Chapter Text
The man from the inn didn’t look princely. He was pale in the face and slightly clammy, his light brown hair a frazzled mess. If it wasn’t for the fineness of his velvet clothes, he would probably resemble a scarecrow more than a Targaryen. He was also swaying slightly on his feet, being at least partially supported by his father’s grip on the back of his doublet. Still, even in the dim light of the room, Dunk could see that his eyes were the same pale blue-lilac colour as Prince Maekar’s.
It really was him - the man from the inn, the drunkard who had been slumped face down, rambling about dreams and trees - and that very same man was Prince Daeron. Dunk shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling the coldness of the room. His immediate urge was to apologise, to drop to his knees and hope that the elder Princes were feeling forgiving, but before he could do so he realised that he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be apologising for. Mistaking Prince Daeron for a drunken lordling, he supposed? For getting in his way, aggravating him, disturbing him?
He looked desperately at Prince Baelor, hoping for some sort of sign as to how to proceed.
Prince Baelor’s expression was mild but friendly, his head tilted to one side a little. Prince Maekar’s was rather more impatient. It was clear they expected him to say something and weren’t too inclined to direct him.
“Hello, milord,” he hazarded, looking down at Daeron. “I’m happy to see you were found a-right.”
“He was found drunk out of his fucking mind, Ser, and face down in a pile of hay in the stables,” said Maekar, giving his son another quick shake. It was impressive how much derision the Prince seemed to be able to layer onto the word ‘Ser’. For a man who had just recovered one of his lost children, Prince Maekar did not seem particularly pleased.
“But he is unharmed,” Prince Baelor offered. “Quite unharmed, Ser Duncan. A little worse for wear for the drink, but that will correct itself.”
“That’s good,” Dunk said, simply, “And the innkeeper?”
He hadn’t really considered it at the time, in such a hurry to tell them what little he knew and get out of the room, but he had recalled the innkeeper since then. The woman had been kind to him and she had young ones of her own to keep an eye on, all without guards trampling about and asking questions, stirring things up. That, and Dunk had poached her stable boy, even if it was unintentional.
“We don’t have time for this,” Prince Maekar snapped.
“Brother,” Baelor replied, mildly. “The innkeeper was quite willing to help our guards locate Prince Daeron, especially once the issue of his tab was raised. My nephew was somewhat lower on coin than he expected.” He must have spotted something in Dunk’s expression, because he continued, “All debts have since been made up, and the innkeeper is no worse off for the experience.”
“Quite the bloody opposite,” Maekar muttered. “But I-”
“I had enough when I left,” Prince Daeron said, mulishly, “He must have taken it.”
Dunk froze.
It was no mystery what probably happened to the Prince’s gold. Daeron had been a sitting duck at the inn, virtually insensible in the common room for hours, if not days. Finely dressed, paying in gold, and making no real attempt to disguise himself, he was a pick pocket’s dream - Rafe would have jumped for joy if they had ever encountered such a fine target as Daeron in the winesinks of Fleabottom. She would have taken his coin in a heartbeat.
So would Dunk, most likely.
A sort of guilt prickled up the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry, milords, but I didn’t take - ”
“We’re not worried about the contents of a coin purse, Ser, but my son!” Prince Maekar barked.
Dunk’s eyes flickered back to Prince Daeron, questioningly. The man looked quite miserable, but otherwise intact.
“My brother is referring to his youngest, Prince Aegon,” Baelor said, quietly. “Daeron and Aegon both departed from Summerhall for this tourney, and arrived at the inn several days prior. However, at some point, Prince Aegon appears to have… parted ways with his older brother, and either he or someone else may have helped themselves to Daeron’s coin.”
“Oh,” Dunk said.
“The innkeeper recalls my nephews arriving, then seeing the youngest Prince on several occasions, but it seems he left the inn before Daeron was found, and you, Ser, arrived a day or so after the last time he was seen.” Baelor paused for a moment. “My nephew was under the impression that the young Prince did not leave alone…”
Prince Daeron visibly tensed in his father’s grasp.“I said that he -” he interjected.
“That he went off with a great robber knight,” Prince Maekar said, then gestured shortly at Dunk. “That was what you told the guards.”
Prince Daeron seemed fascinated by the floorboards. His father shook him again, at which point his gaze finally settled on Dunk, who was still frozen in place.
“Well,” he said slowly, “He’s certainly great.”
Dunk knew he looked panicked, but couldn’t do much to help it.
“Your grace, I never - I mean, I spoke to Prince Daeron for a few moments, but the innkeeper saw, and her little daughter was on the stairs.” He realised how stupid it sounded as he said it. A hedge knight was barely better than a bandit in the eyes of many, and the words of a petty innkeeper and her child wouldn’t be taken much more seriously. He felt his voice grow hoarse. “There were no other children. Prince Daeron was… he was sick, he was upset, but I would never…”
“Peace, Ser Duncan,” Prince Baelor said, soothingly, “The innkeeper already described all of this to us, as you have said - ”
“That’s irrelevant,” Prince Maekar snapped, “Daeron, is this him or not?”
Prince Daeron looked pained.
“Daeron,” Prince Maekar repeated, “Is this him?”
The Prince wasn’t looking at him at all, Dunk realised, only at his son. He didn’t speak softly. Instead, his voice was hard, clipped. It didn’t seem there was anything more Dunk could say.
Prince Daeron looked at him for another long moment, until finally he spoke.
“No,” he said quietly, “I don’t believe that it is, it must have been someone else.”
Dunk felt a wave of relief roll over him. He swallowed the lump in his throat that had been threatening to rise, feeling a little embarrassed.
“For fuck’s sake,” Prince Maekar hissed, but Dunk saw his hand relax somewhat on the back of Prince Daeron’s doublet, allowing the younger prince to sag a little. Leaving Daeron to stand on his own two feet, Maekar turned on his heel and went to slump into a chair, closing his eyes.
Prince Baelor grimaced slightly, but took a purposeful step forward.
“I apologise, Ser Duncan, but Prince Aegon’s absence weighs on my brother - when we last spoke, you mentioned not having seen anyone accompanying Daeron. Have you, perhaps, remembered anything more?”
His words trailed off suggestively, his eyes fixed on Dunk’s face, attentive. They were odd coloured, Dunk realised, one dark and one blue-ish. Purple, he supposed, it would be purple in the right light, like all Targaryens. It was merely difficult to discern blue from lilac from purple when you only saw it briefly.
The answer was no. Dunk hadn’t recalled anything new about that evening, in fact, he had barely thought about it at all, except to feel a bit sorry for the innkeeper. But that was clearly not what the Princes wanted him to say.
He floundered for something, anything, to assuage either of them, wracking his brain for whatever he might have missed. “I… I don’t remember a young prince, my lords, it was only Prince Daeron who I spoke with, and the innkeeper, and it was only when he…” Dunk stalled abruptly.
“When he what, man?” Prince Maekar asked flatly, still reclined against the high back of his chair.
“He was, well, ill, milord, physically… across my shoes.”
There was a heavy sigh.
Dunk knew he was on the verge of babbling, but the urge to fill the empty silence was growing too great:
“If you don’t mind me saying, your grace, Prince Daeron had been asleep awhile in the inn’s common room, which was empty on account of the tourney, and it was already growing dark when I arrived and woke him. I saw no boys there, excepting my squire, and the innkeeper mentioned her son…” Dunk hesitated, then continued the line of thought. “The innkeeper’s boy couldn’t be too much older than the Prince and was a hunter, perhaps they went to the woods or some such to play or hunt, and-”
“My son is bookish, Ser, and well aware of his station in life,” Prince Maekar said, sharply, “He would not leave his brother to play games in the woods with smallfolk.”
Dunk flinched, but Baelor moved to intervene.
“What my brother says is largely true, Ser,” the elder Prince said, mildly, “Prince Aegon is… Well, something of his father’s shadow, and more given to reading than to outdoor pursuits. His mother, when she lived, was much the same. He is not likely to have wandered into the woods.”
A small part of Dunk wasn’t entirely convinced. A dead mother and a drunk brother left in charge. Most boys would chafe under such conditions, and a wilful young prince more than most.
“He is, however, rather a Targaryen,” Prince Baelor said.
He was looking at Dunk again, with the same slightly odd intensity as during their previous meeting. He also didn’t break eye contact much, or blink, from what Dunk could tell. Combined with the odd-coloured eyes, it was a strange effect.
“Rather obviously a Targaryen, I should say,” the Prince continued. “He favours his father in looks and was dressed to attend the tourney. In addition, he may have taken a good portion of Daeron’s coin, though he left their horses in the stables.”
The reason for the Prince’s concern was clear. If a drunken Daeron was a robber’s dream, then an unaccompanied child was only marginally less so, to say nothing of a child wearing the livery of the king’s family and with Valyrian features. The countryside around Ashford teemed with knights and their entourages and merchants and sellswords, some of whom bore no particular love for the Targaryens. Dunk didn’t know much, but he knew enough from Ser Arlan to understand that much of the Reach had favoured the Blackfyres during the rebellions. If they were lucky, the boy would have done something to disguise himself and change his clothes before he reached any of the major roads. If not…
“I’m sorry, milords, but I didn’t see any such boy. I could ask my squire, but he…” He hesitated. Egg didn’t seem to get along well with other children, if the pageboy was anything to go by, and was certainly averse to lords and royals at the best of times. Still, there was a chance. “He’s not mentioned seeing anyone, the Prince or any knight who may have taken him, but he’s an observant lad.”
Baelor seemed to consider it. “It seems likely that Prince Aegon had departed by the time that you and your squire arrived, but anything the boy remembers may be significant. If the Prince has remained on the roads, we believe he may have travelled east, if he has not…”
Maekar interrupted once more, “He would not go to Oldtown or fucking Dorne,” he snapped, “He’s not that stupid.”
“Be that as it may,” Prince Baelor continued, apparently undeterred, “We think now that…”
“He wanted to come to this cursed tournament,” Daeron said. He had moved to stand closer to his father’s chair in the meantime, half hiding behind its tall back and holding onto its top rail to steady himself. It was, Dunk realised, the first time the man had spoken unprompted.
Prince Maekar twisted in his seat to glare up at his son.
“I did say, father,” Daeron said, flatly. “He’s upset about Aemon, yes, but this is the only thing he’s talked about as of late.” Daeron’s brow furrowed slightly, “He brought a book with him from the library, snuck it in his bags - some heraldry thing, full of pictures. He wouldn’t come down to sit in the common room with me after the first day, he just stayed in the room with that book. Coming here, being my squire…” he shook his head slowly, “Pity, he even let me cut his hair for the occasion.”
If anything, Prince Maekar’s glare intensified.
“He has purple eyes, father,” Daeron replied, “His hair being a touch shorter is hardly going to make him difficult to locate.”
“We now favour the idea that the young Prince may be in Ashford, Ser, or on his way here,” Baelor said, looking at Dunk once more.
“Oh,” Dunk said. It would make sense. Even if the young prince was on foot, it was a simple enough journey to Ashford, and he would be one of many children running loose around the tourney grounds. So long as he had the sense to change his clothes and had acquired his elder brother’s coin purse, then he would be able to pay his way. Still, it wasn’t good, a child walking around with that amount of coin on him. Dunk tried not to think about it.
“Lord Ashford was kind enough to locate some additional guards, as well as one of our…” for a moment, Prince Baelor hesitated. “One of our uncles had a few men to spare, and is of course very keen to see Aegon brought home safely.”
Dunk nodded.
“I wish you well in finding him, milord,” he said, “But I-”
“Know nothing, yes, we can tell,” Prince Maekar said, “Brother, when are you going to bring this to a close?”
Something like irritation flickered across Prince Baelor’s face - it surprised Dunk. The elder prince seemed so determinedly even-tempered that seeing his brother needle at him and succeed felt like he was intruding on something.
“I had hopes you would keep a watch for my nephew, Ser Duncan,” Prince Baelor said, smoothing his hands down the front of his tunic. It was unnecessary. The garment looked as if it had been stitched and pressed within an inch of its life. “Anything you might recall, or perhaps anything your squire might remember…”
“He’ll tell you, uncle, as he told you all about me,” said Prince Daeron, blithely. “No hard feelings, are there, Ser Giant?”
“None, milord,” Dunk said, hurriedly. The idea of maintaining a grudge against a Prince was laughable. It would be like quarrelling with a mountain or a river.
“I can be a little temperamental, I know, when I’m in my cups,” Daeron continued. To Dunk’s horror, he stepped from behind his father’s chair and began to walk towards Dunk in a familiar manner.
“You seemed troubled, milord,” Dunk said, glancing at Prince Baelor again. “I think you were half in a dream.”
“That I was,” Prince Daeron said, smiling. It was not a particularly cheerful smile. “I dreamed of you, didn’t I?”
Prince Baelor went still.
“Yes - I think you - I mean, you said that you did,” Dunk replied, “You said you dreamed of me and you mentioned - ”
“Dragons,” Daeron said, slowly. “A great beast, its wings outstretched and large enough to cover the meadow, and around it a ring of trees. You were there, Ser, and then the dragon dropped to the ground, and the trees…” he trailed off with a frown. “No, it’s gone, I think.” Prince Daeron blinked several times and something seemed to clear from his expression, like a film of dust being brushed away. He smiled at Dunk again. “Very tricky to remember your dreams, isn’t it?”
“Of course, milord,” Dunk said, meekly. Dunk had dreamt of a few strange things in his life, but certainly nothing involving dragons.
“The dragon, Daeron,” Prince Baelor asked, “It collapsed?”
Prince Daeron turned back to look at his uncle. “In the Meadow, and its wings dropped.”
“Dead?” Maekar said, “Or alive?”
“I - “ Prince Daeron paused, apparently unsure, “Well, it certainly didn’t look alive… It might have been either - ”
“And what colour was it?” Baelor asked, interrupting.
“I don’t really…” Daeron hesitated, eyes darting towards Prince Maekar.
“Just answer the question,” his father said, shortly.
“It was a great dragon, with silvery scales,” Daeron said, nervously, now glancing up at Dunk.
Dunk met his eyes, feeling more than a little lost.
Prince Baelor relaxed slightly, his shoulders loosening.
“I see,” he said, “Thank you, nephew, we will discuss this further.”
***
Prince Maekar rose and came to stand closer to his eldest son’s side, bringing all three Targaryens into a huddle before Dunk. Prince Daeron and his searching expression were mostly blocked from view, obscured behind the broad span of his father’s shoulders and his uncle’s height and his own long, light hair. The elder princes were speaking amongst themselves, very quietly, and their expressions were almost unreadable - intent, but something brighter in Maekar’s than in Prince Baelor’s. After their exchange was completed, Prince Baelor turned back to Dunk.
“Thank you, Ser, but I should release you before we take up anymore of your time,” he said. “A pageboy brought you here, yes?”
“He did, your Grace,” Dunk answered, stepping hurriedly out of the way as the Prince strode across the room and towards the door, “But I believe he has left, Ser, he must have had other business elsewhere.”
Prince Baelor agreed, mildly, “No doubt he did. Lord Ashford and his Keep have spared no effort or expense.”
“He must be very fond of his daughter,” Dunk said, “To go to all this trouble for her nameday.”
“I’m certain he is,” Prince Baelor said, drily, but then his expression softened.
Prince Baelor opened the door and Dunk, after a moment, followed him out into the corridor.
Ashford Keep was, by this point, starting to come alive. Their room had been quiet and dark, the curtains still drawn and no fire kindled in the grate, but outside of it the light was streaming in through the windows and there were the telltale sounds of quiet, quick footsteps and the low, percussive thumps of something being lifted and carried. At the far end of one corridor, Dunk saw a flash of long skirts going around the corner. He wondered whether it was Lady Ashford, then dismissed the thought. It would be a maid at this hour of the morning.
Dunk rose early by long-established habit. There was always something nice, he found, about the earliest hours of the morning, before most others had woken for the day. It was a quiet, bright time. He was in a similar moment now, he realised, in this quiet, bright corridor. He would finish speaking with the Crown Prince of the realm, then have to go about as if nothing of real note had taken place. He already felt a little tired and shivery, relieved and worried in almost equal measure. Was this what the lords and ladies at court felt like, or did they grow used to it?
“Ser Duncan,” Prince Baelor said, Dunk stopping immediately and turning to look. The Prince’s expression was kindly, looking up at him with an almost amused curiosity. “We have yet to discuss a reward for your help in finding Daeron. My brother is, of course, very anxious about Prince Aegon’s whereabouts, but you have still done us a considerable service.”
“That’s not necessary, your Grace,” Dunk blurted out.
Unfortunately, this only seemed to amuse Prince Baelor further.
“Be that as it may,” the Prince said, “I will have to find something suitable, my family can hardly let honesty go unrewarded.”
Dunk’s instinct was to refuse again, but it hardly seemed right to disagree with a Prince. Instead, he merely nodded. “Thank you, your Grace,” he replied. “But I must get back to my squire, as he is guarding my camp.”
“You seem fond of the boy,” Prince Baelor said, inclining his head. “Hopefully he serves you well in the jousts. Take your leave, Ser.” He paused, then added. “Another thing, my brother suspects that young Aegon means to come to Ashford, or that he might be here already. He and some of his men mean to search tonight, but I wondered if you might keep your own eyes open.”
“Thank you, your Grace, of course,” Dunk replied, feeling slightly mystified. He bobbed his head awkwardly, half nod and half bow, then felt heat rising in his face as he blushed.
Thankfully, Prince Baelor just smiled and dismissed him.