Chapter Text
—
It almost felt like a cruel joke. After a week of traveling on the Narrow Sea’s choppy waters and heaving every meal over the railings, as their ship entered the harbor of Lys, the sea gave way to waters so still and startlingly turquoise that Dunk felt as though they were sailing across melted jewels.
He leaned against the ship’s wooden railing as the city of Lys rose from the horizon. Beside him, Egg clutched the rail with excitement.
“The city looks beautiful,” Egg said, glancing up at him. “Don’t you agree, Ser?”
“Aye, lad,” Dunk nodded. “It does.”
When they had left King’s Landing months ago, it was during the height of the seasonal rains. The air had smelled of wet grass, old woodsmoke, and horse dung. Mud clung to man and horse like second skin.
But here, the sky was blue, scattered with only thin wisps of clouds. He could make out palm trees swaying by the shore, lush and green. The sun glanced off the white pillars of the city.
As the ship moved closer to the harbor, he looked down at Egg, at the satchel tucked tight against his body, and inside it, the parchment sealed with the heavy red wax of the three-headed dragon. The same seal he’s worn on his shield and armor for the past three years.
The past three years had been kind to Dunk. Kinder than he had any right to expect. He had initially worried that being a knight under the Targaryen banner would only be a gilded cage, but Prince Maekar had been true to his word. They trained in the yard at Summerhall or at King’s Landing if the family was summoned there, and when duty called, an order from Prince Baelor or from the King himself, they joined other knights and soldiers for missions they needed men to see to.
During those years, Egg had grown a few inches, his frame filling out, though his wit had grown faster than his height. He was still not as quick with a blade as he was with his tongue, but he had mastered the care of their horses, had learned to cook a few meals that did not completely taste like river mud, and, overall, was becoming a fine squire—even if he still had a tendency to speak to lords as if they were the stable boys. He still kept his head shaved, for it was still unwise to let the realm know a Targaryen was wandering the roads with only a single, oversized knight for company.
Under the Targaryen name, Dunk was Egg’s knight, and Egg was Dunk’s squire. And because Egg was a boy who could not stay still, outside of orders from the throne, they were occasionally allowed to have their own time on the road, exploring as far as the marches of Dorne and the forests of the Westerlands. And it was those times, when it was just him and Egg, where Dunk felt most like himself. When the pomp and expectations of the throne faded away, leaving only a knight, a squire, their horses, and the open sky.
Dunk took a long, deep breath, rolling his massive shoulders. This was the farthest he and Egg had ever traveled. And they wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t been sent here.
"Three years is sufficient time for Aerion’s exile," Prince Maekar had said. They had been standing in the drafty library of Summerhall, the hearth fire casting long, flickering shadows against the tapestries. "It is time for him to come back and resume his responsibilities as a prince of the realm."
"And you want us to fetch him?" Egg had asked, his head tilted with sharp curiosity. "Just us?"
Maekar had looked at his youngest son with a raised eyebrow.
"Aren’t you always looking for reasons to leave? Lys is a fair city, and besides…”
He opened a book on his desk, the ghost of an amused smile on his lips as he picked up a quill.
“I suspect the journey back to Westeros in your company might be more of a punishment to Aerion than the exile itself."
The sentence had ended with an air indicating the conversation was over, but then Dunk had cleared his throat and spoken up.
“Are you sure that’s wise, m’lord?”
Egg’s eyebrows had shot up so high they nearly disappeared over the curve of his skull.
Maekar’s eyes did not rise from his book, but his quill stopped moving over his parchment, and before he could say anything more, Dunk had cleared his throat and stammered, “I beg your pardon, m’lord, I meant—do you think Aerion—I mean, the prince, would come back willingly if, well, if I—Egg and I—were there?”
“Well, my good knight,” Maekar said, the quill resuming its scratch. “It’s a fine thing you’ve proven yourself capable of handling Aerion when he’s difficult, is it not?”
And that was that.
—
The gangplank groaned under Dunk’s weight as he stepped off the boat, his boots finally hitting the sun-drenched stone of the Lysene docks.
“Smell that, Ser?” Egg asked, his nose tilting upward.
Dunk took a deep breath, and for a moment, he felt a strange sense of unease, unsure if it was from his empty stomach or from how unfamiliar the air smelled.
After weeks of the sea salt-spray and the cramped, swaying confines of the ship’s cabin, the air of Lys hit him like a physical caress—blessedly cool and fragrant. The wind carried a sweetness—jasmine, cinnamon, and a sharp, citrus sting that made his eyes water. It was a beautiful smell, entirely foreign to a man who came from the gutter stench of Flea Bottom.
As they made their way from the port toward the heart of the city, the unease in Dunk grew stronger, and when they entered the lively city market, he fully felt like a mud-stain on freshly-washed sheets. In Westeros, his height drew stares, but here, everything about him felt out of place. He still stood a head and a half taller than everyone around him, but he was a mountain of brown wool and battered leather in a sea of fair colored silks. He felt the eyes of the Lysene on him—not the fearful or awed looks he got in Westeros, but a clinical, curious gaze. They looked at him as if he were an exotic beast brought in from the wilderness.
Dunk looked around at the vendors shouting over crates of fruits and vegetables. Fair-haired ladies draped in sheer silks weaved through the stalls. A group of children ran past them, laughing as they chased one another. Pale skin, eyes the color of lilacs, and hair that flowed like spun silver and pale gold. In Westeros, these features meant power, danger, and divinity. Here, they were as common as the cobblestones they walked over. It made the world feel upside-down.
“Stay close, Egg,” Dunk grunted, as the crowds grew thicker. He glanced back at Egg, who looked similarly in awe of the people around him.
“I’m right here, Ser. Stop fussing.”
They pushed through the market and Dunk’s senses were bombarded. Spices filled the air, the stench of blood from slaughtered livestock, and merchants shouted in a musical tongue that Dunk couldn't grasp, although it did sound similar to the cadence of the language the royal family spoke amongst themselves from time to time. He glanced down at Egg.
"Is that Valyrian?" he asked.
"Lysene," Egg corrected, his eyes darting toward a group of children of similar height. "A bastardized form of High Valyrian.”
"Can you understand them?"
“I can make out the shape of some words, I suppose…” Egg shrugged. “But it’s like a lion trying to understand the musings of a house cat.”
Dunk chuckled. In his dirty wool cloak and shaven head, Egg was the drabbest looking child in the market, but spoke with the certainty of his royal blood. He opened his mouth to ask what he could understand when he was swiftly interrupted by a complaint from his own stomach. Immediately, his eyes fell on a nearby stall selling pastries, bees hovering over the drizzled honey and glistening fruits.
“Do you want to stop and get something to—”
“Yes.”
They stopped by the stall and Dunk took out his coin purse from his satchel. He had asked Egg to exchange their coin in Dorne and it’s only now that he noticed the strange design of the Lysene coin—gold and oval, engraved with the figure of a naked woman.
“Lys is famous for its pillow houses, ser,” Egg explained, even while peering over the display of pastries and occupied with choosing which one to eat. “Daeron had begged Father to let him join us when he found out we were going.”
Dunk looked around them, at the men and women with their fair hair and pale complexions. Back in the capital, he had overheard a few knights talk about a whore in one of the city’s brothels, sought-after because her hair and features were similar to the royal family’s. The rumor was she was descended from a bastard. And that men traveled far and paid small fortunes for the fantasy to fuck a Targaryen princess.
Egg had an amused quirk to his lips.
“Are you thinking of paying a visit to—”
Dunk shoved a honeyed pastry into the boy's hand.
“Shut your mouth and eat.”
—
As they made their way to the edge of the city, Dunk started to think about what kind of place Aerion had been serving his punishment in. And what the meaning of punishment was for one of royal blood. He knew firsthand what it meant for the common folk—stale bread, a hole to take a shit in, a wet dungeon with little light. What did it mean for a prince? Maekar had said they were to stay at the same place during their time at Lys, so that ruled out the possibility of it being a solitary cell. Maybe there were two.
With the mid-day sun boring upon them, they climbed the winding roads lined with palm trees, and he noticed the air grow cooler. Eventually they stopped at the top of a hill, before towering, wrought iron gates.
"Is this the place?" Dunk asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. He noticed guards approaching them, so he held his hand out to Egg, asking for the note from Maekar.
“Yes,” Egg said, handing the letter to him. Dunk held the parchment out to the guards, showing them the Targaryen seal, and they stopped and exchanged a few words with one another before one motioned to open the gates.
The heavy gates groaned open for them, and Dunk immediately realized how foolish it was to apply a commoner’s logic to royalty. The gates revealed gardens thick with orange trees and lush palms swaying in the breeze, casting jagged shadows over the large sand path that spanned two wagons wide. Dunk noticed pale haired slaves moving quietly through the garden’s side paths, their arms laden with baskets of meat and bright fruits meant for the kitchens.
They followed a guard down the path until they finally entered the grand palace. It was a cool sanctuary of gilded arches and stained glass windows, where Dunk’s worn boots echoed loudly on the marble floors. He felt the urge to slow down, to soften the noise of his tread, though he knew it would only make him look more ridiculous.
“Exile,” Dunk muttered under his breath, admiring the colors the light casted through the windows. “I thought this was supposed to be a punishment.”
The palace was grander than some of the castles in Westeros.
A steward took Maekar’s sealed letter from Egg, and with a practiced expression, led them to a sunlit room that overlooked the sea. The steward bowed and gestured toward a set of gold-painted wooden chairs. Dunk hesitated, unsure if the chair’s legs could hold his weight.
Egg, however, took his seat and sat with perfect poise. In his drab cloak, he still looked every inch the prince, unfazed by his grand surroundings. A slave entered, moving with a ghost-like grace, and placed a low table between them. They were offered tea where small fruits bobbed in the amber liquid, and a platter of dates and salted nuts.
Tempted by the food, Dunk eventually risked a seat. He took a cup, the porcelain so thin he feared it would shatter in his hand. He tasted the tea—it was cloyingly sweet, flavored with honey and some kind of crushed berry. It was too much. Everything in Lys started to feel too much.
He looked at his large, calloused hands wrapped around the delicate tea cup. He looked at the tapestries and the soft, silken cushions. He looked outside at the gardens, at the ripe oranges hanging in the trees, then at the sea just beyond the gardens. He wondered if Aerion had changed at all in this place. Lys, this palace—it didn’t look like penance; it looked like a dream. He wondered if the prince had grown soft in the heat, or if the boredom of paradise had made him sharpen his claws.
A sudden thought chilled the back of Dunk's neck, sharper than the sweetness of his tea. What if Aerion had spent the last three years nursing his malice? What if Aerion wanted revenge and would take it as soon as they saw each other? Dunk’s stomach dropped. He was tired from their long journey. He desperately wanted a large pint of ale and a hard bed. He did not think he had the strength and will to fight for his life right now.
"Aerion knows he’s being told to come home, right?" Dunk asked, in between sips of his tea.
"Yes," Egg said, popping a date into his mouth. "Father sent a raven weeks ago saying he was to be recalled."
Dunk set his cup on the low table. He leaned forward, the chair groaning in protest. "Does he know you are the one coming to get him?"
Egg didn't look him in the eye. He became very interested in searching for a very specific nut in the bowl of nuts.
Dunk felt a cold prickle of sweat. Knowing Egg, he had likely begged his father not to mention it—“Father, Aerion would not come back if he knew you were sending me!”—specifically to see the look on his brother's face when he realized he’d be traveling back to Westeros with them, and as a commoner.
But that meant Dunk was waiting in a room for a man who had last seen him during the very trial that had sent the prince to exile in the first place; bloodied and battered, and Dunk had been the one to serve the blows.
He’s struck with the memory of holding Aerion’s shield over his head before slamming it down on his chest.
Dunk leaned closer, his heart beginning a slow, heavy thud against his ribs.
"Egg... does he know that I’m here with you?"
Before the boy could say another word, the sound of boots clicked sharply against the marble of the grand staircase just beyond the room. The footsteps were slow and measured, belonging to someone accustomed to the world adjusting to his pace, not the other way around.
Dunk looked up.
Standing on the landing was Aerion. His pale hair was longer than Dunk remembered, falling in light waves that curled just below his ears. But even with his longer hair, and the sheer red Lysene silk he wore, he looked cold and otherworldly and entirely out of place in the warm light and lush greens. And those steely violet eyes were exactly as Dunk remembered them—burning with a cold fire.
Aerion’s gaze swept over Egg then locked onto Dunk. The silence in the room stretched until it felt as though the chair he sat on might finally crack.
"What are you two doing here?"
—