Archive of Our Own

XXX

If someone asked Dunk what he thought of the way his life had gone, he’d tell you that he was rather satisfied with it. Sure- growing up in Fleabottom was rough. Being a Hedge Knight had its downsides too, mostly in the form of rough ground to sleep upon, hard bread and salted beef, as well as the occasional thunderstorm. Ser Arlan was dead, and he was suddenly alone all over again, off to make a name for himself and attempting to honour his master’s legacy. And he’d probably need to spend the tourney praying for the weather to stay nice. But he was happy enough, or at the very least content with what he’s got. 

He didn’t need his life to be free of hardship and worry to be able to enjoy it. Just a bit of coin, his horses and the trusted sword of his old Ser that was now his were enough. Hell- maybe he’d even make it into the service of a Lord. That would be great! But nothing he could not live without. He went to Ashford with hopes, not expectations. Which, well, how bad could it possibly be even in the worst case?

Then he decided to enter that inn. 

It was a small but quaint little house, all things considered. Perhaps a bit grimey, though nothing that would make Dunk turn up his nose. Things being dirty was almost as normal as breathing itself to smallfolk like him. Dust, sweat, smoke from fires…those were simply the signs of living of people who, unlike nobles, did not have the time or means to keep them out of sight. Considering what he normally got, an inn was already a small luxury anyway. A hot meal and some ale, a bit of rest for his horses, perhaps some conversation if there were other patrons, and he’d be off to Ashford.

The knight could see the stables already from where he neared, lit up by torches and lanterns, with a young figure standing behind the gate. Some child belonging to the inn, Dunk reasoned. Perhaps the son of the owner. There to await any patron and care for their horses. A bit young and skinny if you asked him, with an odd bald head and large eyes. The boy couldn’t be older than ten, maybe he was younger. His clothes were an old tunic that fell down into the dirt, roughspun and cheap like most peasant clothing was. 

“Hello there,” he tried to greet kindly, keenly aware of his size compared to that of the child. The boy only continued to stare. “Are you the stable boy?” 

The boy blinked. Once, twice, thrice in a row as if he saw something strange and incomprehensible. Almost like he spoke a language the child could not understand. Dunk wondered whether or not he’d said something wrong when— 

“SER DUNCAN!” the child began to sob, big splotchy tears running down his cheeks as he barreled towards him as fast as his feet would carry. There was barely any time for him to properly react when he felt tiny hands grasp at his own shirt. “Ser Duncan!” The child repeated, his face now buried in his midriff “I-I’m sorry, Ser! I am- I– I didn’t think it would get that bad— Promise, Jenny and my son they’re– and then when you burned too— because you ran back into it all too—I only wanted- I thought if I managed to hatch those dragon eggs— I never meant to, Ser! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

A smarter, more level-headed man would have pushed the crying boy away. He’d have asked what his fool mouth was trying to say, wondered if maybe he’d been mistaken for someone else, or asked if this was supposed to be some kind of trick. After all, none of what he said made much sense. Neither the talk of dragon eggs or burning or of children the boy was most certainly too young to have. Other beggars had smarter ways to distract the victim they wanted to steal coin from. Crazy fools less so, though they didn’t tend to be this young either. 

Only was Dunk not a smarter, more level-headed man. And neither was he the type of man that could simply shrug a disturbed, crying child off like others may have been able to do.

“‘m sorry!” The poor boy wailed into him, obviously more distressed by his seeming lack of reaction. The knight could feel his tunic growing wet from his tears and snot. “I- I promise I’ll never do anything like that again! Please, please don’t hate me, Ser! I didn’t– I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it! You have to believe me! I- I never would have done it had I known!”

A smarter man truly would not have done so. Yet he still felt himself crouching, his arm almost instinctively slinging itself over the boy’s shoulders in a clumsy attempt at comfort. The younger merely held on closer and continued sobbing. 

“There, there….” Dunk tried to say, doing his best to emulate the glimpses of care he’d seen mothers extend to their children. It was a sorry excuse for comfort, he thought; it did nothing to truly get the child to calm down. Which did nothing to solve the mystery of why he was crying and why he was crying to him about the matter. “No need to be so sad. I don’t hate you, promise. Uh– How- ahem– What’s your name, lad?” 

If I know that much, maybe I’ll be able to figure out what is happening? Goes as an unsaid thought in the knight’s mind. 

For what’s it worth, the question must have done something for the boy. He stopped crying momentarily to let go just enough to be able to gaze into the other's deep ocean eyes. “You….You don’t remember?” He asked, half shocked and half confused. Dunk did not understand that last part. If anyone had the right to be confused, it should probably be him. 

“Remember what?”

“You…You don’t remember!?” Shock coloured the boy’s voice this time, genuine enough to fully dry his tears. “I- You– Ser Duncan!” 

“My name is Dunk, lad.” The knight tried to explain, “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else– Who even are you?”

The boy, though he was starting to tire of needing to refer to the other as such, looked at him with innocent purple-tinted eyes. “My name is Egg, Ser,” He said with the confidence of a man who spoke facts,” And I'm your squire.”

“My what now?”

XXX

Dunk, as it turned out, had a squire now. 

The boy rode beside him on Chestnut as he made do with Thunder. Sweetfoot trailed behind them, good girl as she was, lending to an easy travel and entry into Ashford.

Part of him still couldn’t believe it, if he was honest. And if he tried to remember how exactly Egg- for that truly was his name, as the child had assured him- managed to talk him into taking him along…he’d probably need to confess that he wasn’t exactly sure himself anymore. 

Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs. The words seemed to ring in the back of his mind like a bell. It really shouldn’t be a surprise that all the lad needed to do was cry a bit and look at him sadly; it was pathetic how someone as tall and sturdy as him could fold under the non-existent pressure of his own squire. The knight sighed and shook his head. 

“Is everything alright, ser?” Came the small voice of Egg, curious yet seemingly all-knowing at the same time. “Are you tired? We can rest if you want!”

Dunk glanced towards him and found it strange how easily his squire could read him. They’d barely known each other for a day, and yet the boy behaved as though it had been years since they left that inn towards their final destination. Perhaps he was just that easy to read? Or had a personality so bland that it did not take long to get to know him at all? Both options seemed equally displeasing. 

He settled on replying instead of pondering. “‘s fine, we’d first need to search for a good resting place anyway. We can hardly lie down here and block up the path for everyone else.” The tourney grounds were already bustling with people, swooshing around to do this or finish that. There was tension in the air the knight couldn’t place, though he liked to blame it on the weariness of travel pulling at his bones. He’d need to find the Master of Games quickly to enter the lists, though first he should establish camp. Dunk didn’t know how long his new companion could stand riding on horseback, not to mention that poor Chestnut seemed about ready for a rest. A tree would be a good spot so he could tie his animals to it. Preferably it was also large enough to shield him from rain should it come to that. The sky looked clear now, but life on the roads quickly taught you just how fickle the weather could be whe—--

There were guards stopping him. Tall, broad, wearing yellows with blacks and looking unusually serious in their approaches. It pulled him from his thoughts like water being thrown on a sleeping dog, in ways that only the experience of lowborn Hedge Knights and Fleabottom rats really could. Any sort of brevity or lightheartedness seemed to drain from the air. Between them stood a man, dressed in similar colours but obviously higher in station. A crown of antlers sat atop his head. 

A noble, no doubt. 

A noble that wanted something from him. 

There was not much Ser Arlan taught him about nobles beyond that which every peasant ought to learn. But if there was one thing his old master was always sure about, then it was the fact that it usually wasn’t a good sign when a noble started taking an abnormal interest in you without good reason. 

Dunk jumped off his horse too fast for even his own liking, motioning his newly acquired squire to do the same. The boy obliged, gaze drifting towards the approaching noble as well. He must have thought something was wrong with him, the knight thought, seeing the boy’s mood visibly sour on his face. 

Whatever the issue was, he hoped Egg would be able to hide it well. The last thing they needed to be doing was offending a highborn lord that was already coming towards them far too quickly. 

“Ser Duncan!” The man called out, voice all a mix of laughing and faux teasing. Ser Duncan- that name again, the same one Egg had called him too upon their first meeting. Why or how this strange lord knew it? Dunk didn’t think his squire knew him very well. Nor that he knew his squire much either. “Ser Duncan,” the other repeated once again, “You’re earlier than expected, and yet I cannot help but see that you didn’t come seek me out at all. I had to search the whole grounds for you! You’ve got any idea how much of an issue that was? Don’t tell me that you’re attempting to avoid me? Honestly, if you’re still mad about that whole rebellion business– didn’t you say we should put it behind us!? I got pardoned and all! Not even your little king—”

Early? Rebellion? King?

Dunk cleared his throat and couldn’t help but wince a little at the sense of dejavu that suddenly assaulted him.  “M’lord,” he began, bowing a little and hoping that none would notice that he’d only done so now,  “I am sorry. But I think you must have made a mistake, I- I uhm– I fear I do not know who you are…” 

He could feel something small grasp at his side. One of his hands flew atop Egg’s head on instinct while the boy hid behind him. 

“I am but a hedge knight.” 

The lord looked at the pair like they were the ones confused. A fact that the younger seemed to take as a sign to offer up his own opinions on the matter, “We had no time to visit you yet, Lord Baratheon. My Ser and I still needed to make our own camp.”

Oh.

Oh, so the man was a Baratheon. So he was extra important. And extra bad to have as a possible enemy. 

There was something distinctively sharp in the way he said it, enough to make Dunk squeeze just the slightest amount in a plea to stop talking like that to people above their station with two guards behind them. Not that either of the men seemed particularly surprised or offended at the child’s words.

Or- well. Dunk didn’t think Lord Baratheon was offended, at least. He wasn't exactly the best at reading people, and currently all the others’ faces betrayed was a mix of…something. Maybe shock? Perhaps a bit of consideration? A scheming grin that tugged at his face? He couldn’t say. The other man looked between him and his squire, back to him and then over their whole group as though he needed to reconsider something. Probably that he’d made a mistake, if Dunk had to guess. Logically, something else entirely, seeing how a full and satisfied smile started to settle over his face as he took a deep breath. 

“Well, that’s rather sad!” Lord Baratheon finally sighed out in a dramatic gesture of disappointment. “And here I thought your good Ser Arlan would have mentioned me, seeing the clear deal we had…”

The hedge knight began to splutter.

 “D-Deal, 'm’lord?” 

Lord Baratheon nodded, “Yes! Your old ser and I were friends. He served at Storm’s End for a while; I thought he’d come to greet me together with his squire he mentioned in his letters. And yet here I find you, without a Ser and almost all alone….” 

His ser knew his letters? 

“Ser Arlan never mentioned anything like that!” exclaimed the knight, “I never knew- I’m sorry for any offence, m’lord. My master- he has died on the way here; the weather and sickness didn’t do him well. He knighted me before he died, had I known that you expected him…”

“Mhm, my condolences on Ser Arlan then.” Lord Baratheon waved his hand despite the sad news, almost like he wasn’t even surprised or particularly disturbed by the news for someone who claimed to have exchanged letters. It made Dunk’s stomach twist into knots. He didn’t even know his ser could write, much less that he wrote letters to a lord of all people. A lord who expected them, with whom he must have been close. Just how he had managed to send them, though, without Dunk ever noticing? That remained a mystery he’d have to worry about later. The other man did not seem intent to allow him much time to react to such a sudden revelation. 

Again, the lord sighed. “Well, I suppose there is nothing to be done. Your Ser was meant to join my personal guard after the tourney, you see? A terrible shame for him to die now. But since you are knighted already and his squire, and I did make a promise I intend to keep, what would you say about taking his place?” 

The world screeched to a halt, in no small part due to his own squire screeching himself. 

“NO!” Egg suddenly yelled out, his small voice growing still as he fisted his hands into Dunk’s coat. “You can’t, Ser! That’s– Lord Baratheon he’s– something is off with him, Ser! Don’t trust that stag! There’s no way he’s telling the truth! You can’t become his sworn sword, you can’t! You can’t! There’s just no way—”

The man had half a mind to clout the boy; instead, he simply looked down. “Shut your insolent mouth!” He reprimanded more harshly than he intended it to be, his own hand moving to press the boy further behind him, “Do you wish to get your head lobbed off for insulting a noble!? Have some mind, boy!” 

Egg seemed ready to continue arguing, but was momentarily silenced by the look of panic in the older’s eyes. He turned back towards Lord Baratheon. And because he seemed unable to stop doing so in this whole conversation, he began to ready another apology for him. “Please forgive my squire; he’s young and doesn’t know what he’s saying-”

“I very much do!”

“He does not.”

Lord Baratheon only laughed in response, pearly white teeth glinting unnaturally bright in the sunlight. “It’s quite alright!” He said, “Storm’s End is rather dreary, you see. Not a place many young boys would enjoy. I do, however, insist that you come and be my sword as I promised your Ser.” 

Dunk wondered if he was dreaming. Maybe he had died together with his old master and this was some sort of reward in the seven heavens, if he managed to arrive there. Either way, a lord stood before him to ask if he’d join his household before the tourney even entered and his squire hung from his garb. 

A squire who, for some reason, seemed horrified at the prospect of his sear swearing himself to a lord.

“If your boy dislikes it so,” Lord Baratheon finally offered with a glint in his eyes, “I can always vouch for him so another knight may take him on.” 

Both Egg and Dunk freeze up at the same time. The boy, young and small and fragile, moved to grasp Dunk’s hand in what he thought must be an attempt at begging him not to send him away. An idea quickly given up when the knight spoke up first in his place. “I appreciate the offer, m’lord,” he spoke rather firmly, “but I promised the boy that he could be my squire for the tourney at least. I’m not intent on going back on my word either.”

Egg stared up at him, Dunk could see him from the side of his eye. Then, when he turned his attention back towards the lord, he found him shaking his head in resignation. “I suppose I should have known as much, you and your boy….”

The boy in question stuck out his tongue. The guards behind Lord Baratheon watched the display with a mix of disinterest and boredom, almost like they didn’t think whatever was happening not strange at all. “I shall repeat myself, though; I insist you come into my service!” Lord Baratheon was starting to get rather impatient, Dunk realised. His hands rested on his hips and his feet were getting jumpy to move. “No refusals! I shall take care of your entry in the lists, you and your squire shall dine in my tent and I’ll make sure you’ve got some nice armour. No household knight of mine should lack to such a degree, least of all you. I shall love you like a brother!” 

A hand was grabbing his arm; he barely had the time to notice the lord had grabbed him. “Now, what do you say to that?” 

“STOP TOUCHING MY SER—”

“Or else I’ll throw you into the dungeons for your impertinence.” 

Dunk choked on his own spit at the sudden threat, “Lord Baratheon, I-”

“My guards will take care of your horses, Ser Duncan.” The lord merely laughed, moving to stand beside him. He shoved the squire out of the way and behind them, causing Egg to stumble onto his other side to keep pace. “And please, do call me Lyonel. I have the feeling that the two of us will get on great.”

XXX

By the third time he'd been addressed by ‘Ser Duncan’ instead of his actual name by people who had just met him, Dunk had simply decided to go along with it. The servants and knights at the Baratheon tent were just as keen as everyone else on not using his true name, and he found that he quickly tired of trying to fight what seemed to be the world on the matter. Not to mention that both Egg and Lyonel were inclined to agree on the fact that it sounded leagues better than calling himself ‘Ser Dunk’. Which meant a lot, seeing how the two disagreed on virtually everything else besides. 

It would be funny if it weren’t so strange, if he was honest. Lyonel Baratheon, one of the great houses and a highborn besides, seemed utterly unable to get along with a tiny orphan boy squire. Egg had not stopped grumbling for the whole eve and cried snot and tears to get Dunk to promise not to swear himself for life, but instead only for a few years. A decision his newly minted lord only accepted upon being promised that Dunk would ride in his colours during the tourney. Not that the compromise stopped both sides from continuing to trade blows and thinly veiled insults over every little detail. Sometimes Dunk felt like they were playing a game he had not been let in on- like, for example, when he overheard them arguing over ‘the rebellion your old head started’ or ‘that brute of a boy who broke my daughter’s heart’. He always made sure to quickly overhear those things. Dunk didn’t think Lyonel was actually planning a rebellion, and he wanted no part in whatever his squire and the other had going on between themselves. He would not be able to understand it anyway. He never did. 

So instead he turned his focus towards the future and his current predicament. 

“No, no! Two eggs are more than enough- I really don’t need any more!” The knight desperately tried to make the man understand, flailing with his hands in a manner that probably made him more insane than not. The merchant across him, on the other hand, seemed almost insistent as he pushed what surely must be a full dozen towards him.  

“I don’t have the coin!” He tried to explain next, “I only have enough for two! Please, I do not need more!” 

For some reason, Dunk didn’t think it was the language barrier causing the issue. The man still continued to push the wares towards him, smiling and waving as if to placate him about payment he did not have. Next to him, Tanselle chuckled. “It is a gift, Ser. You won’t need to pay him.”

“It’d be rude to refuse.” Raymun joined in, who had watched the interaction from the sidelines up until now. Dunk had half a mind to glance in their direction if it weren’t for the issues at hand. 

Honestly? Looking back on it, he probably should have just listened to Lyonel. He’d all but begged him to stay and eat with them, offering whatever foods or drink (both of which conveniently happened to be his favourites) just to get his new knight to sit down for a while longer and spend more time with him. It was endearing, almost, if it weren’t for the flush of embarrassment that crept up the young man’s back at it. 

He’d offered him and his squire both a warm bed to rest the night before, gave their horses a warm place to stay and quickly dragged Dunk into ongoing festivities. Fed them well despite Dunk knowing how unbearably large his hunger could be due to his stature, sent them to bathe and allowed him to sit beside him with the nobles during the feast. Egg had been busied with some menial task, and Dunk swore that Lyonel must have talked to his guests and the people in his entourage because everywhere he went, all who met him bowed and laughed and looked at him like he was somehow someone important and grand. A feeling both elating and horribly uncomfortable for someone who was used to the exact opposite. The lord had even gone out of his way to commission him new armour and a shield for the occasion as a gift, which was how he’d ended up meeting Raymun and Tanselle. A Fossoway guest of Lyonel and a puppeteer who’d been hired to paint his shield respectively. The piece hung over his shoulder right now, emboldened with an elm and a shooting star on the backdrop of a sunset. 

Dunk had insisted, of course, that it was too much. Lyonel hadn’t really listened, so instead he decided to go to the market to at least provide for his own break fast. He’d taken Egg with him if it wasn’t for the boy also insisting he stay. It was the second time he’d ever agreed with their brand new lord; regardless, Dunk continued. Even if everyone around him insisted that he was most certainly not overstaying any sort of hospitality and they’d instead be happy to have him enjoy more of it. 

So he went alone to the markets, hoping for a breath of normality in the chaos that was the past few days. He’d met his two companions there by accident, and they tagged along. It would have been nice and peaceful. 

It would have been. 

It should have been. 

Only that it wasn’t. And instead of normality, Dunk quickly found that for some reason the whole market was keen to outdo one another in showing just how friendly they could be towards him. Whether that be the baker woman who’d insisted he take the much fresher and softer bread, the butcher who’d quickly offered him his meat, the maids who blushed prettily and batted their eyes or the merchant who by now was already turning away again to leave his eggs in Dunk’s grasp. His hands so full that he wasn’t even able to reach for his purse, even if the man would refuse to take any coin from him as the others had. 

His two new friends only snickered at his obvious distress. “Say, Duncan,” Raymun asked rather innocently, the nickname rolling off his tongue as though it was well practised already “Have you ever thought of growing out your hair?”

XXX

“He can’t remember,” Egg told his brother with a grim face, “As far as he knows, he’s meeting us for the first time.”

Prince Daeron tilted his head, dazed eyes roaming over the hedge knight’s form as he began to frown. “Ah. That is…unfortunate.”

Dunk felt like puking. 

All around them, countless guards in red-and-black armour stood vigil. A kingsguard was closely behind the prince, his eyes accosting him in equal measure as those of the royal. His squire huffed and crossed his arms, pouting at the older while he spoke. “Yes. Very. Now why are you here?” 

“I wanted to say hello to Ser Duncan.”

“Well, you did. Now go and leave us be.” 

“If you’re still mad about me lying to father about Ser Duncan having kidnapped you,” the elder prince sighed, “then rest assured that I am not going to this time around. Father would have my head; now that they’ve already cut off my wine.” 

If he were a bit smarter, or maybe just a little bit calmer, then Dunk may have asked what exactly they meant by what they were saying. Him not remembering? Lying? Kidnapping? It felt like his squire and Lyonel’s countless arguments all over again. The only difference being that this time, they were held with a man, Daeron Targaryen. And instead of him having stopped them while they were just entering Ashford, he’d instead come to seek them out while they were trying to take supper. With more guards than Lyonel had, just in time for the Baratheons to miss them as if it was planned.

“You’re a prince!?” Dunk blurted out in place of something sensible, looking between his squire and said squire’s brother. He’s never heard of a Prince Egg before…

“It is short for Aegon,” His squire replied as though he knew what Dunk was thinking, “And I’m sorry for lying to you, Ser! I just wanted to make sure you’d take me on; I didn’t want to risk anything.” 

Dunk blinked. “You- What? That’s—-” 

If the past few days felt like a dream to him, this situation felt like a bad joke. Prince Daeron grimaced at them both, greasy blonde hair and sweaty skin shining in the candlelight. The whispers around them in the tent had died down almost as soon as the royal retinue entered, but whatever silence stood in its place now seemed even more oppressive than before. “My deepest apologies, Ser Duncan,” offered the prince, “I would have liked to greet you at the inn, but it seems our Aegon here had decided to lock me in my room, forcing me to miss you. Uncle has sent me to come invite you to meet my- or better, our- family.”

The worst part of this whole mess was that Dunk could not tell if the ‘our’ referred to Prince Daeron and Egg-, or, well Aegon- or if he meant to include him in it too. 

His squire looked at the other like a petulant child. 

“Ser Duncan is very well capable of going on without our family’s interference. Not to mention that he’s taken an oath to Ser Lyonel Baratheon already. So he won’t be free for the foreseeable future at least.” 

“And you let that happen?”

“It’s not like I liked it!” 

By now it became rather obvious that Dunk had no place within the conversation the two were holding, despite the fact that it very obviously should be concerning him. Why a Targaryen prince took such issue with his choices of employment, though, remained a mystery. Which did not even mention the mix of feelings that pooled in his stomach about his squire lying to him. 

The tent’s air felt thick and too light all at once. Egg did not back down a bit, so much so that Dunk thought he looked more like a grown man than the boy he truly was. Perhaps the dragon’s blood that flowed in his veins took charge after all. His squire sneered, “Where’s Aerion? Not causing any more trouble, I hope?” 

Could you joust with words alone? Dunk didn’t know. The official ones hadn’t even begun yet, but the discussion between the two still felt like a fight on an equal level of importance. Prince Daeron shook his head. “He locked himself in his room as soon as everyone awoke and has been sulking since. I fear the memory of his death did not do him any more good than it did us. He took it rather badly, in fact.”

Their what?

“How sad.” The boy at his side stated without any real pity behind it, “Maybe now that he has felt the result of his delusions, he’ll calm down.” 

“You speak like our father.” 

“What are you implying?” 

Prince Daeron’s laugh was a mix of genuine and sarcastic. His lavender eyes glinted in the candlelight, unnatural and beautiful and strange and far too old for his still-young body all at once. Dunk once had heard whispers of how their house was cursed with madness. That the gods flipped a coin whenever a Targaryen was born to determine which path they would go down. He had not paid it much mind then, but now he could not help but wonder if maybe the last part had been incorrect. The whole house, even his squire, talked madly and seemed strange. 

“It is fortunate that some of our men spied Ser Duncan in the markets today,” the older prince deflected the question, “Uncle and father were both rather worried when he failed to approach them for his entry into the lists. Especially Uncle; he had hoped to use the opportunity to make good on the oath Ser Duncan had sworn shortly after the trial.” 

“Have all of us come back?” 

“With the exception of Ser Duncan himself? Yes, everyone. There has been quite a bit of ruckus and planning the two of us missed. A strange twist of fate, is it not?” 

Egg hummed low in his throat; he looked back towards the knight and gazed at him in a way Dunk could not describe. There was fondness, no doubt. Love even. Deep and fierce, as one would love one's own brother or father. But there was also the sadness of mourning that he could not place at all. What could a prince ever have to mourn? And what could a prince even have to mourn over him for?

“We should get going before the stag returns,” Egg finally settled on saying.

Prince Daeron nodded, “I’ll send someone ahead to inform the rest.”

XXX

Dunk was grateful for the fact that he still had half a mind to bow when he entered the solar, distracted and reeling as he was. 

The little room was filled with people. The guards and Kingsguard that had accompanied Prince Daeron (and semi-dragged) him and his squire here filtered into the room with a calm sort of stride, quick to take up their position behind a row of silver-blond heads sitting at a table. The only ones that stood out were an older man with a greying beard and dark hair, his eyes a mismatched pair of brown and lavender and a younger one that sat to his right. His eyes and hair were similar to those of the first man, though a streak of silver adorned his head. Another man of similar age sat to his left; he scowled, unlike the others who looked either neutral or eerily cheerful. The knight had no idea what he preferred, but he could not ruminate on it. Prince Daeron quickly took his place next to the other man.

Embarrassingly enough, it took Egg running forward to greet his uncle with a tearful hug to make the knight realise whom he stood in front of. 

“Ser Duncan!” Prince Baelor, Heir to the Iron Throne, greeted him in a tone that made Dunk feel fuzzy at how warm it was. The knight found it devastating when he noticed the crow's feet crinkled at the side of his eyes as he smiled upon him. The fine chair the prince sat in scraped across the wooden floor as he stood up, quick to make his way towards the younger with a level of grace that could only belong to a future king. A hand was placed against his cheek. “I am glad to see that you are well.” 

“Your Grace!” Dunk squeaked like a maiden, only to feel his ears turn red. All things considered, this was far from the first time he had come face to face with an occurrence so strange. The past days had been filled with them, in fact. And yet he still found himself unsure of how to react or what to think. Part of him would like to ask what was happening and why they did what they did. Another wanted to insist that they must have made some kind of mistake while not even knowing himself what such a mistake could possibly be. But whatever he wanted to voice- the knight found his breath taken by the man in front of him, either out of fear or admiration or both. 

The soul of chivalry, his old Ser Arlan had called him. A king with whom the seven kingdoms would be safe in his hands. 

Dunk found himself gazing into his eyes longer than would have been appropriate. Not that there was anything appropriate present to begin with. 

“Rise, Ser,” Prince Baelor insisted, moving his hand from the side of his face to grip his arm and pull him up instead. “You do not have to kneel before me, not when it is but my family and guards around us. Most certainly not once you’ve become my man as you swore.” 

“L-Like I what?” 

A loud and bone-deep groan emitted from the table Baelor had just risen from. Prince Maekar- Dunk realised, and did not know why the name suddenly shot into his mind- looked as though he’d bitten into an unripe fruit. “Seriously, Baelor? This is what you’re doing!? Can you not imagine any more pressing matters to attend to!? For fuck’s sake!”

“It is important to properly reintroduce ourselves to our knight, brother.” Prince Baelor replied ever serene, “Especially so since he seems to lack the memories everyone else possesses.” 

Memories, that topic again. Dunk did not think that he’d forgotten anything important. Nor did he ever recall any sort of…anything really to explain what these princes and noblemen could possibly ever talk about. Surely he would remember meeting a member of the royal family before, right? He was not that stupid, even if some begged to disagree. 

Whatever kind words of appeasement his brother offered did nothing to soothe Prince Maekar’s temper. “Pah! You want to see your hedge knight bat his eyes at you while you play saviour is all! Need I remind you that we still have a plague and rebellion to worry about?” 

“And here I had thought you happy to see me. I swear I can remember how you cried whe-”

“Do. Not.”

Prince Baelor laughed once more; Dunk thought the scene oddly similar to what he witnessed in the tent between his squire and Prince Daeron. The knight’s legs felt like giving out under him regardless. The heir to the throne looked back towards him from where he had turned his head towards his brother. All smug and certain like he already knew the answer to a question he hadn’t even voiced. 

“My apologies, Ser. It seems my family and I have confused you quite a bit, which was terribly impolite of us. Especially my nephew would like to apologise for lying to you about his parentage. Isn’t that right, Aegon?” 

Aegon- Egg -nodded despite not looking very sorry at all. Dunk swallowed. This was the second time a prince apologised to him today; he still failed to wrap his head around it all. “It’s- uhm– It’s alright, your grace. He’s a good lad, he didn’t mean me no harm.” 

“One need not intend harm to do it.” 

The comment felt more pointed than it should have been. 

Feeling the drop in the atmosphere, Prince Baelor quickly returned to his pleasant though no less real smile. “I have heard tales of you having sworn yourself to House Baratheon shortly after arriving in Ashford; is that true, Ser?” 

“Ah- Y- Yes, your Grace. Lyonel- I mean Lord Baratheon ended up meeting us when we had just arrived. He insisted I come into his service and wouldn’t take no for an answer since my old Ser was one of his friends. He should have joined his guard originally; I merely took his place and have been with the Baratheons since.” 

He didn’t know what in the prince’s gaze made him feel the need to explain himself like a criminal accused of a crime. There was nothing wrong with a hedge knight offering his services to a liege, nor was it strange for one to take a sworn sword. Dunk had not made an oath to another despite what the people across from him seemed to imply. Lyonel was not such a bad man either to swear yourself to, kind as he was. 

And still he felt like he was somehow…betraying something. 

Prince Baelor closed his eyes as if he needed to reconsider something. Faintly he could hear Egg complain to all who may listen of ‘that damned stag and his tricks’

“That is alright. I shall have a talk with your liege, then, and see to it that he releases you from your oaths.” 

Dunk flinched as though a bucket of cold water was splashed on him. “B-But your grace! I- I promise, I have been nothing but loyal! Whatever misdeed I may have done, I assure you that it was nothing but an accident! I did not mean to offend you or—” 

“At peace, Ser.” The prince cut him off, “I do not seek you released from your vows to punish you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You see, I’d like for you to join my own personal guard.”

Dunk blinked. “Your personal guard, my prince?”

“All shall be explained to you in good time, Ser Duncan. The realm needs good men like you just how I need them.” 

Any reply the knight could ever want to muster was quickly cut off by the door to the solar swinging open in a harsh motion. “yOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF MY MAN, YOU HEAR ME, BREAKSPEAR!?”

“LYONEL!?” Dunk shrieked out in surprise, mind racing as the Baratheon quickly pushed his way into the room. Before he even knew it, the giant had been pulled behind him in a protective formation, squeezed between the guards that had flanked the man seconds ago and Lyonel himself, who now stood facing down the prince himself. “I didn’t want to believe my servants when they came running to inform me that someone had stolen away my knight during my absence,” the man huffed, “only to see that such was the case after all. How unbecoming of you, your grace,”

If Prince Baelor was unhappy with this turn of events, he did not let it show on his face. Instead motioning for the Kingsguard to stand down from where they had placed their hands on the hilts of their swords. 

“Some may consider it polite to knock, Lord Baratheon. I was conversing with Ser Duncan.” The older man commented, pleasant tone suddenly replaced by something equally as sharp as it was steely. Lyonel did not care for whatever intimidation his prince attempted to enact, however, as he continued to stand his ground. “And others may consider it polite to not try and attempt to seduce away a knight that is taken already.” 

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“The septons say lying is a sin.” 

Dunk wanted to leave. Dunk wanted to leave and dive into a hole never to be found again. He wanted to saddle his horses and ride away over the Red Mountains, sail off towards Essos or maybe even flee North to send himself to the Wall. He wanted to lie in the dirt under an elm tree next to a fire, praying that no storm would come. Feel the breeze of cold air and smell the scent of grass and grime and earth and forest that always penetrated his clothes. Eat salt beef and stale bread and whatever else he managed to gather together for food that day. 

He wanted to be anywhere, anyplace, anytime that wasn’t this current moment. Stuck in a solar between men while people fought and talked crazy and no one ever bothered to tell him anything. 

“Ser Duncan has sworn himself to House Targaryen,” countered Prince Maekar, quick to join his brother’s side as he stood face to face with the new arrival. “Ignoring you bursting in, it is only right for him to return to us. If anyone is a seducer here, then that would be you.” 

Lynole laughed like he’d been told a particularly unfunny joke. “In the past he may have been. But as far as this time is concerned? He has sworn himself to no one but me- and for the better too, if I may add. Or has your little king not told you what happened the last time he stayed in your service?” 

“That was an accident!” Egg squaked from the back, “A-And I’m sure he’d forgive me! I’ll never even try it again!” 

“Please, you haven’t even told him yet! Or should I do so for you? C’mon, Ser Duncan, would you like to know what will happen at Summerhall should you stay-” 

“ENOUGH!”

All eyes turned back towards Prince Baelor, and Dunk found himself realising that hearing him yell was perhaps the most unnatural thing he had ever heard. “Lord Baratheon, I understand where you are coming from. But I assure you that my family and I will take the utmost care of him. I am choosing to overlook your disrespect and the unnecessary escalation you have brought to this room, so if you could just leave and let us continue as we planned—”

“Ser Duncan is my man this time around, your Grace. I do not intend to release him from my vows anytime soon. He. Is. My. Man.”

The prince looked at him calmly. 

“Then I demand a trial by combat. For stealing what rightfully belongs to House Targaryen, a duel for the services of Ser Duncan the Tall.”

The room felt silent in shock or surprise or both.

This time it was Prince Maekar’s turn to yell. “NO! No, you are not fighting another trial. We are not risking a repeat of last time. If anything, I will fight in your stead, so we can get this mess over with fast and Ser Duncan may return to where he belongs.” 

“Oh- Oh you wanna have it that way!? Fine old man!I accept! If you wish to play with your dirty tricks!”

“Try me! As if you were any younger!” 

Lyonel’s nostrils flared. “We shall see who the gods favour then! Tomorrow at dawn, the winner shall keep our knight. Prepare yourself, Targaryen.” 

“As should you, Baratheon.”

The stories of Targaryen madness were wrong, Dunk thought as he watched the men continue their argument; Those nobles? They’re all equally insane. No matter what blood flowed through their veins.

XXX

Maekar was already down on the field, his armour heavy and clanking as he yelled this or that to whatever poor squire had been assigned to him for this trial. Lyonel Baratheon, his opponent, stood on the other side of the pitch. The sky above them was filled with clouds not too dissimilar from those during the day of the trial. None truly feared any rain, though. 

Aegon was off trying to find his Ser; Daeron sat next to him alongside Valarr. Aerion was still locked in his room, refusing to come out. 

It left Baelor to sit in relative silence, or at least without any conversation he needed to partake in, giving him the rare opportunity to simply think for the sake of it.

Looking back, Baelor had been forced to discover that dying was perhaps one of the less comfortable things in life. 

Dying to your brother’s mace that created a not insignificant hole in the back of your head was even more uncomfortable.Though he didn’t have much to compare it to, if he was being fair. Still, it was an odd thing. Feeling your fingers turn wooden as the adrenaline slowly wore off, your mind clouding with what you assumed was simple fatigue, your breath growing more and more shallow with each gulp of air only to stop entirely…. 

He always knew he’d need to die eventually. Baelor had hoped he’d been good enough to make it into the seven heavens or at the very least to not end up condemned to one of the seven hells the maesters taught them about. And as he had lain dying in Ser Duncan’s arms, all he could think of was that he didn’t even go to confess his sins as any good prince should before his life ended.

Only Baelor didn’t die. Not truly at least. Because when he opened his eyes once more against all odds, he did not see The Stranger or the heavens or anything else that was grand enough to account for an afterlife, but instead the tent he used as temporary quarters while travelling. His head hale and whole when he touched it, his body lacking any sign of the fight he’d found himself in, and Maekar bursting through the flaps made into a door. Tear-streaked and frantic in ways he had not seen his brother since the death of his lady wife Dyanna.

That’s how he found out that no- his death at the younger’s hands was not the particularly vivid nightmare he had assumed it to be. Not only that, but Maekar had also returned after his own death some odd twenty-four years after his own. Slain during another uprising of House Peaken, leaving behind Aegon as his last surviving child. 

Valarr was the one who brought him the news of the Great Spring sickness. 

Aerion those of his own death. 

The Kingsguard those of the second and third Blackfyre rebellions. 

More and more people had come to pile into his tent. Servants, guards, knights; it seemed that everyone who even had the slightest bit of involvement with the tourney at Ashford had returned. All after having lived a life and died, all waking up back in the exact same moment alongside their future king and current prince. Some who found their end tragically, others who found it peacefully, most who were confused and scared alike in bodies that were foreignly young to them. 

That’s how most of his first day back to life was spent trying to organise the chaos he’d walked into. Comforting his family and trying to calm down the people in his entourage. Talking with Maekar and asking ‘What do you mean there are two more Blackfyre rebellions?’, only to be informed by a young servant girl who had grown into an old crone that there were, in fact, three more Blackfyre rebellions and one war with their involvement. It meant four more conflicts total, though luckily all defeated, to ravage the land and cause strife. The next one would start in little more than three years, though easily put down by his uncle Bloodraven’s ability. 

A lesser man would have lost his wits in panic. But Baelor was a prince, and Baelor would one day be a king, and Baelor could not afford to be a lesser man. So he planned, and he talked, and he figured out a way and a plan that seemed proper and right. 

Aegon and Daeron were both missing still, but Maekar told him of the life his youngest nephew would await. That Ser Duncan would take him in and travel with the boy, faithful and kind and ever steadfast as he partook in the fight against the pretenders wishing to usurp the house. The serving girl informed them that he’d become a Kingsguard one day, Lord Commander serving his former squire, giving his life to save his king during a Tragedy at Summerhall none of them had lived to see themselves. 

It made Baelor’s heart swell. Not the death, of course, never the death. But the thought of big, strong Ser Duncan the Tall whom he had chosen to defend, proving him right. Becoming what his nephew needed and the realm sought for, bleeding and hurting for them and their family over and over and over again. So much so that not even Maekar, who had always looked down upon the knight for the few days he’d known him at Ashford, stood by his brother to admit that he’d been wrong. That Duncan was a good man worthy of their support. 

They’d settled for waiting, then.

Preventing the Great Spring Sickness, taking care of Blackfyre leftovers, worrying for the future of their children- almost everything they had to do could only be done after the tourney. Should all go as it did the last time, Ser Duncan was set to meet them shortly after their arrival to Ashford Castle. Hopefully also remembering his own future life, though still easily wearable to their house should such not be the case. Some part of Baelor was almost giddy at the prospect of meeting the hedge knight again, and wondered how the years spent as an adult and Lord Commander had changed him. Excited to see what his reactions may be when he’d make him kneel and swear his oath to Baelor himself right then and there in the solar. Would he be shy? Anxious? Maekar said his death haunted the poor knight, so Baelor would surely have to soothe him a little first. Hold his head and praise him before draping the man in the colours of their house. Telling him to go fetch his nephew, Duncan’s squire, and join them during the tourney and at his side where he always belonged from the start. 

Baelor was a patient man. His imagination was more than enough to keep him in high spirits. 

They continued their journey as planned. 

They talked as was proper.

They rode into Ashford Meadow. 

They greeted Lord Ashford, who quickly revealed himself to be of a similar predicament as they themselves were alongside the rest of the tourney attendees. 

They did as was expected of them. 

Ser Duncan did not come. 

The solar where Baelor waited for him to seek them out remained empty; the elm tree where he made his camp the last time was barren. Aerion said that he did not meet the giant like he had the last time, to mistake him for a stable boy. Their Kingsguard had not crossed paths with him as they should have either. It was as if the hedge knight had vanished. The only reason none had ridden out to search for the missing knight (and by extension, the now also missing prince) was Daeron finally catching up to them. Apparently Aegon had decided to lock his older brother in his room in order to seek out his Ser on his own. He’d have accompanied the pair here otherwise, Baelor’s nephew promised. But Aegon seemed scared and sceptical and thought it better not to risk Dunk rejecting him by changing too much of the past. By the time Daeron finally managed to free himself from his room at the inn, Aegon had already vanished with whom witnesses described as a ‘giant hulking man’ taking him along. A point at which the prince had decided to swiftly ride towards his family on his own. 

Maekar had been furious enough to order him forbidden from drinking any wine. 

Baelor was mostly disappointed. 

It took another day for them to finally find their hedge knight. Spied amongst the commoner market alongside the Fossoway cousin who fought for him during the trial and the pupetter he defended against Aerion. Daeron was sent to collect them as the universe finally seemed like it was ready to return to its normal course of action. 

The gods were cruel when they decreed that Ser Duncan would be the only one not to remember his past. They were even more cruel when they deigned to give Lyonel Baratheon the opportunity to take advantage of the sad fact and make the knight swear himself to him first. Knowing, logically, that Ser Duncan the Tall was always meant to belong to the dragons over the stag. 

Maekar called it an underhanded trick. The only reason why it worked was that their knight had yet to meet them in the first place, thus not knowing any better when he’d been talked into straying from the path that was surely destined for him. 

…..Baelor hadn’t intended for the matter to be resolved so violently, however. Truly! When Daeron brought him in, and the prince had seen him kneel and stutter and be obviously out of his depths, he had expected for it to pass peacefully. For the Baratheon to see reason and to give Ser Duncan back to them without much fuss, apologising for the accident and assuring that it would never happen again. He’d get his knight, Baelor thought, already falling in love with the idea of innocent, cute Duncan who had no idea why his crown prince was so kind to him. Who still stuttered, only to grow as devoted as he was before, dressed out in armour he commissioned for him instead of the flimsy pieces the Baratheon stag fashioned, fitting for the man. 

He did not expect Lord Baratheon to be so insistent and angry at his attempts. Forcing another noble to release a sworn sword from their service so you may take them as your own was unheard of and legally impossible. Demanding a trial by combat over said man stealing what was rightfully yours was considerably less so. 

Was it smart to demand it on such quick notice? No. 

Was it polite? Also no. 

His brother was most certainly not amused over it, at least. Though his issue may have lain more with the fact that Baelor wished to enter another trial by combat more so than that he had declared one in the first place. Poor Ser Duncan looked ashen as he watched the whole exchange go down. What a horrible first impression his family must make on the man, Baelor thought. It was a great shame, albeit a necessary evil, that this was how it had gone. Nevertheless, what was the prince to do? He was certain that his brother could win the services of their knight back in no time; they’d have enough space to make up for this little…accident as soon as they returned to Kingslanding. 

Lord Ashford was happy to provide them his facilities. There was a discussion about where Ser Duncan should spend the night, disputed as he was. One could not simply leave him to return to the Baratheon tent lest they fear the stag getting any ideas. Keeping him within the Targaryen pavilion would look biased and too much like simple snatching, however. Not to mention that the yellow and black clothes stung Baelor’s eyes where they should have been red and black.

The hedge knight tried to protest when they settled on keeping him within the castle for the time being, with Lord Ashford providing both more neutral clothes and grounds to compromise on. He’d asked and begged and nearly screamed about whether or not he had a choice. ‘What right do you have to decide who I serve!?’ or ‘What are you talking about? I do not understand!’. Baelor wondered if he would believe him should he tell him of the future they came from and the life he should have had. Only to conclude that wretchetly, Ser Duncan would not. 

Or at least not yet. 

Not while he thought them mad, not while he was supposed to watch the trial for his service alongside Baelor from the stands. Not while the place that was his was as empty as the solar during those first few hours of arriving in Ashford. Not while the curious onlookers watched a mystery knight enter the battlefield on a hauntingly familiar steed to pull off his helmet.

Baelor should have expected it, honestly. His knight was always as fierce as he was good. He knew to separate justice from injustice. His hand protected the former the same way they punished the latter: with wild vigour and boundless determination. The last time he had watched him do so in the defence of a poor puppeteer suffering at the hands of his nephew. Now it seemed he was trying to do the same, defending an innocent man from what he perceived to be the arbitrary rule by the nobility. 

Maekar was yelling something in the background as the crowd cheered louder. Baelor had to do his best not to chuckle at his own stupidity. Of course! Of course! Nothing ever went smoothly in these lands. He should have bothered to explain more, to tell the other his reasons and his positions when he noticed his confusion swinging into exasperation into slight anger at being talked over. Even someone as kind as him could only take so much. Especially from what to him were a group of strangers pulling him in this or that direction without allowing any real input from his side.

“My name is Ser Duncan the Tall,” His mystery knight announced, armour gleaming in the morning sun as he rode onto the field. He recognised the look from his trial; whatever smith he bought it from originally must have given it to him this time around. Probably so he could avoid the kit Baratheon gave him. “And I have come to compete for my own services!”

XXX