Chapter Text
First light slipped slowly between the branches of the old oak, the kind of pale, uncertain dawn that made the world feel half formed, like the day itself was still deciding whether it should begin or continue to hide behind the moon.
Duncan himself was making a similar choice, whether to keep hiding behind his swollen eyelids or force himself up to face another day of honest travel.
A firm, cold drop of dew struck his forehead from the branches above and answered that question for him. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up onto his elbows, the movement pulling sharply at his ribs and making him wince.
“Seven hells,” he groaned into the quiet morning earth.
Time had passed since the tourney. Days since princes and kingsguard and half the bloody Reach had stood watching him fight Aerion, an omega, in the mud like an animal.
Duncan had not known of his second gender until the sweat of the trial had stripped Aerion of what must have been a scent blocker. Dunk was no traditionalist, it had not stopped him from nearly killing him.
The memory lingered. The smell most of all. Relentless. Sweet in a way that made no sense, sharp enough to choke on, a complete contradiction to the fury that had filled him. It had been unlike anything he had ever sensed before.
Egg lay curled beneath furs beside him, his breath turning to vapour in the cold air.
A few more weeks of riding and they would leave this chill behind them, head south for clearer skies, easier sleep, and the chance of coin.
The thought of that coming sooner pushed him, with a hiss of pain, to his feet.
Dunk reached for his boots.
That was when he noticed the parchment.
Its clean white edges looked out of place in the dirt, set beside his pack and held down by a small stone against the wind.
Dunk frowned.
He did not remember placing any letter there.
He bent to pick it up and turned it over in his hands, finding the cracked red seal of the Targaryen crest.
The writing was narrow and joined. Dunk stared at it, trying to make sense of the ink, and failed.
“Egg.”
The boy stirred beneath his blanket, dragging himself upright and blinking against the morning light. His shaved head caught the sun in a dull bronze, pale stubble beginning to grow back unevenly.
“Yes, Ser Duncan?” Egg muttered.
Dunk held up the parchment.
The boy squinted at it.
“Oh.”
He crawled closer through the damp grass, his blanket dragging behind him.
“You opened it already,” Dunk said.
“Yes.”
“You might have woken me.”
Egg shrugged.
“I thought it was for me,” he admitted, “and you looked like you needed the sleep.”
He took the letter back.
“Here,” he said quietly. “It’s not much use to me.”
Egg unfolded it again, smoothing the parchment flat in his hands, a grim look settling over his face.
“Well?”
Egg cleared his throat.
“To Ser Duncan the Tall,” the boy began, “under the order of Prince Maekar Targaryen, I command you to escort my son, Prince Aerion, to King’s Landing. I had previously sentenced him to exile in Lys, but I have decided that he may be better suited under the watch and protection of the man I know to be unafraid of his demeanor. I feel guilty that it has come to this. However, I cannot spend any more time deciding what is to be done with him since his conduct at Ashford Meadow. It has become clear to me that he must return to court under your protection, Ser Duncan. Signed, Prince Maekar, who is truly indebted to you.”
“…I beg your pardon?” Duncan scoffed.
Egg glanced up from the page.
“That is what it says, Ser.”
“Seven hells.”
Dunk leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Trying to leave princes and their troubles behind had become a foolish dream the moment he stepped into that inn weeks ago.
Prince Maekar he respected. Baelor more still, even now. The weight of that loss had not left him. To lose a brother because of a hedge knight was not something easily set aside, no matter the truth of it.
And Aerion had been at the centre of it.
“I hate him, Ser,” Egg added into the silence, resting his head lightly beside Dunk.
“He’s your brother, lad. You ought to love him,” Dunk sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Where are we to meet his highness?”
Egg reached for the paper and turned it slightly.
“We are to collect him at the inn at Bitterbridge, along the Roseroad.”
North.
They had meant to ride south.
He could almost feel the freedom he had grown used to slipping away from him like water through his fingers.
“That sounds about right.”
Egg snorted softly.
“So,” the boy said.
Dunk opened one eye.
“So.”
He gestured vaguely north.
“We ride to Bitterbridge.”
Dunk pushed himself carefully to his feet, his ribs protesting as he stood.
“And get some good ale while we’re at it,” he added, with a faint grin.
Egg nodded and began to pack.
The journey should take two days if the weather held. There was no urgency in the letter, so perhaps he might still manage his errands in the south west after. But Duncan could feel a storm coming in his knees, and Ser Arlan had always sworn they were never wrong.
“Seven help us,” he muttered under his breath.
The storm did in fact come, and it was not modest when it did. The roseroad offers little trees in which to defend oneself, and the rain is unforgiving.
“It’s not that bad, Egg I have seen far worse,” Dunk shouted over the sound of pelting rain, "at least you don’t have any hair to get wet!”
“You are very amusing Ser!” Egg yelled from the back of Chestnut.
The ride North had not had any peace yet, only a day and a night it was until the thunder began. But that left the roads empty and made for easy travel for the knight and his squire despite the mud and the elements, meaning by nightfall they should reach Bitterbridge. And even though they are to meet the Prince, a night under a roof protected from the weather sounds divine.
Thunder rolled across the countryside, deep and rumbling, like a giant dragging stones across the sky.
Then Egg shifted again, leaning forward slightly.
“There,” he said, squinting through the rain.
Dunk followed his gaze.
Off the side of the road, half-lost in the grey, a cluster of wagons had been drawn up in a loose circle. Canvas was strung between them, sagging under the weight of the rain. A few figures lingered beneath, shadows moving slow and patient.
Dunk slowed.
“Just for a moment,” Egg added quickly.
Dunk hesitated.
The rain ran down his face, dripping from his chin. His ribs ached with every movement of the horse beneath him, the damp making it worse.
“…Fine,” he said at last.
Egg did not smile, but something eased in his shoulders.
They turned off the road.
The ground there was worse, churned thick by wheels and boots, but the canvas gave some shelter at least. The sound of the rain dulled as they passed beneath it, though it did not disappear.
Dunk swung down from the saddle with a grunt, boots sinking deep.
“Seven hells,” he muttered.
Egg slid down after him, landing lighter, though he nearly slipped before catching himself.
“You see?” the boy said. “Stopping helps.”
Dunk snorted.
“We’ll see.”
He tied off the horses where the ground seemed least likely to give entirely, then ducked beneath the lowest stretch of canvas. He had to bend more than he liked.
A man stood nearby beside a low cart, watching them with the flat look of someone who had been standing there too long.
A few baskets sat arranged along the cart’s edge. Apples, mostly. A handful of pears, spotted and soft.
Dunk stepped closer.
The man’s eyes flicked up, taking in his height, then settled again.
“Not much left,” the vendor said.
“Enough,” Dunk replied.
He reached for an apple, turning it in his hand. It was small, but firm enough.
“How much?”
“Two coppers.”
Egg let out a quiet breath.
“In this?” he said. “They’ll spoil before nightfall.”
The man shrugged.
“Then best eat them now.”
Dunk huffed softly.
He picked up another apple, then another.
“One copper each.”
The vendor’s mouth tightened.
“Two.”
Dunk met his gaze, steady.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the canvas between them, tapping a slow rhythm into the mud.
“One,” Dunk repeated.
The man hesitated, then waved a hand as if the matter bored him.
“Fine. Take them.”
Dunk handed over the coins and passed one of the apples to Egg.
The boy wiped it on his sleeve and took a bite at once.
“It’s not bad,” he said.
Dunk bit into his own. Tart, but fresh enough.
They stood there a moment, eating in the dim grey light.
Then Egg’s gaze dropped.
“You’re bleeding again.”
Dunk glanced down.
The bandage beneath his tunic had darkened through, the damp spreading it wider.
“It’s nothing.”
“It isn’t,” Egg said. “Sit.”
Dunk looked at him.
Egg did not move.
“Sit,” he repeated.
Dunk sighed and lowered himself onto the edge of a crate, the wood creaking faintly under his weight.
“Bossy,” he muttered.
Egg ignored that, already reaching for their pack. He worked quickly, fingers sure as he pulled free clean cloth and the small jar of salve.
Dunk lifted his tunic enough to give him room.
The air was cold against his skin.
Egg peeled back the old bandage, frowning.
“You’ve made it worse.”
“I’ve been riding.”
“That is not an excuse.”
Dunk almost smiled.
Egg cleaned the wound carefully, his hands steady despite the way Dunk tensed once, then forced himself still.
Rain tapped softly above them.
After a while, Egg spoke.
“Do you think I’ll be tall?”
Dunk glanced down.
“Tall?”
“Like the Kingsguard,” Egg said. “They’re all tall.”
“Surely not all.”
“Most.”
“That’s not why they’re Kingsguard.”
Egg said nothing, focusing on wrapping the fresh cloth around Dunk’s ribs.
The silence stretched.
Then, quieter, “I don’t think I’ll be an alpha.”
Dunk stilled slightly.
“And if you aren’t?”
Egg shrugged.
“Then I won’t be like them.”
Dunk shifted against the crate, careful of the pull in his side.
“You think that’s what makes them strong?”
Egg hesitated.
“It helps.”
Dunk shook his head.
“I’ve met strong men who weren’t,” he said. “And weak ones who were.”
Egg tied the bandage off neatly.
“And omegas?” he asked.
Dunk met his gaze.
“The same.”
Egg frowned slightly, as though trying to decide what to do with that.
Dunk reached out and nudged his shoulder lightly.
“You’ll be strong,” he said. “However you turn out.”
Egg looked down again.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“You already are.”
Dunk huffed a quiet breath.
“That’s just size.”
“It’s not just size.”
Dunk let that pass.
Egg sat back, studying his work.
“Try not to tear it open again.”
“I’ll try.”
Egg snorted softly.
“You always say that.”
Dunk almost smiled.
After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet, slower this time. The ache held, but tighter now beneath the fresh wrap.
He ducked back out from under the canvas, into the rain.
Egg grabbed the pack and followed.
They mounted again without much fuss.
“You’re not worried?”
Dunk kept his eyes on the road.
“About what?”
Egg snorted softly.
“You know what.”
The name did not need saying.
To say the least, he was. Egg had been sour on it from the moment the letter was read, and had not let it rest since. He had tried, more than once, to persuade Dunk to turn south regardless, to forget the order and the prince who gave it. If Dunk had been a worse man, he might have listened. It would have been an easy thing, to ride on and leave it all behind.
But Prince Maekar had lost enough already.
Dunk would not add to it.
The sun hung low behind the cloud cover, a pale and tired thing that gave little warmth. It looked near as worn as he felt. Sleep had not come easy the night before, and when it had, it brought little rest with it.
Baelor had been there, as he often was.
And Aerion.
Always Aerion.
He saw him as he had been in the lists, tall in the saddle, pale hair damp against his brow, those strange violet eyes fixed on him with something sharp and coiled beneath the surface. There had been fury there. Pride too. And something else that Dunk could not quite name.
Aerion was a hard man to forget.
In waking life, the truth of it sat somewhere just beyond his grasp. The prince was an omega, a man set high above Dunk by birth and blood both. He should have been distant, untouchable, no more than a name and a memory.
But he was not.
Weeks ago they had stood in the mud, trading blows like common fighters. Dunk had felt the give of him beneath his hands, had seen the blood he drew, had left him bruised and limping enough for a carriage.
And still-
Still his mind returned to him.
Faces blurred with time. The boy who stole his socks was gone from him now. Even Rafe’s killers had begun to fade at the edges.
But Aerion remained, sharp as if carved into him.
Dunk scowled faintly, as though the thought itself annoyed him.
“I’m… cautious,” he said at last.
Egg gave him a look.
“That’s not what you were at Ashford.”
Dunk shifted in the saddle. The bruises beneath his tunic pulled faintly at the movement.
“That was different.”
Egg tilted his head.
“How?”
Dunk cleared his throat.
“He’s still a prince.”
“That’s not the problem.”
Thunder rolled somewhere far behind them, low and distant now. The rain had eased to a steady fall, tapping against leather and cloth without the earlier violence.
After a moment, Egg said, quieter,
“I hate him.”
Dunk glanced back.
“I know.”
“He’ll make trouble.”
“Likely.”
“You’ll have to deal with it.”
Dunk frowned slightly at that.
Egg shrugged.
“You stood up to him once already.”
Dunk made a small sound, not quite agreement.
As they rode on, the land began to open before them. The shapes ahead grew clearer through the thinning rain.
A line of rooftops.
A rise of timber and thatch, crowded close along the river’s edge.
And beyond it, pale against the dark water, the long stretch of a bridge cutting across the Mander.
“Is that it?” Egg asked.
Dunk nodded once.
“Bitterbridge.”
Even at a distance, the town showed signs of life.
Smoke curled upward from chimneys despite the damp, thin grey lines against the sky. The roofs stood steep and close-packed, huddled along the banks where the road met the river. A watchtower rose near the gate, stark and straight, its outline sharp against the pale light.
The bridge itself ran long and solid across the water, wide enough for wagons to pass abreast.
Dunk slowed slightly as they crested the last rise.
From there, the valley spread wide beneath them.
The Mander ran swollen and brown, its banks stretched by the storm. Rain marked its surface in countless small rings, while broken branches drifted slow with the current.
Egg leaned forward, peering.
“It’s bigger than I thought.”
“Most river towns are,” Dunk said.
The road grew busier as they descended.
A wagon creaked along ahead of them, its wheels sunk deep in the mud while two farmers trudged beside it, heads bowed against the weather. Further on, a pair of riders cut across the fields toward the gate, cloaks snapping faintly in the wind.
Closer still, townsfolk moved along the roadside, hunched beneath cloaks, quick-footed in the muck.
Some looked up as Dunk passed.
It was hard not to.
Even hunched in the saddle, soaked through and travel-worn, he stood above most men by a head or more. His limbs seemed too long for the horse beneath him, his cloak hanging heavy and dripping at the edges. He had grown used to the looks. The pointing of children. The wary glances of men. The low beams and doorways that never quite cleared his brow.
He had the scars for those.
Their eyes lingered as he rode through, but he paid them little mind.
He had an inn to find.
Arlan had brought him here once, years ago, when a storm not unlike this one had driven them off the road. Dunk remembered the noise of it. The shouting, the drink, the way the old man had laughed before picking a fight he could not finish but ended up winning anyway as he often did.
Dunk had carried him up the stairs that night.
At the time, he had not thought it a thing worth remembering.
Time had a way of changing that.
“Which one?” Egg muttered, gesturing faintly down the street.
Dunk lifted his gaze.
Near the river, the buildings spread a little wider, leaving space for carts and travellers crossing the bridge. Lanterns burned outside several doors, their light warm against the grey of the evening, casting long reflections in the mud.
One stood above the rest.
Two stories high, broad-fronted, its timbered face turned toward the road. A carved sign hung from an iron hook, creaking softly as it swayed in the damp air.
Light spilled from beneath the eaves, gold and steady, falling across the churned yard before it. Behind, the stable stretched long, its doors thrown open, the shapes of horses shifting within.
Dunk slowed and lifted a pointed finger to the place.
”that one”