Chapter Text
Rain started dripping into his eyes as he watched Daeron leave swiftly. Off to find more wine no doubt. He made his way between the growing puddles as his feet sank into the mud around their edges. Careful not to overstep, almost as if he feared, they would swallow him whole. They could be infinite for all he knew.
Dunk wondered if he´d still trust the ground beneath his feet or reality for that matter, had he had these ‘dragondreams’ since he was a child. Then again, he couldn´t quite fathom how they worked anyway. When he was just a scrappy orphan in Fleabottom the smallfolk would tell all kinds of mystical, unsettling and queer stories about their rulers. Of heads stitched to children’s necks and queens dreaming of the end of the age of dragons. Of brothers and sisters lying together and babies being born with scales. Some were supposed proof of the Targaryen’s decent from actual dragons. Ser Arlan would say these stories served to further their image as superior beings. Not that Dunk had believed all of them. Well maybe he had once. And he´d never quite let go of his childish belief of the royal family being supernatural creatures either.
He wasn´t quite sure if this belief had changed in the last few hours. Five different prince’s he´d met and talked to over the last couple of days and he was already being pulled into six different directions, none of his choosing. He´d felt overburdened and confused. But Daeron just now had left traces in the mud, the way he had left Dunk with a light-headedness that distracted him a bit from the pit in his stomach. The pit that had opened a few hours ago, when he´d heard Tanselle´s fingers snap, or even before that when Egg had come screaming to him. “He´s hurting her.”. Since then, that pit had only been growing. Daeron’s dream gave him some sort of reassurance that he felt kind of bad for. Because if he chose to believe Daeron’s premonitions – and he really didn´t want to, for his head told him that a dead dragon couldn´t mean any kind of security for him, nor did he want it on his conscience – then he could convince himself he wouldn´t actually die in his first fight. All this had felt too big for his head, too heavy. The Daeron of it all had made it lighter though. He couldn´t say why.
He´d been honest with Daeron, he did not care to die today. Maybe it had been something in the prince’s eyes, a much lighter violet than Eggs, almost ice blue, that had looked straight into his skull, bored tiny holes in it and had left his brain winded and dry. He had lost himself a little in them, remembered to breathe when Daeron had leaned in. His plume had hit Dunk´s nostrils and yet he hadn´t pulled away. Hadn´t wanted to. Instead, he´d found he could trust these alien eyes, found that the prince had had a sort of calming presence in the way he´d seemed to trust Dunk. In the way he´d admitted his fears which had made it easy for Dunk to admit his.
Oddly calming really, because at the same time Daeron had oozed nervous energy, had been so visibly scared out of his mind and Dunk couldn´t tell if he´d been shivering because of the rain or the looming unforgiving knowledge that he would not be able to escape what he´d seen. Or because he needed a drink. The truth was somewhere in the middle he guessed. And maybe, Dunk followed that thought, he´d told him about the dream to regain some sort of control, try and change the outcome, if Dunk was indeed the reason for the dragon’s death.
He wondered if he´d have the time to think whether to swing his sword. If he had a choice whether the hit was deadly or not. What experience he had in battle certainly didn´t make him think so, for he´d probably rely on instinct, fighting for his life. That´s what this fight was about after all. His life. But how could his life be worth a dragon? The gods were probably laughing at him. Dunk, thick as a castle wall, trying to understand the will of the gods.
Oh, he was so scared. They´d shared that fear, not wanting to die. A rather primal thing, wanting to hold onto a future whose face they hadn´t yet looked upon. He never dreamed he´d play any role in the story of the dragon house, the royal family of Westeros, sons and daughters of the legendary Valyria, that Dunk didn´t even know the location of. Somewhere far away he´d always felt. He´d lived right underneath the Red Keep for years yet they and their queer stories had felt even further away than the Black Brothers on the Wall. Only here, in Ashford when he´d looked upon the white cloaks for the first time up close that possibility had even crossed his mind. And now one had acted as his squire, he´d kicked another in the mouth and a third wouldn´t stop telling him about his dreams. Dreams of him, in which it seemed he was destined to get one of them killed. Or at least be entangled in their death, for Daeron had not known if he was responsible or not.
He wished for it to be Aerion just as much as his brother. That much he could admit. He did not have to wonder why Daeron would so easily see him dead. Hating him had been easy, but there was a fresh layer of loathing that had settled around him after Egg told him about his late night encounters with his brother. Maybe it would be enough to focus Dunks energies and reign in his fears to concentrate tomorrow.
Egg. He let his mind wander back to the last few days he spent with his squire who was actually Aegon Targaryen. Huh. No, that still didn´t quite translate, although it made absolute sense. Dunk had had tiny spikes of suspicion scattered throughout his occasional thoughts but hadn’t followed up on them. The boy knew too much, was too well spoken to be a mere Fleabottom rat like him. But this he could never have imagined. Still, he´d found a liking to the boy and he had been quite happy. The comparison to before was rather easy to make for he´d been alone for the first time since Ser Arlan took him in. He wasn´t quite used to it anymore, always sharing meals, a laugh, a tree or the road. He´d never felt lonely with him, only when the old man had been cross with him. Then he wouldn´t talk to Dunk. One time it´d been three whole days! But his life had been good, and it could´ve been again. Could be again, hell´s there was still so much for him to do, to experience! So no, he did not care to die today.
Thinking of death made him circle back to the drunk prince that had just stood before him. A couple inches shorter than him, hunched trembling frame. Violet, wide open eyes, as he'd told Dunk of the meadow from his nightmares. The prince was maybe two years his elder, although he did not seem it. Aloofness and intensity in his gaze, made him feel ancient and omniscient. For all Dunk understood of those dreams maybe he was – more-than-human like. And he felt that Daeron had not quite been scared for his own life. Well, he had, but those eyes had also feared something larger, more encompassing than the mere loss of life, something with the power to shift the fortunes of thousands, that was as untouchable as the wind roused by a dragon’s wing and as unforgiving as the sea gnawing at a stony shoreline. He wondered if the terror that shook underneath - that he saw through the trembling eyelashes and in his red rimmed eyes - would have been even clearer if the prince’s expression hadn´t already been diluted by whatever alcohol had been nearest. He supposed that was all the choice Daeron felt he had in the matter. And that by contrast made him feel very human.
Strange, he thought, that the prince had all the privilege in the kingdom yet at his core he´d seemed so vulnerable. Like he knew exactly where the bounds of his power were, laughing at them almost. Reminding Dunk they had no more dragons, like there was some form of irony there, that he didn´t get. Like Daeron was subject to the tides of fortune like every other person. Of course, Dunk had never been able to see the dragons for himself since they´d died long before he was born, so he probably didn´t wholly understand what the deal was with them. He knew the stories about Balerion the Black Dread. But still, power like the Targaryen´s had, had always been something that felt boundless to him. Just today it had decided his entire future.
It made sense to Dunk that the prince with his light sandy hair – still pretty, more golden than Dunk´s was – had still seemed so sure and determined in his fear. But it surprised him that he had seemingly tried making up for his thoughtlessness, hadn´t even denied it. Dunk had hated him as he hated Aerion, but his anger had mostly dissipated now. He´d felt powerless and unimportant, like he wasn´t tall at all and could be overlooked, the way this prince had thrown away a random hedge knight´s future to get on his father’s good side. Or rather his better side, when he remembered the tone Maekar had used. More than just disappointed about his son’s lack of conviction entering the tourney, the day before when he´d still been missing. Hiding actually, to escape this meadow, the dead dragon and him. Dunk.
He saw now how Daeron, firstborn son of prince Maekar Targaryen, the son of the king, feared him. Or what he - they both now set in motion. That was the real irony, Daeron was probably more at fault for the trial than Dunk really. Or, not really. Who was he to judge? Dunk from Fleabottom, son of a thief-nobody, heir to nothing, hedge knight. They might have both already killed the other. It didn´t make him feel like he was on top of anything right now, or tall for that matter. He still felt powerless. But Daeron´s humble and honest nature, or it´s pretence, had been a comfort. It reminded him of his uncle, the first in line to the throne, Baelor. At least the aliens with stupid pretty faces weren´t all assholes who literally thought themselves dragons. Some seemed to be on his side, on the side of justice and decency, if Dunk could actually call on these values. If anything, Daeron´s dream cemented the righteousness of his cause. Or did it? Maybe he should stop thinking about it. Never his strong suit anyway.
He found himself still staring at the traces Daeron had left in the mud, long after he´d been swallowed up by the darkness. Or had one of the puddles taken him? He´d just stared and not seen. And he certainly couldn´t see ahead.
Was the prince really just as powerless as Dunk felt right now? For if his dreams really came true, he was that thing Dunk had always felt the Targaryens were. Different. And yet he didn´t seem to think that of himself.
He needed to get going. One step after the other. “Who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?” Ser Arlan’s voice reminded him. Pit in stomach, dryness in his head, he went to find his shield. Tanselle´s Fingers snapped again. They wouldn´t be blown out of his mind by the winds. Just as Daeron´s clear violet eyes, full of terror.