Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He overheard them.

Summerhall was bigger and its halls wider than Ashford, with tall windows letting in sunlight and moonlight, yet neither prince noticed him. Not even Maekar. There were not much shadows Dunk could hide in even if he attempted to, and his footsteps were as soft as a big lunk like him could afford. But still he wasn’t seen and the door had opened a crack. The candlelight hadn’t been snuffed out despite the late hour.

“What says the keepers?” Baelor’s voice had shaken off the fatigue of someone being bedbound.

“Nothing new,” came the other prince’s reply. “I told you it was nothing.”

A pause, then Baelor tapped his fingers on the armrest of the chair. The cane by his thigh was a much better sight than the crutch. “I suppose we might have been too hopeful.”

“Uncle had been, I wasn’t,” Maekar crossed his arms. His tunic swished as he rounded the corner again in his circling walk. “They’re all fucking gone, and everything that has been tried by our house yields nothing.”

Baelor hummed. “The house of the dragon,” he chuckled. “The will of the gods perhaps.”

Maekar scoffed. “Don’t tell me you believe that horseshit.”

“That’s what some people think, brother,” Baelor replied. Appeasing. “That is all.”

There was something in his tone that had Dunk leaning away. It must be something important, he thought as he held the jug of water tighter. Even the kingsguard had been sent away. Something important that Dunk might not be able to parse. He pushed it away to the back of his mind when he reached his rooms, he just slipped under the covers.

===

And it would have stayed that way. Forgotten even. But morning comes with Aegon bounding up to him, his eyes and smile, cheeky as he speaks.

“You have the afternoon to yourself, ser?”

Dunk nods, hand patting Thunder’s neck. With the abundance of oat and hay and apples, his horses have been looking healthier – also a bit fatter, but he wonders if that had been their lives on the road which made them the way they were before. He keeps brushing.

“Yes,” Dunk replies and he raises his brow. “Why?”

Egg smiles. “I would like to show you something,” he clasps his hands behind his back.

It’s said with such mystery, but Dunk nods anyway. Aegon has been chipper ever since his father relented and allowed him to squire under him. A result of Baelor’s gentle insistence, Dunk supposes, and Egg’s own stubbornness. For someone who does not often listen to his father, he possesses the similarities of the alpha in the set of his jaws and the pursing of his lips – a part of Dunk believes, no, sure that the boy will be one also.

“Alright,” he says. “Now back to brushing, and then we’ll do some practice.”

Egg grins, showing a line of pearly teeth and still small canines. His scent does not change, keeping the powderiness of an unpresented pup – something incredibly subtle to his nose, almost nonexistent. Arlan had thought him a beta and were he not having his presentation just weeks after he took him in, Dunk would have believed the old man.

“Yes, ser,” Egg chirps.

It still is odd. This whole thing is. Arlan would have laughed himself to the grave if the infection hadn’t gotten to him first, yet he also had given him enough clout in the ear and beaten it into him of the code and the oath to hedge knights like them. Dunk had said the words as he knelt in the mud, pain wrecking his body and he hadn’t even been able to see straight, but he knew and understood and he won’t take them back.

Baelor had called him when the gods decided it wasn’t his time yet, had asked that he accompanied them to Summerhall, and just like that, with only a command, Dunk stays.

The morning comes and goes as how things are – slow and fast and not enough to finish all the chores. Dunk isn’t expected to help the servants, but he likes his hands busy and Egg is keen to follow him around. He still is in awe and a tad envious of the ease the boy moves about, unhindered by the cloying heat. Summer is settling its feet now and the royal family is unperturbed of its presence. Instead, they seem to thrive. Blood of the dragons, indeed.

Dunk raises his hand when Egg can’t help his pouting as they walk up the stairs. Lunch is to be served, but he’s not going to go in his drenched shirt and stinking up the table. Baelor would merely be amused, Maekar would throw him into the nearest barrel. And besides, the princesses are joining them, it is silly to ruin their meal just because he can’t make Egg wait.

His clothes are far better than the one he had held on as he rode out in the hedges. And it’s the ease of having clean water always being readied that he can shuck his shirt off easier. The maids do not raise their brow nor click their tongue at the added laundry, and Dunk has been learning that not giving them his old one and rarely changing actually would piss them off more.

“Finally,” Egg sighs as they reach the dining hall, and he quickly plops down on his chair.

Daeron seems amused over his goblet while Dhaella and Rhae are turning their heads to their arrival. The ladies are always kind to him, they greet him a good morrow and keeps offering the dishes to him because apparently, in their eyes, he is still growing giant. Or perhaps they just love that Dunk lacks much knowledge of the food on his plate and they are often bored by the men on the table for not following their fast chatter.

It’s when they are finishing half of their portions when Dunk notices the not yet occupied chairs by the end of the table.

“Father and uncle are occupied by a sudden matter,” Daeron says, picking at some green beans on his plate. “Uncle hoped we have a good meal while father told me to watch my younger siblings from eating too many sweets,” he smirks at the stilled hands as he speaks, “but I’m not seeing them do such thing, so…” He shrugs and Aegon plucks another lemon tart while the princesses some honeyed fruits.

“Just not too much,” Dunk weakly reminds, no one can’t truly deny princes and princesses after all, but still, he tries – if only to spare them Maekar’s chastisement, “you don’t want to be too full and suffer stomachache.”

That gets them slowing down at lease, while Daeron rolls his eyes.

“I do not know what it is,” he cuts Dunk before he could ask, “only that they deem it quiet dreadful if they are willing to leave such wonderful lunch.” And it’s true, summer brings with it more different variations in the merchants’ carriages for ingredients – the richness of it all has almost put Dunk in constant wonder, worry and awe.

“Must be something incredibly serious,” Dunk murmurs as he stops Egg from taking another sweetroll.

Daeron shrugs again. He isn’t drinking wine, but his goblet smells of cider and alcohol still, enough sweetness to cover the latter. He always does whenever they dine with the princesses. He leans more into his seat.

“Beasts,” he traces the wooden pattern on the table. “Just beasts.”

Dunk raises a brow at that, but he doesn’t ask further. Daeron is beginning to have that glazed look and he knows by now to understand a bit of the signs of dreaming in the waking world. Still, he pours water in another cup and slides it carefully near Daeron’s plate.

===

The hallway, the floor, Aegon tugs him is different than the rest of the castle. It’s older, ancient, in the way its age clings to the back of his teeth to make him close his lips in respect. There are less windows here and the only light as they go are the few candlebras.

“Slow down,” Dunk wipes sweat off his brows, “I do not want to trip and ruin something. Your father would be mad.” He is still, admittedly, scared shitless whenever Maekar glares at him under his own roof. It seems as if the alpha has never quite settled with the fact that Dunk exists here too.

The room itself is grand, the simplistic furniture and tapestries belying a luxury and richness to have such space only for a cradle-like box at the very end. Dunk wonders at the logistics. Surely, this is a treasure of the Targaryens’ – something important to be kept secret with how the locks are many, the kingsguard more severe and the path to it so unassuming. He wipes his neck again, tries to fan himself with his shirt. It’s cloyingly warm and there’s no draft in the room. Egg walks without the hindrances Dunk feels.

“Come on, ser,” he half jogs to the box. “Come look!”

His excitement pushes Dunk to take a wider step before he reaches him. The boy smiles as he nudges him to peek over the covering. And Dunk… Dunk can only stare.

Because what else is he supposed to do?

Dragon eggs are nestled inside. They are scaley and have a sheen to them which reminds Dunk of a shed lizard skin. So deep their green and goldish hue are that they remind Dunk of emerald and moss and the hottest part of coal.

He has heard tales of dragons – the fear-striking ones, the dreadful ones, the beautiful ones. Arlan told him over campfire, stories of more stories, how Westeros skies never lacked one flying about, how giant dragons’ wings could have spanned a whole town alone. It was magic made flesh and fire made breathing, and if one were to feel quite traitorous and rebellious, the only thing that kept the people’s fear and obedience to the Crown. They said the Targaryens had destroyed themselves, had eaten each other inside out until no wisdom stayed for at least a few dragons to survive. Some still carry the marks of the war, some more of the ruination it wrought upon the land. Dunk thinks mostly of the power a house wields to bring forth such grieves on their own kin and the others.

“How are they here?” He asks. Whispers. “I thought they are all gone.”

“Well, not the eggs,” Aegon explains easily, excitedly. “Most kings after the Dance have tried to hatch them, ser. But,” he purses his lips, and though he is not his brother Aerion, he is still a Targaryen – the subject of their beloved and most fearsome beast would have even him quite sombre if only for a little, “nothing seems to be able to hatch them. Prayers, magic, even being sat on like a chicken egg did nothing at all.”

Dunk can’t help smiling at the last one. He looks to Egg. “Are they yours, then?”

“No, they’re father’s and uncle’s,” he shakes his head. “Well, one is his and two are Uncle Baelor’s and Uncle Rhaegel’s. The King, my grandfather, said having dragon eggs in the Red Keep is not sound and I always think he is more like King Aegon the Dragonbane in his personal opinion of dragons.”

Arlan had once commented about the King. Something along the line of wishing for a dragon but also fearing it, a mark of a leader in his opinion. Dunk never replied nor mulled much about it. For him, a boy from Flea Bottom, the King had been an almost faceless figure despite his face on the coins. Distant and grand yet never sparking anything. His reign is peaceful though, and Dunk supposes that’s make him a good king.

“Why are you showing me this, Egg?” Dunk asks after they have stepped away. He’s an outsider no matter that he is his squire’s chosen knight, no matter that Egg trusts him. This seems much too private and Targaryens are protective and territorial in equal measures no matter their second sex may be. Gods help him if someone knows he knows there are dragon eggs here.

Aegon tilts his head, confusion apparent it almost makes Dunk wince. “Well, why not?” He crosses his arms. “You’re a knight of our House, and you sworn yourself to my uncle. It’s not a secret we have dragon eggs, after all, and you’ll guard them honourably too, ser.”

“Yes, of course, I will but,” Dunk tries. Yet Aegon looks at him with the clarity and surety of a bright, stubborn boy, and Dunk’s words taper off. “It’s not…”

“Aegon!”

He jumps and the room is incredibly closed off that Maekar’s voice booms inside. His squire gasps, but he does not glance down to his feet. Dunk moves to stand more in front of the boy as his father heads their way, his boots stomping. Behind him, at least, there is Baelor following close. His mismatched eyes regard Dunk, ever observing and calm even though Maekar is on the brink of cursing up a storm.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

“I’m just showing him the dragon eggs,” Aegon replies. “It’s fine with Ser Duncan, no, father?”

Maekar frowns, but Dunk wonders if the veins in his throat are not just rage. For all that Maekar can be sharp in his anger, he struggles with going through it when it comes to stand in front of his son.

“It’s not for you to decide,” Maekar’s voice is hard.

The words bristle at Egg. “It’s Ser Duncan!” He repeats. “We can trust him, he is a good knight too, he can help keep them safe.”

“We have others on that duty,” Maekar cuts and then, as if the air is taken out of him, he sighs. “I do not want to deal with this now,” he opens his eyes again, “Go to your chambers, Aegon. We shall discuss this later.”

Aegon frowns, and there is always this battle between father and son in their glaring. On which will move first, who will relent. Dunk finds himself stepping away from Dunk before he thikns more about it.

“Your father is right,” he says, ignoring the sweat already dampening the back of his shirt. Again. “Listen to him and go to your room.” Betrayal crosses Aegon’s face briefly yet it is snuffed at his effort to listen. Dunk hopes Maekar doesn’t catch any of it. “Now, boy, or there will be hell to pay.”

The boy fists his hands slightly and he nods when Baelor also regards him with a look. He leaves the room quietly, shoulders slumped compared to when he first entered. It’s a bit dimmer now that Egg has left. Dunk fiddles with his sleeve as the three of them are the only ones standing.

“M’sorry, m’lords,” he tries. “I didn’t know Aegon intended to show me those eggs, and I should have turned back when I saw them. He… he meant well, m’lords, truly,” he clasps his hands, “I think he just wanted to share.”

It’s Baelor who replies first. Ever the kind man, ever the softer one than his brother. Maekar scoffs, checking the eggs as he speaks.

“No need to apologize, ser. It’s merely a misunderstanding. I understand that Aegon trusts you well, and I, myself, believe that you would not possess ill wish upon discovering them. My brother is right, it’s not Aegon’s place to decide who could even see these eggs, but I am glad that is is you.”

“I won’t look at them again if you do not want me to, m’lord,” Dunk quickly says, straightening up. “And I won’t say a word, I swear it.”

“You best fucking not,” Maekar grouses.

Baelor shakes his head. “Peace, brother,” he smiles at him. “What’s done is done, and I should say, perhaps this is a good thing.”

Maekar snaps to him. “The fuck you mean?”

“Well,” Baelor digs the cane deeper into the floor, “instead of more kingsguard, I suggest we have Ser Duncan to also help with guarding the eggs. It’s not a secret, that’s true, but we rather… make them unknown than known, if you understand what I mean,” he winks slowly to the other prince.

Maekar almost balks. Almost. Instead, he just gapes for a split second.  

“What?”

“You heard me,” Baelor says, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s quite a sound idea, is it not?”

“My prince, I- I don’t think I’m…”

“You kept your oath to me well,” Baelor softly stops him, “and if you had wished harm on us in any capacity, you would not have asked Aerion to yield.”

Maekar stills at that, and if Dunk strains, he might hear his growl.

“I trust you, ser, and you have not disappointed me of that trust,” he keeps his gaze, “and you are my man, aren’t you?”

Baelor may be a beta – another contention to his legitimacy by the doubters and their jealous ilk – but he stands regal and he gives Maekar a look, something that means to challenge wrapped in a brotherly tease, that the other only grunts in the end. He commands the space he stands in and he does not need an alpha’s tone or an omega’s scent to make the room to heel and hear him.

“Of… of course, m’lord,” Dunk bows. His hands are getting damp. The room has truly no air that blows from the small windows at the top. “I promise I will not let any harm enter this place.”

“Good,” he nods and whatever spell it is that he holds over them breaks the next as he chuckles. “Now that it is settled, I’d say we should step outside. Some fresh air will do all of us well.”

Dunk agrees. He incredibly agrees. Following behind them, he glances at the eggs. They do not shift nor anything at all. Still as stone and heavy like one too. He stops glancing when he feels Maekar’s stare, but when he turns, the prince is busy brooding by his brother’s side.

===

Aegon is... grounded still. But after being told Dunk is allowed and even given the duty, he does his punishment surreptitiously well. Maekar rolls his eyes when he notices, but he does not make any comment.

And when a week and a half passed, when he did all the work the septons and maesters gave, he often takes Dunk inside the room.

“The reddish one is father’s,” Aegon points, leaning on the cradle on his knees. “The bluish one is Uncle Rhaegel’s. The green gold one belongs to Uncle Baelor.”

The eggs are cold to the touch, though sometimes, when you hold one long enough, you might mistake them as a tad warm. Dunk nods at Aegon.

“Where are yours?” Dunk crosses his legs, even sitting down on the floor has him still towering over the eggs. “You mentioned one is always gifted to each of you.”

“At Dragonstone,” Egg shrugs, but his shoulderd are a bit stiffer. “For safekeeping, Aerion was not gentle with his and he tried to take mine and Aemon’s – father sent them there because he kept sneaking them off.”

“To where?” It sounds odd carrying so many eggs in fear of breaking or having them roll off and be lost.

Egg sneers. “To his nest. They stank of him and it was annoying.”

He could imagine the viciousness. Aerion had ruined Tanselle’s fingers – her tool for her passion, her livelihood – just because of a story told. Of all the brothers, he believes one if they say the madness touches Aerion the most. It’s a breath of fortune to have him gone. Shipped off to Lys with none of his siblings seeing him off. Dunk does not rejoice, but he can’t deny the relief. Having a stalking alpha in the shadows had not been... peaceful. Especially one who he pummeled twice and never quite nursed the bruises well.

“Tell me,” Dunk shakes off the thought, “How do you hatch dragon egg? I mean, did the dragons were like chickens or...?”

“Of course not!” Egg huffs and puffs, and he’s back to being just a lad again as he delves further into the book he is holding.

Dunk has not learned his letters well yet, but Egg is much too happy to regale him the things on the pages just enough. They spend the better part of the evening like that, side by side as Egg explains the many, many stories about dragons. Dunk listens and well he does, patting his neck and jaw with the line he brought because the room is stifling and Aegon does not notice.

“And... and then...”

“Alright,” Dunk eventually says, plucking the book off Aegon’s hands. “I think it’s time to stop. You’re starting to nod off,” he makes to stand. “Come on. Off to bed.”

And Aegon may be a prince, but he is still a young boy who fights his exhaustion. Dunk sighs when he shuffles instead of walking.

“Alright then.”

Aegon squawks when he gets scruffed and lifted, though he does not complain. An admittance as any that he is tired. Dunk snorts at the way Aegon leans most of his weigth against him and by the time they reach his chambers, Aegon’s eyes are drooping. 

He nuzzles into him further while Dunk opens the door and would have latched on until he slept if Dunk didn’t quickly place him on the bed. Not for the lack of trying, mind, Aegon’s fingers clutches at his sleeve even as he curls into his pillow. Dunk waits for a moment, uses the seconds Aegon’s hold inevitably loosens before slipping away. He blows the candles and keeps one of the windows opened, and quietly, he slips away and closes the door.

The kingsguard nods again as he passes, more amused than annoyed at him trying to slink down the stairs.

===

He means to head for his own room.

But Summerhall is living up to its name for the season and it’s much to warm and damp to just sleep. The kitchens is a place he avoids lately, the fire and the steam it produces not a good place to even try stepping into during the day. Night gives for a kinder temperature, however, and Dunk ducks under the archway to fill a jug or two for water. It’s already tepid in the barrels, though he scoops it out, nevertheless.

He’s sipping a cup as he makes his way through the courtyard when Maekar appears. And Dunk doesn’t jump, he truly doesn’t – just surprised. Princes don’t usually loiter around outside after dark. Not even Maekar. Usually.

“M’lord,” Dunk stops and some of the water spills.

They wet the ground between them, some on his own shoes. Maekar doesn’t even glance down.

“G-good evening.”

Maekar grunts. He seems to scrutinize the cup in his hand, but the scrunched-up brows are soon gone. “You’re drinking a lot,” he says and Dunk blinks.

“Oh, ah, yes. I.. Apologies, m’lord, the weather has made it hard for me not to,” he says and quickly adds, “Drinking water, I mean. Just...” He remembers Daeron. “Water.”

“I can see that,” Maekar says flatly.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he says and a few water spills out once more.

Maekar sighs.

“Have you seen my brother?”

The question is unexpected, it takes a moment too long for Dunk to reply.

“... No, m’lord?”

“I figured as much,” Maekar murmurs and lifts his head, eyes brushing through the courtyard. “I suspect he’s taking a walk in the gardens, then.”

The prince does that sometimes. Dunk sees him passing by after supper in the hallways and he hears a click of a cane more when Baelor finds the strength again to stand on his own. It must be sitfling, to always rest from Ashford to Summerhall, and still is advised so. Dunk cannot stay in one room without his legs going jittery.

“I can help look,” Dunk replies. At the raised brow Maekar is giving him, he puts down the water. “I’m more familiar with the grounds now, thanks to the princesses and Aegon, m’lord.”

The man ponders it and then, he turns. “Very well,” Maekar says and nothing more.

The gardens are the most beautiful ones Dunk has ever seen. The intricacies and the many flowers dwarf even Highgarden’s best. They’re rich and lush, incredibly so. The maze is a game in and of itself, Aegon mentioned wistfully how him and his brother Aemon would pretend it was a map and created their own routes. Dunk hopes Baelor isn’t in there, he keeps getting himself lost as it is.

Maekar sniffs the air sometimes, an alpha looking for a member of his pack. He moves fast and agile for someone with such stocky build, the kind of body who would made people assumed to be heftier to turn and stop and jog. His tunic whips about as he moves and Dunk pins his location whenever he notices the fabric of red and black floating around the corner in a flash.

It takes about a good minute before they find him. By the fountain with its many statues, Baelor is looking up at the sky.

“There you are,” the prince smiles and his eyes land on Dunk too. “And I see you brought help this time.”

Maekar bristles slightly as he walks up to him. He grumbles. “Your knight is just much too kind to not try to find you.” Then, he notices the missive rolled in his hand that Dunk also does, but the princes do not pay it any heed and Baelor merely pockets it. Instead, Maekar tugs his arm. “You shouldn’t be outdoor this late,” he mutters. Chastises. It somehow only earns more of Baelor’s smile.

“I’m merely doing some light exercise,” he feigns obliviousness. “Like the maester suggested it.”

Maekar shoots him a glare and Dunk wonders if there are more princes this brotherly, this soft and kind with each other. He’s seen many packs and families, and knows the noble ones are often cold, distant, troubled even. Looking at Raymun’s cousin, at Aerion, he has a kind of sadness but not a surprise. He tamps down the twitch of his lips and bows his head slightly.

“I shall take my leave then, m’lords.”

Baelor peeks over Maekar’s shoulder. “Thank you, ser.”

“I- I did nothing, m’lord,” Dunk shakes his head, rubs his arm. “Prince Maekar was the one who found you, acter

“My brother wasn’t even trying much this time,” he huffs. “His scent is a beacon,” he glances almost accusingly at Baelor who only smiles wider. “Stop it,” he lifts his nose higher and Dunk wonders if he would swat Baelor’s arm if Dunk weren’t here, but instead, he squints at Dunk.

For his part, Dunk only blinks and fiddles with his fingers behind his back. It takes another second before Maekar tilts his head and his brother glances at him. It’s a bit disconcerting, how in tune they can be as a pack.

“You don’t smell him?” Maekar asks, almost incredulous in his tone.

But Dunk has weathered such thing often and he can’t blame the man. He’s a bit... odd, really – something Arlan never quite managed to stop from reminding, a faint wrought brows to his face and a slight pursing of lips.

“No, m’lord,” he shakes his head. “Well, a bit now that we are within each other’s distance.”

Baelor speaks before Maekar.  “Ser Duncan is a beta, brother, that’s understandable.”

“Pardon me, m’lord,” Dunk quickly replies, eyes widening, “I’m an omega.”

Somehow his answers turns them all quiet. Maekar stares, far more blatantly than Baelor who keeps a somewhat smile still. Dunk fiddles again with his fingers. Surely, he answered right and also truthfully – hiding one’s second sex is against the teachings of the Seven, a taboo warranting shame.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Dunk takes a step back at that. “No, n- no, m’lord, I swear to you I am not.”

Maekar sniffs and it’s Baelor who walks forward. He puts a hand on his brother’s arm.

“Have you visited Maester Yormwell, ser?”

The elderly man is a beta who has been tending to both Baelor and Aerion from Ashford all the way to Summerhall. He’s always busy with a scroll in one hand and a bowl of poultice in another – Dunk rarely crosses his path and whenever they do, he does not bother him. Lyonel had been kind to lend his own maester, grinning and dragging Dunk to stay still – something about how it concerned his honour and duty as an alpha to ensure an omega is well and bandaged (“But more importantly, he is a friend,” the stag had winked and proceeded lounge as the maester studied and tutted at Dunk’s attempts at dressing his wounds). He knows how to manage the pain afterwards, and with the abundance of choices, he can drink the white bark tea and cold water, he is doing far better and heals far quicker than when he was on the road.

“No, m’lords,” Dunk replies.

And immediately thinks he has answered wrong yet again.

===

Yormwell had appeared with all the haste of someone expecting the worst. A requisite to serve under the Targaryens. His shoulders were set and his hands prepared in their movement but one look and a few words had him relaxing. An almost sigh left his bowing frame and he looked at Dunk easily and warmly.

That lasted just mere seconds before he frowned.

“An omega?” He moved to sit in front of Dunk. “I did not know, m’lords. I assumed...”

“It.. it’s not your fault,” Dunk gasped and let his wrist be held, the maester putting his fingers there. “I don’t present the traits for it,” he chuckled. If only to try to lessen the confounded hum and looks they gave him. He’s an oddity, he knows. It still left a wince no matter how much he had made peace with the fact.

“Well, there are a handful of written records about asymptomatic second sexes,” Yormwell began to open the box and satchel he brought. His assistant placed them carefully one by one, things Dunk noted familiarly but never quite caught the names of.  “Do you have your heats, at least?”

Dunk’s cheeks felt warm. He felt a reassuring squeeze and it brought him back up from the ground – it’s not an unusual question. Get a grip.

“... I had my presentation, but it was quick.”

“How long?”

“Err, it was when I was a boy? I... maybe just two days and two nights.”

“And nothing else?”

He shook his head. Sweat dampened his nape again. “No... I mean, I sometimes thought I had, but those were just common cold in the end...”

Yormwell nodded. His eyes were observing. Still kind though and that eased Dunk.

“Do you bleed at least?”

His cheeks burned. And Yormwell quickly turned over his shoulder. The two princes straightened up more as he addressed them. Baelor took his brother by the arm.

“We shall take our leave,” he smiled and there was a small sadness in his eyes which only made Dunk blink. It was better, however, than his brother’s.

Maekar glanced at him with something akin to anger. That or annoyance. Dunk wasn’t really sure.

“Inform us later,” Maekar said. Short and gruff. To which Yormwell only nodded. Then, they left and the maester’s attention was on him again. It get him squirming.

They continued on. And Dunk had never felt so exposed yet so distantly observed, an almost comfort and an almost embarassment in talking with someone. Only the safe reminder that Yormwell is the maester that had him calmed throughout the night. A more skilled and experienced maester at that – muttered by Yormwell when Dunk told him of Lyonel’s maester. Even those who served the Targaryens seemed to have a bone to pick with the Baratheon, it seemed.

But good maester or a mediocre one, Dunk shook his head when Yormwell intended to exam more.

“Very well,” he sighed and sat back, raising a hand in placation. “We will have to, sooner rather than later preferably, but I am not at the moment. You have my word, ser.”

The lump was gulped down his throat.

“Thank you,” Dunk murmured. “It’s just... I never...”

“I understand,” Yormwell wrote down on his scroll. “It’s not something odd to be apprehensive. Even the high lords and ladies have asked to postpone, ser.”

“I... I see,” he sighed and loosed the grip on the hem of his shirt.

“Yes,” Yormwell  said, then with a new breath, he stood up and gave a list to his assistant. “Now, since I know you are now an omega, there are things I believe you would need.”

Dunk tilted his head. He is perfectly fine and well. He does not struggle with any instincts nor troubles with nest or such. He is fine. He always does, Dunk thought as he wiped his neck.

Yormwell looked at him then like a clueless pup. Now that was familiar.

“That smells,” Aegon complains but he does that thing every child does which means he takes a second sniff over the steaming cup Dunk holds.

“Not the worst thing, I’m sure, lad,” he says and takes another sip. The taste isn’t even half bad, just smokiness and fermented floweriness. Dunk had had worse. Granted, that had been piss instead of ale, but his point stands. “And isn’t rude to make face on someone else’s food and drink?”

Egg scrunches his face and walks away, practicing with his wooden sword again. He’s keen on showing the master-at-arms after a passing comment about his stance. Any appraisal is a reflection of Dunk too, and Egg is nothing but defensive.

“Hmm, I remember that tea,” Daeron murmurs, head picking between his crossed arms. “I think grandmother and uncle had some way back when.” His voice is hoarse and his face is paler, Dunk assumes it’s from the weaning of alcohol he suddenly is put under. “Uncle Rhaegel added some honey to make the taste bearable.”

“It’s fine,” he takes another sip. What he wishes for is that the tea does not have to be hot. He’s already running about sweating and much too warm, looking ridiculous and feeling like it too. The tea is not helping, Maester Yormwell has forbidden him from taking it tepid, so he just has to bear with it.

Daeron pokes his side with a fan. Wordlessly, Dunk takes it with a nod of thanks. The prince brushes him off and resettles to half curl in on himself. There are more bruises underneath his eyes, and he’s not eating much of his meals. He wanders the halls far more often, too often for Maekar’s liking if the kingsguard following his son is anything to go by.

He also appears out of thin air sometimes, and Dunk still needs to grow used to his steps and scent. Just moments ago the prince had showed up, almost making Egg swung the wrong way to Dunk’s knee with a hello and a wave and a grin afterwards. Then, he proceeded to plop down on the blanket spread out with several pillows Egg took with him, right beside Dunk.

His presence isn’t unwelcomed though – for all that Daeron had had a hand in accusing him of kidnapping and confused him greatly with his mutterings, the prince is amicable and an easy person to hold friendliness with. Even when he mumbles things Dunk does not comprehend in the slightest.

“My prince,” Dunk tries when Daeron does seem to nod off, “you should rest in your room.”

“You slept under the stars and in ditches, ser, and you are fine,” Daeron brushes him off.

“Well, the heat isn’t good for you,” Dunk still says.

Daeron huffs, he turns on his back. He softens ever so slightly when he sees Egg. For an alpha, Daeron is incredibly loose in his posture and the only scent he possesses is the wine and the ale.

“I don’t feel it,” he mutters. “Besides, the room is much too cramped and I...” Daeron tapers off. Dunk purses his lips at the glazed look resurfacing. “... Cracking open and I can’t look away. Beasts, ser, just beasts.”

Dunk puts down his cup. He doesn’t say anything more and Daeron closes his eyes again. Egg is completing his stance and Dunk knows he’ll try again despite him telling the boy that it is alright. All he can do is to let Egg tire himself out and Dunk just needs to wait.

When soft snores are heard from Daeron, Dunk moves.

“No, stay, ser,” Daeron mumbles. “Stay. It’s quieter.”

Dunk raises a brow, but he shuffles back to his spot. Daeron returns to bury his head into a pillow and Egg picks up his sword once more. The sun is bright up in the sky, Dunk only wishes it lessens its rays one of these days.

===

He overhears them again. It is past supper, that in between hours of lethargy and the last bout of energy for one last simple task before retiring, and he is walking to his post. Baelor had insisted that he is now on guard duty, and tonight is his turn finally.

“Some horseshit again,” Maekar grouses.

Baelor is standing this time, turning the rings around his fingers. “But several times now? I’m not so sure anymore, brother.”

Maekar scoffs. “I don’t care about what delusions rhe keepers are insistent to write,” he hisses. “You and I have looked at them almost daily and nothing.”

“Don’t you think they are a bit warmer?”

“It’s summer,” Maekar pushes away from the hearth. “The whole fucking place heats up.”

Baelor hums, yet he still keeps turning his rings.

“It’s a bunch of nothing, and instead of thinking about them, you should rest,” Maekar walks up to him. “I know you haven’t been,” he accuses.

“I have rested enough,” Baelor says but he does not deny and Dunk can see it lately. A certain tiredness returning. It’s concerning, but there is no more blood on the bandages the prince wears. “Perhaps we should ask Ser Duncan to also check.”

Dunk stiffens. Maekar growls.

“He’ll think we are mad if not already,” he crosses his arms. “Gods know he might already do with Daeron as he is.” His voice is hard but Dunk senses a certain blunted egde there. No fathers are needlessly cruel to their sons, after all, and good fathers, no matter flawed, will worry.

“Ser Duncan has been patient with him from I’ve seen,” Baelor replies, “and it is just for my peace of mind too. A third party to check and confirm is always a good thing, brother.”

Maekar sighs. He leans on his table, silent for a while. Dunk takes it as a sign he should move on.

“I’m not going to talk about this further,” he grumbles. “Not tonight. Daeron...”

“... is with the measter, I know,” Baelor takes his cane. “Go to him, brother, and I agree, tonight has been a long one.”

They still speak some more, but Dunk has walked again.

===

The dragon eggs room is quiet and dim. Every step Dunk makes has him wincing at the loudness. The night is young and passes slowly, and he settles himself by the door, his sword right beside him. Tapping his foot, he looks up.

The tapestries fill the better part of the walls. Telling him of many, many stories. He’s not sure which is myth and which is history, but perhaps they both are just as important for the Targaryens. How many were personally witnessed by the weavers? How many had been whispered? Did the royals make these themselves? Dragons carry most of the scenes, brutal, violent, and majestic. Fear and awe are two things of the same coin with them – Dunk wonders what they destroyed, what had they breathed fire unto in defense, in command?

Some of the dragons are concentrated to the edge the closer the tapestries are hung to the cradle. Dunk stops just shy of his knees touching carved wood. The eggs seem to stare right back at him and he can’t quiet imagine the strong shells cracking to let out whatever flying beast inside of it. They look like stones – granted, fancy and beautiful, but they have a weight to them which speaks of all dead things.

His palm is damp but he touches an egg. The red one, light enough to just be a brush. It is as if he’s touching snake skin, smooth yet dangerous. Dunk caresses it, following its pattern.

It’s warm.

He blinks and retracts his hand. Shouldn’t be touching, he reprimands himself as he wipes his hand on his pants, with his clumsiness, he would have broken the Targaryens’ prized possession and even Baelor would not be able to stop his hand or head being cut.

The rest of the night passes with him counting whatever stars he can see from the small windows and carving a hose from the block of wood the cook was throwing away. It’s one of the easiest things he does, just keeping watch that is.

When the sky turns, he yawns. And as he looks at the eggs again, he tilts his head. Carefully, he moves the green one ever so gently to the right. It seems to have tilted somewhere along the night.

Shouldn’t touch the eggs in the first place, Dunk chastises himself once more, and reminds himself to not do so the next time he’s on duty.

===

Daeron keeps showing up in the afternoons, keeps finding them no matter where, and Dunk can’t find it in himself to steer him away despite his tunic getting also mucked by the mud and hay one time. Egg doesn’t mind his brother’s tailing and loitering. Instead, he puffs up, showing his brother of his days as a squire.

They’re just finishing lunch now and Daeron still lingers. He’s losing weight, his frame a bit more gaunt and lips dry that his fangs peek between them. Dunk offers the plates of dishes often, to which at least with his and Egg’s insistence has him eating more than a piece of bread and meat.

And he’s holding a cup of pomegrenate juice which Egg had thrusted into his hand. Its colour is akin to wine, so hopefully Daeron does drink it.

“You’re guarding the room then, ser?” Daeron mutters as he circles his arm around Dunk’s.

“Yes,” he nods and doesn’t mind how Daeron almost hangs off of him, the prince taking amusement in weighing him down.

“Boring is it not?”

“It’s my duty. “

Daeron rolls his eyes and he’s less haunted whenever he teases or thinks Dunk too serious. “Oh please don’t do that act, the guards are all too happy to foist this onto you.”

Dunk shrugs. “I’ll just keep myself busy.” At Daeron’s wiggling brow, he splutters. “Carving things, trying to countthe stars, that kind of thing, my prince...”

Daeron chuckles and he sips his juice.

“Dragons,” he says eventually, when they reach the end of the garden path, “They keep trying to fly.” His eyes find Dunk’s and he tilts his head. “I just wish I’d know when.”

“Err...” Dunk blinks and stops their track. “My prince, are you alright?”

There is somewhat a smile with such distant gaze in Daeron’s eyes before it dims back to clarity before they both turn at the call.

“Daeron.”

It’s Maekar. His eyes find their linked arms, but Daeron does not budge when Dunk tries to pull away.

“Father,” Daeron says and his scent is strong – enough proof that he’s an alpha for those doubting.

But Maekar merely sighs, even though his own son is posturing. “Your sisters are looking for you,” he says, “They’re waiting with tea.”

At that, Daeron deflates. “Oh,” he scratches his head, “right. I almost forgot I promised them the afternoon…” He stretches and glances to Dunk. “Thank you for accompanying me, ser,” he smiles, then he brushes past his father in the direction of the castle.

They watch his head of hair disappearing around the corner. Maekar turns to him afterwards and Dunk can’t help his shoulders hiking slightly up when he hasn’t stopped staring. Then, whatever thought behind Maekar’s eyes disappear and he’s tilting his head, a signal for Dunk to follow. And when a prince, a Targaryen, Maekar himself does that, you don’t do anything but exactly that.

He’s standing between the hedges when Maekar stops.

“I see that not only my youngest has been walking around with you,” he clasps his hands.

“I’m… I’m sorry, m’lord.”

It had taken a lot for Egg to squire under him, and to see another son hanging about with the hedge knight. Perhaps it’s overstepping. Even when it’s not Dunk who started it.

“Makes it easier to find him,” Maekar ignores his apology. “At least he’s not skulking around in the cellar trying to pick the locks.” He says it so easily that it gets Dunk almost balking. At the bluntness. It seems too private to be telling him, but Maekar often catches people unaware, he supposes.

“W- Well, Aegon has been giving him all kinds of juice whenever he is with us,” Dunk fiddles with his fingers, then quickly daps his neck with the linen hanging off his belt. “I try to take him walking often. I thought… well, the outside air might do some good.” Better than his own rooms. Daeron does not often like the idea of it.

Maekar grunts. “I suppose you’re already looking after Aegon,” he grumbles but there is a sense of defeat in it. Dunk knows he shouldn’t feel guilt, but he does. The princes do not know how much Maekar cares sometimes. The man is observant and for all that he had stood against Dunk in the Trial, it had meant also love. A strong, hardy, flawed love an alpha, a father, possesses for his family.

“I will do my best, m’lord,” Dunk assures. “I am at your disposal.” Perhaps unconventional. As far as things a knight should have been doing, but Dunk has sworn an oath and what he does now, well, he believes it is one kind of what is good.

There is no answer to that. Maekar only nods and he shares that tendency to turn his ring with Baelor while a slight breeze blows over them. Dunk is sweating again and he’s grown anxious to be this messy in front of the prince.

“Maester Yormwell has confirmed to me that you are an omega indeed,” Maekar’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, “and he’s responsible for your wellbeing now.”

“Aye, m’lord. That’s true. Maester Yormwell has been kind about it,” Dunk nods. The elderly man has been insistent in a new diet and has him drinking tea and bathing in some specially concocted tonic. It’s a bit embarrassing, but Yormwell’s collected and knowledgeable face makes it bearable. Gods, he is still flushing from the talks he has been given.

“Good,” Maekar says and clears his throat. He procures a pouch, well-made and with the colours of his house. When he places it on Dunk’s opened palm, he feels a weight to it and some coolness through the fabric. “The smith had needed to make it from scratch; thus, it is why it took some time, and the maester told me it is likely unneeded, but…”

The leather is thick yet malleable, the type that won’t choke you when you put it around your neck. Dunk has seen it worn by others, on the nobles more than the smallfolk, and even by alphas. In a place of higher breeding, it’s likely to more needed. Arlan pitied them sometimes, commented many things about such thing when the ale got to him. But, it is important, he had groused when his mind still worked, especially with what the previous kind had done. Dunk never quite shared the old man’s views, only because he had noticed the way others covered their necks or craned them away whenever someone they dangerous was nearby. The collar – and yes, that’s the name of it all, isn’t it? – is a discomfort at times, but it is also protection.

“I do not expect you to wear it,” Maekar tells him. “Though at times, you might need to. Only because you are now sworn to our house, and everyone and their fucking mothers will always look whenever we have to go court.” He almost hisses the last part out, “but you will know beforehand.”

It’s a simple collar, the only thing betraying its anonymity being the line of reddish gold. Dunk rubs it absently. The lock is strong and clean, sleek in its design to not dig into skin. He can easily wear this and hides it behind his shirt and armour.

“Thank you, m’lord,” he bows. “I shall keep this safe and close by. And thank you too,” he holds the collar close to his chest, “for taking the trouble to personally bring it to me.” Because Maekar has been looking rather harried after their return and Egg told him that it is due to the fact he’s handling Baelor’s duties before he is fully healed. To spare the time just to give this to him, Dunk can only smile.

Maekar scoffs, but he does not seem annoyed. “It’s custom. I’m the lord of this seat, this castle, and also an alpha,” he looks to the collar, and then to Dunk, “I’m responsible to give you protection, even when you might not need it, ser.”

He straightens and with the shadows now elongating with the sun heading west, it sharpens Maekar’s violet eyes and the hard lines of his shoulders and arms, it should have made him more dangerous, but a part of Dunk only sees it as safe – he shakes his head.

“Still, thank you, m’-”

“Aside from the collar, it is also my oath, with Ser Donnel here as witness,” he gestures to the kingsguard just mere steps away from them who immediately stands to attention.

Dunk blinks. “W-what oath, m’lord?”

“I’m fucking getting to that,” Maekar grouses and Dunk snaps his mouth shut. The prince sighs, before he continues, “My oath… that you shall not be harmed, not be taken and not be made to shame for as long as you live here. And if one does any or all to you, then I shall punish them accordingly.”

Maekar says it not with practiced ease, but a repeated surety. Some just flames that only he knows how to wield. His scent is… something that Dunk cannot parse but it is strong and he knows, with both warmth and trepidation, that he does not lie and will not do it in half measure. Dunk had seen him almost bashed Baelor’s head in, after all, and he finds himself nodding.

“Good,” Maekar gruffs and after Ser Donnel returns to his post, he starts to walk and this time, Dunk knows not to follow. “Now that’s done and all, you can kindly fuck off. Aegon has been looking for you all over by now, I’d wager,” he scoffs.

“I…” Dunk nods again. “Yes, m’lord. I shall find him now.” Then, because he does not know why, he turns on his heel and calls after Maekar. “M’lord?” The prince halts, sparing him a glance. Dunk pushes down the nerves and smiles. “Thank you again.”

Maekar rolls his eyes, though it seems he accepts it. He leaves the gardens the same way Daeron did, and Dunk is left alone. A new collar in hand, another oath spoken, and he’s sweating yet again.

===

Most nights now have him standing guard, and usually, the guards will stand outside, but Aegon has asked him to be inside more often than not. Encouraged him even. Dunk takes his advice only because it staves off the boredom and he always lingers by the doorway, at an angle where he can hear and notice someone if they are at the door, and still can see the whole of the room should they try to sneak in by scaling the castle. The latter is highly unlikely, but thieves do not follow the same logic as him.

He talks to the eggs too. Between whittling and whistling and admiring the tapestries, he’s chatting them up. Daeron seems to delight in him telling him so whenever the day is particularly bad. Dunk thinks he might as well, eggs are similar to how babies are in the womb, no? Perhaps the small things inside are lonely and just needs someone talking. He’s not that great at holding a one-side conversation but they say talking to the stomach of the mother is good, right?

“This tea is awful,” he moans after drinking a mouthful. “Yormwell has been making me take this new brew after knowing I take the night watch lately,” he sighs. “And no honey or sugar! Must be hot too,” he complains to the eggs – by the third night, it’s not that weird anymore to talk to himself, really. “It’s searing here. Maybe this is what you three like and I think summer will be your favourite season too if you ever hatch,” he chuckles and he’s given up his tunic to not be thoroughly damp. “I mean, you’d be like your masters too,” he peers over them from the edge of the cradle. “They seem to enjoy summer, you know, and they’d very much like to soar in the sky to be closer to the sun.”

The eggs remain silent, remain unmoving. Relics of the power the Targaryens had held for over decades and should have decades more if they hadn’t destroyed themselves. Dunk sighs, he finishes his tea, scrounging and gagging at the taste before he returns to his chair.

The sun comes in intervals within this room, and when the first ray shines upon the egg, Dunk squints at the vague smoke wafting off the green one. A yawn breaks his squinting and he shakes his head then.

It must have been the dusts flying about.

===

It’s hot.

It’s truly, awfully hot.

They say Summerhall has passed the peak of the season, but Dunk is dying. And that’s not dramatics, he truly feels much too warm still. He knows summers in this place tend to last longer, but seven hells. He’s sweated through three shirts and two pants already, and he keeps a layer of sweat after bathing twice.

“Are you alright, ser?”

Dunk jolts, spilling water from the bucket. Baelor widens his eyes slightly but the tilt of his lips is amused.

“Apologies.”

“No, no, m’lord. I’m…” He tries getting out from the bucket he’s been standing.

“That is fine,” Baelor chuckles. “I suppose you and your old master had traversed more on the cooler places on the continent.”

“I’m not a stranger to summer and the warmer region, m’lord,” Dunk pats down his legs and quickly grabs his shoes. “It’s just… perhaps because I was always on horseback, I had grown used to the wind giving me reprieve.”

Baelor hums and he moves to one of the stalls. He extends a hand, Chestnut sniffs it but turns away when he does not hold any treat. Still, she lets him pet her neck. Dunk notes the wistfulness as he pats the horse – it has been a while since Baelor himself rides on a saddle.

“I can’t say I’d understand,” Baelor says, eventually moving away from Chestnut, “but I can imagine it’s quite different now.”

“Aye, m’lord,” Dunk answers. “Though I find Summerhall to be a good place.”

Baelor raises a brow. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Dunk nods. “It’s a beautiful and Prince Maekar has a tight rein on how things are. It’s a good place,” he repeats the word, “and safe.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Baelor murmurs and there is a small moment where Dunk is putting the bucket away and brushing the last one of the horses while Baelor leans and observes the stallion. The horse does not stand in the same grandeur as the other royal stallions and palfrey, but Baelor seems unperturbed by the wildness his mane possesses. Dunk notices he’s reaching out a hand again.

“M’lord, would you like to…”

“Ser!” Aegon shouts.

He drops his apple and he moves to greet him halfway. Panic colours his face, something achingly familiar and Dunk grips his shoulders.

“What is it, Egg?” He kneels down. “Tell me, what is it?”

The boy gathers himself quickly enough to take a breath. He looks to Baelor too when the man comes near, much faster than Dunk expects for someone using a cane, but the prince always surprises him.

“Aegon, peace,” Baelor instructs, stern yet patient. “What is the matter?”

“It’s…” Aegon sucks in a breath again. “It’s Daeron, ser, uncle. He’s gone mad!”

===

On the stairs leading up to the apartments, Daeron is half-splayed, half-crouched. A broken bottle is by his side and wine spills down the steps. His hair covers his face, only the violet of his eyes peek through. He grits his teeth, and Dunk sees the seconds Baelor and even Egg reel back. Something has done that, something powerful he can’t sense. Even the kingsguard is at a lost.

Daeron is muttering. Hissing. He’s not there, not completely. Someone is murmuring to get the maester and his father, and Dunk can only stare at the prince.

No, not just a prince.

Just a man. A young man.

A pup.

Dunk steps forward and he knows frigtened horses, he knows fear himself – he expects the swat of his hand, the wide, unseeing eyes regarding him as nothing more than a figure at best. But Dunk stays, he’s bigger and he uses it. Daeron can’t push him in his state. Drunk and hazy and swaying as he is.

“... my prince,” Dunk shakes his head. No, he can’t do that. “Daeron,” he calls, propriety be damned. “Daeron,” he tries again and this time, he can somewhat sense it. A kind of scent that is strong he has to lean away a bit. “Daeron, can.. can you hear me?”

Confusion is the reply. Dunk tries to form a smile. He tries to control his breath too. Steady. Be steady. You don’t muddle up more confusion. Steady. Just breath loudly, but steady. He looks to the stairs them back to him.

“Where do you want to go?”

Daeron mumbles though ever so slowly, he looks up.

 “I see them break, great heads and they burn everything,” he softly whispers. “Ashes and fire, blood and fire.”

Dunk nods. He needs to listen. Sometimes one just needs to do that. Daeron resumes, but he accepts his touch and somewhere along the way, recognition fleetingly flits over his gaze.

“I see you again,” he gasps, clutches at Dunk’s arms that his nails dig into him. “I see you and they fly abovr you. They roar and great beasts they are that the skies shake. I see you, ser,” his eyes are red in their whites and they are manic, the kind only someone is wrought out in pain can be. His fangs are bared at the next, the strong scent flaring. “I see you stand and their heads to you at times, and soon, you fall and they follow. Tell me, ser,” he grasps Dunk and he pushes hard that Dunk leans against the wall to them both, the stone digs into his back. “Tell me...”

Have you seen them too?

Dunk blinks and he finds no answer on his tongue.

Then, Daeron’s weight is wrenched away from him and he’s breathing again.

“Bring him to his room,” someone growls and soon, a hand grabs him and pulls him up. “What the fuck is going on here?”

But Dunk does not know how to explain and Maekar’s eyes only narrow. He gets jostled again when Daeron is back to grasp his arm, shouldering his father off.

His words come out mutterings though and Dunk, in a foolish move, gets closer to him. Daeron’s eyes are blown, murky like a lake at night. Dunk holds his face and rubs his back – he sees mothers calm their children this way one time, murmuring things and smiling. He hopes his smile is gentle enough.

“I know it’s scary,” he pats his back, “but I promise you it will be alright. Please, go with your father. He’s going to make it better.” He rubs Daeron’s neck and feels the veins there loosening, the muscles relaxing. Daeron makes a keening sound that twists at his chest. “I know, I know. You have to go, there is somewhere much better than here. Somewhere warmer and safer, so please go with your father,” Dunk softly asks, softly guiding Daeron away from him and towards Maekar.

He is so close to taking his son’s hand when Daeron bares his fangs again and almost rips Dunk’s sleeve in pulling him along. Something cuts into Dunk’s hand as he slides a hand forward. Maekar catches it and the air becomes heavy, almost choking as he bares his own fangs. There is a deep reverbrating growl and it rattles Dunk. When he shakes his head to clear the haze, Daeron is hunched. Cowering. Dunk twinges at the keening.

He takes Daeron’s hand and gently, as best as he can, connects it to Maekar’s own. This time Daeron comes along.

“Watch them, ser,” Daeron whispers. “Watch and see.”

Maekar sends Dunk a look and Dunk trembles slightly before Egg tugs at his pants. He’s still here. With Baelor. They stand there, quietly as Maekar takes Daeron back down to his chambers.

At the click of a door being shut, Dunk’s legs give away. He rubs his face and grimaces at the sweat down his neck.

“Send someone to clean this up,” Baelor tells the other kingsguard, “and Ser Duncan,” he holds out a hand, “let’s have a maester look over that cut.”

Dunk looks down on where Baelor’s pointing.

His palm is bleeding.

===

They retreat to Baelor’s chambers and he wonders if older princes have a certain smokiness permeating in their rooms. Daeron sometimes stinks of wine and Egg is full of either sweets or papery things. The hearth is lit, flames casting a much needed brightness as the sun sets. Dunk doesn’t mind the warmth it gives, even when it is making him a tad uncomfortable merely sitting down as Yormwell washes his cut.

Egg is quiet, but he hangs about his side while Baelor looks to the fire and keeps touching his ring. The tension ruffles when heavy footsteps arrive. Maekar steps into the room in a flurry of red and black, and he goes straigtht to Dunk.

“Are you hurt?”

The bluntness catches him off guard. The hardiness of his voice even more so. Egg steps away, nose scrunching as he chooses to stand next to Baelor instead.

“No,” Dunk stammers out. “No, m’lord.”

“Are you sure? Do you feel anything?” He pats him down to the shoulder. “Fucking answer me,” he growls and Dunk’s nose itches painfully.

“No!” Dunk winces at his own reply. “No, m’lord,” he repeats softer. “Just... just a cut, but it was becasue I didn’t see the glass.”

Maekar frowns. Glares. It pushes Dunk down. His hold is tight on his shoulder.

“Brother,” Baelor sighs. “Ser Duncan is no worse for wear. It’s just a cut, right, maester?”

Yormwell nods. “I washed it thoroughly, it’s the only wound he obtained, milord,” he adds as he collects the bowl and the stained rag.

Maekar listens to them and still, he breathers heavily. There’s an acrid scent – a different kind of strong that has Baelor sighing again.

“Why the fuck you did that?” Maekar kneads his forehead after he deigns whatever Yormwell told him to be true about Dunk. “There was a raving alpha and you...” He points to him, harsh and stern and sharp, “you just fucking went closer.”

But Daeron hadn’t been like that. He was trembling, he was confused and rambling and did not poise to attack. Surely, Maekar saw that.

“He’s not dangerous, m’lord,” Dunk replies and cowers a bit at the look Maekar fixes him. “I was just trying to help...”

“By being a fucking fool,” Maekar cuts. “I know you hold your code dearly, but do not make the mistake of being an idiot. That could have gone differently and I would not have been able to do something about it until it was too late!”

Dunk purses his lips. His head aches and his nose feels clogged. He knows he’s a fool, but he does not regret his action. He just cannot.

“M’sorry, m’lord, truly,” he looks to Maekar’s eyes and he tries to hold them. “But I had to. If I made a slight at you for that, I’d be willing to accept the reprimand.”

Maekar’s face twists and he pushes hair out of his face. “That’s not I fucking...” He groans, pushes himself away from Dunk and heads to the window. It’s dark outside yet he glares to the darkness outside. “Fucking hells,” he mutters.

“Perhaps it is best for all of us to retire,” Baelor commands, hiding it as if it id a suggestion. “Today has been... quite much for everyone and a fresh morning is what we need, I believe,” he taps his cane.

Surprisingly, Egg nods first and it’s his holding of his hand that gets Dunk to have the strength to stand. He shakes off the haziness, the sudden weakness of his limbs. Maekar does not address them anymore as they make their way to the door. There is a stiffness to his posture, a brewing storm in the way his jaw is tightly set.

It reminds Dunk of Ashford.

And he opens his mouth before he thinks better of it, something clicking into place.

“Daeron does nothing wrong, m’lord,” he says, “and he did not hurt me.”

A bated breath. From who, he’s not sure, but Maekar turns to regard him one last time. His face has calmed somewhat, and the lines on it not quite so severe.

“Wear the collar,” Maekar says. Clear, hollow yet heavy.  

“For a while,” Baelor consoles when Dunk almost stammers and his smile is encouraging them to leave.

Egg pulls him again and Dunk shut the door behind them.

===

Tonight is still his turn and he could have asked the guard to take it, yet his room is much too big and too small at the same time, and he can’t close his eyes.

Egg had had begged him to stay, clutching his blanket when he managed to get him to wash up and change. The boy kept glancing to the vague direction of Daeron’s room but Dunk stood between the bed and the door. Come morning, questions would be spewed and stubbornness to see his brother, but at least, he would do it then with brighter eyes. It took several moment until the hour of the wolf came upon them and by then, Egg had dozed off finally. A bit fitfully for his liking though as he pulled the blanket more over tiny legs, he had thought at least the pup did.

At least, Dunk mulls as he studies the bandage and wiping his nose, someone can go to sleep after such chaos.

A thrumming still beats in him, restless and high strung. As if he just had jousted, had swung a sword, or raced his horse towards a goal line. Sweat and heat are cloyed into one, and Dunk sniffles at the smokiness that follows him to the room. Or maybe it has always been here before.

Daeron’s grip echoes while Maekar’s grabbing of his shoulder smarts though neither bruise skin. They had smelled of something strong and Dunk’s nose keeps twinging, especially after Maekar came up to his face. The collar rests distractingly around his neck. It’s not choking but it does not make for a good anything.

He’s drinking his tea and another cup of water as the hour wanes. Someone, somewhere is opening and closing a door. Out there, on some branch, an owl sounds off. He places a hand on his forehead, he still feels dizzy, and every time he takes a breath, the collar presses into his neck.

He closes his eyes, kneads his nape, scratches it lightly and covers his nose between folded knees. It’s warm, much too warm. He’s been sweating like a pig. Stinking like one also, he’d wager. But he can’t abndon his duty, so he must deal with it. And yet, the clinging shirt and the clamminess send shives down his spine and he feels incredibly, awfully stifled and damp.

He’s considering shucking off his shirt when he hears it.

A crack.

Then another.

And another.

At first, he thinks mice, but mice does not scratch like that, does not make a noise like that.

Have you seen them, ser?

Dunk stands. He walks, he carefully, slowly walks. His feet meet soft, cold carpet and there are beads if sweat running down his brows, dropping off his chin.

Smoke. There is smoke.

But no fire. Nothing of sort.

Not yet, something seems to murmur. Not yet.

Dunk comes to stand in front of the cradle. He hesitates.

Watch them. Watch and see them, ser.

The red and green one have cracked.

Two dragons yawned as if in hello.

Dragons.

There are dragons in the House.