Chapter Text
If there was one thing Dunk learned from Flea Bottom when he was hunting down rats, cats, and pigeons was how to walk quietly and be invisible despite his size. Unwanted attention was bad attention, and bad attention meant being kicked into a ditch for the dogs to get you.
Perhaps it was a good thing that Egg had wanted to wander off on his own for a bit. See some of the world around him before Dunk went back to check on him to make sure that his squire wasn’t getting into any more mischief. The lad wouldn’t be at the camp for the entire day, no, he was much too spirited for that.
He carefully moved past maids who were carrying small bowls of water as an older woman with heavy lines on her forehead hurried them along with, ‘The Princes be needing their fucking hands washed!’ before their skirts disappeared into a servants' passage. The answering maids’ voices were low and distant as they ventured deeper into the background.
The place was certainly busy as Dunk moved, ducking his head under one of the doorways; the last thing he wanted was to smack himself again in the head and give himself another reason to be gawked at. It was like trying to navigate a damn maze as he shuffled around another corner. A group of voices quickly caught his attention by one of the bigger wooden doors as servants fluttered about, taking the outer robes before making themselves scarce from the room.
Eavesdropping on conversations set Dunk on edge; it caused more trouble than it was worth. Princes even more so. When he heard the announcer welcome Prince Baelor by his titles as the Hammer, heir to the Iron Throne, and prince of Dragonstone, which by itself sounded impressive before tacking on Prince Maekar like an afterthought. Dunk found it dickish, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. A prince was a prince, and that was enough.
He didn’t have a summons or any influence to even speak to royalty by name alone, let alone breathe the same air in the same room they were breathing, but this was his last shot to get vouched for the tourney. He only hoped that Prince Baelor remembered Ser Arlan so that he could finally be put in the lists and could work his way up to being a proper knight.
The nerves from earlier twisted in his chest into almost double their size. He couldn’t tell if they were his or an extension of someone else.
Lord Ashford’s voice came muffled as Dunk crept closer. “The spring rains have swollen many of our streams. Perhaps the young princes have just been delayed?”
“Fuck me,” A deep voice growled. “‘Delayed.’ They’re not delayed.”
“Do not curse our gracious host.” Another voice rose in gentle chide, trying to smooth over the other man's prickly behaviour. There was a bit of an edge there, but Dunk could not pinpoint if it was etiquette disguised as diplomacy or practiced patience.
“I said 'fuck me,' not 'fuck him’.” The deep voice snapped at the other. “It’s not his fault Father bade us to attend this miserable circus.” A pulse of irritation and concern laced up Dunk’s arm again before it got washed over in steady rolls of reassurance. Dunk thumbed at the curved script at his wrist; his soul bonds must’ve been upset as well. Seems like their days were becoming quite similar after all, it was a shame that Dunk couldn’t help with whatever they were struggling with in person. He pressed his own wave of comfort down the bond, feeling a flicker at the other end snagging it hungrily.
“Might we discuss this another time?” Prince Baelor tried to dissuade an odd hitch in his breath, pulling his brother’s attention towards him.
“I say we go hunting.”
Hunting? Why would the princes go hunting during a tourney? Dunk peeked through a gap in the curved wood arching across the wall. The princes stood near one another; they were similar in height and both handsomely distinct in their own way. Prince Maekar’s neatly trimmed white beard contrasted with the tailored red and black, while Prince Baelor’s black robes set off the charming grays intermingled with his dark hair. Perhaps if Dunk were a maiden like his fated bonds, he’d swoon. The odd flutter in his chest certainly seemed to agree with him.
He briefly wondered if all siblings acted like this. Japing and testing one's patience until it crumbled at the edges for some sort of reaction.
Baelor tilted his head towards his brother, his voice warm and level. “Daeron has done this before. You should not have commanded him to enter the lists.”
“You’d be more concerned if it was your son, I wager.”
“Maekar, brother, please.”
“Not to mention the flare-ups,” Maekar grumbled. “Our third was upset earlier. Their emotions have been getting stronger lately, more so than usual.” The prince rubbed at his chest with a closed fist, the motion gentle and lingering.
Baelor paused, his voice hushed. “Let's focus on one thing at a time. If they are in Ashford, then we’ll search for them as well.”
Dunk tried to peer further into the gap. Did he hear that right? The princes had a soulbond hiding around in Ashford?
Fingers suddenly tapped his arm, followed by a lilting hum startling Dunk nearly out of his skin as he looked to see who touched him.
A young, well-dressed girl stared up at him, her hair pulled back in delicate braids. Dunk stared down at her. Lady Gwin was just a wisp of a thing; no wonder he did not hear her approaching. He froze as they looked at each other for a moment; she seemed to be seizing him up despite her small size. For a brief second, Dunk feared that she would yell or loudly demand what he was doing, lingering in the halls. To his surprise, she did neither of these things.
“The prince’s sons are missing.” Ashford’s daughter whispered to Dunk conspiratorially. Oh, she had been eavesdropping as well while he got distracted. Her voice was so low that he bent at the waist slightly to hear her better.
“Oh.” Well, no wonder the prince sounded so aggrieved and put out about staying near the castle. A bubble of shame floated up in his chest. He had gotten so invested in the conversation that he hadn’t considered the fact that there was something bigger at stake than a royal love story slowly unfolding in real time in front of him. The impatient, cagey feeling in his chest heightened as the two brothers verbally poked and prodded at each other in the background.
“Probably dead.”
Dunk froze; the idea of someone's child being struck down was something he was too familiar with. “Dead?” He repeated worriedly. Were people searching for the children? How old were they? What did they look like? Did they need more assistance?
Gwin nodded, leaning closer by standing more on her toes. “Wars have started for less.” She said in a hushed tone, seeming to look him over again before finally deciding on something. “You’re big,” then tacked on, “and stupid.”
Dunk blinked in surprise at her blunt words, jerking back as she flicked her fingers at his face before scurrying off into an adjacent hall, the edge of her yellow dress whispering behind her. Were all young daughters of lords this intimidating on their name day, or did he just have some strange luck attracting cheeky youths?
***
“They have only been missing for a day. No doubt, Ser Roland will turn him up and Aegon along with him.” Baelor said, trying to soothe his brother's aggravated state over his missing sons. The boy's disappearance concerned him as well, and he tried to say as much over the bond. Gently pushing the antsy feeling of Maekar wanting to go off and hunt Daeron and Aegon down back to a more manageable level.
Maekar loved his children, Baelor would not deny this, but he was also a dragon: possessive, proud, overprotective, and would turn a half-blind eye to stunts when the children were not in the room with him. Baelor knew he was also guilty of such a thing with Valarr and Matary’s, also wanting to keep his children safe. It frustrated his eldest son, Valarr, to no end with Baelor’s constant shielding. Baelor secretly suspected he wanted to show off a bit for his lady wife; he couldn’t blame him. He had acted similarly towards Jena at that age, wanting to impress her outside of duty.
Maekar scoffed, looking away. “When the tourney is over, perhaps.” His eldest was not going to stand on his feet properly when he got his hands on that boy. Probably dragged his youngest son into whatever farce he cooked up in that pickled brain of his.
“Daeron belongs on a tourney field no more than Aerys or Rhaegel.”
“By which you mean he’d sooner ride a whore than a horse.”
Baelor looked at his brother, exasperated. Leave it to his brother to say the crude things out loud. “That is not what I said.”
“It’s what you fucking meant.” Maekar snarked, annoyance and worry shooting down the bond once more. “I do not need to be reminded of my son’s failings. He can change. He will change, gods be damned. Or I swear, I’ll see him dead.”
Baelor gave him a disapproving look, his little brother’s emotions chafing at him. It was no secret that his eldest nephew held no enjoyment for fighting or swordplay, unlike Maekar’s second-born, who enjoyed the idea of maiming far too much. While he did not hold his nephews in high regard, that did not mean he wanted to see them harmed or unhappy.
Baelor swore he could faintly feel a hint of amusement dancing at the back of his neck, tingling under his skin at Maekor’s bickering.
Their third, at least, was in good spirits. Both he and Maekar had gotten concerned while travelling on the road to Ashford at the feeling of prickling defensive anger presenting itself so suddenly after years of muted emotions echoing from a distance between them.
Maekar’s eyes caught his, the same tingling sensation crawling beneath his sternum. It had gotten stronger since their journey on the road, the emotions much more prominent and curling around the four letters printed on their skin in jagged lines.
Dunk.
A name both princes have been hunting down since it first appeared one evening when they were sharing a rare moment of peace during a family visit. Yet despite their searching, no one appeared to have even heard of such a person. Having no last name made it increasingly difficult to pull up any sense of family that their Dunk may belong to before they would add their own.
Baelor had to pull Maekar back from tearing a hired man, who worked in a smaller branch of the feudal system that recorded small land-owning families under the service of well-known houses, apart from getting too bold by commenting on how the name sounded like a disease. As if there was anything remotely sick about their destined bonded name. Baelor had made sure the man would not find any work easily in the future, despite Maekar’s evident displeasure at not being able to personally throttle and cut out the tongue of the poorly bred worm.
It had taken a lot of convincing that night on Baelor’s part for Maekar to forgive him on behalf of their missing third's honour for not getting his pound of flesh.
So he distracted him with a different sort of flesh to take his frustrations out on that night.
Maekar broke eye contact, his gaze sharpening towards the entrance leading into the main hall, seeming to have caught something to breathe his verbal fire at.
“You. Who are you? What do you mean by spying on us? Show yourself.” Maekar sharply demanded of the hulking shadow by the wooden door. The figure stilled for a moment at being called out before there was shuffling toward the open space.
The stranger cleared his throat; he sounded quite young and nervous to speak, if the stutter was anything to go by, “Um, My Lords, I do apologize for my interruption. I, um… I have asked Ser Manfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I might enter the lists, but he has refused to do so.”
Maekar squinted at the doorway, turning to Baelor in disbelief. “Who? What the fuck is going on?”
“We are the intruders here, brother,” Baelor said softly, beckoning the newcomer to step further into the light. “Come closer, Ser.”
There was a moment of hesitation before the young man stepped forward. Brown hair curling around his ears and the nape of his neck, before the bangs fell just above those clear blue eyes. A prominent feature outside of the boy’s obvious size. Seven Hells, he could probably toss either of them across the room like a wood-carved doll.
He was a green boy, from the looks of it, trying to stand a little straighter under the sudden attention. Patchy, grass-stained, rough-spun clothes, the cloak tattered and weathered from the elements, and a sword held up by a piece of fraying rope. He looked nervous, yes, but also looked hopeful as the young knight looked at Baelor and Maekar properly for the first time. No longer shrouded in shadows.
The tingling surged into an encompassing warmth at the sight of him. Their missing piece. Their third.
Their Dunk.
***