Chapter Text
With a name like Summerhall, Dunk thinks that he could be forgiven for expecting something a little more… cheerful. Sunshine, and roses around the door, or some such loveliness. As it is, he arrives in the pitch black of night. It is very early in the spring and the air still freezes his cheeks when he stumbles out of the cramped coach, and helps the silent driver to remove his luggage.
“Kitchen's this way,” the man grunts, seemingly happy for Dunk to bear the burden of his single battered suitcase. “Misses should be awake, the lamps are still lit.” And he disappears into the coach house, leaving Dunk to find his own way. The courtyard is all in darkness, but he struggles his way across without too much incident. Fortunately the door to which he had been indicated creaks open at his push, and he's swallowed up in a gust of warm air.
An older woman, wearing a plain but well-made dress and a white cap, sits before the large kitchen fire. She must have been asleep, but she startles when the wind pushes Dunk into the room, and he stumbles over the flagstones with a clatter. She springs from her chair and smoothes her dress; in the low light of the fire it's difficult to make out much of her features, except that the hair under her cap is pure white.
“Mr. Pennytree, I hope? We had expected you for some hours now!” She comes forward to close the door behind Dunk and to take a good look at him. “Heavens! Aren't you a tall one!”
Dunk flushes, as he always does when anyone looks at him closely. “My apologies for keeping you up, ma'am, the weather rather delayed the journey. It rained badly as we came south, and the road was flooded.”
“You must be exhausted, dear. And half starved, I imagine. Come and sit by the fire. I've got some supper keeping warm on the stove for you.”
“Thank you,” Dunk bites his lip, shuffling across to the chair at the hearth. “Um. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs. Targaryen?”
The woman turns to him and laughs. Not an unpleasant laugh, in fact she seems rather pleased. Her cheeks flush, and she tucks a curl of white hair behind her ear. “Goodness me, no. I'm only Mrs. Alys, the housekeeper. But between you and me, I am a distant cousin to Mr. Targaryen himself. It's why he gave me this job – he can trust me above any other.”
She puts a large bowl of stew and a glass of milk on the table at Dunk's elbow, giving him an encouraging nod before she sits down in the second chair. “Mrs. Targaryen, bless her soul, died more than five years ago now. She was a good woman. As you can imagine, it hasn't been the same since. Her little girls, Daella and Rhae, they're off living with their aunt in Dorne. Their brother Aemon is away at a seminary. And young Aegon, who you've come to look after, he's run half wild. As for the others… well, best not to think about it much.”
Dunk tries not to let his heart sink at that bleak assessment. The thought of his young charge being so unmanageable is quite terrifying. “...And Mr. Targaryen?” He hazards to ask, when his spoon hits the bottom of the stew.
“Hardly ever here,” the housekeeper says, taking his empty bowl with a smile. “He has much business in King’s Landing, or so he says. He feels the loss of his wife very keenly, I believe. Many expected him to remarry but I doubt he ever will. Now, young Mr. Pennytree, I will see you to your bedroom, for I am sure you will be in need of your sleep.”
Dunk follows her up the grand stairs with a sinking feeling in his heart. It is a rich house, sumptuous, even. But an icy finger of dread flows through his body, no matter how lush the carpets and exquisite the paintings may be.
He ought to be grateful, though. After Flea Bottom Orphanage where he grew up, this place is heaven. His bedroom is far too luxurious for a mere tutor. Even the rooms which he shared alongside Mr. Arlan after he was taken on as an assistant were never, ever so nice. Dunk and his measly case of clothes are horribly out of place. His single nightshirt looks ridiculous in the curtained bed.
But he sleeps, anyway. If only for a few hours, to wake at dawn and face the new day.
Mrs. Alys is happy to see him up so early. Before he has even had breakfast, she takes him up to the nursery, and presents him with his pupil: Master Aegon Targaryen. The boy is very small, around 10 years old, and – to Dunk's astonishment – completely bald.
“He shaved it all off in some hare-brained scheme. We pray that it will grow back before his father returns,” Mrs. Alys sighs, and gives the child an affectionate little shake. “Well then young master, this is Mr. Pennytree, your tutor. You're to behave yourself, understand?”
Aegon nods, gazing up and up and up at Dunk. “Hello, Ser. Were you always so tall?”
“Not when I was a babe,” Dunk laughs nervously. “But yes, I've always been big.”
“I think I'll never grow any taller.” Aegon sighs mournfully. Mrs. Alys only shakes her head.
“You will, if you eat your breakfast. Come along now, both of you, and let us begin the day as we mean to go on.”
Over breakfast, Aegon chatters constantly about a hundred things: his sister's pony, which he is looking after while she is away. The last tutor, who whipped him. The frogs in the garden pond, and the possibility of collecting frogspawn soon. Dunk listens attentively and makes an appropriate reply here and there. This seems to earn Aegon's approval, because he allows himself to be herded into the school room after the meal.
“Lessons first. But after, perhaps you could show me around Summerhall? I arrived during the night and saw almost nothing.” Dunk suggests, flipping through the boy's exercise books. He seems to enjoy writing little stories, all of which are about knights and dragons and are quite good for his age. Even if his spelling is terrible.
“Oh, yes, Ser!” Aegon breaks out into a grin. “If you like, you could call me Egg. I think it suits me better, don't you?”
With the shaved head and the little pale face, Dunk has to admit that it rather does.
After some encouragement, Egg settles down to his mathematics. He still chatters almost constantly, but at least his mind stays on the task. Before the lesson is over, Dunk feels that he knows all the gossip about all the servants of Summerhall, including the ones that he hasn't met yet.
“Could we go outside now, please Ser? I've finished all my sums, and the sun has just come out!” He begs, and Dunk is quite happy to give in. Far from the out of control brat he had been expecting, Egg is well mannered and funny. He doesn't even complain when Dunk forces him to wear a hat outdoors.
“Here are the stables. This is Daella's pony, Moondancer. I make sure she's taken care of properly. Father says, if I behave well, I will have my own horse soon. When he's here, he lets me ride out with him. Do you ride, Ser? We have some big horses, even you could fit astride them!”
Dunk pats Moondancer, who seems an amiable creature. “I used to ride a lot when I was with Mr. Arlan. He was, well, a bit like a father to me. He was a tutor, and I was really only his assistant, but he was good to me. Taught me everything. But I had to sell our horses when he died.”
“I'm sorry, Ser,” Egg leans close, and pats Dunk's arm. “My mother died too. I still miss her awfully.”
Dunk awkwardly touches him on the shoulder. “Perhaps, next time your father comes, I will ask him if we could ride together. If you'd like to?”
Egg's small arms come around Dunk's waist in a fierce little hug. Not quite knowing what to do with the affection, Dunk rubs his little bald head. “Alright, alright. Come on. Let's go and look for frogspawn.”
It's long after lunch and late into the afternoon when Dunk allows Egg to bring his sketching tools outside to catch the last of the sun.
“Father says drawing and painting is really for girls,” the boy says, a little timid as he opens his sketchbook. “But aren't all the great master painters men? They must have learned somehow.”
Dunk (who is clumsy, but competent with watercolour) has seen too little of the world to know the answer. But he does know that Mr Arlan always gave sketching as part of his curriculum, and so he intends to do the same.
“I imagine they did. And I don't think it will do you any harm. Sketching is mostly about observation,” He looks across the terrace, eyes narrowed. “Speaking of which. Who is that man, Egg?”
A man with long sandy coloured hair has just stumbled out onto the terrace. He appears to be wearing his nightclothes.
“Hmm? Oh, that's just Daeron,” Egg looks up. “Ugh. I can smell him from here. Daeron!” He yells, waving until the man turns.
None the wiser to the man's identity, Dunk stands up. Daeron, whoever he is, laughs roughly. He staggers over and puts his hand out to rub Egg's head.
“So, this is the new tutor! Look at the size of him! Like a tree come to life,” a potent scent of wine wafts in Dunk's direction, and he winces slightly. “Daeron Targaryen, at your service Ser. I'm Egg's big brother.”
Dunk bows, and casts his mind back to Mrs. Alys and her assessment of the Targaryen children. She had not mentioned Daeron. “I'm honoured, Ser. I had no idea you were here, or I would have paid my respects.”
Daeron very nearly giggles. “No need for that. I'm not my father… What was your name again?”
“Dunk. Rather, Duncan. Duncan Pennytree.” Dunk shifts, a little uncomfortable, but Egg seems to think that his brother’s state is entirely normal.
“Didn't I say you were just like a tree? I was right. Well, Mr. Pennytree, I wish you the best of luck with my little brother. He isn't the worst of the lot, you'll be pleased to know.” He winks in Egg's general direction. Before Dunk can reply, he's meandering off in the direction of the house.
“Don't bother too much about him, Ser. He's harmless,” Egg confides. “He drives father mad, because he's the heir but he won't behave himself. He can be fun, though. If he's sober enough.”
Dunk hums, unable to think of something adequate to say. The evening chill is beginning to set in, so he gently nudges the boy to put away his things and go back inside.
“I'll read to you after dinner, if you'd like?” He offers, like a hand outstretched across the silence. Egg grins, his face suddenly alight again.
“Yes please, Ser!”
It is late spring, beginning to turn to summer. Maekar Targaryen rides through the countryside, as grim as a thundercloud. The sun shines in his eyes. His back aches. He has absolutely no desire to be riding towards Summerhall, and yet… he must. He has already stayed away too long, allowing himself the weakness of distance.
Something rustles in the undergrowth. Maekar, distracted by his black thoughts, fails to anticipate the horse startling under him. He swears loudly, trying to control the beast. But the stupid animal bucks and rears, and even as seasoned a horseman as Maekar knows that he can't stay on. He can at least roll out of the way when the horse throws him, but he does not avoid clipping his ankle badly as he goes down.
He lies in the dirt for half a minute before he notices the man.
A very tall – ridiculously tall, in fact – young man, dressed plainly, has caught hold of the horse and stands gently by the creature, calming it with soft words. The stupid animal has gone placid and sweet as a young lamb.
“Hey, you!” Maekar snaps. His ankle throbs. He could stand, but not without making the sprain worse. “Leave the bloody horse and give me a hand. What did you think you were doing, skulking around in the bushes?”
The hulking young giant startles almost as badly as the horse. He hurries to Maekar's aid quickly enough and assists him in sitting up first of all. Close to, he's a fine looking man, with pleasantly large features and sandy reddish hair.
“Begging your pardon Ser, I wasn't skulking. I was taking a walk,” His hand hovers over Maekar's injured limb, almost touching his boot. “But I'm very sorry to have done you harm, Ser. Can you stand?”
“Yes, if you help me,” Maekar grits his teeth and grips the young man's huge shoulder. He finds himself half lifted up with a strength he's rarely felt from any man. “Where did you walk from?”
The man holds tight and stable as a rock as Maekar tentatively puts his foot to the ground. “From Summerhall, Ser. It's only a few miles from here.”
Maekar freezes up for a moment and is glad that he can use the pain as an excuse. This is Aegon's new tutor, then. He is younger than Maekar would have chosen, if he had been present.
“I see,” he grunts. “Let me stand alone. And bring the horse.”
The man does as he is told, quickly and without complaint. He can follow orders, at least, despite his size. Or perhaps because of it. He helps Maekar to mount up, once again displaying enormous strength with barely a twitch of a reaction.
“You should turn back. It will begin to rain before long,” Maekar tells him shortly. “...I will not thank you for the sprain, but I do thank you for the aid.”
A soft pink blush floods up the young man's neck into his face. Maekar doesn't linger long enough to see how far it goes. His ankle throbs, and the first drops of rain splash against his cheeks, as he turns the horse toward Summerhall.
“Oh Mr. Pennytree! What a state you're in! Quick, you must run upstairs and change into your best clothes. Mr. Targaryen has returned home, and in such a foul mood – he had an accident on the road. Hurry, hurry now!”
Dunk doesn't even have time to respond before Mrs. Alys herds him up the stairs. He scarcely knows what to think. The rain has soaked him to the bone, and he cannot stop his mind from worrying about the strange man who was unseated from his horse during his walk. It was not strictly Dunk's fault, but he worries all the same.
Fortunately he only has two sets of clothes, so it doesn't take him long to choose his outfit. He leaves his wet things to dry by the fire, tries his best to neaten his hair, and scurries down the stairs again. There are voices in the drawing room, so Dunk tries to slip through the door as quietly as possible. With any luck the Master of Summerhall will have no interest in him whatsoever.
Inside the room, Egg is sitting on a footstool close to the fire, talking to someone whom Dunk cannot see yet. Surprisingly Daeron is also present, dressed properly, and lingering at the edge of the tableau as though he'd rather be anywhere else. Unfortunately he quickly spots Dunk, and breaks into a grin. Dunk gets the sinking feeling that Daeron is about to redirect the attention of the entire room towards him.
“Here's our dear Mr. Pennytree. Now Aegon has told you absolutely everything there is to know about him, you can meet him for yourself, father.”
Dunk creeps forward, ignoring Daeron's provoking smiles. It's a moment before he can actually see the figure in the armchair, what with the glow of the fire and the shadows.
“Mr. Pennytree. It's good to finally meet you,” that gravelly, faintly irritated voice is just the same as it was an hour ago, on the road a few miles from Summerhall. “I would get up and shake your hand but as you see, I am indisposed.”
The sprained ankle has been bandaged and elevated. Dunk stares at it, flushing red again, before managing to raise his eyes to the man's face. There isn't much resemblance to either of his sons, but – the white hair and beard should have given it away, perhaps. Dunk has seen the family portraits more than enough to know Maekar Targaryen when he sees him.
“Mr. Targaryen, Ser. I'm honoured,” Dunk makes a short and jerky bow, watching as Egg's father smirks at him. He's enjoying this. He must have known who Dunk was all along. “I'm so very sorry to see that you've hurt yourself, how very inconvenient for you."
The smirk turns into a glare. Then softens out into something else. “Yes, I dare say I will mend,” he grumbles. “Aegon has been telling me about your talents as a tutor. You seem to have many.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, Ser. But I do like to teach, and Egg– Aegon, I mean, he likes to learn.” Dunk replies, and sees the older man's eyebrows rise slightly, as though surprised.
“I would like to see his work. Tomorrow morning, perhaps.” Although phrased like a question, Dunk knows that this is a command. He nods and bows and puts his hand on Egg's shoulder gently.
“Come, it's time you were in bed. Say goodnight to your father.”
Egg reluctantly gets up from his stool and goes, a little falteringly, to his father. After a moment the boy puts his arms about the man's shoulders, hesitant in a way that Dunk has never seen him. Egg is an open and affectionate creature, always climbing over Dunk like a monkey.
Awkwardly, his father pats the top of his head (now downy and soft with pale golden curls). “Do as he says, Aegon. I will be here in the morning.”
Their eyes meet briefly over the boy's head. Maekar Targaryen's eyes are a startling shade of pale violet, made into two purple flames by the firelight. Dunk is captivated. He chews down on his lip hard enough to bleed, before he turns away.
“Goodnight, Ser.” Is all he can manage, with a mouth full of blood. He receives no reply, and does not expect one.
That night, his dreams are all fire and blood.