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The message of the death of his father and three elder brothers reached Winterfell together with their bones and the family sword, Ice. The few of their men who had returned to carry the news had bowed upon seeing him. Lord of Winterfell, they’d heralded him. Warden of the North, only male heir of the late Lord Stark. They had sworn their loyalty on the spot.
Dunk had been six-and-ten, he’d last seen his father and brothers when they left for battle when he was three-and-ten. Their last letter, penned months before the fighting concluded, only arrived a week before their bodies had. Quickly buried in the crypts in a ceremony as hastily as his own inauguration
A moon later, a message arrived from Kingslanding with a royal endorsement and the offer for them to take a Targaryen prince as ward. King Daeron had called him Lord Duncan Stark, had spoken grand words about his honour and chivalry and the great sacrifice his house had made for the throne. The king spoke of friendship and bonds, of how the Starks and the Targaryens would be allies in the eyes of the gods. How their friendship has always held the realm together, and how it shall not change now. That his brothers and fathers were in the Seven Heavens now, looking down upon the realm of mortals to guide him in his decision-making. He was young, the letters read, but he was capable. There would be no need for any regent; no voice would be allowed to decry the new Lord’s capabilities. Not when the court and crown welcomed him so very easily.
He should have had a regent. He would have had. If his mother didn’t die in childbirth and the rest of his family not upon the battlefield.
Rafe, the only sibling he had left, his sister who was only a year older and left behind like him- her on account of being a lady, him to make sure that Winterfell had an heir should the worst come to pass the way it had -threw the letter to the side in rage. She didn’t even lay down her mourning garb yet. “Those bastards,” she roared, “first they- they start that war! Demand our loyalty! See our family slaughtered and now– now they think they can just buy our goodwill like that!? With empty words and some princeling to be sent up North!? What do they take us for!?”
“Technically it was Daemon Blackfyre who started the war,” Dunk tried to argue weakly, “and the maester says it would be impolite to refuse…”
“Our father is dead.”
“Just like our brothers are. I know that, Rafe.” Replied the young lordling, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “I don’t…I don’t want to cause another conflict. Not now. Not when we have lost so much already.”
The Karstarks have lost their only male heir and are now left scrambling to find another relative to take over. Lord Manderly had to give up an eye during battle- he, too, nearly died from the wounds. House Manderly have had to pay the bitter toll of two sons. Most of the men the Mormots sent lay strewn about on Redgrass Field.
He was only a child. He wasn’t prepared for any of that; he never had been. How should he have? Dunk was only the fourth son, nowhere close to the seat of Lord in all his life. He was supposed to be a knight, there to command his brother’s forces and support them in all their struggles. He wasn’t meant to rule anything. He hadn’t even grown into his father’s boots yet.
“Tell the King-” His voice shook. “Tell the King that we are grateful, and that I will happily receive one of his grandchildren to ward. I shall out to meet them on the road, as a sign of goodwill”
The babe squirmed in his arms. Its tiny, red face scrunched up in open displeasure at being brought into contact with the hard leather making up his clothes.
Dunk stared between the child and Ser Donnel with wide eyes. Besides him, the septa who had presented him with the bundle coughed rather awkwardly to draw attention. “If I may present, my lord,” The older woman began, “Prince Aegon Targaryen, fourtborn son of Prince Maekar Targaryen, and grandchild of King Daeron the Good. We cannot thank you enough for welcoming him into your household.”
He turned his eyes back down, his hands awkwardly clutching at the infant, Prince Aegon, as he tried his best not to drop him from sheer shock. Before his more rational mind could catch up, he blurted, “How old is he!?”
“He- ah. The prince is but two moons old, my lord. Three, this sennight.”
Thin wisps of silvery hair that seemed almost translucent in the sunlight framed the prince’s face. A pair of deep purple eyes stared up at him, sweet and empty, entirely unaware of all that was going on around him. “I was under the impression that my ward would be a little… older,” Dunk did his best to phrase it as politely as he could. “His Grace didn’t- I fear we only prepared rooms fit for a prince who…”
“We apologise for the unwelcome surprise, Lord Stark,” Ser Donnel jumped in. “Rest assured that the Crown has taken the utmost measures to make sure all goes smoothly. We have brought a nursemaid to care for the prince until he is weaned, as well as a few septas to see to his needs. I assure you that his age will not be of any trouble to you.”
Somehow the younger got the feeling that the speech was better rehearsed than it ought to be. Almost as if he had prepared himself for a hostile reaction upon discovering the intended ward’s ‘special’ state. He knew he ought to reply with something to put their mind at ease, yet Dunk found his tongue paralysed in his mouth.
A babe.
They’d sent him a babe.
An innocent, soft, tiny little babe. Not even a quarter of a year old, swaddled in finery and forced to undergo the long travel up North. Ever so far away from home, presented to him like a peace offering. Given to him to care for and rear and educate and raise.
An infant.
A child.
“My orders are to see Prince Aegon safely settled in Winterfell before returning to the Red Keep, my lord.” Ser Donnel informed him in the absence of anyone else speaking a word. “May I recommend returning the babe to the wheelhouse while we ride?”
The first thing his sister did upon laying eyes on his new ward was cuss up a storm. The second thing she did was call for servants to bring and clean one of their old cradles from wherever they had been stored for the past years. The third thing she did was more cussing.
Ser Arlan, their Master-at-arms and steadfast companion for all their lives, had opted to take her out into the courtyard for a spar to calm her down. It was not a very ladylike thing to do, but Dunk was glad for the fire Rafe had regardless of it.
The boy had been settled in his own chambers; Dunk was too scared to keep the boy in a room entirely his own for fear of something happening. They’d exchanged the satin swaddling clothes he’d brought from the south with wool ones from the North to keep him warm, right before situating him between soft furs and down pillows taken from his own bed in haste.
His knees still felt weak just thinking about the life they’d thrown onto him.
“I suppose you aren’t the biggest fan of it either, are you?” Dunk spoke towards the cradle as though the babe could do anything to reply. “Between us two, only one of us got sent away from home to some stranger. I bet you must’ve found Summerhall much more comfy than this place.”
More silence. The lordling sighed. “Oh, who am I kidding? You won’t even remember it most like. Gods know that I can’t recall anything from when I was your age.”
For all this child would know, Winterfell may well have been where he was born. It was a hard and arduous trip down south where most of his family stayed, not to mention that with how damaged they all still were from the rebellions, he could not afford to stay away from his own home longer than he absolutely needed to. The prince was stuck with him; no less than Dunk was stuck with the prince. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. He would grow up here. That was final.
The bed creaked as he stood up from its edge, walking over to peer down at the boy still sleeping soundly. Dunk reached down to brush an overlarge hand along the side of his face before pressing a single finger into the prince’s little hand. His grip felt warm.
“I will do right by you,” the Stark finally croaked out. Was the promise aimed towards Prince Aegon or himself? That, he did not know. “I will care for you. You won’t need to spend a single day hungry, or cold, or lonely. You won’t ever have to wonder where your home is, even if you can’t be with your own blood. I will do my best for you.”
The child didn’t even react. Dunk was not mad at him for it, the prince could use the rest.
“I don’t have a Sept for you to worship the Seven like it is custom in the place of your birth,” spoke the older, “Nor do I know enough about the history of your family to offer you the worship of the deities your ancestors prayed to.”
The babe squirmed in his arms, so much so that Dunk had to struggle to keep him from falling. Clumsy arms attempted to reach out to explore the world around him. To grab either at the red leaves hanging above his head, to touch the face carved in the tree before him, or to feel the man that held him up and rested him against himself behind him. “But what I can offer you,” the Lord spoke in a steadfast voice, “Is the worship of the gods my family and I have believed in. You may not be of our blood, or of the blood of the North, but I promise that you shall not remain an outsider in the place you will grow up in. The Old Gods will smile upon you like they have smiled upon me, that I promise.”
Someone was pulling on his sheets.
It was a small, unpracticed type of movement that was filled with struggle. Whoever did it obviously lacked the strength to drag the heavy pelt and fabric off his body in any meaningful way. Dunk grumbled some unintelligible sentence, turning his head in the hopes that ignoring the intruder would make him go away.
A feeble hope, as it turned out, for the pulling only doubled in effort.
He turned back around again a final time, hoping to wring at least a few more minutes of uninterrupted sleep from the intruder's hand. A great offence, for a petulant and impatient shriek awoke the elder next. High-pitched and filled with open dissatisfaction at Dunk forcing him to wait.
The lord groaned as he forced his body up, his eyes only adjusting slowly to the dim light of his chambers.
“Aegon,” he chided in a groggy voice, “what have we said about waking people up in the middle of the night?”
“Up!” The three-year-old demanded instead, reaching out his arms. “I wan’ up! Please?”
The man sighed, already resigned to his fate, and gave in. Reaching over to lift the toddler into his bed, from where he couldn’t yet get up on his own. Aegon made quick work of the blankets and pillows, slipping under them and into Dunk’s side. One of the first things the people of Winterfell had learned about their new charge was the fact that the boy sought out warmth like others would seek air. It must be his dragon blood, most people seemed to agree, that caused him to act like that. He supposed it made sense why his family were said to have resided on the volcanic island of Dragonstone before conquering Westeros and becoming Kings.
“We really need to get you used to sleeping on your own, lad.” The Stark replied, shaking his head. “You can’t keep on sneaking into my bed. I’ll end up being yelled at by Ser Arlan again for spoiling you.”
Aegon seemed utterly unconcerned about the lord’s malady. Instead happily pressed into his sleep-warm body, trying his best to hide his face in the cloth of his sleeping tunic.
Would it ever not be strange to think about how quickly time has flown? Dunk did not know. To think that it had been three full years already….that the tiny babe put into his hands had grown into an active toddler running between their legs, with a full head of silver curls and fat little cheeks from all the treats the servants constantly snuck him? When it felt like just yesterday when he…
“Sleeping time,” demanded Aegon, ever petulant. He knew that he ought not to give in to every little demand the boy made. He was already spoiled as is; no need to make it any worse. But the idea seemed far too enticing for him to refuse. Especially when he saw the moon high in the sky still.
“Yes, yes, I’ll go back to sleep, lad. You can have what you want. Though tomorrow you’ll be sleeping on your own again, alright? Can’t have you get used to this.”
“Mhm, Nighty night.”
“Aye, goodnight, Aegon.”
“Lady Rafe?”
“Yes, Aegon?”
“Why are you calling Ser Duncan ‘Dunk’?”
The woman blinked, turning to look up from the missive she was just writing to look at the child sitting across from her. “Because…that’s his name?”
“No, his name is Duncan. Not Dunk.” Aegon shook his head. “The other people of this castle all call him Lord Stark, because that is his title. I call him Ser Duncan, because I am to be his squire when I am old enough, and he told me to do so. You and Ser Arlan only call him ‘Dunk’, though. Why?”
Ah, so that was the issue at hand. Rafe set down her quill and leaned back a little. The child had grown into that fun kind of age where he seemed to have countless of questions about every single little thing in the world. Be they details about the weather, about their maester’s work, about what they did or didn’t do…
“It’s a nickname,” The lady explained. “You know? Something you call someone that isn’t their name? ‘Dunk’ is short for ‘Duncan’; he’s had it ever since he was a boy your age.”
Aegon tilted his head. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did others give Ser Duncan a nickname?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s to show that they know him well him? Only people who like eachother very, very much give nicknames to eachother. It shows that we are close.”
At that, Aegon frowned at her. Tiny brows furrowing together in what must have been half-thought, half-displeasure. If Rafe had even a tiny bit less self-control, she’d probably have pinched his cheeks over it. Damned as the dragons may be, even she had to admit that the boy was damn cute for it. He was probably the only good thing to have come from that house in a long while.
“Alright, what’s the matter?” She asked after a while, “Why are you making that long face?”
The boy looked up at her with poorly hidden desire.
“Can…Can I have a nickname too, then?”
“...You know what? Sure, why not. What are we thinking of?”
“Ser Duncan!” Aegon yelled, barreling into the older man, “Ser Duncan! I’m Egg now! You need to call me Egg!”
The man blinked. “Huh?”
Egg’s seventh nameday celebration had been going great, all things considered. Sure, it was smaller than what may have been done for a prince if he still lived in Summerhall, but that didn’t make it any less enjoyable.
Dunk had ordered his steward to put on a feast for his ward and the castle to enjoy, as well as a small tourney-like tournament for the castle guard and whomever else wished to participate. It lacked much of the violence and fighting a usual tourney had, instead being replaced by various games and tests of strength for the people to partake in, though that did not mean that it was any less exciting for anyone attending. And least of all for the boy who was at the very centre of it all.
He smiled from ear to ear, shaggy hair bound in a ponytail to make sure it would stay out of his eyes. He’d been led away from the feast by his guardian some time ago, following him trustingly (albeit curiously) down the halls.
“Where are we going, Ser?” He asked, doing his best to keep up with the larger strides of the man. Dunk only smiled. “You will see in a bit; just stay patient.”
Truth was that it had been Ser Arlan’s idea. Dunk wanted to gift him his own old sword he’d had to give up upon taking up the use of Ice. The lad would adore the show of trust, he thought. Which he did; he thanked him profusely and swore he’d forever hold the weapon in high honour when he received it earlier. But it no longer was the ‘main’ present they’d prepared for him.
His master-at-arms was the one to suggest that Egg needed some sort of companion. Rafe had joined in to agree with him, saying something like it would help to teach him responsibility on top. Dunk found himself pressed to agree with them on that point.
He opened the door to his ward’s chambers, smiling at his excited gasp to find the two people in question inside with his gift.
“A puppy!” Egg squealed, rushing forward to take a look at the animal. “Is it mine? Have you gotten me a puppy, Ser? A real puppy?”
“It was supposed to be a kitten originally,” Rafe admitted with a shrug, “but then I found this little thing being brought in by some guard. You ought to give the animal a name.”
“Really? I can? All on my own?”
“Who else should do it?” Asked Dunk in reply. “It’s supposed to be your dog, not ours. You should have every right to decide on what to call it.”
More squealing, more laughter. Egg hugged him first, then his sister and Ser Arlan, before settling down to receive the overexcited puppy into his arms. The animal’s tail wagged as wildly as it moved around and about the young boy. “Dragon! I’ll call you Dragon!” Egg giggled, as though the decision needed not a single thought more to be settled on.
“I don’t understand,” The boy moaned. “You and Lady Rafe get to have direwolfs on your clothes. Why do I have to wear a dragon on mine?”
“That’s because my sister and I are Starks.” Explained Dunk, placing a hand atop his ward’s head. “The direwolf is the sigil of our house, so we wear it to show to whom we belong. You, on the other hand, are a Targaryen. Meaning that you should wear your own house’s sigil, so people can see whose blood you carry in your veins.”
Egg seemed anything but satisfied with the elder’s response. “But aren’t I also part of your household, Ser? That means that I do belong to the Starks at least somewhat, meaning that I should wear your sigil to show my allegiance to you.”
“Well, uhm- I– the situation is totally different, lad.”
“Do I not belong to your household, then?”
“What!? No! Of course you belong to my household,” huffed the lord. “It’s just that stuff is supposed to be handled this way. Everyone wears their own sigils. I wouldn’t want to offend any of your royal family.”
“None of them are even here!”
“A fact that doesn't change—”
“Just let the boy have his wolves, Dunk.” Cut in Lady Rafe, clearly having grown tired of the bickering between the two. “What harm can it do? Make him happy; it’s probably just a phase anyway.”
Realising that he was clearly outmatched, Dunk found himself giving out a resigned sigh.
The next time the tailor came to make him new clothes, Egg left with a brand new pelt cloak with a direwolv embroidered on its back. Right alongside a new festive tunic and overcoat with a similar motif.
He should not have given him that dog.
“Egg! What were you thinking!?” Half yelled, half questioned, Dunk. “You foolish boy! You could have gotten hurt!”
“‘M sorry, Ser…”
“You could have gotten lost! Or hurt! Or worse! What do you think would have happened if he hadn’t found you before nightfall!? Honestly, lad, I expected a lot from you. But running away to chase after some scent-”
“Dragon picked something up, I swear!”
“But running after some scent,” Dunk intoned, “I had expected better of you. We were supposed to visit Lord Karstark, not hunt across his land.”
“It won’t happen again…”
“It better not, or else I’ll clout you! And now go apologise to our host. You’re grounded at least until the next harvest!”
Egg squinted down at the parchment he had received to write his message upon.
To the most honoured Prince of Summerhall, he began to write. Only to cross the words out again and replace them with To my most beloved Father. Somehow that felt even less natural.
To my Father, then.
The ink made an ugly splotch from where he had held his quill over the parchment too long. Its red colour stained into the surface and making sure he could no longer use it. The boy crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the fire. Dragon somehow seemed even more disinterested in the letter than the author was, not even lifting his head as it flew past him.
One of the worst parts about learning his letters was that, apparently, his Ser had deemed him mature enough to begin writing the reports that were supposed to keep his blood family updated on his progress himself.
He started again, toiling away at the chore he’d been given.
To my Father,
How are you? As always, I am in perfect health. The North is as beautiful as always, and Winterfell is thriving wonderfully.
I have made great progress in all of my studies. Lord Stark has begun allowing me to train to be a squire, which I am very pleased about. There is no knight greater than him in all the Seven Kingdoms. He has promised me that I will be allowed to participate in a hunt soon as well. He needs to get away from the countless other lords, he says. I will do my best to make you proud and serve him well.
Was that enough? He had no idea what Ser Duncan or their maester usually wrote to his blood father. He didn’t think he had much more to tell him anyway. Mayhaps something more about his day-to-day? He didn’t feel like rattling down his schedule for some stranger. Especially not when it meant that he had to spend more time writing inside when he could be in the courtyard training. He’d even talked to some of the archers to teach him how to make use of a bow and arrow.
He took a deep breath. Ah, well. He’d only been told to write a letter, never how long it was supposed to be.
Ever faithfully,
Your son.
“You want to hear a scary story?” Asked the serving girl, crouching beside Egg where she had found him trying to stave off the worst of his boredom. “I could tell you one, though I should warn you ahead: I do not want to be blamed if our little prince ends up with nightmares over it.”
The young prince in question looked at her with curiosity. “Go on. I want to hear! I’m brave, don’t worry about me getting any knightmares or anything.”
She smirked. “Are you sure?”
“Very!”
“Most certainly?”
“Yes, yes! Just go on, tell me!”
The girl smirked, then laughed, then quieted down. “Alright then, I won’t keep it to myself any longer. My own grandmother told it to me, as I will tell it to you. This tale was years, and years ago…
“The long night, she called it. A time of darkness and fear, where the sun would not show itself for years on end and little boys and girls would be born and live and die all without ever seeing a ray of sunlight. Snow would fall as deep as a giant is tall, swallowing land and people alike in its bitter frost. The direwolves grew gaunt, hungry and finally froze. Not even the worms that would eat their corpses could survive the bitter cold.
“But despite all that, their bodies would not stay dead. No, no. Death would have been too kind a fate. The Stranger could not keep his grip on them, for they rose like heralds of doom. Come again to walk the eart in its haunting silence, seeking only to devour. All those alive were to join their ranks sooner or later, and they had come to claim us all. Wreaking never-ending havoc and pain as they left their bloodied tracks across the snow. They would not stop before all joy had drained from the faces of those unfortunate enough to live during their times.
“They live still. Far beyond the wall, in the land of ever-winter, they dwell. Waiting, biding their time, preparing for their invasion and doom as they look towards the final sunset setting over our—-”
“Young Nan!” The girl’s father interrupted unkindly, probably having spied them from afar, “Don’t go around telling tales like that. You’ll only scare the little children.”
Ñuha tresy,
nyke ūndegon bona emā grown bē naejot sagon rytsa se kostōba. Syt bona, iksan glad. Issa iā byka kirimves.
nyke zūgagon bona iksan writing bisa letter naejot ao isse rōvēgrie mundari. Aōha muña, qilōni ēza issare sikagon lēda aōha hāedykta-
The boy stopped reading at that point.
“Ser Duncan?” He yelled, “Ser Duncan, those southerners are speaking weird in their letters again!”
His Ser’s hand felt heavy on his back as the older man sat him down, pity and sadness swimming in his blue eyes. Everything about the following conversation felt like a dream.
His mother, Dyanna Dayne, was dead. She’d lost her life in the childbed of his youngest sibling, a little sister his father had called Rhae. Preparations for her funeral were already underway, with most of the family who could making their way to Summerhall to see her buried.
Egg had never seen his Ser look so heartbroken before. “We would send you as well,” he said, gentle as if he was talking to a spooked mare, “If only it weren’t for the distance. You’d miss the funeral most certainly, even with the fastest of our steeds. I’m so sorry, Egg. You have to believe me, if it were up to me…..”
Guilt.
There was guilt in Ser Duncan’s voice.
Over what?
He knew he should be sad. Logic told him that he should be destroyed, even, over the news. Egg had just lost his mother, and he'd be unable to even visit her funeral. That was a horrible thing. Something he should cry and rage over.
Ser Duncan must have mistaken his silence for something else. Egg felt how he pulled him into a hug, hiding the younger's face in the crook of his neck. Almost as though he expected him to start shedding tears at any moment.
It was the first time he found himself thinking of his mother in a long while. He had never even known her.
Was she a good person? Did she love him? Egg did not know. He could not remember her. Was that evil? Was that a crime? Who should he even blame?
He felt nothing at the death. Ser Duncan’s hug felt good and warm and wonderfully comforting. Yet he still felt nothing for the death of the woman that birthed him.
To my most honoured father,
It is with great sadness that I have received the news of your wife's, my mother's, Lady Dyanna's passing.
My thoughts are with you and my younger sister at all times of the day. Please be assured that I have gone to the godswood to pray for all three of you every day since I have found out.
I am sorry that I could not be with you and the rest of our family.
Lord Stark also asked me to pass along his own condolences. There is no day when we have cursed the distance separating us more. He can not apologise enough for our inability to attend. Alas, the road is treacherous. We would not wish to burden you with our late arrival during these hard times.
Please accept the gifts of pelts and fabric for the newborn princess which should come to arrive in the following few moons.
With the utmost respect,
Your son, Aegon Targaryen.
"With all due respect, Your Grace...." the tailor began, "If I may, perhaps a dragon would be more appropriate in this instance?"
“I have already had this conversation with my guardian before. My answer remains the same: I have always worn wolves on my clothes above dragons. I do not see why that should change for my mourning garb.”
“You are a Targaryen; your mother is dead.”
He raised an eyebrow at the man taking his measurements.
“And I am wearing black, as I should be. It can't remember anyone teaching me that I had to wear a royal sigil to show my sadness.”