Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

For as long as he could recall, he had sought the comfort of grass and stone and earth, never the shifting sands of the shore nor the bottomless waters beyond it. In truth, the waves frightened him in ways he could never describe, and the smells of salt and rot often made him ill. Yet here he was, standing by the railing of the Star Spray as it ploughed its way towards the Sea of Dorne, staring out into a world that was as vast as it was grey. He kept clutching his stomach, bearing his discomfort with as much silent dignity as he could muster. A knight, even one of the hedge, had his pride. And Dunk was no longer a mere hedge knight. He was a prince’s sworn man—the captain of his household guard, no less—and he held onto his pride fiercely even as he battled the urge to bring up his last meal. He had no desire to disgrace himself in the presence of others.

Until Dorne, Dunk thought miserably. I must endure this ordeal until Dorne and then back again.  

The knight was on his way to Sunspear. Once, he would have deemed such a journey impossible—the stuff those without coin amused themselves with only in dreams. Now he stood waist-high in the thick of it all, guarding the Crown Prince while the royal heir attended the wedding of a Martell cousin who was a particular favourite of both the prince and his younger brother, the Prince of Summerhall. So much of the journey was wholly new to Dunk. Ser Arlan never took him deep into the Dornish Marches—not even when their need for stars and stags was most dire—and Dorne itself seemed like a land of many fables to Dunk’s mind. But the seas along the way… they constantly churned from the hour they departed King’s Landing, and the skies always seemed determined to spit icy rain.

At least the rain had ceased tormenting them for now, which was a small mercy in itself. For more days and nights than Dunk cared to count, wind and water lashed at the ship relentlessly, making it toss and heave as it made its way from the capital to Tarth and Storm’s End and beyond. The air had taken on an uncommon chill that seemed to seep into a man’s bones. Dunk had to seek sanctuary in his chamber below decks by then, so unwilling was he to bear the wet and the cold. It had been warmer in the rooms below, and he had stayed dry. He had not wanted for company either. The other knights in the Crown Prince’s company had proved themselves more than equal to the task. They shared their meat and mead, and regaled him with their tales, fantastical as some of them sounded. And none of them thought to make light of his struggles with the ship or the journey. They never sought to make him feel inferior because of it.

“A true knight never belittles the ills of another,” Ser Arlan had once said. Dunk always held fast to those words; yet he suspected the knights on board did so more out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne than out of any knightly courtesy. Still, he returned the gesture in the same manner he received it—freely, and with an open heart. It was the only way he knew how.

“Is the sea still a heartless mistress to you, Ser Duncan?”

The voice that came from behind him was soft, measured, and patient. It brought a flush that spread from Dunk’s cheeks down to his chest.

“She certainly is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, his gaze fixed intently on the horizon. He could not let Prince Baelor see him blushing like a maiden on her wedding night. His answer, if pressed, would only humiliate and endanger them both. “But I am master of myself. I will yet prevail.”

Prince Baelor drifted to his side. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said, resting his hands on the rail. His fingers were almost close enough to brush against Dunk’s. “Pray do not give way to shame, Ser Duncan. The sea is unforgiving to many; prince and pauper alike.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Dunk returned. He mastered himself in the end, though not over the cause the prince spoke of.

For nigh on half a year, mayhap longer, Dunk had silently ached for the prince, won over by his humility and his willingness to treat Dunk with the same kindness and dignity as he would any highborn lord. That Dunk could not give voice to what he yearned for tormented him; Prince Baelor was a man long wedded and widowed, with sons already grown. He would never look upon a lowborn knight—a man, no less—with tender affection or favour. His faith and inclinations would not allow it. So Dunk bore it without counsel from others—and prayed it would not destroy him one day.

He dared to look at Prince Baelor then. The prince remained by his side, his mismatched eyes of blue and brown set firmly on Weeping Town’s unseen shores. Their ship was still hours away, but with each rise and dip of the oars, they drew ever nearer to the town. An assembly with Ser Harrin Dondarrion, brother of the woman Prince Baelor had taken to wife, was almost upon them, and it filled Dunk with dread. Even now, the man’s good brother grieved for her. He spoke of her often, and with a warmth that made Dunk’s heart ache with envy. But it was only proper for a man to grieve his departed bride and the mother of his sons. A prince should be no different.

Dunk the lunk, the knight chided himself. Slow as an aurochs and thick as a castle wall.

“Come,” Prince Baelor said, turning to face him. “I have asked the cook to prepare a broth to ease unsettled stomachs.”

With leaden feet, Dunk followed the prince, threading his way around sailors toiling at their duties.

The way down was dimly lit with brass lanterns affixed to the walls. They swung and creaked when he descended the steps to the rooms set aside for the prince and his party to use, and the sound set Dunk’s teeth on edge. More than once, he had to lower his head to avoid a low beam. In the narrow passageway beneath the deck, knights of the Kingsguard, armoured in scaled white plate, snapped to attention on either side as the prince passed them by. Ser Donnel looked at him and grinned. The knights had styled Dunk a brother-in-arms—a Kingsguard in all but name. Dunk had gladly welcomed it.

Ser Roland opened the door at the far end, stepping aside to allow them entry into a small and well-appointed room with little hatches that let in the dreary mid-afternoon light. Dunk had come to this before to break his fast or sup with the prince. On each occasion that he did so, he had discovered something new to marvel at. In this instance, it was a cedar box no bigger than a man’s fist. It had been laid on the table and its open lid revealed the contents: a ring hewn from blood-red stone polished to a smooth finish, resting on top of a cushion of black velvet.

“I had this made to your measure,” Prince Baelor murmured. He pushed the box across the waxed oaken surface toward Dunk and took his seat. “I trust it suits.”

Dunk reached into the box and took the ring into the flat of his palm. It was cool to the touch, and it looked just right for him. When he slid it down his right ring finger, it fit perfectly.

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Dunk said, taking a chair. His ears were as red as the ring; he was certain of it. “Did Egg—Prince Aegon, I mean—give you the ring I already owned?” Dunk already possessed one of gilded copper, the only gift he gave himself upon receiving his first proper wage. Egg could have only taken that.

“He did,” Prince Baelor beamed. “My nephew took much delight in spiriting it away, then returning it to its proper place after the deed was complete.” He lifted a silver bell and rang it. “You are not vexed, I hope.”

“I am not,” Dunk said quietly. He looked down at the ring. No other lord had gone to such trouble for his sake without asking recompense in return; the gesture moved him and made him love the prince even more. “I shall treasure this always.”

Prince Baelor merely smiled, yet his eyes glittered with a rare pleasure.

Not long after, the cook was shown into the room, bearing matched crimson bowls with jet ripples and swirls. He set them down before Dunk and the prince, bowed deeply, and took his leave. Dunk leaned forward to breathe in the steam. The broth was made with crushed ginger; already, he could feel his stomach settling from the scent.

“The good captain tells me we will sight land before sunset,” Prince Baelor remarked after his first spoonful. “We can soon put this damp creeping behind us.”

Dunk felt an immense surge of relief. “That would be welcome, Your Grace.” He spooned up more of the broth. The heat of it was soothing as it washed down his throat. “To feel the ground beneath my feet once more.”

“Just so,” Prince Baelor said. “Pray remain and speak with me. There is still much for you and me to talk of.”

They spent the rest of the voyage speaking of many matters, both great and trifling. For Dunk, it was more than just duty; it was a gift beyond price, for it was as close as he could hope to get to the prince and to witness aspects of the man few saw. He would never squander such a grace so rarely given to others. He did not know when it would come his way again.

Prince Baelor was as gracious within the confines of his quarters as he was without. He served Dunk wine himself, then indulged him with the delicate sweetmeats Dunk was fond of. The prince asked Dunk for one of the many stories about old Ser Arlan and the years Dunk tended him as his squire, then offered a tale of his own. Prince Baelor had lived a longer and richer life than even he—Dunk—had, and so, Dunk listened, he learnt, and he committed all that he heard to the safekeeping of memory, the way he always did.

When Prince Baelor dismissed him as the appointed hour of their arrival neared, it was with a reluctance Dunk could not fathom. Nonetheless, the knight obeyed and took to his own little room, to refresh himself and change into his raiment. His tunics and doublets were new; his armour and helm too. Dunk hefted a shirt of mail, weighing it the way he had the first day he received it. The iron was fine and castle-forged, and it gleamed in the lamp light. When he draped it over his doublet, it settled against it like a second skin. Dunk twisted this way and that. The mail moved with ease, and it was light against his frame. It would serve, he told himself as he drew on his surcoat—soft tawny linen edged in green and brown and gold. It would serve very well indeed.

By the time Dunk emerged from his chamber—his sword at his hip—the ship had dropped its anchor, and the sky had cleared, its few remaining clouds aflame from the light of the westering sun. After taking a moment to bid farewell to the ship, he stepped down into one of the landing boats with renewed vigour and greater command than he knew he had. When Prince Baelor took his place beside him, Dunk neither reddened nor struggled for words even as he discreetly admired the prince in his black tunic and mantle. He spoke as a knight should, and conducted himself as a knight ought. If Prince Baelor had perceived a change in his nature, he did not let it show.

A command from the captain was called out, and the boats were lowered into the water. “Jena was fond—more than fond—of sunsets,” Prince Baelor said wistfully. “There were days when I would discover her seated by the windows of our bedchamber come eventide, her eyes fixed on the world beyond.”

“It is quite a sight, Your Grace,” Dunk said cautiously. “The sun setting over the city.”

Prince Baelor sniffed. “Did Ser Arlan like sunsets?”

“He did,” Dunk mused. “The old man would sit under a tree, watch, and say, ‘Another day done, eh, Dunk? But there is always the morrow, and the promise a new sunrise brings with it.’”

“The promise a new sunrise brings with it.” Prince Baelor looked at him with an expression that held neither grief nor wrath, but a third strange quality Dunk could not name. “Most apt.”

They did not speak the rest of the crossing, but passed the time in companionable silence instead.

Dunk looked ahead as the rowers put their backs to the oars, brushing his hand against the salty water that sprayed against his cheek and slouching to make himself smaller in the cramped space. Not far from the boat, the harbour of Weeping Town stretched out on either side of the shore. To the far west, the Red Mountains rose, up and up, until they touched the sky and their sharp peaks bled orange and red in the dying light. The market town itself was smaller in size and people than King’s Landing, but its tiled roofs and signs of guilds and storehouses still boasted of wealth. Ships of every shape could be seen, their sails such a riot of colour that it all hurt Dunk’s eyes. Porters stooped with the weight of their loads as they carried bundles and bales to other merchants and other ships, and men of high office boarded or alighted from vessels, barking out commands and inspecting wares while their attendants fought to keep up.

Weeping Town was a favourite of Lady Jena’s, Prince Baelor finally told him. She had visited it often with her lady mother when she was a child, and she had once stood by the very pier they neared to greet him, the man who would go on to become her husband. A man waited just beyond it even now, holding a black banner blazoned with the white anchor of House Whitehead. Dunk shot a glance at Prince Baelor. The prince was a vision of the utmost composure. He rose when the men lifted their oars, and Dunk threw a rope for labourers to take, his footing sure as the boat was secured to a mooring.

The knight was the first to heave himself onto the dock. “Give me your hand, Your Grace,” he said.

Prince Baelor did not hesitate to accept Dunk’s offer, his slender hand lingering in Dunk’s meaty one longer than custom decreed, much to the knight’s surprise and confusion. Still, he helped the prince up, and when the stranger with the banner crossed to them, he took a moment to gather himself.

“Hail and well met, Your Grace,” the man said, and bowed. “I am Ser Ashter of House Whitehead. Ser Harrin bade me to welcome you in his name. He rides forth to meet you even as we speak.” He gestured to a trio of young squires who stepped away from the throng, leading horses richly caparisoned in sable and white silk. “My lord father beseeches you to make use of our steeds for as long as you remain here.”  

“Lord Braedon has my thanks for it,” Prince Baelor said.

He mounted his destrier, a blood bay Ser Ashter called ‘Swift Wind’. The stallion was as splendid as he was biddable, and took to the prince with ease. Yet when it came to Dunk’s own mount, the knight was not so fortunate. The beast Prince Baelor had invited him to take was 'Grey Mist,' a courser whose magnificent appearance was only surpassed by the fierceness of his temper.

The prettiest always did have a temper. Nevertheless, Dunk persevered even as the others left their boats and took to their horses. Grey Mist whinnied and reared, ready to give his unknown rider battle. Yet the knight averted his eyes so as not to frighten the beast or give him challenge. He kept perfectly still, grasping the animal’s reins with light hands and drawing him closer and closer.

“Be easy now,” Dunk crooned softly. “Be quiet. There is no war for you here.”

He slowly reached up and caressed Grey Mist’s neck. The horse did not shy away, but Dunk kept whispering gentle words and rubbing the stallion’s coat until he calmed long enough for the knight to take to his saddle.

“I must beg your pardon,” Ser Ashter said from atop his palfrey, abashed. “Grey Mist is not always like this.”

“No harm was done, m’lord,” Dunk said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Prince Baelor smiling. It made him smile as well. “Let us ride on.”

The Kingsguard rode out first to clear a path ahead. The rest of the company dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and followed.

Of the crowds that scrambled to get out of the way, many were startled to see a prince of the blood in a place like Weeping Town. Several called out to Prince Baelor as he rode past them, while others simply ducked into crooked alleys and beneath peaked roofs in their haste to scatter. Dunk kept a steady watch on those who pressed too close. The enmity between the Marcher Lords and the Dornishmen had only just begun to wane, and the prince was as much the blood of Dorne as he was of Old Valyria. There could have been men who meant him ill will.

Suddenly, a blare of trumpets rang out against the stout buildings and thick walls, and the sound of hooves pounding over wood and rain-softened earth soon reached their ears.

“Who goes there?” Ser Roland cried, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. “Name yourself!”

By then, the other party had reached them. “Ser Harrin Dondarrion, if it please you!” answered the rider who led the group—a lordling in a black woollen surcoat richly adorned with white stars. He reined his horse to a stop and removed his helm, exposing a dashing face and a shock of red-gold hair. “Here to greet the prince!”

“Ser Harrin!” Prince Baelor called out warmly. He urged Swiftwind forward. “It has been a long while, good brother!”

“Too long, I wager.” Ser Harrin grinned. “Come! The Broken Shield awaits us.”

The Broken Shield lay a good two miles further inland—a large stone structure with tiled roofs and shuttered windows painted a rich, leafy green. When they reached its wooden gates, the first stars had already appeared in the darkened sky, and the air had grown chill. Pot-boys ran out with torches and lit those already placed in sconces along the walls, providing the inn’s guests with brighter light. The inn’s yard was empty of other patrons; its rooms, no doubt, given over to the royal party for the night. He dismounted and gave Grey Mist over to a squire for grooming. The horse displayed a flash of his temper, snapping sharply at the lad’s face as if attempting to bite it off.

“Easy,” Dunk quickly soothed. “Do not fuss. Hmm? Go with him.” He passed the reins to the boy. “He will give you no trouble now.”

The squire looked doubtful. He still did as he was bid, and Grey Mist followed him without further trouble, though the horse gave the boy a menacing glare. Dunk watched them go, unable to grasp how the gods could fashion such an inconstant creature.

He turned and went in search of the prince, his boots squelching over slick grass and mud. Prince Baelor was standing by the doorway, speaking with Ser Harrin. They turned when Dunk cleared his throat.

“Your grace,” Dunk said, and bowed. “M’lord.”

“Good brother,” Prince Baelor began, “this is Ser Duncan the Tall, captain of my household guard.” 

“My comfort for your loss,” Dunk told Ser Harrin. “Lady Jena was a fine and gentle lady, m’lord. The realm is all the poorer in her absence.”   

“As is our family,” Ser Harrin told him. “And my own good brother here.” A spark of light cast away the shadows that had gathered in his amber eyes. “Come in and sit, pray. A meal has been prepared for us.”

Dunk nodded his acceptance, grateful he had not reopened an old wound with careless talk. He walked behind the prince as they entered the inn’s common room, an airy space that smelt faintly of peatsmoke and cooked meat. Serving men stepped forward on the Dondarrion knight’s command, with platters of fry bread and roasted capons and skewers of onions and lamb basted with honey and herbs. Dunk took his seat and tried not to shift. The chair was comfortable enough for his massive frame, but it creaked too much for his liking. He turned his sight to his meal, which he found plentiful and tasty and filling. Kitchen boys ambled from lord to lord—pressing cups into their hands—while a stout, jolly-faced woman trailed after them, halting only to pour from a tankard measures of a vintage found only in the Stormlands. Dunk ate his fill and drank half a cup for courtesy’s sake. The wine was red and fortified; too much would have addled his wits.

Ser Harrin picked up a skewer and nibbled at the tender meat. Honey and grease dripped down his chin. “The prince speaks of you with great esteem in his letters,” he mumbled between sticky mouthfuls. “But he has not told me all. Where do you come from, Ser Duncan? Who are your family?”

Dunk suddenly felt out of place. Every man seated with him was a knight or high lord hailing from families with ancient names and roots that ran deep. He was not. “I am from F-flea Bottom,” he stammered truthfully. “A-as for my kin, there are none; none that I know of.”

“A pity,” Ser Harrin said. “No matter. You serve our prince well. That is enough.” He drank deep and held his cup aloft for more.

“You shall find good contest among the men when you train,” Ser Ashter said, “and mayhap put what you learn to greater use when defending the prince from the fair ladies fighting each other for his affections.”

Though the Whitehead knight spoke in good humour, the prince remained unmoved. “I confess, I no longer seek such gentle companionship,” Prince Baelor said, though not unkindly. “I do not wish to wed again.” He looked at Dunk with that strange quality the knight saw on the boat. It made him forget his meal and ponder his words.

“I meant no insult, Your Grace,” Ser Ashter said.

“None was taken,” Prince Baelor said. He smiled. “Let us continue on to other matters.”

Ser Aster tilted his head, and the notion of Prince Baelor in the company of another noblewoman was no longer spoken of.

As the night waxed and a quarter moon ascended beyond the open windows, a squire took to his lute, filling the air with soft music. Dunk half-listened to it and the lordly speech that rose and fell around him. Prince Baelor and Ser Harrin each spoke of what the other had not witnessed, tales of King’s Landing and the Boneway most of all. That captured Dunk’s interest. He had seen the paintings, and had heard the talk, but hearing it described from the lips of a man whose very life was devoted to guarding the northern gateway of that treacherous pass was a different matter entirely. He hoped to see it someday. Perhaps he would, if his prince ever thought to call on the holdfasts along the way.

Prince Baelor then finished his meal and rose. “Forgive me,” he told Ser Harrin, “but missives to the king await. I bid you all a peaceful night.”

The prince caught Dunk’s fleeting attention. Yet it was not he who compelled Dunk to remain, but Ser Harrin instead. Prince Baelor’s good brother was studying him with a look that was shrewd but held no malice. After many of the others departed for their own beds, the knight handed his plate to a servant passing by and got to his feet.

“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, coming over to Dunk’s side. “I could not help but admire the jewel on your finger.” He sat beside him and gestured to the stone ring. “May I ask the name of the Dornishwoman who courts you?”

Dunk peered into his empty cup. “She is of no consequence.” Prince Baelor had not called for secrecy when he presented the ring, but Dunk did not name him all the same. “This is a trinket, m’lord, nothing more.”

“I am not so certain.” Ser Harrin took Dunk’s right hand into his. “This is the heartstone. It is found only in the bosom of the Red Mountains.”

“Is that so?”

Ser Harrin nodded. “They say a warrior of great renown bled upon the Dornish sands while shielding the woman he loved. He endured and lived, but when he attempted to return to her side, the gods sought to hinder him. The woman this warrior loved was lowborn, you see—too poor and inconsequential to stand beside a man held in such high favour by the divine. So they raised the Red Mountains around each drop of his blood as it hardened to stone, leaving him weak and captive to their will.”

The knight paused for a moment, then added, “Only the woman they conspired against was a determined creature. She did not fear the gods or their wrath. She braved the jagged rocks to find her champion’s life-essence, not caring for the wounds they inflicted upon her own person. What she could carry, she softened with her tears, and gave it back to him. It was enough to give him the strength he needed to free himself from the gods’ hold.” He shrugged. “It is just a myth many have left in the shadows of the past; yet there are those in Dorne who still remember and pass it on as a crib tale to their children.”

Dunk was unable to speak. The ring gifted him was more than just a token of friendship, or even admiration that a lord held toward his vassal. It spoke of feelings that spread far deeper.

“I did not know of such a tale,” he said, once he had discovered, and loosened, his tongue. He was grateful the light did not reveal much; he was certain his ears were already red.

“Now you do,” Ser Harrin said. “Pray who is the woman who bestowed such a gift?”

Dunk blurted, “I-I cannot say.” He hoped that this would be the end of such talk, but it was not to be so. Ser Harrin was as persistent as a hound with a meaty bone.

“You cannot say.” Ser Harrin leaned in, so no one else would hear. “Is this lady a Dornish princess of the blood? Is that why you truly follow the prince to Sunspear? You have no other means to see her?”

“I… I cannot give you the answers you seek,” Dunk said. “My pardons for that.”

Ser Harrin clapped him hard on the shoulder and laughed. “A good man never speaks of a woman’s secrets. Your lady is fortunate, whoever she may be.”

“Aye,” Dunk muttered. “Most fortunate.” He set aside the remnants of his meal and pushed back his chair. “My thanks for your company, m’lord. Until the morrow.”

“Until the morrow, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sought the stairs, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. The man he once believed was far beyond the likes of him was now closer to his reach. The ring—if Ser Harrin spoke true—was proof of it. He considered what he would say, and what he would do. How did one even raise such a matter with a prince he was only supposed to serve? Dunk did not know. He would have uttered a prayer to the Crone, beseeching her for wise counsel, but he knew not what to say. Ser Arlan had taught him the ways of horse and sword and lance, but never the litanies of the faithful. Perhaps the right words would present themselves at the opportune moment. Dunk hoped such would indeed be the case.

When he ascended to the upper floor, Ser Roland greeted him at the top of the steps. The knight led him to Prince Baelor’s room without further delay. Dunk was to take the first watch within, while Ser Donnel took the first watch outside it.

Ser Donnel, already standing at attention by the door, threw it open. “Ser Duncan, Your Grace,” he announced. He caught a glimpse of the ring and gave Dunk a knowing look, but the corners of his lips curled up.

Dunk slipped inside and waited until the door was closed behind him. “Your Grace,” he said. “May we speak plainly before my duties begin?”

Prince Baelor, seated at a little table by the window, put down his quill and bade Dunk take the chair opposite his. “Speak, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sat down and lowered his head. He was too flustered to begin, or even look Prince Baelor in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, struggled to form the words, and then closed it. Somewhere along the upper corridor, a knight began to sing. His clear voice drifted across the floor and filled the silence that enveloped the two men.   

“Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor said. He poured them each a cup of spiced mead. “Is aught amiss?”

“I…” Dunk said, then hesitated. He accepted his cup, drained it in three deep swallows, and finally found something that passed for courage. At length, he confessed, “’Tis the ring, Your Grace. Ser Harrin told me the tale of the stone’s making.” He lowered his voice. “Why did you give it to me?” 

Prince Baelor leaned into his seat. Light from nearby candles danced in his eyes. “Ser Harrin sees much,” he said quietly. “Too much for his own good, and ours. You said naught of me, I hope.”

“I did not, Your Grace,” Dunk admitted, his cheeks aflame. “I give you my word on that.”  

“Then let us, as you said, speak plainly,” Prince Baelor said. “After you and I crossed paths—no… I must go further back. After Jena was ripped from my embrace, I… I closed my heart to the very notion of loving another. It felt wrong—a betrayal of what my lady and I shared.” He took a deep, steadying breath and continued. “Then, at Ashford, the gods set a humble hedge knight in my path. Imagine my amazement when I took him into my service, and he pierced the armour I fashioned around myself with his unwavering honour and uncommon kindness. I denied it to myself at first—dubbed it a fickle passion that would pass in the night. But the longer this knight remained in my acquaintance, the harder it became for me to look away. This is why I gave you that ring; it is my wish for us to be more than prince and knight.”

The prince sighed. “I believed that I had enough time to speak of it with you. And I would have, had my good brother’s act not forced my hand. Know this, Ser Duncan. There will be no coercion. I will never claim what is not given to me freely. If you say nay, I shall make peace with it and we will continue as we are: lord and servant, nothing more.”

“If I say no, Your Grace, will you take back this ring?”

“No, and never. The ring is a gift. You may take it into your safekeeping for however long you wish.”

Dunk was overcome. Awe and fear ripped through him, each choosing to war with the other. Then, after they had ebbed away, the weight that had pressed down on him for six turns of the moon slowly lifted. Such a freedom made it all the easier for him to make a confession of his own.

“For half a year,” Dunk said, “I did not just seek to serve you.” He swallowed and plunged on. “I-I sought more, Your Grace—more than any knight ever should. I-I still do. I am your man,” he swore earnestly, “and I am yours—in every way you long to have me.”

The prince’s breath hitched. “As I am yours,” he said. “Then is this your word that we may begin anew?” he asked. “Not merely as a prince and his knight, but as two souls embarking on life’s great journey together?”

“It is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, and looked up. Prince Baelor’s eyes softened when he did. “But I do not know if it is wise.” He recalled Ser Donnel’s strange look. “I think… I think Ser Donnel suspects.”

“Ser Donnel knows of my secret,” Prince Baelor explained. “It was he who procured the stone in my name, and it was he who took it to the smith to have it shaped. I fear I could not carry out the deed myself; too many know of my appearance. We are perfectly safe with him; I assure you of this.”

“Oh,” Dunk said, feeling foolish. “Then I will not speak a word to anyone else. Not everyone will approve.”

Prince Baelor nodded. “They will not,” he agreed. “But let us not dwell on that. Let us give thanks to the gods for this night instead, Ser Duncan, and the promise a new sunrise will bring us.”

Whenever she was feeling terribly low, she would pull out the hidden music box from that fateful night and listened to its melody. Rarely did she not have it with her. It reminded her of a time when there was a different king. A king who was peaceful. A king who did not seek out to end the lives of others in malice.Her thoughts turned bitter when it wandered toward the Lannisters. She wanted nothing to do with them but if she was to be stuck in King's Landing then she would have to suffer in silence.

It was then when she looked up and a young man with silver blond hair step out into the streets and sweep the ground. She watched him carefully, something within her told him that he would be important to her in the future. His hair reminded her of someone but she could not place who. Tilting her head, Elara kept her eyes trained on him.

Egg stumbled out into the streets as he hurriedly swept the ground. His violet eyes were focused downward, trying to clean as best as he could. Around him, people yelled back and forth - some attempting to trade, others yelling obscenities. Silver blond hair toppled over his ears but was raggedly cut on the ends. Egg kept his head down as he worked, his brown hat hiding his eyes from others.

It was not until he heard a scream filled with fear that he stopped what he was doing. Dropping his broom, he looked wildly around him for the source of the scream. It was not until he saw the group of people yelling maliciously at a man that he saw that he was the one who screamed.

"A Targaryen lives!" The man yelled. "The true King who should sit on the Iron Throne is still here! He is hidden among us and we must help him ascend the throne!"

The growing crowd laughed and hollered at the man. Food flew through the air, hitting its mark with exceptional aim.

"Targaryens are shit!" Someone yelled back.

"No! Listen to me! The Lannisters are deceiving you all! They are not the ones who should be on the throne!"

A laugh left the crowd. "How many Targaryen women did you fuck?" asked someone. "Did they tell you were fine to look at, as well?"

Egg watched the exchange with rapt attention. These words that this man said, that claimed that the Targaryens are to be the ones on the throne, they stirred something deep within him. The grip on his broom tightened as more people heckled the shouting man. He was right, Egg concluded. The Targaryens should still be here. Perhaps if they were there would be little of this. They held their subjects on a tighter reign. Hell, they had dragons.

People continued to shout at the Targaryen supporter. It was not until a gold cloak approached the man from behind and produced a dagger. The Targaryen supporter was oblivious to this, believing the cheers now coming from the crowd were for him. If he had blinked, Egg would have missed what happened. His eyes were glued to the man, however, awaiting his fate.

Making a show of it all, the gold cloak raised his dagger high in the air. With a flourish he brought it down and sliced the man's throat. Blood spurted out, hitting those who were closest to him. Egg stumbled, losing his grip on his broom, and fell to his knees.

Blood.

All he could see was blood.

All he could hear was screams.

Echoes of screams and streaks of blood soaked his mind.

His stomach wanted to empty out the little food that was inside it but Egg swallowed it down. He would not get sick. He would not succumb to the visions.

Elara watched as the young man went down. Though she did not know his name she could not help but focus solely on him. Putting her music box back within her cloak, she slowly made her way towards him. People pushed on all sides of her - some trying to go towards the ruckus while others did their best to avoid it. As the crowd became more intense, her desire to go to the young man increased ten fold.

"You!" She yelled, attempting to get the silver blond young man's attention but it was not enough. Elara watched in fear as his face went white. He looked like he was going to see today's food once again but she saw the fight in his eyes - it was a look she had seen in the mirror recently. Picking up her pace, Elara was soon at his side. "Careful," she whispered to him. "Let us get you back inside."

Elara put her arm around his middle and helped him get up. While he could not talk, he motioned towards a specific door. Elara assumed this was where he worked and was soon proved correct. An old man opened the door from inside the building before she could open it.

The old man walked with a limp and had one unfocused eye. He gave Elara a once over so cold that it was as though freezing water was dumped over her.

It was only when his eyes landed on the young man that he talked. "Couldn't handle a little blood, huh?" the man said gruffly. "If ya can't get over that I've no use for ya here." He looked back at Elara. "Take 'im if ya want. I don't give a shit." The man grumbled more to himself as he closed the door on Elara and the young man.

Elara looked at the young man she helped stand. "Are you okay?" she asked him.

He removed his hat, revealing his silver hair and head shook. "I need a drink."

Stifling a laugh, Elara helped him settle down on box a few steps away from the front of the building they were shut out at. "Perhaps a name and then a drink?"

"Perhaps a drink and then my name?" he countered.

As a man holding a a jug of what Elara only assumed could be alcohol passed by, she grabbed them from the man and swiftly tossed him the few coins she got earlier.

"Thank you," she winked.

The man, stunned but now with more coins than he did earlier, nodded his head and continued on his way.

Elara shoved the jug into the hands of the young man next to her. "You have your drink," she said pointedly. "Name?"

He brought the jug to his lips and drank deeply. He chugged the liquid down his throat so aggressively that some of it dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

Brushing her dark hair out her face, Elara stared at him. He looked so familiar but she could not place it. There was a vague memory of her when she was younger, when she still worked with the madame, but it was hazy. Over the last eight years she had suppressed those memories. When she left the madame, or rather, when the madame made her leave, she was all alone and — no. She would not go there again.

"Egg. My name is Egg," the young man offered. "Or at least the maesters called me Egg. I do not remember much after that."

"The maesters?" Elara probed.

Egg had a faraway look in his eyes. "They are all I remember, I admit."

She tilted her head. "You speak as though you are royalty," she noted.

"You do, as well."

Elara blushed at the thought of being of a noble house. "I simply picked up how to talk to those with more standing." Shifting her sitting position, she looked at Egg. "I was taught to impersonate those who are more…desirable."

"I understand."

A comfortable silence fluttered around the two. Together they watched people come and go. Elara wondered if he truly understood. Having to pretend to be someone else in a way that made her desirable. As she turned to Egg, it was all she could do to not think about those years fresh from the madame's brothel.

Egg carefully observed how people continued to throw food and shit onto the body of the Targaryen supporter. He could not shake the feeling that it was also directed at him but it made no sense — how could he have connections to the Targaryen family? Yes, he had the signature silver blond hair but that meant nothing in King's Landing. The Targaryen family had many bastards and unless they were claimed they were nothing. But the Targaryens were dead. No one could be claimed now, no matter what they say.

Coughing, Egg stood up. "Thank you for being decent to me. Off I go," he winked.

"You are leaving so soon?" Elara asked.

"That old man is not going to take me back so I will have to find somewhere else to stay and earn my keep." Egg nodded his head and turned to leave.

Elara quickly grasped his hand before he could fully turn away. "Stay with me."

Egg's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion but was quickly replaced with a sly smile. "Am I so desirable to you, even though we are strangers?"

"What can I say, I am certainly intrigued by you."Looking around at the other people, she deemed it safe to tell him what her thoughts were racing on about. She stepped close to him, but made him close the distance by drawing him in by his wrist. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, "We need to get out of here, out of King's Landing. I saw how you reacted to that man. Something is wrong here and you know it is true. The last Targaryen is alive and we must find them." She let her hand let go of him but dragged it up his arm, as though she was seducing him.

Egg's eyes widened at this rush of information but schooled his face to one of indifference as he responded quietly. "I am more than happy to try to leave King's Landing, but finding the last Targaryen?" Egg scoffed. "I doubt we could. I doubt they are even alive. The Lannisters killed them all."

Elara shuffled on her feet nervously and stopped moving her hand.

"You know something." There was no malice in his words, only certainty.

"I have a thought," she corrected as she brought her hand back to her side. "Whether or not it is true, I do not know." Elara shook her head. "You must trust me, Egg. Now is not the time to be in King's Landing.

Egg gazed into her brown eyes, searching for some sign of mistrust, of suspicion, of something. Yet there was nothing. Nothing but honesty. Whatever Elara believed in, she believed in it with her whole heart and genuinely found King's Landing to be dangerous.

"You can not tell me that you approve of the Lannister's rule. They were not chosen by the gods," she whispered. "It was the Targaryens who were chosen. They have dragons, they are the ones who can protect us. The Lannisters have only gold. That does very little to actual threats to our lives."

"Be quiet! Someone might hear you!"

"That is exactly why we need to leave. Living in fear is not how living works."

"There are ears everywhere in King's Landing and if they hear us we will be next," Egg said, shooting the bloody corpse a look before looking back at Elara.

Looking around, she dragged Egg into an empty alleyway. "Pretend to be the last Targaryen, Egg. We could get out of here. There are rumors that the last two children of Viserys Targaryen, Aemond and Helaena, are alive in Oldtown. We must go there at once and tell them all what is happening in King's Landing. Perhaps they can fix the harm the Lannisters have caused."

"If they are the ones who can possibly fix King's Landing, why must I pretend to be the last Targaryen?"

"There are other rumors that they have been looking for their lost sibling for the last two years. They refuse to say when and how they lost their sibling and any other details except that they are a sibling. They will not say if it was a brother or sister but word has spread around that they are looking for a brother."

"I have heard those rumors as well but I dismissed them," admitted Egg. He struggled to say what was on his mind. He let out a breath. "I heard that they are looking for their older brother."

"Oh? And where did you hear that?"

Egg smiled. "The ears may have walls but so do I."

Elara wrung her hands together. "So will you do it? Will you be the last Targaryen?"

Looking into brown eyes, Egg nodded. "Perhaps they have answers to questions I have," he half joked.

"What do you mean?"

Egg shook his head. "No, more tonight." He smirked. "I may like to tell tall tales and you would no better. Yet here you are, gambling your life on a possibility."

Elara sighed. "Fine, do not tell me now. Tell me tomorrow, if you so wish."

"Tomorrow? How do you know I will see you tomorrow, or even want to see you enough to talk to you?" Egg stalked towards her, pushing her up against another wall.

"I have my ways of knowing," Elara tilted her head before smiling and leaning in close to ask him what was truly on her mind. "Do you have a place to stay at? I feel like I must ask since you no longer work with that old man."

"Do not worry about me," Egg whispered back. He walked a few steps then turned around. "I may not know your name but I appreciate you helping me and perhaps we shall meet tomorrow." He winked and then turned on his heel to slip through the crowd.

Mouth agape, Elara had not realized she never offered her name to Egg. A rush of warmth flooded her cheeks as she cast her eyes downward and suppressed a smile.

As the sun rose from its setting place, Egg woke up. He was not normally one would consider to be a morning person but his mind was so busy that he had hardly slept at all. The simple prospect that he could belong to a family had his hopes high, but a royal family? Who was usurped from the throne? That set his veins on fire. For once in his life, Egg had a chance at a normal ending to his life. Maybe not a normal one but hopefully not a sad one.

The bed squeaked as he rolled off of it and thumped onto the floor. Whatever alcohol was in that jug hit him harder than his usual drinks. What it was he would never know, nor did he really deign to find out. The tiny room he had paid for for the night creaked as he made his way a few steps to the other side of it to stretch out his legs. It was not much but it was better than the past few days. While working for that old man, Egg had a place to lodge in the same building but it was not the nicest. He practically slept on the floor with the rats but at least there was a roof over his head.

Rats.

Egg furrowed his brows in thought. Something about rats was important to him but he did not know what. A faint voice in his head spoke of rats; rats that could harm. Before he could dwell on the thought for too long there was a pounding at the door.

"Git outta here! Ya paid enough for a night. The night has gone. Leave unless ya got more ya can pay!" screamed the innkeeper from the other side of the door.

Since that girl — no, woman — no, young woman — told Egg about the possibility of actually being a legit Targaryen child, the lost one specifically, he had been ready to leave, but refrained from being too brash, despite the face he most definitely wanted to be. It made more sense to him, his way of speaking. Others here on the street had less…diction in their speak, so to say, and combined words. Combining words felt too strange to Egg. He had tried it a few times but internally recoiled when he did. Other's "t's" were blurred together with other letters while his was more enunciated and crisp.

More pounding on the door pulled Egg from his thoughts, causing him to rustle about and grab the few belongings he had, including his brown hat. Pulling open the door, he found the hallway to be empty, the retreating figure of the innkeeper going down the stairs. Making his way downstairs, he left the inn and went out into the road. The inn that he stayed at was not very far from the spot he talked to the young woman with. Retracing his steps, Egg made his way to the alleyway.

There were very few people out and about at this time in the morning. Some were starting their day while others were beginning to end theirs. Egg believed that in another life he would be someone ending their day as the sun began to rise. Whether that be through hard work or drinking, he did not know. A gentle breeze pushed by him, giving Egg a breath of cold air — a good welcome from being inside a stuff inn all night.

As he went down the darkened alleyway he saw her. She sat upon a crate, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Brown eyes focused forward, she chewed on her lip, so deep in thought, that she did not realize Egg was in front of her until he leaned against a wall mere steps away from her. When she finally noticed Egg, she jumped ever so slightly before smiling.

"Elara," she offered. "My name is Elara Snow." Standing up, she offered Egg her hand.

Egg took her hand and lightly brushed his lips against her knuckles, pretending this was their first meeting. "They call me Egg."

He brought her hand to his arm so they walked together as though they were a couple, despite looking very out of place.

"I do not remember anything before the maesters woke me up roughly eight turns around the sun before. I was told I was found in the road; a girl brought me to them," he started. "They told me my name was Egg and I must believe them as I do not remember any other name for myself. I hear the echoes of screams and the color of blood strewn across the floor in my dreams. I have traveled all around King's Landing, taking what I needed and working where I could. My life has not been easy, nor has it been much worse than anyone else I have met, but I know there is more." Egg flexed his hands. "I know nothing of my past, and I wish to know it."

Silence fell between the two.

"Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps Aemond and Helaena know of your past. They say that Helaena is a dreamer, that she has visions. Maybe she can see into your past," Elara suggested.

"There is one more thing," started Egg. "In my dreams there is a music box."

Elara froze. The music box she kept with her always was now suddenly heavy. She nodded at Egg to continue.

"It has a golden dragon atop of it and played a melody that I have never been able to forget," he finished.

"Were there words to this melody?"

Egg closed his eyes before beginning the melody. His whole body relaxed as sang the words imprinted on his heart. "Tolys jorrāelagon nykēla ȳgha bāmves // anne rēbagon jelmāzma gēlenka // ābrar gevī lilagon rȳ nūmalbrion rūni."

"Someone holds me safe and warm // Horses prance through a silver storm // Figures dancing gracefully // across my memory."

Elara looked at him in awe. "Are you aware that you know High Vlaryian?"

Egg looked at her quizzically. "High Vlaryian?"

"The language of dragons, Egg. Only those from Old Valyria knew how to speak it. It should have died with the Targaryens."

"I only repeated the words that have stayed with me all these turns of the sun. I know nothing else of Old Valyria."

Elara looked at Egg with her eyebrows furrowed. "Curious…"

"Curious how?"

"You say you do not remember anything before the maesters?"

"Nothing," he confirmed.

A thought bubbled inside her but she dared not to voice it. If she was wrong it could only bring heartbreak. If she was correct, it could possibly bring his death.

He gave Elara a nod before adding, "there have also been whispers that the siblings are offering a grand sum to anyone who can bring their own back to them."

Elara's heart leapt. "Ah, yes, right back to the important information," she joked but she knew it was vital. She put her feelings for Egg aside for the moment. If the Targaryen siblings were offering gold to the savior of their own, perhaps she could finally get out of King's Landing and live a better life without having to sell herself or resort to pick pocketing along the streets.

A brighter idea made its way to the forefront of her mind. "We could work together, Egg," she offered quietly.

When he did not respond she took the jug of alcohol from him and took a swig of it herself. "It could bring both of us peace."

Egg scoffed. "Peace? There is no such thing."

Okay first I recommend checking out https://classicalcanvas.org/a-complete-analysis-of-lamia-and-the-soldier-by-john-william-waterhouse/ if you're interested in a detailed analysis of the original painting!

Dep's original request was: "If it's art, then a tourney scene or Duncan and Baelor in their tourney attire or Duncan asking for Baelor's favor, etc. Again, your pick!"

For my half I really wanted to do a study of a classic painting of a knight, so it really was a perfect match, ty mods! After lots of searching I really loved not only the intensity of the two here, but wanted to do a bit of an inversion on the original theme of the Lamia; a shapeshifting snake woman who lures humans (often children or young men) to their death (sick as hell)

So here, rather than Dunk being a secret monster, Baelor is the real threat; he is heir to the throne and (if he lived) later king, the most powerful man on the continent. While the original painting is an inversion of power, this is what it looks like; a poor knight supplicating to a more powerful man. Baelor's tourney armor is in stark contrast to the surroundings, which Dunk blends into. Dunk is of the world, while Baelor is above it.

Despite this, we know Baelor believes in Dunk; he vouched, fought and died for him. He has given him his favor, some banner or sash of dragon hide, and in this quiet place, even while injured, he does not shy from Dunk's touch or his fealty. We know Dunk is safe here.

While Lamia and the Soldier is in a shaded bit of wood, I wanted to flip that too; the dawn is coming in and the woods are opening to something clearer and brighter.

I looked at a ton of references and the one that hurt the most was looking for a shot of Dunk's sabatons only to realize he doesn't have them. He likely couldn't afford them and so even in the trial he's still in his old leather boots 🥲💔

Baelor's armor was referenced from this picture I found while looking for medieval Spanish armor. I originally was going to do a scalemail thing as a combo of both Targaryen & Dornish styles but there was something about the flow of the lines and the little elbow wings that felt very sleek and intimidating while also different enough from Maekar and Aerion's more spikey designs. I also thought about doing a human face style helmet with a crown (like a much more elegant version of Aerion's) or a closed mouth dragon faced armet helmet but a. ran out of time b. wasn't sure if it would distract from everything else. Maybe I'll go back and add it or make a separate post, it's lowkey haunting me lol

I started doing some little Easter eggs with the numbers of things like the 7 studs on Dunks armor, but I ended up forgetting to keep it going lol. Like I should've done 7 poppies instead of 8 ahhhuughh (deletes it) /j

While my giftee is no longer involved their prompt was illuminated manuscript with a kneeling Dunk (amazing line up with my own offer), and I knew just the Codex Manesse image.

Though the 'plot' veneer here is after Ashford, Ser Arlan's coat of arms (with the black diamond of a funerary hatchment) gets a top spot as part of Dunk's lineage.

Dunk's arms are simplified to be a little more real world heraldic.

The Targaryen arms are not the show version again for real world heraldry - where the important part is a consistent blazon (written description) rather than a absolutely consistent image. So unless the dragon was specified as in annulo (in a circle), these are can still be described as Sable, a thee-headed dragon Gules.

The little arm beasts are also Dunk & Baelor. I like to imagine them curled up together like the weirdest little cat things.

Dunk-beast is pointing specifically at the 'hold honor in their breast' line as an "I remembered my vows, did you?"

The helmet Baelor is presenting has the Targ color torse (fabric twist) as livery for a knight sworn to the house - the similar twist on Dunk's arm is absolutely his King's ✨favour✨. Winged crests in shield colors were very common in Germanic heraldry though it also double up here as a trace of Ser Arlan again.

Baelor's little cape has a pattern called vair which is supposed to look like a squirrel's winter fur. Royal mantles and all that.