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Back when Dunk had been but a boy, small and frail and wandering the streets of Fleabottom clutching Rafe’s hand, he’d oftentimes dreamt of having a family. He had a mother and a father, a loving home, an elder brother who played with him and a younger brother who was but a babe in his cradle. There was always food on the table- which may have been his most favorite part of the fantasy, looking back -and he slept on a soft down bed. His toys were made of smooth wood and cloth; his clothes were soft and warm. His father would hold him in his arms while his mother sang to him, and deep down Dunk would have known that he was safe.
Rafe had called it a childish delusion he wasted to much time on. It was bad enough already that he believed his mother would ever return for him, the girl used to tell him, don’t make it worse by imagining some sort of fairytale life you’ll never get. Dunk knew that she was right, deep down. Yet he could not help it at all.
Only then had Rafe died. Throat slit open by a bunch of gold cloaks for the mere crime of trying to survive. They’d nearly have had his life too if it weren’t for his Ser coming to save him; the scar on his leg could attest to that. For some reason he was still alive while she had been taken by the Stranger; that mystery alone had overshadowed any dreams of some far away family in his mind. So much so that as he grew up he rarely ever thought about the matter at all.
Today, it was brought back to the forefront of his reality in the most unpleasant way.
Apparently it had been the maester whom Lyonel brought to treat his wounds. He’d recognised some unique birthmark he had on his torso when he attempted to treat his wounds, and without telling him or even his own liege, he’d run straight to the castle to inform the few Targaryens that remained alive in Ashford of what he had found.
A prince, that’s what they claimed him to be. Daekar Targaryen, secondborn son of Prince Maekar and Lady Dyanna, who was stolen from his bed by some misled assassin who had originally intended to take Baelor’s son Valarr while the small family was visiting the Red Keep. He’d heard the tales and speculations aplenty. Despite the fact that the evildoer had been caught and questioned under every kind of duress known to the crown, he’d never told them what he had done with the boy exactly. Not even whether he had been alive or not. Or so Dunk had been told when he was ushered into the small solar and made to strip bare in front of the man who was his supposed sire, all so they may inspect the proof of his identity the maester claimed to have found.
They must have found what they were looking for. As soon as the prince had seen it, he broke down in nothing short of tears. Emotions previously hidden burst to the surface in quiet, mournful my boys.
The first thing Dunk thought was that Prince Maekar, for all their differences and all that has happened, looked painfully small. His form wrecked with grief and relief both, desperate as he clung to the rope quickly thrown upon the knight’s shoulders and flinching back when he heard the pained groan he tore from Dunk’s chest upon touching his countless injuries wrong.
The second thing Dunk thought about was that he had not clutched so differently at Baelor’s wounds. Hit by Prince Maekar’s mace in a trial during which he supported the side of the man who had hurt Tanselle. Who had killed an innocent horse out of cruelty. Who had tormented Egg for near all his life. Who had dragged thirteen men into a battle that should have been his own to fight.
The third thing Dunk thought was that something about this situation was wrong.
“My prince,” The knight tried to say, trying his best to move his hands to hold onto the arms of Prince Maekar. “I understand that this must be very difficult for you; I am sorry for what has been done to your family.”
But the prince only shook his head. “My boy,” he repeated, “my son, my own blood. By the Seven- how could I- how could I not have known? When you look just like your mother… how could I have been…my boy–”
There was guilt there, he realised. Prince Maekar was feeling guilty. He saw it in the way his eyes looked upon his broken form, the shoddy bandages and the simple crutch he managed to obtain to help with the countless blemishes he’d received during the trial. He would take it all back if he could, Dunk understood. Would undo all that happened, for his brother and for me. He hates himself, dare he say, for what has happened. For harming his own blood, the babe he’d been robbed of and who was returned only to die at his father’s mace. Doomed to be a kinslayer one way or another as the day went on.
He felt bad for what happened; somehow that made it worse and better for Dunk at the same time. Prince Maekar regretted his action.
Only for his blood, though. For Baelor and now for him, not for those peasants he let Aerion lose upon. Not for a girl’s broken finger or a child’s desperate fears. Not for justice violated or love gained. Not even for the simple act of accusing someone innocent.
“My prince,” Dunk spoke, “I understand that you love your sons. You can not be blamed for that. But any love you claim to hold for me- any affection you may show me now - you and I both know it was born of nothing more than a feeling of obligation. I do not wish to simply be loved on account of my blood, and neither should you love me simply because you think me your son.”
Prince Maekar looked at him with grief and anger and confusion. It broke his heart when it should have steeled it; still he pressed on. “You would have seen me dead not even a day ago. Had I remained a simple hedge knight, you would not have truly cared for what happened to me. Just as you have never truly cared for what happened to anyone else at my station. I wish to be a good knight, Your Grace. I ought to serve someone I can trust. And you ought to love your family for who they are instead of whose loins they come from. Even if I am your blood, I am not your child, my prince. And you are not my father, even though we may have been family in a kinder world. Just forget this, and mourn your boy in peace. Care for the children whom you know to love truly. It would be best for us all.”