all her paths are peace

Until now, you’d been little more than a tiny ghost to him, a pale-haired figure whose purpose apparently was to trail after Aerion in those expensive gowns with your eyes always cast down, as though you feared that if you looked up and met another person’s gaze they might suddenly realize that you were, in fact, alive.

Here, though, Dunk saw you plainly. Plain, though, you were not. You were still a young thing, perhaps only a handful of years older than Egg, awkward in the way lads and lasses both could be before the years seemed to remember that they had some catching up to do. You were fragile-looking with a face that had not quite decided whether it belonged to a girl or a woman yet. 

But still, you were…pretty. You were a Targaryen, after all, and all those dragon-lords and dragon-ladies seemed to have a way of looking less like ordinary folk and more like something the gods took a bit more time on. 

So there you were, comely and silver and little and sad, and there he was, ugly and bruised and giant and sad as well. Dunk stared at you until reality finally caught up with him: you were standing there waiting for him to say something, and he had a voice somewhere about him that he probably ought to use. 

“Egg– I mean, uh, Aegon.” Dunk stumbled over the name, trying desperately to remind himself that the little shiny-headed scoundrel who had spent the last week plaguing him was, in fact, a prince of the realm. He attempted his best half-bow toward you and had to bite back the groan that rose in his throat when the movement pulled at the pain still festering in his back. “And… Princess.”

He mentally braced himself. Surely you had come to tell him that Maekar had ordered his execution for treason, or insolence, or some other offense against the blood of the dragon. Or mayhaps you were here to demand a personal apology for knocking the teeth out of your brother…who also happened to be your betrothed, because you were a Targaryen, and Targaryens were queer like that. 

You shifted upon your feet and drew a small breath, your fingers tightening around Egg’s hand. “Ser Duncan, I have come to tell you that my father has given his consent for Egg to become your squire.”

Dunk blinked. He looked at you, then at Egg, who was looking at you. Then back at you again. “I…what?”

“It’s true, ser,” Egg interjected, nodding so fiercely that Dunk thought his little bald head might pop off. “My father says I am to serve you.”

Dunk’s brows furrowed. It had scarcely been an hour since he had hobbled before Prince Maekar, who had told him, plain as day, that it was he– the great, oafish hedge knight from Flea Bottom– who bore the blame for Baelor Breakspear’s corpse currently burning upon the pyre on the hill above Ashford. And somewhere amid all that, Maekar had also made it equally plain that Prince Aegon was not going to trail after that same hedge knight, sleeping in ditches and stables, going hungry when their coin ran short and running about covered in mud like a peasant boy. Dunk might have taken a blow or two or three or twenty to the head during the trial, but he didn’t think he had taken enough to forget that.

“He changed his mind, then?”

Egg opened his mouth, but you beat him to the response.

“Yes, he did.” You raised your head towards the sliver of sky visible through the trees overhead. The clouds that had drifted lazily above Ashford all morning were beginning to darken. “You should take your leave as soon as you can, ser, lest it begin to rain on the two of you.”

Dunk looked down at the boy. Egg stared back at him as though this were the finest thing that had ever happened in all his nine years.

Dunk wanted to say a great many things then. That he thought it odd Prince Maekar had changed his mind so quickly. That he was sorry for all the trouble he had caused. That he was not sorry for pummeling Aerion into the dirt, nor even, Seven forgive him, for nearly killing him. That Egg was a good boy, and mayhaps that meant at least one good thing had come from all this ugliness. He wanted to tell him that if Egg truly was to be his squire, Dunk would do right by him. He would never knowingly lead him into harm, and if harm came for the boy anyway, it would have to come through Dunk first. Mayhaps, if he were the sort of folk who knew how to say such things, he might even have told Egg that he already loved him rather like a brother.

Instead, all that came out was: “Chestnut’s yours. Treat her kindly. And I don’t want to find you on Thunder unless I put you there.”

He turned to you, and Dunk watched as you gathered the boy into a tight embrace. You bent your head and whispered something into his ear. Whatever it was made Egg’s face go as solemn as a little boy’s could, and he gave you one grave nod before burying his face against your dress. At last, you pulled away and led him over to Dunk.

Dunk took Egg beneath the arms and hoisted him onto Chestnut’s back. The old stot gave a long huff through his nose, the sort that seemed to say, Right then. I suppose this is the new arrangement I’ve no say in, but I’ll suffer it anyhow.

Dunk looked back at you, unsure of what to say to a princess who had just given him leave of the future for her brother. “... Thank you, princess. For bringing him to me.”

You worried at the rings upon your fingers. For a second, you didn’t look like a Targaryen princess promised to a beast of a brother, with the weight of a realm and generations of dragonlords and old stories pressing down upon your shoulders. You looked only like…a girl.

“Watch over him for me, Ser Duncan,” you said quietly, your eyes gone glossy. “See you raise him right.”

Whatever stupid answer Dunk might have managed got caught in his throat. So he only gave you a firm nod, and hauled himself painfully into Thunder’s saddle with considerably less grace that he would’ve liked. 

Minutes later, as the pair ambled down the dirt road and Egg chattered on about Dorne and puppets and all the adventures he seemed certain awaited them, Dunk glanced back over his shoulder.

There you were. That little silver-haired ghost, still standing at the edge of the trees in your black mourning clothes, watching them leave.

A strange sadness came over Dunk and he wondered what would become of you. Would you be sent away to Lys with Aerion? Did you love him? Would you hate Dunk for what he had done to him? Would you be safe, wherever you were sent? Would you be happy?

Would he ever see you again?

He had no reason to wonder about any of it, but still…he did.

Egg kept talking beside him, something now about how many Dornishmen Dunk might have to fight, and Dunk lifted one bandaged hand from the reins. He waved farewell.

You raised your hand and waved back.

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