Chapter Text
"Rhaenys the Radiant, that was what they called my aunt," Aemon mused one evening when Jon was at his side. The boy would not know what prompted him to speak of her, and even now he struggled to recall the exact reason. Something about the way he awkwardly shuffled while waiting. It reminded him of a story. "But the smallfolk gave her a different name, though I don't know it now."
"My father once told me her life was a tragedy," Jon offered.
"And it was! To be a Targaryen is to be hounded by unspeakable tragedy," Aemon replied as he struggled to remember her face. It had been many years since he saw anything, and many more since he last saw her. It was some time after the Great Council, for she still wore a mourning gown, and the black silks had made her violet eyes glow. "But I suspect Lord Stark and I differ on why it was."
The boy was quiet, but the air had changed. It was a funny thing, how even without his sight, he knew when a person was at war with themselves. Or perhaps he simply knew the story too well.
"Speak your words, Jon. There is no one left to be harmed by them."
"Your father took her, did he not?"
"And slayed his beloved brother who dared to have her hand before him? So they all said. So the histories wrote. But history contains as much truth as fiction."
Aemon smiled then, his shoulders bouncing with a small laugh. He knew why he thought of her. "I believe she would have liked you, Jon. She had a softness for lads of your nature, hoping to rise above when all others deemed it impossible. She would have seen herself in you, as she did in them."
Prologue
The Ashford Lists
Dunk took a deep breath, eying the open servant's entrance. It would take him within Ashford's keep, where the crown prince and his family had disappeared not moments before. A true knight ought not go sneaking about when it was not his place, but this was his last chance to enter the lists. If Prince Baelor remembered Ser Arlan, then his word would be better than any, and the old man had praised him more than any they'd served.
Well, he might have exaggerated a little to the others. He knew good words put lords in good moods, but there was no need for the Prince of Dragonstone. The soul of chivalry, Ser Arlan had said, and he'd bestow those words on not just any, Dunk knew.
Closing his eyes, he committed to that first step-
BAAAARRRROOOOOOMMMM!
-and slipped in the mud and onto his back, his shield striking him painfully between his shoulder blades.
The first time he'd fallen while fighting Ser Arlan, the man had beaten him with the blunt side of his sword till he got up. Only, it had rained the day before, and his lanky legs couldn't get beneath his too large frame. He was purple and yellow all over for days.
No one beat him here, but there was a quiet snicker that hurt more than castle-forged steel. Knights did not get startled, nor did they trip and fall. He'd certainly made a fool of himself. Again.
"The Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen!" cried the bellman as Dunk sat up.
Striding through the portcullis was a woman atop the largest horse Dunk had ever laid eyes on. It was a great beast meant for plowing up fields with hooves that could cover a man's face whole, and deep black hair covered in red trappings. When it halted before him, it nearly blotted out the sun, even as its hefty weight sunk it deep into the muck.
"Ser Willem, I thought I'd lost you back there!" the princess called with laughter like soft pealing bells. Despite the frame of her horse, her skirts managed to cover the beast from saddle to rear with large, flowing red silks and a black cloak trimmed with ermine. The three-headed dragon emblazoned on the front of that cloak was the only outward sign that she was of House Targaryen, for like Prince Baelor, her crown was dark, with great curls that threatened to spill loose from their bindings.
"Maybe you did not look down far enough, Princess," a white-armored member of the kingsguard replied as he rode up beside her, both he and his steed dwarfed so drastically that it made Dunk smile. The man removed his helm to reveal a shock of gray hair. "That beast of yours may be large, but it isn't quite so fast."
"Perhaps, but don't let her hear it," Rhaenys replied, pulling a riding glove off with her teeth before patting the horse's neck. The motion came to a halt as Dunk rose to his feet, her eyes growing wide. "Good gods, I've never met a man who could look Vhagar straight in the eye."
Surely she meant the horse and not the dragon, but he felt strange asking, so he did not.
"My apologies, Princess," Dunk stammered out, keeping his gaze low.
"For what? Growing so tall?"
"Uh, no, Princess. For…interrupting, I s'pose."
Her smile was not like the other ladies he'd seen. Hers was of the warmer sort. It even made it to her eyes. "You've done no such thing."
When a gaggle of servants approached with wooden steps to help her down, the princess waved them off. With practiced ease, she swung a leg over the saddle and leapt to the ground. The princess had now shrunk, a tiny figure in a great, billowing dress. When she tilted her head to look upon him properly, the sun caught in her eyes and Dunk was struck by the violet looking back at him.
Rhaenys of Redgrass, that was what they called her. Ser Arlan claimed he saw her on that bloody field, a girl of seven and ten amongst the dying and the dead. She eased the passing of a thousand doomed souls, the old man would say, but the number had grown over the years. He supposed the true count never mattered. It certainly hadn't to the smallfolk.
Dunk suddenly realized that the princess was waiting on him, and swallowed tightly.
"It's a…fine horse you have, Princess."
She beamed brightly, and grew younger by years. "She's quite remarkable, isn't she? Vhagar is gentler than horses half her size."
So, she did not mean the dragon. That was good to know. But a question prodded the back of his mind, an itch that would not be satisfied until it was asked.
"Would Meraxes not have fit better?"
The look she gave him made his knees shake. Thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs, he reminded himself. Who was he to talk of dragons to a Targaryen princess? She named her horse as she saw fit, just as his horses were named as Ser Arlan did. If she were to question Sweetfoot's name, would he have agreed with her?
Well, maybe. He wasn't very good at naming things. He certainly hadn't named himself well.
"Ser, Rhaenys died on Meraxes," the princess replied, looking a proper, scandalized noble.
Suddenly, Ser Arlan was before him, beating him again with the broadside of his sword. A knight should know his courtesies, he shouted at him, and if he knows not those, then he ought to keep his mouth shut in the presence of a lady. Surely, the steel rang from the hollow of his head, for how else could he be so foolish?
"For-forgive me, Princess! I wasn't thinking. I should not have-"
He meant to fall to his knees in the muck and continue his begging, but Rhaenys noticed his movement. She grabbed his arm with two small hands, one gloved, one not, and pulled upward. She'd not have the strength to keep him from going down were he so committed, but her touch froze him in place and commanded that he stay.
"No, no, no. Wait!" she half-cried, half-laughed. "You sweet lad, it was only a jest. Please, don't dirty yourself up more. You're already covered in so much mud!"
Dunk felt his ears go red, his face hot as the midday sun. He'd already forgotten, even as the cold began to seep into his back and legs from the dirt and the wet. A hedge knight did not often find a hearth when he was not in service to a lord. He might spend days rank as the dead only to be cleaned by a good rain or a river stumbled upon. There had not been such fine things in his life that let him choose when to be clean and when to look a pig rolling about its pen.
"So I am," he said lamely, bringing Ser Arlan's shield about. Not a corner had been spared from the fall, coating the oak in a gray-brown that reminded him of the old man's burial. The black-gloved hand of Rhaenys appeared in his vision then, gently brushing the mud away. "Princess, you needn't-"
"A Targaryen princess does as she pleases. It is the laundress you ought to beg forgiveness of," Rhaenys replied, diligently continuing her effort until she'd cleared most of the surface. "A winged chalice. What a strange coat-of-arms."
"It was the old man's. Erm, Ser Arlan, that is. Of Pennytree. He never told me why."
"I take it Ser Arlan is not here, elsewise he'd be holding the shield, and your back would be that much muddier."
Dunk nodded. "I buried him not a week past. He meant to compete in the tourney, Princess."
Rhaenys frowned, sympathetic, but there was a sharp look in her eye. "And now you've come to do so in his stead."
"I meant to, yes, but I've need of another knight to enter. Ser Arlan knighted me before passing, but there were no witnesses and…" Dunk trailed off, not wanting to bother the princess with all his troubles. He'd already taken so much of her time. Her kingsguard kept careful watch of them from a distance away, his hand steady on the hilt of his sword. Still, he had to ask, "I don't suppose you've heard of Ser Arlan, Princess?"
"I'm afraid not, Ser. I've never been good with remembering names," Rhaenys replied quietly. She watched him a moment, violet eyes narrowing. "Although, I suppose my brother might-"
"Baelor!" Dunk shouted, the name catapulting out before he had a mind to stop it. His voice carried across the courtyard, halting many in their tracks, and causing poor Vhagar to stomp her hooves in irritation, nostrils flaring as if she were the offended party. Even Rhaenys jumped at his reaction. "I…I am sorry. Ser Arlan tilted against the prince once, and I hoped he might recall. That was why…"
"That was why a poor knight was sitting in the mud, hoping for a chance to get inside? Ser, that is a terrible plan." The princess had shattered his heart with a few simple words. He thought to leave then, search for more lords he might have better luck with, but a wicked grin crossed her features, and he thought he'd been played for another joke. "Fortunately, you will be in my company."
Dunk felt a small smile tug at his lips. "Truly?"
"A princess need never lie," Rhaenys replied, placing a hand on her heart. "I find the truth to be far more interesting, and you are clearly its champion."
He did not quite know what she meant by that, but the words warmed him regardless and gave him the first genuine taste of hope he'd had since burying the old man. This would be where he made his mark. This would be where his future began.
Rhaenys handed off Vhagar to a stable hand and bade Dunk to follow. And follow he did, too closely for Ser Willem's comfort as the knight continued to stare at him like a flea-ridden mutt, but he knew of their oaths. Hate him he might, but if the princess had taken a shine to him, there was naught he could do. Still, he tried to smile at the man, hoping it might help, but he only gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.
Dunk decided to stop looking at everyone altogether.
The princess led him to the keep's entrance, not the servants' passage which would have been a maze of halls and windowless rooms for him to be lost in, away from prying eyes and lords to question his presence, but the main threshold where attendants stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Dunk kept his gaze firmly planted on the back of Rhaenys' head, where dark plaits frayed from ties of gold, and a stray piece of straw clung firmly. He was fortunate to have done so, for the princess stopped and wheeled about so quickly, Dunk nearly tumbled over halting himself.
"Your cloak," she said quickly, unaware of his struggle. "It would be best if you left it outside."
"Oh, right," he mumbled, stepping back out the door. Gently, Dunk removed the shield and then the cloak from his shoulders. It fell onto the wooden boards with a wet smack, accosting the bellman's boots with mud. He just caught the man's sneer before looking away.
"You'll want to keep the shield. Baelor's peculiar about his sigils," Rhaenys spoke, leaning out of the doorway. She turned to look at the crowd of servants watching the entire affair play out. "He'll be back for that. Just leave it there. Thank you."
Dunk swung the shield back onto his shoulder, feeling strangely naked without his cloak. Likely because the princess was eying him up and down, much like how he'd stared at a butcher's work hanging out to dry. Her gaze froze at his hip, and a quiet panic began to grip him. Was it the sword she took issue with? Did she believe he meant to harm her brother? He could not bear the idea of leaving his sword outside. Command from a princess or not, Dunk did not believe it would be there on his return.
"Is your sword hanging from a rope?"
Oh.
"Y-yes, Princess."
She smiled again. "What a singular creature you are."
"Th-thank you."
He had no idea what that meant. But she had been kind thus far, so it must have been a good thing.
Rhaenys continued forward through the Ashford's keep as though she owned it, her head held high and her back impossibly straight. Even when she asked for directions to the hall, she spoke it with a confidence that should not have belonged to a guest. But she was a Targaryen, and it was all hers in a way, he supposed.
Their journey was short - he needed to duck under only two doorways - and brought them quickly to the empty antechamber, lit modesty by candles and a window in the shape of the seven-pointed star. The neatly carved threshold offered glimpses into the hall, where more red and black fabric moved about, and a conversation already struck continued. He just spied a head of silver before Rhaenys looked back at him.
"Stay here a moment. I'll smooth things over first," the princess said, gripping the fabric of his shirt firmly, pulling and smoothing where she saw fit. He froze under her meticulous touch. "If I just walk in with you on my heels, Maekar is like to do something rash."
The other prince, Dunk remembered. He'd an angry look on his face. No, he would rather keep the peace with him.
"Now, chin up. Practice that confidence. My kindness far outweighs that of my brothers'. You fall to your knees, they might keep you there," Rhaenys said, not unkindly. She gave him a quick wink that made his face warm. "Oh, and what is your name, Ser?"
"Dunk, Princess."
"Ser Dunk?" she asked, an eyebrow carefully lifting. He felt mighty embarrassed then and wished he'd thought of a new name, something knightly and inspiring. "Might be you remain the nameless hedge knight for now."
So long as he was able to compete whilst nameless, Dunk would offer no complaint.
Rhaenys disappeared, a rush of black and red flowing into the other room.
"About fucking time you showed up," was how she was greeted. Dunk pursed his lips and pressed against the wall, straining to see what he could without giving himself away.
"Oh, please, Maekar, I was in sight of you the entire ride," Rhaenys replied, biting with no teeth. Dunk supposed she was used to her brother, but he still did not care for it. Her delay was his causing, after all. "Have the boys turned up?"
"They've not. Lord Ashford suggested they were delayed." The prince spoke the words as if they'd insulted him.
"Lord Ashford was being kind, undeserving as you are." Dunk leaned closer, watching the servants remove Rhaenys' cloak. Her red dress was a beacon in the dark room, with little black dragons stitched at her shoulders and a dark belt at her waist that matched the two worn by her brothers. A silver chain rested on her collar, simple and unjeweled. There was a poise to the princess now that Dunk had not seen outside, and it made him ashamed for even daring to speak with her. "Daeron is no fool. They'll be at some inn, warm and safe."
"Daeron should be here competing."
"He competes as well as you compose poetry, Brother. I think we ought to spare Lord Ashford from your embarrassment when the boy does as well as he always has."
"Perhaps we might spare Lord Ashford from other embarrassments as well," a soft-spoken voice cut through, bringing the bickering to a halt. Dunk spotted the third Targaryen, Prince Baelor himself, standing in front of the lord's table. His words chastised, but his grin was amused. "We have only just arrived, Rhaenys. Try not to rile our brother while his sons are missing."
The princess smiled, still mischievous, as she approached Baelor. "As you will, Husband."
Husband. It felt like a punch in his gut, and he knew not why. Dunk remembered that the Targaryens were a queer folk, marrying brother to sister, cousin to cousin, even uncle and niece for generations. Perhaps because he had not seen it, he'd forgotten. But memories returned to him then, a grand wedding six years prior and a tournament in its honor. Ser Arlan had broken his arm and could not compete, and he'd been sore about it for months. He'd wanted to crown Rhaenys of Redgrass the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Dunk heard Maekar snort. "Since when do you call him husband?"
"Only when she is being diplomatic," Baelor replied, staring down at Rhaenys. They were locked in a silent battle, unblinking. "Or when she wants something from me."
"Oh no, I've been found out," Rhaenys said dramatically, turning toward the doorway. "Ser, you may enter now."
Dunk took a deep breath, straightening. Confidence, he reminded himself. He had to be confident, just as the princess said. Although, as he said the words in his mind, he nearly collided with the doorframe, just clearing it by the grace of one of the Seven.
Several pairs of eyes turned to him at once, from overly curious servants to the panicked games master, Prince Maekar with narrowed eyes as he sat up straight and put his boot on the ground, and Prince Baelor with eyes of quiet curiosity. Dunk held tightly to the strap of his shield, wondering what he was meant to do now.
But Rhaenys gave him an encouraging nod, patting the crown prince on the chest. "I've a knight who has need of your abnormal talent for knowing all things mundane, Baelor."
Maekar gave one loud guffaw as Rhaenys moved away, seating herself at the opposite end of the table. Baelor's gaze followed her, watching as she spread her skirts out just right and began to fix her hair. When she noticed his attention, she motioned toward Dunk with her head, though the prince hardly seemed inclined to obey. He thought he might have caused strife between them, and felt poorly for it.
"Your Grace," Dunk finally spoke up, falling to one knee, his head bowed. "The princess was only helping me. I know I am not worthy of it, but I ask that you not be harsh with her."
The silence that followed was long and thick. He dared not glance up, but Dunk could feel their eyes on him. He knew then he'd gone and said the wrong thing again. Never keeping his mouth shut, that was always a problem of his. Princess Rhaenys could take care of herself. They were her brothers after all. Who was he to assume what might happen?
"Rhaenys, where the fuck did you find him?" Prince Maekar asked eventually.
"In the mud."
"That much is obvious."
"It is where all good men ought to end up from time to time. Humility is a quality hard to come by, and I find a little dirt is an ample teacher."
"You may rise, Ser," Baelor spoke, quieting his siblings. Dunk stood quickly, finding Rhaenys smiling brightly at him, while Maekar reminded him of something curdled. "I have given you the wrong impression, and I apologize. Rhaenys simply caught me unawares. Tell me, what can a prince of the realm do for you?"
"My master was Ser Arlan, Your Grace. Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He knighted me before passing, but I've need of someone who remembers him. I've asked many a lord he once served, but they recall him not."
"And that would be where my 'abnormal talent' comes in then," Baelor replied, glancing back at Rhaenys. The princess shrugged and ate a grape.
"He told me he broke seven lances against you at Storm's End, Your Grace. Might you remember it?"
Lord Ashford, a small man dressed more flowery than the royal family, made a strange noise. "Seven lances? What a preposterous story."
Rhaenys threw a grape in the lord's direction and held his gaze when he thought to be offended. Maekar chuckled. Baelor closed his eyes and took a breath.
"Not preposterous, merely exaggerated," the prince said, walking toward the table. He snatched whatever grapes remained to Rhaenys from her grasp, eating one as he sat down beside her. "It was four lances, Ser, but you could hardly know if he spoke otherwise."
Dunk swallowed, feeling warmth in his cheeks. Of course Ser Arlan had been wrong. Seven lances against the Breakspear? It could not have happened. "If Your Grace says it was four, then it was four. Ser Arlan called you the soul of chivalry. I know you would not lead me wrong. That you remember is more than I could ask for."
Maekar made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. Rhaenys reached for another grape, but Baelor caught her hand in his and held it. He leaned back in his seat, his thumb slowly beginning to spin the ring on her finger. The two shared another look, deeper than the last one they'd held. He wondered what they said to one another, if it was as husband and wife, or brother and sister. Was it really the same to them?
"I see no reason for anyone to doubt your claim," Baelor said, turning back to him. "Should you wish to join the lists, I am certain the master of the games will be more than accommodating."
"Of course, milord," the man said, nodding to him. It was done. He was to compete after all.
Dunk thought his grin might split his face clean in two. "Thank you, Your Grace. I…thank you!"
Rhaenys smiled at him just as widely. "Come see me when you make for your first tilt, Ser. I would bestow my favor upon you."
He looked to the princess and felt a warmth blossom in his chest, his smile faltering but still very much present. Surely with such fine blessings upon him, he would win the tourney and make a name for himself. Might be he could even serve the fine woman who had given him the chance. King's Landing must have been a sight better from the Red Keep.
"Gods, Rhaenys, you can't be serious," Maekar barked from his end of the table.
"And why not?" she asked, turning to her brother. "I'd say there are many little lordlings who could use a good thrashing. It is a lesson only a hedge knight could teach, and he has my full blessing to do so."
Baelor gave her a soft smile, his hand steadfast in spinning her ring. "You must forgive Rhaenys if she has placed too large a burden on you. There is no shame in whatever outcome you achieve."
"The princess could never burden me, Your Grace," Dunk said with a bow, his face warming. "She could only lighten what I already have."
Rhaenys made a small noise that sounded like cooing while Baelor inclined his head.
Maekar, however, was still not impressed. "Can he fucking leave now?"
"Begone with you, Ser," Rhaenys said lightly, "before my brother sours for the remainder of our stay."
Dunk bowed quickly, to all three Targaryens just in case, and turned away. His heart was too full to be spoiled by one man's words. His feet were light, his chest full and open. He thought he could breathe properly again. If this was the beginning of his life as a knight, it was a mighty fine one.
"The other way, my good Ser!" the princess called with a laugh as he made the wrong turn.
"Th-thank you, Princess!" he replied, turning about and walking back the way they came.
"He's not some stray, Rhaenys," Dunk heard Maekar say as their voices faded in the background. "You can't just keep him."
"Oh, and why not? Mother and Father kept you."
Dunk laughed and quickly covered his mouth, hoping they did not hear him. She was a rare sort, he decided. Ser Arlan had not been wrong about that. He supposed if he won, the prize would come from Lord Ashford's daughter, but he'd not mind one from the hand of Princess Rhaenys.