Chapter Text
259 AC, Summerhall
The hall was packed, and almost half the guests in attendance were of royal blood. And a lot more were of a descent that held royal blood in the last four generations, five with some, if one was generous. At the heart of the hall sat the grand fireplace, containing the eggs, carefully arranged in the middle of the flames.
While they certainly were the attraction most people stared at, the eggs were the least of Duncan’s worries. They were stone. Dead and gone, unlikely to make any trouble. The same could not be said about the guests, who were already indulging heavily in the wine, generously served.
His eyes went to Caderyn Grey, who stood at the other side of the hall, watching the entrance. There were five of them in attendance here, with Arlan Storm and Brynden Moore sleeping in their quarters. They would take over once the feast wound down - which was hours away. Caderyn’s gaze met his and there was an imperceptible nod towards him. All is good so far. That gaze said. They are still behaving.Which would be Caderyn’s way of expressing that the court was only mildly indulging in their usual foibles.
Standing taller than everyone else in the hall afforded Duncan a clear view of the guests, and of the troubles already arising. Drunken advances, japes becoming slights, and Prince Jaeherys definitely indulging a bit too heavily in the arbor gold. His constitution was not made for heavy drinking and he was stumbling already.
Duncan made eye contact with the guard by the pillar. He had assigned young Gerold Hightower there. The knight was eager and a bit itchy, so best keep him where Duncan could see him. When Gerold met his eyes Duncan pointed his chin towards the Prince, and Gerold’s eyes widened. He understood. He might be eager, but he used his brains with astonishing ease, contrary to Duncan who constantly felt slow around him.
While Gerold moved to help Prince Jaehaerys back to his quarters, Duncan’s attention was drawn towards the voices growing louder in front of the long firepit.
“You cannot be serious!” Prince Aerys’ voice rose clearly. “Grandfather… this is madness.”
Leaving his silent post, Duncan moved in closer, ready to interfere, should the young Prince fall out of line. The young man was unruly, and he had the temper to be a problem. Beside him stood his pregnant wife Rhaella.
“It is the only way,” the King spoke in measured tones, but his voice held an odd note. “To return the dragons to us, they must be woken. And only a death may pay for a life. I did not select your child lightly, Aerys…”
Duncan did not hear the rest of the words, as he froze up inside. He had seen this before - Aerion drinking wildfire, others of the royal family consumed by prophecy, by fire, by… madness. He had believed Egg was different. He had sense. He understood that problems needed to be solved through work, not mysticism. Duncan had believed that Egg saw clearly about the mad fascination his family held with fire and death.
Even when Egg had become somewhat obsessed with dragons, Duncan had told himself that Egg would be reasonable. He knew his comrades, Caderyn Grey and Vorian Dayne especially, believed that Duncan was blind to what was happening. That his long past with the King blinded him to the obsession the King had developed. Others whispered that Duncan was too old, slightly senile and might not see what others did.
They were wrong. Duncan did see. Duncan did hear. But he did not judge words, he did not worry about talk. He worried about deeds, about the crimes men actually did commit, not the ones they phantasized about. But now… this… this was not words any more. The deed was about to be done, and deep down inside Duncan a great disappointment woke. He had believed Egg would be different.
Duncan straightened up. At nine and sixty he was not the strong young man he once had been, but he still was stronger than most of his comrades. His physical strength was not the issue - the words were. While years in court, years as Lord commander had taught him to navigate pitfalls, express himself in a manner that did not sound like a complete moron, and observe carefully, he still relied on Caderyn when it came to fine rhetoric.
Princess Rhaella clutched her belly, tears in her eyes and fear in her voice. “My baby… you cannot take my child from me, please.” she pleaded, and to Duncan’s horror Egg was unmoved.
“It has to happen, and sad though it may be, it will restore this house.”
Duncan felt a cold hand lay itself around his throat. Egg could be a little shit at times, he could do things that were not well thought out and he did use people. He was a king, so all that was expected. But sacrificing an unborn babe? That went too far, too far for all his family, even Aerion had not been mad enough for that. He had drunken wildfire, which said a lot about his sanity, or lack thereof. Yet he had only harmed himself. Sacrificing a child… that went beyond any insanity Duncan had lived through with this royal family so far. And after over fifty years around them, forty in their service, that was saying something.
‘A hedge knight is the truest kind of knight, Dunk... Other knights serve the lords who keep them... but we serve where we will, for men whose causes we believe in.’ Ser Arlan had taught Duncan a lifetime ago. And only now, in this hall, after decades wearing the white, after years of being the Lord Commander, Duncan began to realise that the cause he had chosen might not have been the right one.
Duncan pushed past the crowd, shoving aside a few minor members of the royal house, along with the Lord Hand, who looked ready to collapse. Deliberately he stepped between Princess Rhaella and the King. He looked at the young woman, eyes wide in tears, her desperation clearly written on every feature of her pretty face. “Leave, M’Lady,” Duncan said quietly. “I’ll handle this.”
Her eyes widened and the hope he saw shining in there was all it needed to set his will on this course. Aerys at least used his common sense, and wrapped his arm around Rhaella, though at the King’s gesture, Gerold Hightower and Reynald Vance blocked their leaving the room.
Duncan levelled a glare at his King. Aegon the fifth of his name stared up at him, with that will that had always gotten his way, even as a child. “Lord Commander, step aside.” he said, his voice cool.
“You say that only death can pay for life?” Duncan asked, ignoring the order. He had done harder things than this. He had stood up to Egg before, and he had gotten in trouble with worse Targaryens than him.
“Yes,” Aegon’s voice was tense. “It needs a life, the blood of a sacrifice on these eggs, to bring them to fruition.”
For a moment Duncan wondered how much of this he had heard over the course of his life. Too much, too often. It was wrong, and yet it was indelible in the Targaryen lines. His hand sank to his side, not to his sword, but to the dagger on his left. He loosened it with the left, and drew it slowly, flipping it around, to offer it to Aegon hilt first.
“If only death can pay for a life, then let it be mine,” he said firmly, ignoring the gasps of the people around him.
The King took the blade, though there was a tremor in his hand. “Do not think I will not do it, just because of our history, Dunk,” he said softly, his eyes holding an expression of anger and uncertainty. “I will do it.”
Duncan did not move, his gaze found Vorian Dayne, beyond Aegon. While Gerold and Reynald had obeyed the King, Vorian had the arrogance to obey an order of the Lord Commander over his King. He moved, pushing aside Hightower, and allowing Aerys and Rhaella to pass towards the exit of the hall.
Duncan’s gaze returned to Egg. “Then do it,” he said, keeping his voice level. He had come close to death often enough, wished for death at least twice… and at his age Death had become a fact, not something you ran away from. “I am an old man, and my death is a certainty.” a part of him, the part that had always been astonished at the friendship he had shared with Egg hoped, believed that their friendship would be stronger than this. The harder part in him, the Lord commander knew such belief was folly.
Aegon stood entirely still for several minutes, the court having fallen silent around them, everyone staring at them. One might hear a feather drop in the hall. Slowly Aegon weighed the sharp dagger in his hand. “You chose this.” He said, his voice rough and tense.
“Aye,” Duncan replied. “As did you.” It would be both of their choices, and maybe his long journey had always led Duncan here, to this precise moment. Maybe that was the price for years in Egg’s orbit. Maybe, he should have stayed in Essos all those years ago, when Aegon’s wrath had sent him to exile. No, even that was not possible, because then he would have been on the other side of the same war.
Their eyes met, and in Aegon’s gaze Duncan saw his answer, when the familiar eyes hardened with the utter determination that Duncan knew so well. Aegon raised the dagger, and plunged it straight into Duncan’s throat, right where the armour did not protect him. Pain shot through his body, as his breath became filled with blood. His body stumbled and crashed backwards into the firepit, flame igniting his clothes, his hair. Duncan wanted to scream in agony but only a gurgle escaped this throat.
The hall erupted into screams and shouts, and the clash of steel. He saw a familiar figure leap onto the edge of the firepit, trying to reach him. Vorian Dayne. Duncan wanted to shout, scream for Vorian to stay away, but even that last piece of strength faded into horrifying agony. He saw a spear thrown, hitting Vorian into the back, and his brother in arms collapsed beside him into the fire.
A loud, horrible crack echoed the hall and fire exploded from the pit and through the room, as shouts of fighting became screams of terror. A pain, worse than before, touched Duncan in his last seconds of consciousness, as if something, something freed from the breaking eggs was creeping over his skin. A last sear of pure pain and suffering… and then the darkness took him.
***
He came to on the ground in the mud, a cold chill in the air but the pain was gone. Through the slit of the helmet he vaguely saw an approaching figure, and heard fighting noise around him. Duncan pushed himself up, there was pain, but nothing to what he had felt only seconds before. A knight in black armour and with a winged helmet swung a mace at him. In reflex turned aside, a full turn, making the man stumble past him. One second he had to draw his blade. The next swing came, and Duncan’s reflexes took over, his brought his blade up, right against his opponent's hand, and steel clashed on steel. The impact making them both stumble, Duncan pushed forward.
His mind was reeling, but his body reacted without thinking. Strike, pivot, cross-cut. This could not be Aerion. How could it be? And yet it was… it was the man he had brawled in the muddy fields of Ashford.
You have no time, you lunk. Finish this. Duncan knew he had not been as skilled as a youth, but now, years of experience, of fighting in wars, assassination attempts and tourneys to protect his Prince, took over. Aerion lost the mace and drew a blade, but Duncan was faster. He opened his cover, allowing the blade to slash alongside his armour, and penetrate the chainmail, while his sword came up and in one clean strike cut through the chainmail at Aerion’s neck, slicing the side of his neck open. Hot blood shooting from the wound. Aerion stumbled forward, trying to attack, but Duncan stepped aside, letting him crash to his knees. “Yield!” he barked at the Prince, who collapsed into the mud with a gurgle.
Behind himself Duncan heard a roar. “You slew my son!”
Maekar. How in the seven hells could any of this be? A hit of the rider’s lance threw him into the mud, but the impact cost Maeka his seating as well. Duncan scrambled up, blade ready, as the angered Prince came at him with a mace. Duncan blocked the first strike, his eyes searching the field. He could spot Prince Baelor, still ahorse… still uninjured.
His heart leapt. If this was real… if this dream was real…
Maekar attacked with the ferocious anger of the dragon, hits coming hard, Duncan felt the mace’s spike crash through his armour, puncturing it above his ribs. Maekar had to yank to break the mace free, and that was all Duncan needed. He ignored the pain… It was not pain really, it was an irritant, nothing compared to dying burning in Summerhall, he brought his sword down on the Princes’ shoulder, using both hands. It was not meant to shatter the armour, it could not, and Duncan knew that. It never needed to shatter the armour - only the bones beneath it. Maekar howled in pain as the bones in shoulder cracked, and he lost the grip on his mace. Duncan pushed him backwards into the mud and yanked the mace free, throwing it away.
“Your son is defeated, I won,” he growled. “He may yet live, if you help him at once.”
Around them the fighting had stopped, the knights realising the trial was over. Duncan saw the horses of Prince Baelor and Lyonel Baratheon cantering towards them.
Lyonel…
The name brought back pain and sadness. He had fought Lyonel in a trial by combat. At least Lyonel had known when he was defeated. Duncan did not waste any more time on the downed anvil, but hastened back to where Aerion lay in the mud. A huge red puddle formed beside him. The hit had not been deep, but found the right place, and his time was running out. Duncan tore off the mud-coloured tabard he wore, pressing the cloth against the neck wound, to stem the bleeding. Aerion was pale, panting, strength rapidly leaving his body. “You won,” he whispered.
“And you will live,” Duncan replied, as the shadow of Prince Baelor fell over them, and Duncan heard the typical clanging of a chain. Someone had called for a Maester. The old grey man knelt in the mud, gently prying at the cloth Duncan pressed against Prince Aerion’s neck, just enough to see the damage. “Dear gods,” he murmured. “Keep your hand there, put pressure on it. We need to get him to the castle.”
Prince Baelor’s leather gloved hand fell over Duncan’s. “I will keep this in place,” he said quietly. “Can you lift him up?”
Duncan nodded, sliding his hand out from under Baelor’s who kept the pressure on the wound. Duncan wove one arm under Aerion’s armpits, one under his knees and carefully lifted the Prince up. It took all his strength, as Aerion still wore his armour. Duncan gritted his teeth and came up to stand, careful to move slowly, so Prince Baelor could keep the makeshift bandage in place. Duncan began walking slowly, Baelor matching his step, a hard grip on the wound. Was it only wishful thinking that Duncan thought the bleeding slowed a little? Maybe it was.
“Why?” Aerion whispered, his head was resting against Duncan’s shoulder, almost like a child. “You won, you should triumph, gloat, you rightfully beat a Prince.”
Suddenly, for a moment Duncan felt as tongue-tied as he had been as a youth, unsure how to express his thoughts and took refuge in the words of a friend. “A true knight leaves thievery, rape, gloating and treachery to lesser men.” A Vorian-ism if there had ever been one. Vorian Dayne had been full of such kernels of arrogant knightly wisdom, wrapped into the pride of a man who wielded Dawn. Duncan had stolen his quotes more than once, when he had not found the right words himself.
Aerion shuddered, he was paler than ever before. “That’s just words…” he whispered, “words you say. Not what is in your heart.”
Damn him, damn dragons and they damn insight into men. What had Duncan been thinking, believing he could lie his way out of this? There had been no Targaryen he had ever met who was not good at reading the men around them. So how to explain? Duncan had never liked or respected Aerion, who had been arrogant and cruel, and who had found his end in a bottle of wildfire. And yet… he had never wished for his death either. “It was not my intention to kill you,” he replied honestly.
Luckily they arrived at the castle and were led to the Maester’s chambers, where Duncan carefully put Aerion down, and one of the Maester’s assistants replaced Prince Baelor in keeping the pressure on the wound. The Maester shooed both of them out, having to work. The Prince’s personal Maester arrived moments after at the door of his colleague, accompanied by two Kingsguard supporting Prince Maekar, whose face was pale with pain and was led into the Maester’s rooms as well.
Duncan knew better than to come close to a Maester’s refuge when they had patients to work on. It was never advisable, and most Maester’s had acerbic methods to keep disruptions at a minimum. Now that the rush of the fight was receding the full shock of what had happened returned.
How… how could this be real? How could he be here? Or was this just the pain and the ritual and his mind fleeing from the horror?
“When I asked you how good a knight you were, this was not the answer I had expected.” Prince Baelor’s voice cut through Duncan’s reverie, reminding him that he was not alone, and noting was as he remembered it.
Duncan averted his eyes. “The days after Ser Arlan’s deaths were like a haze, your grace,” he said, it was not truly an answer, but in a manner it was the truth. “When the fighting began… it… it felt like waking up, seeing the world sharp and clear again.” It was not a direct lie, but a misdirection. Gods, how much of this had he learned from Caderyn and Vorian? Saying something without saying anything, giving an honest answer by not answering really. Only now, standing here, Duncan began to realise how little he still had to do with the boy he once had been. He could remember that boy, as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Only he remembered that young hedge knight like one would remember a long lost friend, a friend much mourned, not someone he himself had once been.
“Your grace!” The Maester’s voice came from the doorway. “I apologize for the disruption, bu Prince Maekar… he refuses the milk of the poppy and…” Prince Baelor turned around and swept up the stairs, no doubt to shake some sense into his youngest brother.
Duncan exhaled sharply, the pain began to creep alongside his bones, and he began to realise the hits he had taken. The pain was still subdued, as if the memory of the fire, of dying in agony still was overlaying his every sense. He took the chance to leave, leave the castle, the dream, the confusion.
Help for Duncan came in the form of Steely Pate, who found him, and offered help with his injuries. Duncan took the help gratefully, especially the bucket of cold water to wash himself, get the mud off his body. Seeing himself reflected in the cold water, Duncan saw a face he had long forgotten, the face of the naive hedge knight he had once been. But at the base of his throat, he saw a thin white line. A scar. The scar where Aegon’s knight had embedded itself into his neck.
He touched the cool flesh, feeling the slight uneven texture of the thin mark. How… how was this even possible. How could he bear a mark that he should not receive for three and fifty years? What had truly happened in that ritual? What in the world had Egg set loose? And you helped him, his thoughts supplied ironically. You helped him, like you always did.
He eyes fell to his left arm, still marred by the muck from the field. He began to wash the dirt away, only to notice a strange marring along his skin. His lower arm was marked by a fine pattern of blue and silver, almost like scales, or an ornament wrapped tightly around his lower arm. He ran his fingers over it, and it felt strangely warm, alive. Not like some sickness, more like something… natural. Hastily he finished washing and donned his rough spun tunic again, the long arm covering the markings fully. “Egg, what you have done?” Duncan whispered. “What in the world have you done?”