Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Seven hells...” Dunk cursed, grinding a flat stone into his tunic.

He was a month south of Ashford, yet the mud clung to his godsdamned tunic as stubbornly as any mule. Owning only two shirts in all the world, he could ill afford to lose one to the mud and neglect it. He cursed a second time, dipping the cloth into the creek water. Then he wrung it out between his fingers and set to scrubbing once more.

The wool then crunched and cracked under the pressure and he stopped. The sound was almost the same as the one he’d heard when Prince Baelor’s helmet caved in. The creek beneath him babbled on as he paused to stare at his palms.

Big hands, they’d always told him. Strong hands, for a Flea Bottom alpha. Yet what good were strong hands, if they could not tell when to hold, and when to stay their strength? Even with the cold creek water numbing his skin, he could still feel it, the phantom feeling of the Crown Prince’s blood on his hands when he had reached out to steady the prince as he fell.

A butcher, for sure, his grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. The thought of the trial gnawed at him, day and night alike. 

A prince for a hedgeknight, a lopsided bargain, and the gods blind to it.

The sort of folly sung of in songs, where the good man falls and the fool is left standing in his place. All that blood need never have been spilled, if it were not for a nightmare who looked far less like the terror he had earned a name for.

His thoughts wandered back to that nightmare, unbidden. Remembering how the Brightflame prince had stood on the morning of the trial, he recalled how the prince’s face had been. His features, pretty as it is, had been set so tight that even the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. Aerion had insisted on participating but, his father had held him back before them all, talking of blood and frailty. Duncan hadn’t understood half of it, only that the prince had looked fit to bite through his own tongue.

In the end, he’d been forced to stand on the sidelines, useless, while his own men lost the trial for him.

But the prince had been right, in his way. Dunk knew he could never have brought himself to lay a heavy hand on an omega, especially not one as finely made as Aerion. If the prince had stepped into that mud, Dunk could have broken him with a single hand.

He was a big man, after all. If the prince had come at him in the mud—

Dunk shook his head, hard.

You don’t strike an omega. Not even one so cruel and vain as him. And he’s a small thing too– he thought, while wringing out the wet tunic.

The memory faded then, slipping back into the quiet hush of the Reach… until it was broken by the sound of a horse’s laboured breathing.

He immediately stood up, dropping the wet tunic into the dirt.

A man-at-arms in orange and yellow rode out of the forest fog. His face was a mess of yellowing bruises and his bottom lip was split clean to the chin. The man didn’t speak, just reached into a leather satchel, pulled out a parchment, flicked it, and the letter landed in the mud with a wet slap.

“The prince sends his regards,” the man rasped, his voice sounding rough with pain from whatever had been done to him. His eyes traveled up Dunk’s legs, over his chest, and settled on the thickness of his neck. Then, he wheeled his horse around and vanished back into the forest.

Feeling confused, he picked the letter up. The seal bore a three-headed dragon.

Prince? he wondered, as his thumb traced the seal.

Could be the Prince of Summerhall, he supposed. Mayhaps he’d finally caught wind of the mischief his boy had been up to. If he was writing to tell Dunk that he've made a mess of things with Egg during their journey... well, it wouldn't be the first, and he’d doubt it be the last.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he prayed the words inside weren't as sharp as a knight's spurs.

As he broke the violet seal, the scent finally hit him – sandalwood. Likely the smell of a bedchamber, he’d wagered. Though there was a small hint of sweetness to it, a trace of citrus threaded with smoke.

He stared at the parchment, squinting. The elegance of the writing didn't make the ink any easier to decipher.

While Ser Arlan had managed to teach him the basics during their years on the road, the script was still a tangled loops to his eyes. To Duncan, the letters didn’t look like sounds, they looked like lines twisted and tangled together like knots.

He then moved his lips. “To… the…” he paused.

The next word was a long jumble of peaks. G… i… a… n… t. Giant. “To the Giant of…” The next words were easier; he’d seen them on enough signs. Flea Bottom.

His eyes skipped over a dense paragraph where the ink was smudged over. He saw the word lowly and the word oaf, but stalled for a full minute on a word starting with E. He traced the shape of the letters with his thumb until the ink finally clicked: exiled.

The full text of the letter lay before him as he stared at it, though he could only grasp fragments of the letter;

Duncan understood mud.

He understood trial. He slowly caught the shapes of Kingsguard and brother, Reach…  then his eyes hit the words that’d made his stomach drop— omega… fingers …. and salt.

He felt the heat slowly rise in his face.

After some time passed of reading and re-reading the letter, he came to a full realisation who this letter was from, the Trial of Seven was barely a month past, and the ship to Lys would have only just cleared the coastline.

And the last line was clear enough for Duncan to understand the threat behind it: “I will watch you rot.”

There was only one man in the world who possessed a mind that curdled this way.

Aerion.

Even when the prince had been sent away, he was still reaching for Duncan, his claws stretching through parchment and ink.

Dunk immediately crumpled the letter in his fist, the violet wax rubbing off onto his thumb like a bruise.

“Who was that, ser?” Egg asked, emerging from the path the messenger had taken, trudging into the firelight with an armful of damp wood. He dumped the logs with a heavy thud and looked up but paused mid-motion, his eyes darting from the knight’s distraught face to the crumpled ball in his grip.

“Did he want to fight you?”

He didn’t look at the boy. Instead, he tossed the letter into the embers and watched the edges blacken and curl, the scent of burning sandalwood turning foul in the smoke.

“’Tis nothing, lad. A recruitment offer, that’s all,” he grunted. “I declined.”

“Funny,” Egg remarked, poking at the fire with a stick.

He squinted at a fragment of violet wax melting into the ash. “I didn’t know sellsword captains used royal violet wax. Must be a very fancy company, ser. Do they provide silk napkins for their hedge knights, too?”

His jaw tightened. Duncan could feel the boy’s eyes on him, it was far too smart and far too knowing for a boy his age. The boy then snorted, wiping soot from his forehead with a grubby sleeve. “A desperate company more like, if they’re looking for knights who lose their boots in the mud.”

“I didn’t lose them– I just… they got stuck,” he growled, finally looking up as Egg reminded him of the boots he’d lost in the mud a few days earlier. “And watch your mouth, boy, or I’ll clout you on the ear.”

“You’d have to catch me first, ser. And with your boots getting stuck all the time, I think I’m safe enough.” Egg kicked a log into the center of the fire. As he glanced at the dying violet wax in the flames, his expression sharpening for a second before he turned back to the horses.

“…Was it my brother?”

The question was so quiet Dunk almost missed it.

“I told you. Sellswords.”

“Right…” the boy said, his voice flat. “And I’m a stable boy named Raymun. We’re both very good at pretending, ser.”

Duncan sighed but didn’t answer. He could only stare into the flames until the last trace of sandalwood scent faded.

* * *

The midday heat over the Dosk was extreme. A layer of fine dust from the road coated Dunk’s throat, making it hard for him to breathe. After traveling since daybreak, the constant heat had exhausted everyone's patience.

...And the slightest bit of annoyance was enough to start an argument.

“He’s a thief, ser! A bowl-of-brown-selling thief!”

Egg’s voice came loudly through the inn’s open window, sounding harsh and demanding. Dunk, who was kneeling in the dirt of the courtyard to fix a loose buckle on Chestnut’s harness, winced.

“Quiet, boy!” The alpha bellowed back, not looking up. “You’ll get us kicked out before we’ve even watered the horses!”

“But he’s charging three stags for oats that are half-sawdust!” Egg shouted, as his bald head appeared in the window. “I told him my master was a giant who ate children, and he still wouldn’t budge on the price!”

“You told him what?” Dunk growled, finally looking up. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t go making up stories about me. People believe that sort of thing when you’re my size.”

“Well, you look like you could eat a child,” Egg retorted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Especially when you’re grumpy. Which is always!”

The boy immediately vanished back inside to continue his war of words with the innkeeper.

Dunk sighed, wiping his brow with a grime-streaked forearm, then turned back and continued working on the harness, his fingers clumsy and thick in the heat.

The silence was then broken by the sound of hooves on the ground.

A man in a dirty, sweat-stained cloak rode into the yard. He didn't get off his horse, he just looked down at Dunk, who was still kneeling in the dirt, with a tired expression. Without a word, he flicked a small, heavy wooden crate and a scroll sealed with violet wax into the muck. The rider’s horse then moved, kicking dirt onto Dunk’s legs, before the man turned his horse around and disappeared back into the distorted air of the hot road.

Dunk’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud. He knew that wax, he thought, as he pried open the lid of the crate.

Inside, placed on green silk, sat a heavy iron slave collar. The metal was dark, and worn, it smelled of cleaning chemicals. He felt uneasy as he looked down at the scroll. He recognised the sharp, formal handwriting, though, it was a message a low born alpha like him could not read quickly.

He could not ask Egg.

Duncan would sooner jump into the Narrow Sea than let the boy see his brother’s malice in writing.

As if by some small miracle, he noticed a man sitting on a bench beneath a withered tree across the yard, a traveling scribe, perhaps, or a septon. Dressed in a dusty robe and wire-rimmed spectacles, the man was occupied with peeling a shriveled apple using a small knife.

Dunk stood, looming over the man. “Ser? I… I have a letter. From a… a former employer. I am a bit slow with the letters. Could you tell me what it says?”

The scribe looked up, his eyes widening as they traveled up, and up, and up the seven-foot-tall alpha's frame.

He swallowed the peeled apple hard, then nodded and wiped his spectacles on his hem, and took the parchment. As he began to read, his brow furrowed. Then his hand began to tremble.

“Is it… bad?” Dunk asked quietly.

The scribe cleared his throat, his voice thin and reedy. “U-uh, it is… most unkind, Ser Knight. It says:

The scribe stopped, his eyes darting to the violet wax seal. He looked like he wanted to run.

“Go on,” Dunk commanded in a low but harsh voice.

The scribe handed the letter back quickly and fearfully, then ran away without asking for anything. Dunk stood deadly still, the parchment still on his hands.

Then the inn door banged open. Egg marched out, clutching a sack of grain and looking triumphant. “I got him down to two stags! I told him the horses had royal blood and would die if they ate his sawdust, and he got so scared he–”

The boy stopped mid-sentence. He looked at the fleeing scribe, then back at Dunk, who was standing perfectly still with a crumpled piece of paper in his massive fist.

“What was that?” Egg asked, his voice losing its playful edge. He looked at the disturbed straw where the crate was hidden.

“Nothing,” Dunk said, his voice a pitch too high. He shoved the letter into his belt and moved to grab the grain sack, using his body to block Egg’s view of the crate.

“Just… asking directions. The buckle on the harness gave me trouble. My hands are slick from the grease.”

“Uhm… okay,” Egg’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the dust cloud left by the Lysene messenger. “And you’re a terrible liar. Did that man bring word from the South?”

“It’s the heat, Egg! I told you, the sun is a killer today,” Dunk rasped, turning his back to heave the grain sack onto Chestnut’s back. “Go get the horses. Now! We aren’t staying here another minute.”

Egg didn’t move for a second, his eyes lingering on the spot where the scribe had been.

Then, he gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Fine. But if your head sun-strokes and you fall off your horse, I’m leaving you in the ditch.”

Dunk didn’t answer. He just tightened the cinch until the leather groaned.

* * *

The market fair in Dosk was crowded and noisy. Dunk had spent the morning trying to calm himself by holding the whetstone he’d purchased a week ago.

Then came the tap on his shoulder.

A sellsword pressed a scrap of parchment into his hand and vanished.

Dunk slipped into the shadow of a grain wagon and took his time reading the letter. It wasn’t easy to make out, but he managed;

Dunk’s breath hitched. He instinctively clutched at the front of his tunic, his fingers digging into the rough wool right over the jagged white line on his chest. It was a private thing, he thought. The fact that the prince’s paid eyes had been watching him so closely made the bright market feel dangerous and suffocating.

* * *

They pushed on past Dosk, heading toward the Chequy Water, but the feeling of being hunted didn’t fade. It grew and it became a weight on Dunk’s shoulders. When they finally made camp under the sprawling canopy of an olden tree, the threat took a physical, visceral form.

Tucked into a knot in the bark, at exactly the level of Dunk’s eyes, was a silk scarf. It was the color of a fresh luxurious crimson, fluttering in the evening breeze.

Dunk reached out, his hand trembling. As his fingers closed over the silk, the scent hit him, it reeked of Aerion, although, this time it was slightly more pungent than it should be, which’d almost made the coarse wool of his breeches feel suddenly and unbearably tight.

A nesting silk? he thought, frowning slightly.

Dunk looked toward the stream. Egg was there, his small frame bent over as he checked the pony’s shoes. He immediately told him he had something to do and then walked off with the silk in his pocket.

Once he found a quiet corner, Dunk spread the silk across his knees, his fingers lingered on the smooth fabric, tracing the soft weave. Then, he saw what was attached to it— a scroll demanding an answer.

The threat was no longer just about his skin, Dunk knew he couldn’t ignore this one. He had to write back, but first, he needed the tools of a literate man, tools he didn’t possess and didn’t know how to use. He immediately folded the small silk scarf away and shoved it into his pocket when Egg came by.

By morning, Dunk had made his decision.

They stopped at a peddler’s cart on the road to Chequy Water, where the owner was selling small items and used goods under a patched canvas cover. He stood nearby with his arms crossed, looking suspiciously at a small pot of ink and a bundle of feathers tied together.

The scent of Aerion still clung to him, musk-heavy and sweet with the territorial scent of an omega in heat. And that scent felt as though it were seeping from his own skin, strong enough that people nearby began to notice.

When Dunk stepped closer, the peddler’s smile stretched too wide.

“Two coppers for a jar of black soot and water?” Dunk grumbled, looming over him. “I could make better ink scraping a cookpot.”

“It’s Lysene black, ser! Best in the Reach!” the peddler squeaked.

“It’s a robbery,” Dunk muttered but he paid anyway.

He took a single sheet of rough parchment, a poor-quality quill, and the overpriced ink. He felt as though he were buying the tools that would eventually cause his downfall. 

They rode on in uneasy silence.

When they made camp later that day, Egg paused as he laid out the bedrolls and sniffed the air. “Ser,” he said, squinting at Dunk.

“Did you find a patch of wild lavender? Or did you accidentally knock over a lady’s perfume carriage?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you smell like a pleasure house and, uh..., like you’ve been with someone,” Egg said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s giving me a headache. Is that why you were rolling in the hay earlier? To hide the smell?”

“I don’t smell like anything,” he growled, as his face grew hotter. Instead he stalked over to the horses and began brushing Chestnut with unnecessary force, hoping horse sweat would drown out the heated scent. The horse flicked his ears and tossed his head, edging away as if offended by the smell.

As they rode out again the next morning, Egg glanced at the bundle tied to Dunk’s saddle. “What are we buying ink for, ser?” he asked. “Are you keeping a ledger of all the times I’ve been right? You’ll need a bigger pot for that.”

“I’m writing a letter,” he grunted, heat creeping up his neck. “To an old knight I once knew. In the Free Cities. I want him to know I’m not dead in a ditch. And I also need your help.”

“A letter!” Egg brightened. “That’s a grand idea. I’ll teach you tonight.”

By the time they reached the ancient oak  tree at Chequy Water to make camp, the sun was already dipping low. Egg hopped up, wiping his hands on his tunic. “I learned a bit about letters once, ser,” the boy said brightly. “From a septon and even from my brother Aemon. It’s definitely a noble pursuit.”

Duncan looked at his massive, scarred hands. “I’ve had more use for steel than ink, lad. Real work doesn’t leave much room for pretty marks.”

“Is that why you’re staring at it like it’s a hole in your boot?” Egg teased, reaching for the quill. “Paper won’t bite you, ser. Unless you’re afraid of a little soot?”

“I’m not afraid,” he muttered, sitting with a heavy sigh. “Just… out of my depth. Show me, then.”

Sitting by the fire, Duncan stared at the black ink, the pools looking like a dark omen on the flat stone before him.

“Stop holding it like a mace, ser!” Egg said, throwing his hands up in frustration. He was sitting cross-legged in the grass, his shaved head reflecting the light of the fire.

“I’m not holding it like a mace,” he was hunched over so far his nose was nearly touching the parchment, his tongue was poked out the corner of his mouth, and he was sweating more than he had during the trial at Ashford. “I’m holding it… firmly. So it doesn’t get away.”

“It’s a feather, it isn’t going to fly off.” Egg reached over and pried Dunk’s massive, calloused fingers open. “Look at your knuckles. You’re going to crush the nib, and then we’ll have to spend another three coppers on a new one! You’ll complain about the price of feathers for a week, and I’ll have to listen to it.”

Dunk winced, the price of feathers was indeed a sore spot. He looked at the tiny pot of ink as if it were a precious, dwindling potion. “This ink is half-water anyway. I told you that peddler was a rogue. I should have clouted him.”

“You say that about everyone who sells us anything,” Egg noted, dipping the quill for him with a smooth, practiced motion. “Now, remember: light strokes. Like a lady’s fan.”

He stared at the parchment. He tried to imagine himself as a delicate lady with a fan and lowered the quill.

Creeeeeak.

The nib groaned under Dunk’s heavy hand. A giant, mess of black blob fell onto the paper, creating a messy blotch.

“Oh, brilliant,” Egg deadpanned. “Are you writing a letter, or are you drawing a map of a swamp?”

“It’s a decorative mark,” said Duncan, his face turning a deep, embarrassed red. “Knights use them. To… to show status. My friend in the Free Cities will understand.”

“Your friend must be a very patient man,” said Egg as he dabbed at the mess with his sleeves. “Try again. Smaller. And remember, we only have this one sheet. If you ruin it, you’ll have to write on a large leaf, and the goats will eat your correspondence before it reaches the coast.”

Duncan took a deep breath, steadied his arm, and began to scratch.

He stopped, feeling a surge of pride.The letters were the size of hen’s eggs and slanted so violently to the left they looked like they were falling over, but they were still legible.

“It’s ‘dead’, ser,” Egg corrected gently. “With an ‘A’. D-E-A-D. Unless you’re telling him you’re a father? ‘Ded’ sounds like ‘Dad’.”

Dunk’s eyes went wide. He looked at Egg felt a jolt of panic. “What–? No, I definitely don’t want him thinking– I mean, I don’t want my friend thinking I’ve got a brood of children.” He frantically tried to squeeze an ‘A’ between the ‘E’ and the ‘D’, but it ended up looking like a very confused triangle.

“Now,” he muttered, squinting at the page. “I need to tell him to stop.”

“Stop what? Does he send too many poems?”

“Stop everything! Sending these… these messages. And… things. Do you know how much ink costs, Egg? I’m only a hedge knight. I have two shirts and a horse that eats more than I do. I can’t be writing back and forth across the sea like some high lord.”

He dipped the quill again, nearly scraping the bottom of the pot.

He looked at the finished product. To anyone else, it looked like a desperate ransom note written by a giant in a dark room. To Dunk, it was a masterpiece of financial honesty.

“You’re telling a knight in the Free Cities that you’re too poor to buy paper?” Egg asked, his voice full of amused disbelief. “That’s… well, it’s honest, I suppose. But it’s not very chivalrous, is it?”

“No!” Dunk barked, making Egg jump. “I mean… no. He’s a busy man. He doesn’t care about all that. He just needs to know I’m broke. If he thinks I’m broke, he might… stop bothering with the messengers.”

“If you say so,” the boy began to pack away the quills. “But your ‘M’ looks like a mountain range, and your ‘S’ is backwards. Your friend is going to think you’ve had a blow to the head.”

“I’ve had several,” said Dunk, recalling the blow he’d received from the boy’s own father, he quickly folded the parchment and shoved it deep into his boot. “My hand hurts more than it did after the trial. Who knew a feather was heavier than a longsword?”

“Writing is a noble art, ser,” said Egg, crawling into his bedroll with a smirk. “Though, looking at your ink-stained face, I think the art might be safe from you for a while.”

Duncan looked down at his hand, which was covered in dark ink stains. He had faced a prince’s madness with the most powerful weapon in his arsenal: a complete and total lack of funds.

“Go to sleep, Egg,” he grunted. “Tomorrow we find a messenger. A cheap one.”

Duncan sighed, settling back against the oak.