Chapter Text
When his eyes opened he was on the ground again, sprawled on his back. Mud and blood flooded his vision through the slit of his helm. Somewhere in the mist, a horse was screaming. Steel rang on steel, muffled—Lyonel's hammer, maybe, or the Kingsguard white breaking apart. The princeling’s terrifying mask loomed above him, a sword glinting in the fog.
The sword scraped against chainmail, then sank into flesh. A muffled scream tore from Dunk, and he bucked, throwing Aerion off.
They rolled in the muck, tearing at each other like rabid dogs. Aerion might have been able to vanquish Ser Duncan the Tall, but not Dunk of Flea Bottom. The old man had taught him the noble art of the sword, but this—this belonged to him. An ugly butchery in the piss-soaked alleys behind the city’s winesinks, men gouging eyes, tearing out throats to survive another night.
Nothing that wiry body could do against that weight. Gauntleted hands clawed at armor and mail, blood and sweat blinding them both. Dunk threw his arm around Aerion's thigh, dragged him cursing into the dirt, and mounted him. His limbs felt like sacks of wet grain, head swimming, ready to black out. Breathing inside the helm was a struggle, like sucking air through a cloth.
Aerion jerked, driving the edge of his shield upward, straight into Dunk's head. An iron echo hammered against his ears. The shield caught his helm, snapping the strap, and cold air slammed into Dunk's face. He choked, gasping raggedly.
And beneath the stench of dust and rust, for one breath, it smelled like forest rain.
Dunk’s whole body locked forward, like a hound to a whistle. He tore the shield from Aerion’s fingers, raised it high, and brought it down, again and again, smashing the black helm until it shattered with a crunch. He flung the splinters aside, hooked his fingers under the lip of the visor, and wrenched it up.
Under the twisted metal, Aerion’s pale face was exposed. Soaked in blood and scratched, pupils blown black. Teeth bared, sharp canines stark white against the redness of his mouth.
Want you to—
"Yield." Dunk didn’t recognize his own voice. "YIELD!"
The answer was a bloody snarl.
Sick of you. The air whistled as Dunk drew back his fist and struck, and again, and again, each blow landing harder than the last, forcing Aerion's head snap to the side. Blood from his nose smeared his cheeks, but Dunk didn't look at the face anymore. He was stuck on the throat, exposed and white, on the vein beating right beneath the skin. Forest and moisture, and rain, and this smell—heavy, and intoxicating, refusing to let him think.
His mouth watered with a lightless hunger. He kept tearing the armour off him. Ripping away the collar's leather, rivets, and laces, smearing grime across the rough line of the throat, he ducked low, and the damp forest finally wrapped around him, and hot skin burned his lips—
His teeth sank into the flesh.
Aerion’s body jerked beneath him, arching like a bow. He thrashed fiercely, legs scrambling like a wild animal trying to throw him off. Clawed fingers dug deep into the wounds on Dunk's ribs, but the pain only drove him further. He dug deeper until fresh blood splashed onto his tongue, so thick and salty that his eyes rolled back in a daze.
Guttural sounds tore from Aerion's throat, echoing right into his mouth. But soon they too quieted, turning into choked pleas.
"I yield..." his voice was so quiet that Dunk barely heard it. Beneath his lips, a muscle twitched—frantically, in time with the nods. "I yield..."
Dunk froze.
A raw heat coiled low, there and gone after a second. For a moment, his cotton-stuffed head couldn't process the words. He found himself still clutching Aerion’s shoulders, who was breathing fast, and hunted, and horrifyingly wrong.
He lifted his head, slow to move. The battle still raged in the smoke and fog. Steel clanking, blades slicing into meat, horses screaming, muffled shouts from the viewing stands.
He pushed himself off Aerion, arms shaking under his own weight, and got up. Blood dripped from his stomach and thigh into the mud. He grabbed Aerion by the ankle and dragged him across the torn earth. Numbness settled over his body, dulling the pain. Aerion's dead weight was a grounding anchor, carving a trench through the grime. Dunk kept moving, oblivious to the knights hacking at each other in the mist.
Reaching the edge of the royal pavilion, Dunk stopped. His chest heaved as he hauled Aerion up by the scruff, dragging him to his feet. They both swayed, but Dunk clamped his fingers tight against his jaw. "Tell him!"
Aerion choked, spitting out a mouthful of blood and dirt. His breathing was wet and heavy, body trembling.
"I withdraw..." Aerion gasped out, voice hoarse. "I withdraw my accusation."
The morning was overcast, sky turning grey. From somewhere across the river, singer’s horn wailed through the air. The tourney was still wrapping up, oblivious to the butchery of the day before.
Dunk sprawled against the bark of the tree. Shield was propped against his torn pavilion, the sun-and-falling-star chipped down to the wood. Thunder was staying at the riverbank, head low, not eating.
Dunk blinked slowly. His clothes went as stiff as boiled leather. Left eye was swollen shut, leaving him to view the world through the other. Every breath pulled at the stitches in his side where the lance had taken him—some camp septon's apprentice had done the work, hands shaking so badly the line zigzagged—and his thigh burned deep from Aerion’s sword.
Lyonel Baratheon stood over him, looking battered himself—a nasty bruise circled his eye, though the dark smear of salve spread over it tried to hide the worst of it. Beside him hunched a withered maester. They stood there for a long time, watching Dunk with a strange intensity. Finally, Lyonel settled onto the grass beside Dunk, sighed, and opened a waterskin.
"Ah, gods. It's been a wonderful tournament," Lyonel said, shaking his head with a crooked smirk. It didn't reach his eyes. He began to toy with the flask, restless. "Shame it's all over."
Dunk just stared blankly at the dying embers of the campfire he had built hours—or maybe lifetimes—ago.
"Home is..." Lyonel sighed heavily, tapping the waterskin. "...brutally dull."
To Dunk’s left, the maester held a smoldering twist of herbs, waving it in circles. Whether it was to ward off the smell of rot or keep the flies away, he didn’t know. The maester paused, shaky hands pulling back the edge of Dunk’s tunic to inspect his wounds.
Lyonel leaned closer, nudging Dunk’s boot with his own. "Hey. You could come with me."
Dunk slowly turned his head, frowning.
Lyonel immediately looked away, waving his free hand in broad circles as the words spilled out of him. "Aye, we'll hunt and hawk and…sail, make merry. I'll sharpen that iron of yours so you don't make such a grand fool of yourself next time." He let out a booming laugh that seemed to echo only for himself.
The maester’s breath hitched. He stared at the swollen flesh beneath Dunk’s bandages and shoved the linen back down.
"You ever been to Tarth?" Lyonel asked breezily, ignoring the old man.
The maester rubbed his hands together. "The man is dying, my lord."
Lyonel’s laugh died in his throat. His face twisted in disgust. "What?"
Dunk took the waterskin from Lyonel’s hand, brought it to his cracked lips, and drank, staring into the void, tasting nothing.
"His—his wounds, they have mortified," the maester stammered, pressing a hand to his own chest. "It is beyond my abilities."
Lyonel clicked his tongue and waved a hand. "Oh, the Others fucking geld me. Beyond your– an itchy arsehole is beyond your abilities, my friend. Begone, witch! Fuck off with you."
"Yes, milord! At once!" The maester scrambled backward like a kicked crab, gathering his vials before hurrying away from the riverbank.
"Cunt." Lyonel rolled his eyes and pointed a finger at Dunk, voice dropping into a desperate attempt at comfort. "It's fine, you're fine. He's a terrible maester anyway."
He leaned down, throwing an arm across Dunk's good shoulder, pressing in a sudden show of conspiratorial intimacy. "Come with me to Storm's End," he whispered loudly. "And I will love you like a brother."
Dunk didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The silence stretched tight. With a heavy grunt, Lyonel pushed himself back up to his feet, planting his hand on Dunk’s wounded thigh for leverage.
"Oh, cunt!" Dunk hissed, flinching when a hot spike of agony shot straight up his spine.
Lyonel didn't apologize. He limped toward the riverbank, and started to piss right into the water. "And if not…well, fuck you, I’ll hate you like a brother."
Dunk squeezed his good eye shut until the pain in his leg dulled into a throb.
He looked down at his hands. The blood under his nails wasn't his own. Some of it was Aerion's, dried black and flaking. Some of it—a darker, stickier red—had come from the back of Baelor's skull when he caught him falling. He'd said something then, he thought. But the prince had not risen.
"...It's a fine offer, Lyonel," Dunk forced the words out. He blinked rapidly, chest heaving as he fought for air. "But every man who stands near me ends up in the dirt."
Lyonel cut him off instantly. "Done the realm a kindness, you'll see that one day." He finished, tying his breeches, and finally glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were dark, nose flaring as he caught something in the air. "A dead dragon's the only honest one."
"Fucking gods," Dunk said, his voice cracking. "Baelor fought for me. He gave his fucking life." He looked up at Lyonel, glaring through his one good eye. "Can you speak of him with a little respect?"
Lyonel bared his teeth like a wolf. "Fuck that!" He jabbed a finger in Dunk’s direction. "And fuck you!"
He paced agitatedly. "I fought for you!" he pressed, stepping closer. "Hardyng. Beesbury. The fucking apple boy. We fought for you." He spat a laugh, voice dripping with derision. "Your prince fought against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing!"
Then, he stopped. He looked at Dunk, shoulders dropping slightly, voice turning quiet but stern. "And the gods don't favor a fraud."
Dunk dropped his gaze to his crusted hands, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together.
He had no defense. Nothing.
"Then why have they favored me?"
Even Lyonel had no witty remark. He shifted on his feet, mouth opening and closing as he took in the sight before him. Under that stare, Dunk felt exactly like what he was—a bloody, rotting stray who had bitten off more than he could chew.
Lyonel gestured vaguely with a flick of his wrist. He spoke fast, words slurring. "This is not favor. This..." He let his hand drop. "This is mockery."
Dunk swallowed dryly. Am I a knight now in truth? Was I worth this blood?
"Daeron’s dream," Dunk muttered, more to himself than to Lyonel, staring blindly into the ashes. "He saw the fallen dragon. It was Baelor... unless Aerion died in the mud. He didn’t, though. Did he?"
He didn’t know why he asked that. The words tore their way out, clawing through the fog in his mind.
Lyonel stopped. The pacing, the agitated hand-waving—it all stopped abruptly. He looked back at Dunk, sneer replaced by something far sharper and infinitely more dangerous.
A cold sweat prickled the back of Dunk's neck at the next word.
"Alive."
Lyonel walked back to the tree, steps slow. "Carried off the field. Silent for the first time in his damned life. Shivering like a wet hound. The maesters are calling it the shock of a broken arm."
He stopped over Dunk, casting a long shadow across his face.
"But I was there when they dragged the bastard through the dirt," Lyonel tilted his head, a sharp smile showing too many teeth. "And I know the shape of a bite on a throat when I see it."
Dunk just stared at him.
The words clattered uselessly against his skull. He tried to reach back into the memory of the fight, grasping at the mud.
He remembered the blade. The smell of rain. A sudden, wild heat. Then nothing.
"What...?" Dunk rasped, brows knitting together. "I... I don't... I just fought him."
For a moment, Lyonel just stared. Then, a harsh, incredulous laugh punched its way out of his chest. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head.
"Seven Hells," Lyonel breathed. "You really are a lunk. You don't even know what you did, do you?"
He dropped into a crouch, bringing his face level with Dunk’s. The smell of wine and iron came with him. An Alpha ready to jump. Dunk’s hands stiffened on instinct.
"You didn't just beat him in the mud, you stupid giant," Lyonel hissed, vibrating with a dark thrill. "I saw the way he was shaking. A fucking Targaryen, turned into a whimpering bitch."
Dunk felt the sudden shuddering of his own breath. His heart beat like a hammer against his ribs, and the bottom fell out of his stomach.
"You understand?" Lyonel’s voice dropped. The sneer was gone, replaced by a cold intensity. "For a hundred years, they’ve sold us the lie that they are closer to gods than men. And a hedge knight with shit on his boots just proved a dragon can be brought to heel." He leaned closer. "When the realm smells what he is now..."
Lyonel tapped two fingers against Dunk's jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"That is why you are coming to Storm's End. Right now, the dragons are too busy licking their wounds. But when they find out—when, not if—they’ll want you erased from the histories, right down to Flea Bottom. Even your precious Baelor would have signed that warrant."
Lyonel stood up, towering over him again.
"There's a war coming." He was grinning again, a lopsided smirk. The aggression was gone, replaced by an intense warmth. "The Crown is bleeding, and the vultures will circle. We could be a force in that storm, you and I. You'll consider it?"
Dunk sat in silence.
He heard the words. He would think about them later. He knew already he would not think about them later.
Lyonel didn't wait for an answer. He slapped his injured thigh again, cheerful. "Good! Caravan departs after the roast."
And with that, he turned and strode away from the river, leaving Dunk alone in the cold morning air.
The words of the Ashford septon washed over the crowd, thin against the crackling of the pyre.
"Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Protector of the Realm…"
The blazing heat of the fire prickled the raw wounds on Dunk’s face. His eye stung, whether from the heat or the salt of the sweat running down his brow. He stood near the back, leaning on his makeshift crutch, suffocating under his tunic.
Around him, the high lords of the realm stood in immaculate silence. Across the pyre, the surviving dragons stood still. Prince Maekar, a statue carved from frozen iron, completely untouchable. Beside him stood Egg. It was the first time Dunk had seen him in Targaryen colors—pitch black and blood red. Egg's eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from crying in the dark. They had rushed the pyre. Maekar wanted it done before the body started to stink in the heat.
Aerion was nowhere to be seen.
Dunk blinked slowly, keeping his good eye fixed on the pyre, watching the flames eat away at the scarlet threads of the three-headed dragon.
He had expected to feel some divine clarity here. Some sign that the gods had a plan. But there was only the smell of burning wood and roasting meat, no different from the cookfires in the camp.
Baelor Targaryen took an excruciatingly long time to burn. Black smoke swallowed half the meadow, carried south by the wind. When the stench of fat finally faded, the high lords cleared their throats. They muttered their final prayers to the realm and, one by one, left the field without looking back.
Prince Valarr sat alone near the edge of the heat. The scorched grass around him rustled in the wind. He wore a dark cloak, face tight and pale. He smelled like nothing at all. Grief had scrubbed him clean, or the fire had. His hair was brown, but a stark streak of silver-gold ran through it.
A phantom twitch went through Dunk’s hands—an unwanted echo of the touch. Dunk tightened his jaw, stopped a few paces away. His throat was tight, choked with ash and apologies he didn't know how to voice.
"My prince. Your father, he was… He was a great man."
Valarr didn't turn his head. His eyes reflected the dying flames—one cold blue, the other warm violet. "He died in my armor." The prince’s voice was flat. "Plenty of sons have died in their father’s armor. How many fathers have died in their son’s?"
Dunk stared at the charred wood. He felt stupid, clumsy, out of place. "I could not say."
Valarr finally looked at him. There was no anger in his eyes, but it somehow made Dunk feel worse. Who was he to even stand here?
"He had it in him to be a great king," Valarr whispered, as if reading his thoughts. "The greatest since Aegon the Dragon." Valarr’s gaze sharpened, cutting through Dunk like Valyrian steel. "Why would the gods take him and leave you?"
Dunk’s grip on the crutch tightened until the wood groaned. Because the gods are blind, he thought.
"I’ve wondered the same," he managed to say.
Valarr turned his back to him. Before his face was fully hidden, the mask slipped just enough for Dunk to see it—a downward tug of his pale lips, a scowl of sheer disdain. "Be gone with you, Ser Duncan."
Dunk didn't say another word. He began to limp away, the heat of the fire receding, leaving him cold.
There was no grand design or higher revelation to be found in this mess. The realm had traded its future for a hedge knight, and now it was moving on.
The Ashford Meadow was a carcass being picked clean. Squires wrestled with canvas, tearing down the colorful pavilions. Merchants yelled over the clatter, packing away casks of ale. Dunk limped through the chaos.
His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth, but the world was still loud with scents: woodsmoke, horses and sweat, and the stink of blood in the soil.
And the eyes. Dunk felt them everywhere. Squires paused in their packing to stare. A merchant yanked his cart aside, giving Dunk a wide berth. Nobody here cared about the greatest king that never was. They wanted a show, they got it, and now they were going home.
"Ser Duncan. Dunk!"
Dunk stopped, swaying slightly. Raymun Fossoway was pushing his way through, a broad smile splitting his face.
"I went by your camp, but you weren’t there," Raymun panted, coming to a halt. He took in Dunk’s miserable posture, smile faltering. "You’ve come from Baelor’s funeral? I can’t believe you went."
"I thought I owed it to him," Dunk rasped. He looked around at the passing faces. None met his eye. "Everybody... everybody blames me for his death, don’t they?"
"I don’t," Raymun replied simply.
Dunk just stared. Before he could process the words, Raymun closed the distance. He had to push up on his toes to reach, clapping his arms around Dunk in a solid embrace. It jolted Dunk’s ribs, but grounded him too. A warm piece of the real world instead of the royal ashes scattering in the wind.
"Aye," Dunk cleared his tight throat, giving Raymun an awkward pat on the back before stepping away.
He raised his head, noticing the patch of grass where the grand Fossoway pavilion had stood just yesterday. Only a sagging canvas lean-to remained in its place.
"Steffon took my tent," Raymun explained, waving a hand as if losing his inheritance was a minor inconvenience. "Said I betrayed the family by abandoning him. Can you believe that? Left with little else."
"I’m sorry, Raymun."
"No, don’t be. He’s just mad that he lost." Raymun scoffed, nose crinkling. "First trial of seven in a hundred years, and Lord Steffon Fossoway caught a brutal thrashing from his little cousin. Besides, it’s better to be an unripe green apple than a wormy red one."
Dunk let out a rough grunt that was almost a laugh. "Suits you."
"I think I broke one of my cousin’s ribs," Raymun added cheerfully.
"Aye." Dunk glanced at the shield lying near Raymun's tent, the freshly painted green apple chipped but defiant.
"Morning."
Dunk blinked, nearly tripping on his stick.
A woman had stepped up beside Raymun. It was Red, the red-haired whore from the caravan camp.
"Uh, good morning," Dunk said awkwardly, shifting his weight.
"Ser Duncan, this is Rowan," Raymun puffed his chest out, looking as though he’d just conquered the Stepstones. "Of the Green Apple Fossoways."
"Huh?"
"My wife."
"Pleased to meet you, Ser Duncan," Rowan said smoothly. Her eyes danced with amusement.
"Oh! Right, um... pleased to meet you too, Lady Rowan." Dunk cleared his throat.
"She came and watched the trial," Raymun beamed, oblivious to the stares of a few passing squires. "Said I fought like a wild bull."
"Mm. And with all the grace of one," Rowan teased. They both chuckled, hands intertwined.
"I had no squire to see to my wounds, and she offered to help me out of my armor and..." Raymun cleared his throat, looking pleased with himself. "Anyway, she says I’ve got her with child now, so I figured we ought to get married."
Rowan placed a hand over her flat stomach. "Mm. Feels like a boy."
"You hear that, Ser Duncan? A boy."
"That’s, um..." Dunk stared at them. He wasn't a maester, but he knew how time worked.
He looked at Rowan. She met his gaze squarely, chin tilted up.
Dunk looked away, the memory of Ser Arlan’s lonely grave prickling at the back of his mind. He thought of his own lie—the knightly vows he’d never taken, the armor he had no right to wear, and the prince who had died to defend the honor of a fraud.
They were all just lowborns, scrambling for a foothold in a world that wanted to grind them into the mud. If she was a fake lady, then he was the perfect fake knight to congratulate her.
He shook his head and managed a weary smile. "Congratulations."
Rowan’s gaze softened. Then she looked him over. "You’re bleeding through your shirt, Ser," she said plainly. "And you're swaying like a drunkard. Here, lean on him."
"I can walk," Dunk muttered, though his knees felt like they were made of wet straw.
"Shut up and take my shoulder," Raymun ordered, stepping under Dunk's good arm before he could protest. "There’s a tavern tent still standing by the lists. They’re pouring the last of the Arbor gold before packing the casks. We’re drinking to Humfrey. And to us."
Dunk didn't have the strength to argue. With Raymun supporting him and Rowan clearing the path ahead like a seasoned commander, they dragged themselves through the camp.
The tavern tent was deafening, both in noise and in stench.
Mutton grease. Spilled ale, turning sour in the rushes. Dunk breathed through his mouth, but it didn’t help. The air tasted thick. Whatever had sharpened his scent since yesterday was still gaping wide, as if waiting, and the tent stewed in this suffocating brew.
A few minor lords and hedge knights sat at the trestles, nursing tankards in the gloomy light. Dunk lowered himself with a muffled groan, leaning his crutch against the canvas wall.
Soon, a serving boy slammed a wooden board onto their table, piled high with thick cuts of roasted mutton and a trencher of dark gravy.
"To Beesbury," Raymun said, raising his cup over the noise of the tent.
"And to Hardyng," Rowan added, tearing a piece of meat with her teeth.
"To their memory. To the brave hearts."
Dunk raised his cup, taking a slow pull of the Arbor gold. He looked at the bottom of the tankard, expecting the familiar wave of guilt. But instead, there was only a strange, hollow detachment.
Ser Humfrey Beesbury and Ser Humfrey Hardyng had ridden into the lists of their own free will. They had sought glory, or justice, or vengeance, and they had found their ends. Every man who answered the call that day had taken exactly what the gods handed him.
The question is, Dunk thought, what exactly did they hand me?
"How do they get the bees to swarm like that?" Raymun asked, his mouth half-full of mutton, staring at a group of Beesbury men across the tent. "Some sort of magic?"
"Magic? They simply put the queen in Beesbury’s coffin," Rowan said with a deadpan expression.
"Oh!" Raymun’s eyes widened in genuine wonder.
"Fucking bee magic," Rowan muttered, rolling her eyes to the canvas roof. "My poor sweet warrior. All that fighting’s turned your brains to apple mush."
Raymun chuckled, unabashed, leaning in to kiss her cheek loudly. Dunk watched them, a faint smile touching his battered face.
It was absurd. It was life.
"Do you yield, dragon whore?!"
"Eat shit, Sarrah!"
The shrill voices cut through the din. Just outside the open flap of the tent, two camp children were whacking each other with splintered tourney lances. One had a burlap sack tied like a cape. They were laughing, mimicking the slaughter.
Dunk’s jaw hardened. He pushed himself up from the bench, blocking the light. "Off you go."
The children froze, dropped the sticks, and scattered like frightened mice.
As Dunk turned back, his gaze caught movement in the dark corner of the tent.
"Serving boy!" a voice rasped, accompanied by the weak pounding of a fist against wood. "My cup."
Dunk forgot about the table, the mutton, and the Fossoways. He limped straight toward the shadows.
A sickeningly familiar view. Daeron Targaryen was slumped across a sticky table, looking like a corpse dragged from a river: left eye bloodshot, a long scratch across his cheek, silver hair tied in a knot. He smelles of sour wine and overripe fruits.
Dunk stopped at the edge of the table, knuckles white around the wood of his crutch. Daeron tilted his head slowly, looking up at Dunk with hazy eyes.
He looked entirely empty.
"Nothing to say, Ser Duncan?" Daeron slurred. "No grand speeches? I lied to my father. I started the fire. I killed my uncle. Go on."
"I don't care," Dunk said flatly. The words surprised even him, but they were true. "I’m done carrying the dead."
Daeron stared at him. Stripped of the punishment he so desperately craved, the eldest son of Maekar looked incredibly small.
"...Will you take Egg to squire?" Daeron asked suddenly.
Dunk’s brow furrowed. "He’s not my concern."
Daeron chuckled. A wet sound that ended in a cough.
"You know..." Daeron trailed off, staring into his empty cup. "My brother wasn’t always such a little monster."
"Egg is no monster. He’s just a boy."
"I didn’t mean Egg."
Dunk froze. The noise of the tavern dulled.
Daeron traced the rim of the cup with a trembling finger. "But no doubt we’ll make a man of him, too. Perhaps the seeds of madness are sown in the womb, as the maesters say."
Daeron finally looked up. His eyes locked onto Dunk’s, and they weren’t the cold steel-blue of Prince Baelor, nor the deep purple of Egg. A washed-out lilac, faded and ruined.
"But Aerion was quite the glad child once," Daeron whispered. Dunk heard every slurred word with sickening clarity. "He liked fishing."
Dunk felt gooseflesh prickle his arms. It wasn't just the words.
No, it was a cold wisp of air. The scent of impending rain.
His head snapped up. Past the open canvas flap, the sky was muddy grey. Wind rushed in, tossing Daeron’s hair. Dunk felt himself exhaling sharply, ribs shifting under the tunic, before inhaling again—drawing in the coming storm.
The beast he had fought for justice was no beast anymore. Since crawling out of the mud, the only way to stomach the fact that he himself had gone mad was a simple excuse. That Aerion was no longer a man. A monster, gone too far to be reached.
But he was also a boy who liked fishing. Just like Egg. Or nothing like Egg at all.
Pale and wiry, wading in a royal pond with frogs and reeds, hiding from the summer rain. While somewhere else, at that exact age, Dunk was eating rats, dreaming that the sky would drop bread instead of water.
Dunk twitched toward Daeron, or the cup, or nothing at all. But Daeron was already miles away, staring into the dregs of his wine.
Dunk's teeth suddenly pulled, an ache that had nothing to do with pain. He didn't let himself think why. Lyonel had tried to name it for him, and he'd shoved the words aside.
Now they came back. His tongue found the inside of his cheek, tasting copper that was not his own.
To another prince, he, once again, had nothing to say.
Dunk pushed his way out of the tavern tent. The canvas flap dropped shut behind him, muffling the drunken laughter, the droning flies, and the heat of roasting mutton.
How long had he stood there? The mutton on the Fossoways' table must have gone cold. Dunk stood still for a moment, letting the chill wash over him. Took a deep breath. The air tasted of wet earth and crushed grass. Harsh and dirty, clearing the last of the Arbor gold from his head.
Leaning on his crutch, he began the slow trek across the camp. Mud sucked at his boots with every step.
The tourney grounds were dead. The grand viewing stands loomed in the dark mist like the ribs of some rotting beast. Just yesterday, they had been packed with screaming lords and ladies, hungry for blood. Now, there was only the wind.
He needed to focus on tomorrow. Armor was torn to shreds, but Steely Pate had sworn to hammer the worst of the dents out by dawn. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would hold for a while. He had to pay the man his coppers, saddle Thunder, pack the old Chestnut, and ride out before the royal caravan started forming its ranks.
Just a hedge knight moving on to the next keep. Ser Arlan would have probably called him a fool, but he would have nodded at the simple logic of it.
Dunk’s boot caught on a splintered piece of wood. He stopped, swaying slightly.
He was standing at the edge of the lists. Dunk stared, waiting for the familiar wave of nausea, or the panic. Nothing came.
Instead, there was the taste of metal. The sharp angles of the black armor, the blood-soaked face.
The pulse at the throat, frantic and soft under his touch. The absolute surrender of a prince underneath him, limp and pliant.
In the quiet of the meadow, he could finally be honest with himself. To drop the guilt like a ruined shield. Did that make him a worse person or a better one? He didn’t know. Was it worthy of a knight? He simply couldn’t force himself to care.
His eye found the stone keep of Lord Ashford rising above the trees. The dragon, look at the dragon, he thought absently. Second floor, the dark window above. No shadow behind it—no one to hide or seek him.
Dunk held his gaze on the dark keep for a long moment, tasting the cold rain on his lips. Somewhere low in his stomach, a dark languor drew itself tight, finding no way out.
He fought the pull the way he'd fought for every stale crust in the alleys—with nothing to lose.
And then, he let it go.