Chapter Text
The feeling of flames on skin was excruciating.
Dunk knew that much. Many times in his long life has his thickheaded-ness made him question things others would not. This, however, this was a fact. One made painfully clear. As clear as the few pockets of sky he could make out from the caved in ceiling he laid defeatedly under. To his left was his king, a charred husk he was doing his best not to look towards. Somewhere to his right was Prince Duncan; the boy’s unmoving body trapped under a wooden beam. When the king made a remark about the missing son, Dunk had run back inside to find him, ordering his men to watch the rest of the family by the lakeside. He’d been too late. And by the time he realized that, another rumble had shaken the castle, causing something to go and break itself over his head. He remembered how his vision had gone black for a moment, and he’d gone cold, as if the flames had been snuffed. Then, the roaring heat had returned, and he’d been stuck on the floor, blinking dumbly amidst a sea of orange and yellow. He couldn’t move. He was forced to listen and watch as his king stumbled around, calling for him and the prince. He remembers the anger he’d felt towards the incompetence of the guards who’d only been given the simple task of not letting the family back near the sight.
Aegon. His king. Egg. His former squire. He hadn’t lasted long. Dunk didn’t know if it were the smoke or the heat that’d gotten to him, but just when the boy—man made it to them, he’d collapsed. His last motion had been to reach for Dunk. A soot-stained hand rested itself on his gauntlet one last time, and Dunk, oh how he’d wanted to squeeze that hand back; he did, but his fingers; they’d felt like wood.
Was this how Prince Baelor had felt? This numbing sensation of the limbs? Whatever had hit him must’ve caved his helmet too. Dunk didn’t know whether it was stone or wood. Just that he’d gone down when the thing hit him. A blow to the head was a blow to the head whether it came from a clout to the ear or the swing of a mace. One obviously more destined to hurt than the other though. The only positive thing to come from said blow was that he could feel his armor and skin becoming one no more.
He needed to get up. He needed to haul the king over one shoulder and the prince over the other. Yet, no matter how much he willed, how much he prayed, he couldn’t. His body, his big, stupid body wouldn’t. The thing had never failed him before! At least, had never failed him in ways other than the mind or aging. He craned his neck, ignoring the screaming of his muscles to look over himself. Was this truly all a lost cause? Had he failed to do the one thing ordained of him since he joined the Kingsguard: Protect the king? He let his head fall back with a thump. A mistake as it rattled his head further. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Damn it. Damn it all! If he could go back to whoever proposed this stupid dragon egg idea, he’d give them a clout on the ear so hard their entire body would turn wooden!
...
Was it cooler in the room or was it just him?
He took a moment to listen, truly listen. In the distance, he could hear bustling townsfolk. Carts, horses, and humans; wheels, the clopping of hooves, jubilant laughter and drunken shouts. It was familiar. It was a symphony Ser Duncan the Tall was quite familiar with. Whether it be from the many villages he’s visited ranging from big to small, to the tourneys he’s followed and joined, to the cities he’s wandered both by his lonesome and with his squire. Had he been pulled from the inferno of Summerhall? But if he was being tended to by a maester, as he should’ve been, the only noises he’d hear were the sounds of crickets and grass rustling. They couldn’t have transported him far. Dunk knew his limits. Without immediate treatment, he’d die. If not that, he’d want to die if his body were about as useful as a wet branch after this whole thing was over.
He cracked open an eye. Instead of clear or deep blue skies like he expected, he was looking down towards stone.
...Huh.
How was he standing? His eyes drifted to his toes, giving them a squirm. They didn’t feel like wood anymore. As great as that was it still didn’t explain why he wasn’t in a forest. Had he walked in his sleep to a nearby lord’s castle? He hadn’t thought there were any nearby aside from Summerhall. Although, he also hadn’t thought himself a noctambulus before this moment either. Was that the correct term? Dunk’s mind turned that piece over for a brief moment before giving a small shrug. It wasn’t worth thinking about. Not when he was sure the leather of his boots had fused to his heels in the fire. It was strange how they appeared unmarred—Ah wait. There was a burn crawling around and stretching over the skin of his calf. Even then, the maesters had still done good work. Great work even! He observed the rest of his body. There were burns, many large and ugly, warping already scarred skin, but fully healed nonetheless. And look at that, they even got rid of his spots! He’d gained them on his limbs as he aged, dotting his skin, along with the sagging wrinkles which were fixed as well, and the ache in his knee was also not aching perpetually anymore! Such miracle workers! He couldn’t recall any maesters of this skill. He was sure he’d have heard of them before. His hands moved to his face, feeling the absences of the many creases that marked him in his older age. A hand moved up to then pull a strand of hair down. It was straw-colored. When had his hair last been the color of straw? Incredible. Perhaps someone had unlocked a gift for the higher mysteries? One of healing? He’d commend them when he saw them again! He would have to. He’d then do everything in his power to make sure they were sworn to the crown. His king could be alive if they’d gotten to him first, which they should’ve. As for Little-Duncan, he should’ve been the second priority at the very least. However, if Dunk was being honest, the boy had looked too far gone for any healing to do him good. He frowned. The thought of Little Duncan being hurt didn’t bring good thoughts. He needed to get back to the royal family and he needed to do it now. He needed to be assured of their safety! For now though... His eyes trailed down to the sight dangling between his legs.
He stared at his prick.
It limply stared back.
When he finally registered his bareness, he yelped, hands flying to cover the area as his head quickly whipped around the corridor he stood in. That motion had been accompanied by a second yelp when he’d straightened to his full height and bumped his noggin against a lower part of the corridor's ceiling. One hand almost reached up to clutch at the stinging area before remembering where that hand had previously been. For now though, he would like to see himself covered. Really, it one grievance after the other. First, he nearly becomes a cripple, then he nightwalks to a poor lord’s castle, and now he knows he did it whilst naked as a babe! He held back a huff of frustration as he looked around to hopefully find a remedy to his problem. It came in the form of a tapestry. The coat of arms woven in white and orange was vaguely familiar, but not enough for Dunk to think twice about using it to protect his modesty. He quickly tore it down and wrapped it around his waist, securing it with a knot. He let out a sigh of relief.
Turning back to the hall, he was startled when something caught his eye. It was a sword, leaning against a wall. It sat in its scabbard almost innocently. Was that...? He leaned down slightly, examining the familiar hilt. Yes, he’d recognize that crest anywhere. This was Ser Arlan’s sword! He hadn’t been wearing it during the fire though. How was it here? He picked it up, turning it over in his hands before his hand wrapped around the hilt. He pulled it to reveal a slither of the blade. He was half-tempted to press his thumb to the metal to get a feel for the blade’s sharpness, but even Dunk knew that’d be a poor idea. This was a sword he’d sharpened and scoured of rust more times than he could even count before he even turned two tens. He was sure of it’s sharpness.
He let the blade slide fully back into its scabbard. How had he not noticed it earlier? He’d been facing that direction for Seven’s sakes when he’d noticed his lack of modesty! Was the mysterious maester who healed him not versed with helping the mind? He would’ve appreciated it. Even if they cured him of most of the ails brought on by his advanced age, he’d rather not still turn senile! Maybe he should ask when he gets back.
Dunk clutched the sword he carried. He’d worry about his future senility later. For now, he just needed to find a way out of this castle and back to wherever the royal family was. He needed to make sure they were safe. After his men somehow let Aegon slip through, he was suddenly rethinking their competence. He’d make them wish they were dead during drills! It’s not like he could have walked that far anyways, not if he got to this castle on foot. That is, unless he nightwalked his way onto the back of a lamb cart and stowed away until he got here. In all likeliness, he could probably just follow the rising smoke leaking into the skyline.
That meant he should likely find his way up the castle rather than out. He hoped it’d be easy. These places were like mazes, almost they were designed to trick and trap whatever poor unfortunate soul happened to wander into the wrong place. It’d happened in every single castle, manor, compound, palace, and whatever else he’d stepped into during his many years. For each one, he’d had to take a slightly longer time than most to learn his way around. Honestly, if all else failed, he’d find just the nearest exit or terrace and climb the way up instead. The only problem with that would be figuring out how to tie his makeshift kilt into a loincloth so no one would glean his modesty from below. He paused his steps and looked down at the patterned fabric. How exactly would that work? Well, he’d have to find out later if it came to it, he supposed. He slowly resumed his walking, still staring at the cloth around his waist. He could probably— “Why’re you naked??” Imagine his surprise when he looked up at the sound of those words and saw two deadmen turn the corner his way up ahead.
An extremely confused Prince Maekar and, Dunk couldn’t decipher that expression, Prince Baelor.
And just like that, all the breath had been stolen from Dunk’s lungs.
“Ser Duncan, was it?” Prince Baelor stepped forward, bringing Dunk back to the presence. His eyes swept over him before landing on his kilt.
It took a moment for Dunk to scrounge up an answer. “...Yes.” Lord, he even sounds younger now. So it wasn’t because of a healer, it was because he was dead. He’d died in the fire.
He ran a tongue over his teeth. Damn it. He thought he had at least a few more of his sixty years. A shame. Who would take his place? The Hightower lad? He liked the man, he’d do.
“...er Duncan. Ser Duncan?” Ah. Prince Baelor was speaking again. “We saw you a mere hour ago... what happened?” He gestured to Dunk. The knight found his eyes flickering to Prince Maekar. The man’s eyes were studying his burns. He looked deep in thought. Dunk’s eyes moved back to Prince Baelor.
“You mean how I got here—” What was that look they shared? “—or why I’m naked?” Dunk found himself asking.
“The second one, dizzard.” Prince Maekar answered before his brother could as he finally stopped studying the burns spread over Dunk’s skin. What’s a dizzard? Judging by the way Prince Baelor squeezed his brother’s shoulder, not something good. Also, one would’ve thought they’d be more curious about his death. Or potential deaths of the other royal family members. Then again, they both might not know. Little Duncan might be in the better place compared to Dunk. As for his king, he was still unclear on the man’s status.
He was standing like a speechless oaf again. He needed to answer. “They got burned off me, Sers.” Should he be using formalities? Dead men have no use for them, do they?
A small silence passed over. Were they waiting for him to continue? He couldn’t tell.
Eventually, Prince Maekar decided to speak up, “By what??” The prince and his brother both looked confused.
“Fire?”
“No shit—What fire?” Dunk wanted to sigh at the nostalgia. When was the last time he’d heard Prince Maekar’s curses towards him or his King? As for the man’s question, should he tell the truth? Maybe not. He didn’t want to work the other two into a second grave. Hmm... what to tell them though. His eyes wandered around the hall before it landed on an unlit brazier.
“I tripped and caught fire on a wall torch.” He supplied. He was sure he was a much better liar now than he was when his body last used to look like this. The trick was simply to school his expression. His king had often times said that the expression scared the children. Alas, the two princes in front of him thankfully weren't of that age range.
Another bout of silence passed. Dunk was wondering why these kept happening.
He was getting more looks from the pair. Prince Maekar’s thumb smoothed down a bit of the hair above his lip. “That actually makes sense. You take up most of the hall.” That earned an elbow from Prince Baelor.
Dunk couldn’t tell if he missed the former king’s barbs and insults. On one hand, they were quite rude. On the other hand... Well actually no, they were just mean. But with nothing but a tapestry covering his bits, he had more important things on his mind. “Sers, you wouldn't happen to be able to point me in the direction of some clothes, would you?”
“I don't think there’s anything that could fit you aside from that dirty rag you came to us in—” Prince Maekar was elbowed once more by his brother, Prince Baelor to going even further and interrupting him.
“I have the perfect thing!” The man looked excited? Eager? Dunk was struggling to tell why.
——
Dunk stared down at the clothes he now wore. Black fabric of mysteriously nice quality with small accents of red here and there wrapped around his form. He would’ve been fine with some servant rags, not whatever this was. Not that he was complaining. It was just unexpected. How did they even have his measurements—ah no, this was the afterlife. Why would the afterlife follow the rules of his old world? In this case being that Dunk had been such a big lad that Ser Arlan had to pay additional coin for the quantity of fabric needed to outfit him. He remembers how the old man had grumbled on and on about the seamstress being a swindler. He hadn’t let the incident go until they’d made it to the next town over. Even the boots fit! They never did! And that was good because he didn’t think he had a single coin on him. Did they even use coins in the hells?
No matter. He’d find out when he started exploring this place. And when he found some other clothes, he’d return these.
Dunk stepped over to the door, only to pause at the sound of faint chatter behind it. It was the princes. Dunk didn’t want to eavesdrop, but, well, a man of his size didn't get to often. “Why are you humoring a lowly hedge knight?” That was Prince Maekar. Dunk had wondered the same whenever his mind drifted back to Prince Baelor over the years.
After a moment, Prince Baelor responded, “If I’m being truly honest, I don’t know. But I could see a man like that becoming the champion. That is if Aerion doesn’t fell him.” Dunk smiled at that. It was nice to get at least part of a reason now. The man saw that he could’ve been a champion. However, why was Prince Maekar talking as if they didn’t know him? The same goes for Prince Baelor. Why were they both acting as if they didn’t know him? It’s only been twenty and six years since Prince Maekar died as a king. It’s not like they never interacted before that time! As for Prince Baelor, perhaps it was the headwound. Dunk assumed it’d be difficult to forget someone you died for.
All of this was so strange. Why wouldn’t they know him? That question and other variations of it rang through his mind. His eyes left the door, the chatter fading to a dull hum at the back of his thick skull. They stopped on the tapestry from earlier. It was draped over a chair in the small room they’d lead him to so he could change. A white sun and chevron on orange... He tried desperately to recall the house this belonged to. If he could remember, it might bring light to this situation—whatever it was! He picked up the fabric, searching for the answer in his mind. Dunk wasn’t the smartest man, he knows, but even the dumbest man can put two things together! No matter the fact he were as thick-headed as a castle wall!
Think Dunk, think. Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar, both younger, both deadmen walking. If this were the afterlife and Dunk really were in one of the hells, they of all people wouldn’t be here! They were both too noble. So, they weren’t in one of the hells then? Dunk briefly remembers hearing septons preach their sermons. He wasn’t being tortured right now for not repenting for whatever sins he did. So did that mean he wasn’t dead? But he still has the marks from the fire. If he hadn’t been healed by someone who unlocked their magicks, he either would’ve died or become a cripple. Which means that this probably isn’t one of the seven heavens or hells. But then where was he? A memory? He never remembered Prince Baelor or Former King Maekar lending him clothes after he found himself naked. He was sure he’d remember something like that. The shame would’ve made him want to hide away from the rest of the tourney until his squire had inevitably bothered him for food or ale.
Ah. He was back the Ashford Tourney.
He was back at the Ashford Tourney?!