Chapter Text
Dying, Daeron comes to a constatation, is quite a messy, uncomfortable business, besides being painful as fuck, as his father would say. Bodies aren't the most durable, even more so when one has spent their entire life pouring alcohol into it and shoving one's dick into every hole available.
It's quite ironic, though, that he survived the Great Spring Sickness that claimed the lives of his cousins and his grandfather the king, besides countless others, and now he's dying of pox of all things. Ironic and yet fitting, he admits to himself. It's what he deserves, he knows that all too well.
To dull the pain of dying, he drinks the strongest liquor he has been able to find - a foul brew from the farthest North, that one could become drunk from just by sniffing it for too long - until he finally passes out, fully expecting not to wake up again.
Wake up he does, though, his head pounding something awful. He opens his eyes with some difficulty, blinking a few times to force them to focus. When they finally do and his gaze falls on the familiar face of a certain hedge knight, he startles so badly that he falls off a bench.
Wait, bench? Why would he be on a bench of all things in what looks like a tavern, when he's been bedridden in his chambers for the past few weeks–
“Are you alright, m'lord?” A shy voice not matching the huge body of its owner startles him off his musings. When he fails to respond within an appropriate time, strong hands haul him up as if he were a mere kitten, and put him back on the bench. “I think you might've had quite enough to drink for tonight, if you don't mind me sayin’.”
Any other time, Daeron might have sneered with derision or told him to mind his own business. Not today, though.
“I think you're quite right,” he says, instead, feeling quite dizzy. “What's– what's happening? Where is everyone?”
“Already at Ashford, I suppose, I've heard there's gonna be a tourney.”
No, there wouldn't be any more tourneys at Ashford, Daeron wants to correct him, not after his uncle, the Hand of the King, died there. But surely, Ser Duncan would know this already?...
“Do you think they will let me compete? It would be my first since Ser Arlan has knighted me–” The man prattles on, and Daeron blinks again. As his eyes focus even more, the alcohol-induced haze dissipating ever so slowly, he realizes with a growing unease what should have been obvious to him right from the start.
This is not an adult Ducan that he's speaking to, but his younger version, the naive, honorable to a fault, teenager. Just an adolescent, despite his already enormous height.
He wants to shout at him, warn him off - beg him even - to never set foot in Ashford, to turn around, walk away and never come back. If he has to point to one pivotal moment after which everything started to fall apart, this was it. The accursed tourney and everything that followed, all the bad decisions made by everyone involved, that combined together culminated in the death of a dragon - just as his dreams had tried to show him.
Last time, he didn't listen. He tried to drown his visions in wine, and as a result, his uncle Baelor died at the hand of his own brother, their entire family slowly but inevitably crumbled, and with them, their entire realm. But maybe, just maybe, it doesn't need to happen again. If this is not just the fevered dream of a man lying on his dying bed, maybe he could still change fate.
Bad things happen to those who meddle with destiny, he recalls Aemon's words, before he scoffs at himself. If destiny doesn't want to be meddled with, it shouldn't have thrust him in what appears to be the past. This looks exactly like an invitation to stir things up, so stir them he will.
His mind set, he tries to stand up, but his body is quite an unwilling participant and stubbornly resists his efforts. He sways on his feet, muffles a curse, then turns towards the hedge knight.
“You wouldn't happen to know a quick way of sobering up, would you?”
He's never had to wonder how to shake the alcohol off; the whole point of his drinking was to become drunk and stay for as long as he could, so that his dreams could not haunt him anymore. Although truth be told, they always find their way to his mind, even through wine-induced fog.
Ser Duncan, as it turns out, knows such a trick, although it involves being dumped in a cold river.
“It may not sound too pleasant, but is quite effective,” the young man assures him, before volunteering to go with him. Probably to ensure that he doesn't fall on his face or arse, Daeron suspects, but agrees nevertheless.
Once they reach the river, he heaves a sigh, then starts taking his clothes off. Seeing Duncan's blush and averting of eyes, he lets out a snort, but does not comment. Just because he is quite accustomed to being in various states of undress doesn't mean that everyone is.
As he steps into the stream, he suppresses a wince at how cold it is. He has enough of a presence of mind to scoop small amounts of water in his palms and splash across his torso and back, letting his body become accustomed to the cold, before he steps fully into the river. He closes his eyes for a moment, revelling in the feeling. His body is still young and untouched by disease, and he feels stronger than he's had in months, if not years. He's not the most devout person - quite opposite, in fact - but it does feel like a miracle.
He spots Aegon on the shore, chatting with the hedge knight, although the little rascal keeps shooting uncertain looks towards him. Probably wondering if Daeron is going to reveal their real identities and put a stop to the entire charade with Aegon acting as a simple stable boy. He's not going to lie about his own name, but he's going to give Egg and Dunk a chance at bonding as they did the last time, as it was the single good thing that came out of the entire disaster at Ashford.
“Better, m'lord?” Ser Duncan asks once Daeron gets out of the stream and dresses up.
“Much better, thank you, Ser. I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm Daeron Targaryen, the eldest son of prince Maekar Targaryen.”
Even in the faint light of the hour between sunset and night, he can see how the giant of a man blanches, his face turning ashen white, then drops to one knee.
“My lord– I mean, my prince, I didn't know–”
Daeron pats him on the shoulder, which is barely below his own, even with the hedge knight kneeling on the grass. “It's quite alright. Now, do stand up, please, Ser…?”
“Ser Dunk, of, um–” the giant of a man stammers as he gets up gracelessly, probably still shaken from the unexpected news.
“Is it short for Duncan, Ser?” Daeron inquires, giving him a pointed look.
“Yes, your grace. Ser Duncan the Tall.”
He nods, then straightens, ignoring Aegon altogether. “A fitting name indeed. Well met, Ser Duncan. Now, how about we head back to the tavern, hm?”
On their way back, he keeps the conversation light and focused on his companion, asking about his plans for the tournament and such. Gradually, Dunk relaxes around him, which Daeron takes as a good sign. He's never had his uncle's or cousin's natural charisma, and winning people over has never been his strongest suit. But with this second chance at life, he needs to do better. He must, for his entire family's sake.