dunk said after a moment, his hope and joy back in his pale blue gaze.
Pate looked at him, a smile crept on his face as he shook his head. “Till tomorrow you have, remember.” The man turned his back at him, ending the conversation.
He nodded and walked with purpose, but his feet were heavy as he knew there was only one way to get more coins. Dunk picked up his heart as it sank at the idea of selling Sweetfoot and rushed to his small camp.
His mind was racing as he reached his and Egg’s sleeping camp. His horses well behaved as always. Dunk reached for Sweetfoot reins, his girl nervous as she noticed something shifting in the omega.
“Shhh…It’s okay…I…Come on, I will explain once we reach there,” he said as he patted her head. “Boys, keep quiet, we will be back before long.” He promised Chestnut and Thunder.
The walk to the stable was quiet, the only sound coming from the horse nickering. Dunk leaned his head against Sweetfoot’s neck, breathing in her familiar scent. To be a champion, he needed armour. To get armour, he had to give her up.
"Is there any measure of a fool I fail to meet?" he whispered into her mane as he patted her, his eyes tearing. "Best girl. If I win, I’ll come back and buy you again. I promise." His words not faltering, not even once as he fought the tears back.
He handed her reins to the horse dealer, the coins clinking in his hand, the price of his beautiful palfrey feeling heavy on his hand. He took a few coppers and pressed them into the stable boy's hand. "That’s for her. See she has some oats tonight, yeah? And an apple, too."
Later, sitting on the chair in front of Egg, with two cups of thin cider in his hand, he spoke.
"No turning back now, I suppose," he mumbled softly. "You know, the old man lived nigh on sixty years and was never a champion…” Dunk said, looking at nothing.
Egg stared into his mug. "There’s a bug in my cider." The child’s face contorted in disgust, clearly not listening to Dunk, while he was trying to shoot out the bug from his cup.
Dunk continued, without realizing the boy’s cider splashed his tunic. “If I could call myself a champion of Ashford Meadow…even for an hour…maybe some great house might take me into its service. Perhaps even House Targaryen."
Egg’s face shifted at the House Targaryen mention. He crossed his little hands. “You suppose the dragon house employs many hedge knights, ser?” The child inquired with his usual smart tone.
"Enough of that," Dunk chided. "I’ll have you know Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard is but the son of a crabber."
"Ser Donnel? Of Duskendale?" Egg asked, unamused.
"Yeah," he replied confidently.
"His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros!" Egg’s voice came out almost harsh.
Dunk froze. "What? How would you know?"
"I like fishing," Egg said simply.
Before Dunk could interrogate the boy further, a loud horn blew through the camp, the mass of people laughing and walking fast towards the arena.
"It’s time!" Egg shouted, jumping up.
“Right, come on, let’s go.” Dunk got up, his long legs faster than the boy’s. “Come on, pick your feet up. Let’s go.” He hurried the kid, who was falling behind.
"Wait for me! Ser Duncan!" Egg scrambled in the mass as the horns continued blowing. “Ser Duncan!”
Dunk stopped in his tracks and looked back, for a solid moment, the child gone from his vision. Egg came running at him with his little legs. The worry in the omega’s heart lifted as he found the scene endearing. He hunched down, to perch the child on his shoulders.
“You alright?”
“Yeah,” replied the kid breathless from the effort.
They reached the arena just as the first knights were being armed. Dunk more invested in the knights than in the royal family that stood tall in the gallery. Prince Baelor waving his hand at the wild crowd.
His eyes weren’t on the prince, but on Ser Tully and his disgusting fish show. He had to look away for a moment when the lord bit on the fish head, not wanting his stomach to lose the cider he had paid for.
"Hey, who’s that?" Dunk asked, his eyes now fixed on another black armoured knight.
"Prince Valarr, Baelor’s son," Egg said, his voice soft with a small smile on his lips. "Second in line to the throne."
"He’s the favourite, I’d wager," Dunk noted, watching the crowd roar as Valarr took his shield.
Egg gave a small, knowing smirk. "I’ll take that bet, ser."
Another horn blowed, the crowd holding their breaths as the joust was about to begin.
“LORD ASHFORD FUCKS HIS SHEEP” A man screamed, the crowd filled with laughter while on the gallery the lords were trying to hold their amusement, only Prince Maekar smile being noticeable.
The next blowed horn made the ground shake as the horses charged. The sound of wood splintering and men shouting was deafening. Dunk watched as Leo Tyrell, the ‘Longthorn’, called for another lance, his grace on a horse making Dunk feel intimidated.
In the middle of the chaos, as the crowd roared and the tension of the tourney filled the air, Dunk felt a tug on his shoulder.
"Ser," Egg shouted over the din. "Put me down, Ser!" The boy said with urged tone. His little face was pale and panicked and Dunk couldn’t understand what it was happening.
The omega was lost as he cradled the child in his arms, wanting to check on him but a roar from afar made his head snap up.
“AEGON!” Prince Maekar roared, confusing the crowd as the joust continued.
He felt like problems were coming to their way as the prince turned to his brother, pointing at their direction.
The people in the crowd began to look between each other, some suspicious gazes landing on the child, but Dunk held him close, protective, as his scent flared dangerously.