all her paths are peace

The sun hung dim and tepid in the sky above Ashford Meadow, hazy through a veil of milky clouds. The air had not known a mote of quiet since the lists had been erected, and it was in this din that you found yourself.

Aerion Brightflame cantered proudly up and down the lists to raucous applause. He cut a fearsome image in his armour — blackened steel, scaled and spiked like dragon-hide. You knew the helmet that hung back on his skull was moulded into something unholy, half-man and half-dragon, with plumes coloured like flame.

It had been no more than a day since you had bestowed your favour upon Humfrey Hardyng, as your father had instructed — you were, after all, in talks to marry the man, and it was only right he should receive your token.

You had attempted to dissuade your father with all manner of excuses: the betrothal was not yet set in stone, and there would surely be a time more suitable to announce it to the realm — 'twas the Lady Gwyn's nameday, and you had no desire to steal her champion from beneath her nose — but your father was resolute. He'd even gone so far as to raise the issue with Lord Ashford, who had seen no offence in it.

You made no mention of Aerion's displeasure to your father. How could you explain it? You could barely understand it yourself. What could Brightflame want with the daughter of a lesser marcher lord? Your brother would inherit what little land your father possessed upon his passing, and you would be left only with your name — a name which, to be sure, did not measure up to that of the royal family's.

You had made this case before. All you had received was a laugh, cruel and cutting.

The prince trotted past again, his gold tipped lance raised boastfully, and there was no mistaking it. He met your eyes briefly, but it was enough for you to know that you had been right: you had displeased him, and you would be made to regret it.

Your stomach twisted.

"Are you well, girl?" said your father at your side. "You needn't worry about Humfrey. He's a hardy fellow — you saw it yourself!"

Yes. He had bested Tully and Mallister and Beesbury and a whole host of formidable knights, men who had fought fairly and honourably.

Aerion passed once more.

"'Tis the final tilt of the day," your father continued, supping from his chalice. "Brightflame will want a harder fight, no doubt. The Longthorn, perhaps..."

On his final trot down the lists, Aerion finally made his way to the champion's tents, slowing his steed to an idle walk. He lingered by his cousin's pavilion for a moment, crowing something undoubtedly ill-mannered, but you did not bother with hope; you knew where he meant to go, and you could not watch it. You peered down at your hands, picking at the skin of your fingertips until they begun to sting and bleed, and—

"Come out, come out, little knight! It is time you faced the dragon."

The day had turned rancid, as you had both expected and feared. You were whisked away by the end of Aerion's tilt, ushered quickly back to your pavilion as smallfolk flooded the fields in rage. You could hardly remember the journey back — only the cold shock of disbelief that had engulfed you, and the sight of blood spouting from the poor horse's neck, and the yell of agony from Humfrey's mouth as he was crushed beneath it.

You felt sick again. It was your fault. Your fault.

You sat upon your makeshift bed in your pavilion, alone, your father off to lend his support to House Hardyng. Humfrey may have won by a technicality, and gained a fine horse all the while, but he had lost much more. His leg would never be the same, and his victory had incurred Aerion's ire even further.

With the smallfolk on edge and night fallen, your father deigned to leave you behind. It was a mistake. You knew it to be. You wrapped yourself in a woollen blanket and stared at the small fire lit within the pavilion, counting the minutes before the inevitable came.

"There you are."

When Aerion parted the flaps of your tent, you only stared. He had not bothered to act discreetly; had waltzed in the front, uncaring of all who had no doubt seen him. He stood, unperturbed by your glare, and took a leisurely glance around the place.

"Dismal," he noted bluntly. His gaze returned to you, and an eyebrow rose, as if his being here was welcomed, as if he hadn't just maimed an innocent man. "What is it?"

"What did you think to gain?"

A tilt to the head, slow and reptilian. A pang of alarm crawled up the length of your spine, settling in the nape of your neck. "Come, now. Whatever do you mean?"

"You did it on purpose." He opened his mouth, but you did not allow him to speak — the words tumbled from you like water from a dam, heedless of all sense. In your mind, you saw the glint of his eyes; the point of his lance. "You chose to tilt against him."

He shrugged, lazy. "That is no proof of wrongdoing."

You clutched at your skirts so tightly your knuckles ached. "Do not dishonour us both with a lie — I saw murder in your eyes."

There was a scoff. Aerion stared at you, eyes narrowing. Displeased once more.

"Murder," he echoed. He stepped closer — took a slow, ambling path around the fire, brushing closer than was perhaps comfortable or necessary — until he stood before you. Your neck craned painfully backwards to hold his gaze. "That is a vile accusation, my lady. Treasonous, even."

Fear gripped you. In fact, it had since he had stepped foot in your pavilion — but fear had been a companion of yours for years, hadn't it, since the very first time Aerion Brightflame's treacherous eyes took note of you? You had learned to live with it. You had learned the patterns and shapes of him, the sharpness of his cruelty, the boundaries he constantly pushed and toed at. He would not harm you — had never harmed you, materially — and could not, now, in any case. How many had seen him enter? Should you appear bruised and bloody, there wouldn't be a soul around who doubted their source.

At this, you forced a good front.

"Do not take me for a fool," you uttered. "I... I know your cruelty. I should go to my lord father, and—"

In an instant, he bent — his face level with yours, so close his nose nudged yours, and his breath fanned hot against your face.

"And what shall you do?" he whispered harshly, grinning. "Hardyng is a cripple and a craven besides. Your lord father would not dishonour you with such a match."

"A cripple and a craven who bested you," you hissed, anger flaring, "and took your horse—!"

As quick as the cracking of a whip, Aerion seized your jaw in one hand, fingers pressed so firmly into you that your mouth was forced shut. Roughly he pulled you forward, and it was all you could do to let out a muffled gasp. Your heart thudded terribly in your chest — your hands scrabbled up to grasp his, as if to stop him from some unknown evil, but he did not move.

He only kept your gaze, unblinking. The plumpness of your cheeks pressed about his fingers. His lips were close enough to skim yours.

As if remembering the words that had left you, his mouth made an ugly shape. His grip tightened painfully for a moment, abating only when you whimpered.

"'Tis true," he mused. For a moment, he seemed far away; though his eyes remained on you, they did not see you. "The dragon ought never lose... but I have gained far more than I have lost."

A second passed. His grip loosed, but did not remove itself entirely; he stood again to his full height, and the breath returned to your chest.

"I imagine it was a fright," he said finally, an annoyed sigh filtering through his chest. You were dizzied, not for the first time, by the fickleness of his humour — his thumb stroked over your cheek now with an odd, uncharacteristic tenderness. "To see the horse fall. Women have no appetite for these things, and I will thus forgive your accusations. The dragon may be ferocious, but he is, at times, merciful..."

You could only stare, incredulous. Your jaw ached. Your heart was loud in your ears, and your hands trembling over his.

Aerion smiled. It appeared too kind for a man as cruel as he; no doubt he had practiced it, and it would absolve him of all wrongdoing as it always did. Hopelessness swept over you, and so engulfed with it you were, you hardly noticed him procure something from his pocket. Only when he lifted it to tuck it into his doublet, did your eyes flit to it.

It was your favour. Your favour, which you had given Ser Humfrey Hardyng, which had been looped beneath the vamplate of his lance. It was caked in mud and crusted red, but you knew it.

"My spoil of war," he said, following your eyes. That thumb continued its gentle caress of your cheek. "Take heart. There is no greater honour than this; to be coveted by the dragon is to be cherished by the gods. Is this not the dream of all ladies?"

Coveted. Yes, that was right. You were not a woman; you were a hoard of gold to be conquered, a crown jewel to be displayed. Prey that he had hunted and pounced upon and now kept to bat idly between his paws.

You would never escape him. You would never be without him.

Even as he released you, you despaired. Even as he retraced his steps around the fire, whistling a jaunty tune to himself, a melancholy like no other took hold of you. Self-preservation stilled your limbs and forced you to still, and your tongue almost stayed with it; but as he lifted the flap to your tent once more, the outline of him edged in firelight, your mouth could not help but move.

"My father is no fool," you said. "Nor is any lord here today. You crippled Ser Humfrey, and now you seek the hand of the woman he was meant to marry."

Aerion blinked.

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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