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A Drunken Prince | "A Lovely Dream" pt. 3

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader

✧—Summary: finally in ashford meadow, you find yourself in the unlikely company of a tall hedge knight and his bold little squire. as the tourney unfolds, the handsome stranger you met at an inn continues to linger in your thoughts—along with the rumors you hear of a missing prince. ✧—Content/Warnings: fem!reader, reader has no physical description, commoner!reader, no targcest, reader’s background is a mystery, pathetic yearner!daeron, dunk and egg shenanigans, raymun “apple boy” fossoway has a cameo appearance (and some other characters too!), strangers to lovers, slowww burn, mutual pining, fluff, angst, follows/parallels the events of AKOTSK season 1 so there will be spoilers ✧—Word Count: 13.6k (wow longest part so far!) ✧—A/N: god this chapter took me so long to write. i spent a lot of time trying to get the geography/scenery of the tourney/meadow as accurate as possible, a pain in the ass btw, but i took some creative liberties with the layout of the pavilions. the beginning of this chapter is pretty heavy on world-building and descriptions but just like last time i swear (i promise, i’m once again down on my knees, palms clasped together) daeron’s pathetic yearning ass is in this! without further ado, i sincerely hope you enjoy part 3!

ˋ°•*⁀➷[ series masterlist ] [ previous part ]

Breakfast consisted of hard salt beef—which was not much of a meal to help stomach the taste of rejection.

Ser Duncan the Tall had been asking noble lords to vouch for his entry into the lists all morning. None so far had deigned to remember his late master, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. You and Egg had stood on either side of the hedge knight as he was rebuffed over and over again, watching as his shoulders sank lower and lower each time.

Still, Dunk persisted. He told many great tales of an old and honorable knight who took countless arrows for the lords he served, whose own nephew gave his life in the battles he fought. Even though the stories had failed to lift so much as a mere brow from House Hayford or House Florent, you found yourself enthralled—less by the old knight himself and more by Dunk’s delivery. There was a deep respect in the way he spoke of his late master, an admiration and fondness. To you, it was clear that Ser Arlan and Dunk had been a true family, and no matter of blood could change that. What a shame that no lord seemed moved enough to care.

Dunk’s last chance lay in Ser Leo “Longthorn” Tyrell, and he found the venerable knight lounging before his pavilion near the tourney grounds.

“I know him not, man,” Longthorn replied, with such undisguised apathy it stung even you.

Dunk’s head hung low as he made his way toward the stone bridge that crossed back to the market and greater sprawl of pavilions, you and Egg following closely behind. Earlier that morning, you had made the split-second decision to accompany him on his errand—a convenient distraction, for you were not quite ready to face your own just yet. Besides, it seemed a sensible idea to get your bearings around Ashford Meadow with a tall hedge knight at your side. But as you hopped from lord to lord, you were allowed only brief observations of your surroundings. Dunk’s search for a sponsor had kept you on your feet—you hurried along the outskirts of the great encampment, cut across the lanes between the pavilions rather than lingering within them, and did not stop for merchants who had already begun calling out their wares to the swelling early-bird crowds. Still, the arrangement helped you acclimate to the sheer magnitude of the bustling place, and you were grateful to walk its length without drawing much attention.

You intended to explore Ashford Meadow more thoroughly soon, but walking beside Dunk—with his problems to occupy your thoughts instead of your own—served well enough for now. Egg, however, was beginning to tire of it.

“Was he a shit knight?” Egg blurted suddenly, always unfailingly candid with his thoughts—this time with poor Ser Arlan as their subject.

“He was not a shit knight,” Dunk scoffed defensively.

“Well, he can’t have been a very good one if no one remembers him,” Egg muttered.

Egg had donned his cloak today—which was even more ill-fitting than his tunic—and the hem dragged through the mud, threatening to trip his short legs with every other step. Small children ran past him, shrieking with delight as they chased one another with sticks for swords. On his right side, your eye caught upon a grand yellow pavilion trimmed in black, its entrance crowned with multiple antlers on the canopy. Your steps faltered and nearly stopped as you stared upon such an imposing tent, but you were quickly broken from your stupor by a commotion on your left side. A rickety wagon rolled by—so close it nearly crushed your foot—its wooden axles creaking and rumbling loudly across the unpaved earth.

“Pick up your feet,” Dunk admonished Egg. “Come on.”

“This is undignified, ser,” Egg groused.

“So hie back to camp and leave me be, if it please you,” Dunk huffed as he led you, Egg, and his old workhorse—whom you had learned was named Chestnut—past the tourney arches that stood before the bridge.

“I would not leave you, ser, not while you must suffer your master dying over and over again.” Egg rolled his eyes.

“Oh, it seems your squire does have a heart,” you snickered lightly as you nudged Dunk, who smirked faintly in return.

“I can be kind when the moment allows for it.” Egg stuck his tongue out at you, then turned back to the hedge knight. “But it does not seem like these lords are even listening to you, ser.”

“Nothin’ I can do about that.” Dunk gave a resigned shrug.

“You are a knight of the realm, ser,” Egg exclaimed, stopping in his tracks as he reached the bridge’s threshold. “You can say ‘fuck their permission,’ ride into the lists, call out Longthorn Tyrell, and turn his arsehole into a lance-hole!”

A small laugh escaped you. More and more, you found yourself endeared to the boy’s boldness. His proposal was wildly implausible and steeped in childish bravado, but still amusing to imagine all the same.

Dunk was not quite so agreeable.

“That’s enough now,” he said, shaking his head as he continued across the bridge.

“Why do you treat these royal lapdogs like they’re your betters?” Egg inquired.

“They are my betters,” Dunk replied simply. “You’re too brazen for your own good. Ser Arlan was a great knight—someone will remember him.”

“I am sure someone will, ser,” you nodded, placing a comforting hand on Dunk’s shoulder.

Dunk gave you a small smile and looked as though he was about to say something but was interrupted by a sudden blare of horns behind him.

Heralds stood atop the tourney viewing stands, dressed in the orange and white sun-and-chevron of House Ashford, loudly blowing their trumpets in announcement—though of what, you could not yet tell. Crowds gathered along the side of the bridge, commonfolk eager to watch some spectacle in the distance. You followed their gaze north across the river where an impressive cavalcade had emerged from a distant forest on the outskirts of the meadow. A great number of men, horses, and carriages poured out upon the road, heading toward the castle. The hoofbeats and whinnies of so many horses thundered across the meadow, as if to demand the attention of every soul present had they not already been called by the horns. Atop the fierce steeds were guards in gleaming black armor and footmen clad in deep obsidian trimmed with crimson. However, it was the banners they waved that drew the most interest. Black silk pennons snapped in the wind, each one bearing the same glorious sigil—a red three-headed dragon.

The Targaryens had arrived in Ashford Meadow at last.

“Perhaps I should go back, ser, check on the camp,” Egg suggested suddenly. “Make sure no thieves have been nosing about.”

Dunk, entranced by the banners, answered the boy without even looking at him. “Aye. I have an idea.”

“Are you headed to the castle?” you asked.

Dunk nodded.

“Well, I am not yet well acquainted with this meadow,” you said. “I think I shall stay here and explore the grounds for a while.”

“If it suits you,” Dunk replied impassively, more concerned with setting whatever plan he had conjured in motion.

“Can I have your sword to run people off with?” Egg asked. “Or a mace?”

“You have a knife. That’s enough.” The hedge knight turned to walk away, only calling back over his shoulder. “You’d best be here when I come back. Rob me, and I’ll hunt you down—with dogs.”

“You don’t have dogs,” Egg shouted after him, defiantly.

“I’ll get some.”

“Where?”

Dunk had already backtracked halfway across the bridge when he suddenly turned to bark loudly at Egg like a dog. Egg jumped with a startled gasp, though Dunk did not even stop to see his reaction. You reached out and gave the boy a reassuring pat upon his pale head.

“Egg, are you alright to go back to the camp alone?” you asked, wanting to ensure he was truly capable of handling it. “I can come with you, if you’d like.”

“If I am to serve as Ser Duncan’s squire then I will have to learn to attend to such duties alone anyways,” Egg shrugged simply, then he turned and led Chestnut along with him toward the elm tree.

You watched the boy go for a moment, the old workhorse plodding obediently behind him, before turning back toward the bridge you had just crossed. With Dunk now bound for the castle and Egg returning to camp, the meadow lay open before you, waiting. The tourney grounds seemed as good a place as any to begin your exploration.

Three towering stone arches marked the entrance to the lists, cracks and ivy tendrils crawling up their time-worn facade and creeping further with every passing season. The arches abutted a raised viewing stand and beneath it ran a narrow gated passageway—perhaps a place for knights to prepare before their charges, or for wounded ones to rest unseen after an unlucky tilt. The stand itself was covered by sweeping yellowed canvas to shield its spectators from sun or rain. Its height granted a clear view of the field below and cushioned benches lined its interior. Surely the gallery was a luxury afforded only to highborn lords and ladies—and the princes, too.

The lists stretched out before the stand, a long rectangular field blanketed with soft, pale sand where tilt barriers had already been erected. At either end stood rugged stone walls, gated with heavy wood that opened for knights to make their grand entrance into the lists. Directly across lay a far humbler viewing area for the commonfolk. It was a grassy open space with no raised stands, sweeping canopies, or cushioned benches—only aged timber fences set out to mark where crowds could gather to spectate. You would soon be standing there to watch the tourney as well, no doubt.

The entire place bore the sigil of Ashford House with pride. Suns wrought of copper, now weathered to a blue-gray patina, were welded into the gates and hung within the entrance arches. Decorative shields were placed on every tilt barrier, each carved with the shape of a sun at its center. Imposing statues stood among the lists as well—sculpted knights of marble forever frozen in time. Some were captured in an eternal kneel while others were immortalized mounted upon rearing destriers, their lances raised high to the gods. The detailed flourishes hinted at Ashford Meadow’s revered four-thousand-year history of grand tournaments, honoring the very field where folklore claimed the country’s first-ever joust was held.

Venturing further, you discovered a training yard on the far side of the tourney grounds. It was a small plot of dirt, lined with its own fences. Splintered sparring gear lay scattered about—likely the remains of combat training—and short-range tilt barriers had been erected for knights to rehearse their charges. One knight rode past at a gallop, lowering his practice lance toward a straw target. Two men clashed with wooden swords and shields, their blows ringing loudly against one another. One of them—a young man with thick, curly brown hair—glanced up as you passed, flashing you a quick grin. It proved a costly distraction. His opponent slammed into him a second later with a hard shove of his shield, sending him sprawling into the dirt. “Get up Raymun! You cannot think to squire for a Fossoway if your thick head is forever in the clouds!” The knight had a brash voice, and he was taller and more powerful than his young squire. The squire scrambled to his feet, only to be struck again before he had even regained his balance. You winced at the rough cruelty of it and continued on your way.

As you had begun to suspect earlier that morning on your rounds with Dunk, the pavilions were not so separated from the tourney grounds as they had first appeared in your distant view of it the day before. At least, not all of them were separated. On this side of the river, there stood only five pavilions that shared such close proximity to the lists and the Ashford castle. There was a distinct, unmistakable pattern to them as well. You recognized the golden lion of House Lannister, the white falcon of House Arryn, the silver trout of House Tully, the golden rose of House Tyrell, and the crowned black stag of House Baratheon.

They were all Great Houses of Westeros.

The realization settled uneasily in your stomach, churning it with something that felt a lot like injustice. On the other side of the river lay the sprawling encampment of commonfolk and knights of lesser name—men who would have to trudge through dust and mud and over a bridge each morning just to reach the lists. Yet here, the greatest houses of the realm had been granted the high honor of pitching their pavilions within easy reach of both the castle and the tourney grounds. No tiresome walk across a crowded bridge, no muddy trek across the meadow. Just a short stroll to the lists. The princes, too, had been allotted lodgings in the castle for their short stint in Ashford—grand chambers in high stone towers, far above the dust and the noise—graciously spared the primitive conditions of sleeping out in the meadow like everyone else.

Hm. What fine privileges. How pleasant that must be.

You found yourself staring at the river, affronted and suddenly aware of the divide it created. It displayed society’s disparities with startling clarity, the rushing water itself seeming to serve as a physical boundary between worlds. On one side stood lavish pavilions, fine silks, royalty within thick castle walls, and noble bloodlines stretching back centuries; on the other side stood the rest of the realm.

In the far southern corner of The Reach where you had grown up, the hierarchies of Westeros had always felt distant—little more than stories carried by travelers passing through, lofty tales of Great Houses and the Iron Throne they were sworn to. Your little cottage had been something of a refuge from it all, tucked safely away from the grand designs and quiet injustices of the Seven Kingdoms. Yes, your mother had taught you harsh lessons about the wider realm beyond and, yes, you had seen the hardships of poverty in the countryside… but never had the contrast been laid out so plainly as it was now. Out here in Ashford Meadow, in the real world, the distance between nobility and commonfolk was blatantly apparent to you.

It was measured in paces and marked by a river.

Suddenly, you were taken with the urge to cross the divide. To walk among the commonfolk—the only life you had ever come to know—where the air buzzed with spirit and laughter. It would be far better than staying here, feeling slighted by the privileges afforded to great lords and princes. Besides, it was long past due that you explored that half of the meadow properly anyway. So you gathered the skirt of your dress and hurried across the stone bridge, landing upon the forked paths of dirt that wound through the sprawling market.

Immediately, you found yourself marveling at the sights that you had failed to take in earlier that morning. Stalls and wagons crowded the muddy lanes, the entire place steeped in every shade of brown imaginable. Against it, a flash of color quickly caught your eye—the bright hue of a Tyroshi merchant’s hair. He stood proudly behind a stall of ornately crafted helms, his beard dyed a flamboyant shade of blue. You had heard such practices were common in the Free Cities, but this was your first time witnessing it for yourself. A certain wanderlust began to stir within you. What other marvels might you find if you were to cross the Narrow Sea one day?

Beyond the Tyroshi and his vibrant hair of blue, other merchants populated the market in droves. They displayed their goods in tempting arrays, bringing more color to the scenery of brown. A stocky armorer had laid out his sturdy wares upon a heavy wooden table, polished steel gleaming a brilliant silver in the sunlight. Nearby, a gray-haired huntress from the Riverlands sat quietly behind her stall, her display of white ermine pelts and vivid bird feathers hanging above her like banners of a good bargain. A homely-looking woman stood at a corner of a lane offering fresh, golden-yellow butter she had churned herself. Not far off, a burly leatherworker haggled with a lord over the price of cowhide boots, expertly stitched with copper rivets of a radiant red-orange. Your gaze lingered on an embossed belt with olive green accents set out on his table—it would make a fine replacement for your own, but you had not the coin to spare for it.

The sounds and scents of the market pressed in on you, overwhelming but no less exhilarating. Sausages thick with fat roasted over a crackling stone firepit, the smoky and savory scent setting your mouth to water. The sweetness of brightly-colored exotic fruits drifted through the air from a Dornish woman’s stall, mingling with the earthy aroma of spices, leather, livestock, soot, and iron. A rough, grating sound came on your left as a carpenter scraped his blade loudly across a plank of wood, carving some new creation. Metal rang sharply on your right as a smith hammered at a stubborn piece of armor, making adjustments for a waiting knight. Suddenly, from behind came the deep groan of an enormous aurochs being tugged along by a farmer with a rope. You turned and stared in surprise at the massive beast as it lumbered past—you had thought the creatures were hunted to extinction. Evidently not. Here one was, very much alive and very much unhappy to be dragged through the noisy, bustling meadow.

Strangely, you found yourself searching through the market for something in particular—your eyes roaming over the crowd in an avid, meticulous sweep.

The compulsion had struck all at once when a tall, lanky man had shouldered past you. The first thing that had drawn your interest in him was his shoulder-length hair, a shade of golden sand. But when he glanced back to offer an apology, his face possessed irises of a deep sea green—pleasing, but not the irises you had hoped to see. Again, your attention was caught by a lord who staggered forth, dressed in a damask mantle of velvet. Alas, his mantle was not paired with a wine-soaked gold tunic nor an ornately-beaded black chemise. Soon after, you happened upon a man drenched in wine, face-down in the dirt. But as you warily stepped around him, his drunken ramblings consisted only of his gambling woes—not his dreams. You then paused and watched curiously as a mother gifted her son an opulent dagger with a hilt of pearly white ivory and gold. The weapon looked vaguely familiar, like one you had seen before. A moment later, your gaze settled on a handsome lord with striking features—yet his nose was not quite tall enough nor his brows set upon his face just right.

A sudden realization dawned on you.

You were looking for him. The drunken stranger at the inn. Even now, he still stubbornly occupied your thoughts, lingering in the depths of your mind at every moment and returning to the forefront whenever your mind grew idle.

Lost within this bustling market—where everyone hurried about hunting for a good bargain—the one thing you sought desperately for the most was a pair of captivating blue-violet eyes. A faint disappointment settled over you when your search proved fruitless. All the features in the crowd before you could have been plucked individually to compose a rough imitation of the stranger, save for one missing thing—those damned enigmatic irises. Alas, you would never find them. How ridiculous it was to think that you would. How foolish. But you could not be a fool, this world would not afford you the luxury of it. Such fanciful behavior was to be put to rest—for good.

Again, you reminded yourself of that bitter platitude.

We meet handsome strangers we are never meant to meet again… and in time, we forget them.

It was high time to forget. So you set about occupying your thoughts with something far more practical instead: a renewed commitment to a thorough exploration of the meadow. It began with the menial task of counting the number of pavilions. Then, you resolved to form a mental list of the sigil and name of every house present, acquainting yourself with the ones you did not yet know.

…Red Apple of House Fossoway…

…Nightingales of House Caron…

…Huntsman of House Tarly…

…Sea Turtle of House Estermont…

…Purple Lightning of House Dondarrion…

…Red Stallion of House Bracken…

…Weirwood Tree of House Blackwood…

…Golden Goose of House Cargyll…

…White Lamb of House Stokeworth…

Once you had visited every pavilion and exhausted your list of houses in attendance, you turned to yet another distraction—one far more enjoyable than identifying sigils. You wandered about the grounds of the meadow once more, this time eager to indulge in the many entertainment offerings scattered across it. The grounds teemed with performers—jugglers, puppeteers, magicians, contortionists, and fortune tellers all plying their trades for curious onlookers who drifted by.

In the middle of the field stood a grand orange tent, its three towering peaks crowned with a crescent moon, a sun, and a star. Within it performed a troupe of Dornish puppeteers, their stage alive with massive, exquisitely crafted figures. Even from a distance, it was clear that the puppets had been fashioned with remarkable skill. They were composed of finely carved timber and intricately burnished leather, and finished with a wonderful paint job of stunning colors—rare pigments surely only found in Dorne. From the edge of the tent, you watched in awe as a tall, beautiful young woman with deeply sun-kissed skin recounted the tale of Florian the Fool. Alas, you had arrived too late to get a proper vantage, positioned so far back in the crowd you could barely hear or see much of anything. It was not so irksome, though—perhaps you could get some better viewing at another show on the morrow. With a small shrug, you moved on. The meadow offered other entertainment beyond the puppet tent.

Seconds quickly turned to minutes, minutes quickly turned to hours, yet you had scarcely noticed the passage of time, so engrossed in your curious indulgences. It was only when the dark shadows of the evening began to settle over the grassy meadow that you realized how long it had truly been since you started your exploration. So, you hurried off to reunite with your companions, eager to discover where they had gotten to.

Eventually, you spotted Egg sitting alone at a table inside a cream-colored pavilion right by the stone bridge. The tent was wide and its front flaps were tied open to allow more space for its occupants. The interior of the cream canvas walls were lined with a checkered cloth, dark threads woven in repeating squares. Long wooden tables and benches had been set within, and serving boys scurried about with pitchers and plates. The place was lively with patrons, the air warm from candlelight and filled with a fiddler’s lively tune. It seemed the tent had been raised to serve as a makeshift tavern or common hall for the duration of the tourney.

You slipped inside and dropped onto the bench across from Egg without bothering to announce yourself. He looked up and greeted you with a quiet nod of his pale head.

“Where is Ser Duncan?” you asked.

“He is selling his palfrey,” Egg replied. “He needs the coin to pay for armor.”

“Oh.” The news brought a deep frown upon your face. You knew well enough how deep a bond ran between a horse—or donkey—and its master. Dunk was quite fond of Sweetfoot and it surely pained him to sell her as though she were nothing more than fish at a market. Though perhaps, if fortune favored him in the lists, he might win enough coin to buy her back.

A few moments later, the hedge knight ducked under the pavilion flap and hunkered down onto the bench beside you, wood creaking beneath his considerable weight. As he had passed Egg, he had set down a rusted tankard before him. It landed on the tabletop with a dull clink and was about the same size as the boy’s head. You were relieved to see that it contained only cider, rather than the ale in Dunk’s, and you voiced as much.

“I would sooner eat a horse than drink ale,” Egg declared haughtily. “It’s disgusting.”

“Trust it’ll put some hairs on your chest, lad,” Dunk asserted. “Ser Arlan said as much to me when I was about your age.”

“Dunk,” you whispered lowly, so the boy could not hear you, “he does not even have hair on his head.”

“Aye.” Dunk nodded gravely. “You’re right.”

As he had leant close to answer you, his posture seemed looser, less encumbered by a heavy weight. It was then that you noticed something about him was different, something was missing.

“It seems you are without your shield, ser,” you observed aloud.

“Oh. Yeah. The prince—Prince Baelor—granted me entry into the lists,” Dunk explained. “But he said I ought bear a shield with a sigil of my own, seein’ as I’m no true blood of Ser Arlan.”

“We watched the puppet show,” Egg added eagerly. “Ser Duncan asked the girl puppeteer there to paint his shield.” The boy then grinned, eyes alight with mischief. “I believe Ser Duncan is quite keen on her.”

“What?” A bewildered look flashed across Dunk’s face, less angry at the implication and more stunned to have been found out so easily. “Quiet with you, boy, else you’ll get a good clout in the ear.”

You quickly changed the subject of conversation, lest Egg should say something else untoward to vex the hedge knight further.

“I am sorry to hear about Sweetfoot,” you said, soft and earnest, to offer your sympathies.

“No turnin’ back now, I suppose,” Dunk shrugged simply, if only to hide his grief. “You know, the old man lived nigh on sixty years and he was never a champion.”

Egg, who did not seem to be listening at all, peered down at his cider with a wrinkled nose. He lifted a small finger and flicked the liquid’s surface. “There’s a bug in my cider,” he announced with disgust, mostly to himself.

“If I could call myself a champion of Ashford Meadow—even for an hour,” Dunk continued, hopeful and unbothered by Egg’s discovery, “maybe some great house might take me into its service. Perhaps even House Targaryen.”

That drew the boy’s attention immediately. His dark blue eyes snapped up and he leant forward onto the table. “You suppose the dragon house employs many hedge knights, ser?”

“Enough of that. I’ll have you know Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard is but the son of a crabber,” Dunk said proudly, brows raised high.

“Ser Donnel?” the boy asked incredulously.

Dunk nodded, satisfied with himself.

“Of Duskendale?”

“Yeah.”

“His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Westeros!” Egg exclaimed.

“What!?” A bewildered look flashed across Dunk’s face yet again, then turned defensive. “How would you know?”

Egg thought for half a beat before answering simply, “I like fishing.”

That he did.

“You must forgive Ser Duncan of his ignorance, Egg,” you interjected with a small chuckle, “if you recall, he was not with us on the long road to Ashford when you chronicled—at great length—every good knight in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Suddenly a deep, resounding blare of horns rolled across the river. The sound carried over the meadow like a summons, long and triumphant. For a moment the chatter inside the pavilion faltered as everyone turned their heads toward the lists. The sound could only mean one thing.

The tourney was about to begin.

“It’s time!” Egg declared, face breaking into a wide grin.

“Right, come on,” Dunk urged after a quick last sip of his ale, then he pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “Let’s go.”

You and Egg followed after Dunk’s long strides, ducking out of the tavern tent and crossing the bridge. There was a rising tide of spectators with the same idea filtering out of their pavilions as well. As you neared the tourney grounds, a strong feeling of excitement rose steadily within you, thrumming under your skin. All your life you had heard stories of tourneys—of fearless knights clad in glittering armor, of lances splintering like thunder, of glory won beneath a storm of banners.

Now, for the first time, you would see it with your own eyes.

Breakfast the next day consisted of fried bread, bacon, and goose eggs—which was a fine meal after such an eventful evening and the busy morning that followed it.

After the first joust of the tourney, you had realized that service as a knight required a far greater deal of skill than you had ever imagined—Dunk seemed to despair over that same realization. Egg, too, realized there was much work to be done if he hoped to hone his skills as a squire. In the early light of dawn, the boy had slipped away with Thunder for training. Upon his return to camp, the pair looked as though they had been dragged through a thousand thickets. Dunk was none too pleased that his squire had stolen away with his destrier, yet he did not punish the boy.

When the sun had fully climbed above the horizon, you had awoken to the sweet sight of Dunk and Egg sewing patches together, their brows furrowed in matching concentration. Dunk proved to be quite the patient teacher, instructing his squire to complete a whipstitch in hushed, encouraging tones. Not one to miss out, you had shuffled out of your bedroll with bleary eyes and blindly grabbed your own sewing kit from your saddlebag. Your old cloak was in dire need of mending and you thought you might offer Egg your own lessons as well, for you always prided yourself on mastering the ladder stitch. So there the three of you had sat, atop the ruins of an old stone wall beside the elm tree, an unlikely trio sewing patches together amidst the calm quiet of morning. For a moment, it felt like the kind of peace you had always hoped to attain.

Once the mending was finished, Dunk had charged Egg with the task of grooming his horses. The boy had not carried out the chore alone, however, for you and Dunk had both wordlessly taken up brushes as well. The work would go quicker with three, after all. The dark destrier was well-accustomed to you by then, and gave a soft snort of approval rather than protest when you had stepped near him, even nuzzling his head beside your cheek. You had feigned innocent ignorance when Egg made an odd comment about his “stones,” but failed to stifle a chuckle at the wary look Dunk had shot you across Thunder’s broad back. Soon after the grooming was done, Dunk had suddenly fallen ill and ducked behind the ruined wall to relieve himself. Meanwhile, Egg had perched happily upon the elm tree, singing a tune about The Hammer and The Anvil—one you were quite familiar with now, and even hummed along to. Once the revelation finally hit Dunk that he was not to ride into the lists just yet—he, in fact, was neither a knight of high birth nor renown—his illness had vanished just as swiftly as it had come.

After a morning of hard work, it was unanimously agreed that a hearty breakfast was more than well deserved. While Dunk and Egg headed to the market in search of food, you remained behind to tend to Old Lady’s grooming. By the time the hedge knight and his squire returned to the elm tree, her wiry gray coat gleamed clean and bright beneath the morning sun. Egg’s stomach growled fiercely at the sizzling sounds and savory scents wafting through the air as Dunk cooked over the campfire. When breakfast was finally ready, you dug in with great enthusiasm, leaving not a single crumb in your wake. Fresh slabs of bacon and fluffy goose eggs tucked between warm fried bread made quite the feast fit for a king—especially in comparison to the meager meals of salt beef and salt fish previously endured.

The three of you then set off together toward the tourney grounds, bellies full and spirits high. The second day of the tourney was sure to promise great entertainment—made greater now that Dunk knew he need not worry about participating in it. A dense crowd had already gathered along the wooden fences of the grassy viewing area by the time you arrived, people eager to witness more challengers attempt to unseat a champion. Dunk took advantage of his tallness and size to shoulder his way toward the front, allowing you and Egg to lean against the fences with the best view a common spectator could hope for. On the other side of the lists, high lords and ladies—and Prince Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen, who you noticed to be the only prince in attendance—sat comfortably in their raised stands, sheltered from the elements beneath sweeping canopies of canvas.

Many knights sought to challenge Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s seat as champion, tapping upon his patterned shield of red and white diamonds. Presumably, they believed their chances of victory greater against a lesser known knight than against any of the other four champions—venerable lords and the Heir Prince of Dragonstone. Yet every challenger was swiftly proven wrong, for Ser Humfrey’s diamonds remained unbroken after every tilt. Fourteen in all were humbled, but the joust of greatest glory came when the challenger Ser Humfrey Beesbury rode forth.

It was quite a feat of the gods to pit two knights against each other in such a fierce and well-matched battle—well-matched not only in skill but also in name. People quickly began to call it “The Battle of Humfrey.” You were pleased to see that Ser Humfrey Beesbury was truly buried in bees, riding into the lists in yellow and black stripes and carrying a shield that bore the sigil of three beehives. Yet for all the odd charm in his appearance, he proved a formidable knight and broke more than twelve lances against the champion from the Vale of Arryn. Both lowborn and highborn alike cheered loudly at the spectacle, the excitement rising in an uproar with every splintered blow against beehives or diamonds. In the end, Ser Humfrey Hardyng carried the day, thwarting the attempts of every challenger. His remarkable performance firmly cemented him as the favored knight among the crowd.

The tourney was then called to a brief recess after the hard-fought battle, and the crowd soon dispersed to find other amusements in the meantime. You and Egg followed Dunk as he trudged through tall grass up a hill on the outskirts of the meadow. Egg tripped on the crusted hem of his tunic, but you caught him with a gentle hand upon his arm and steadied him. Once at the crest of the hill, Dunk laid out amongst the soft green blades, resting his weight upon his left elbow and stretching his long legs before him. You followed suit, tucking your legs under you, and so did Egg, hugging his knees close to his chest.

It was a pleasant and peaceful moment of rest shared in the midday sun. Fluffy clouds the color of fresh snow streaked through the sky above, like white paint applied in calm brushstrokes across a powder blue canvas. Colorful birds of the countryside darted through the air, further painting the canvas in fascinating blurs of reds, oranges, and yellows. A cool breeze brought along with it the dulcet tones of nature—soft melodies of rippling grass and rattling leaves. The hill granted a fine view of the meadow, and the three of you watched in quiet contentment as thin plumes of smoke curled upward from the pavilions and small figures milled about the market below.

Eventually, you gently broke the silence with an unprompted confession.

“All my life I have longed for adventure,” you said, tone thoughtful and reflective. “This has been a grand one so far, I think.”

Dunk turned to you and gave a deep nod, but Egg’s gaze remained fixed upon the vast meadow before him.

“I think I could be quite happy in a place like this,” the boy declared after a moment of contemplation.

“You’re in a place like this,” Dunk replied.

“I meant for a while,” Egg clarified, childish impatience seeping into his tinny voice.

“Ah," Dunk grunted softly. "Yeah.”

“After I lead a great campaign for my lord, of course,” Egg continued, voice hopeful now.

“Of course.”

“I return a war hero and he gives me a parcel of land for my very own—and the hand of his second most beautiful daughter.”

“Second most?”

“Well, you’ve already married the first most. Have you not, ser?” The young squire turned to his knight, and the knight smiled.

“While you two lead your ‘great campaigns’ I will have explored the entirety of Westeros,” you mused, happy to indulge in Egg’s imaginings. “Perhaps even crossed the Narrow Sea in search of more adventures.”

“You could return home to visit my parcel of land,” Egg suggested with a grin. “I’d keep horses there, plant oats and peas, raise cows.”

“And lambs, perhaps,” Dunk added.

“Fuck your lambs,” Egg huffed.

“Did you really intend to ride all the way here in the back of some farmer’s wagon?” Dunk asked, blue eyes alight with mirth.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Egg shook his head vehemently.

“You’re lucky she swooped in to save you, then.” Dunk jerked his chin at you.

“All the glory belongs to Old Lady,” you shrugged with a coy smile.

That earned a hearty chuckle from the hedge knight.

“I’ll say this for you,” Dunk went on, turning back to the boy. “You’re a good worker when you put your mind to it.”

“Think so?” Egg perked up.

Dunk hummed in affirmation.

“Does that mean I can stay on as your squire, after the tournament?” Egg asked.

Dunk went quiet for a moment, a grave expression settling over his face before he answered. “If I lose my first joust, I’ll scarcely be a knight after the tournament.” His voice was low and rough.

“But if you win?” Egg’s voice soared high with hope.

Dunk took a moment to think again, lips pursed. “If I win…” He paused, then gave a slight nod. “If I win, you can—”

The hedge knight was interrupted then by a gaunt, oily-haired man shouting up from the bottom of the hill.

“Ser Duncan?” the man called. “A word, if you please.”

Dunk immediately rose to his feet, eager to appease the man’s request.

“That’s Plummer, the master of the games,” he explained. “I ought to see what he wants—could be an issue with my entry.”

He was gone within seconds, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hill and toward the forest for a private word. Egg’s shoulders sank heavily with disappointment. You said nothing, but reached out to rub his back in a reassuring manner. Even if Dunk had not spoken it aloud yet, there was no doubt he would permit Egg to stay on as a squire after the tourney. You held no distress about the prospect in the slightest—it was surely the only sensible progression of events. After all, the boy had made no mention of a living family. Where else was he meant to go?

Not long after the hedge knight departed, the blare of horns rolled through the meadow once again. The recess had ended, it seemed, and the tourney was to resume. With a deep sigh you rose to your feet, brushing the dirt from your dress. Then you extended a hand to help Egg, small and already losing his balance on the grassy incline. Together, you shuffled your way down the hill and back toward the meadow. A moment later, Dunk emerged from the edge of the forest and quickly caught up with you both, joining you on your return to the tourney grounds. The crowd buzzed anew, eager to watch the next joust—hopefully one just as entertaining as The Battle of Humfrey. As the press of people closed in around you along the narrow path of the stone bridge, you caught bits and pieces of their enthusiastic chatter.

“I hear the next challenger is The Brightflame,” an excited voice rang out somewhere to your left.

“I’d wager he means to challenge his cousin, Prince Valarr,” a gruff voice replied.

They speak of Prince Aerion—son of Prince Maekar, you realized.

On the road to Ashford you had wondered aloud to Egg whether princes of the realm made good knights. Thus far, nothing had proven otherwise—Prince Valarr had performed well enough in the lists the night before. But back on that road, Egg had passionately proclaimed that Prince Maekar’s eldest sons were “shit knights.” Was that true? You had yet to see for yourself, until now.

Now, it was time to finally find out how good a knight a prince of Summerhall could truly be.

As it turned out, Prince Aerion Brightflame was, indeed, a shit knight—neither good nor honorable in the slightest.

In a horrifying ploy to secure a victory against the favored champion Ser Humfrey Hardyng, the prince had slyly lowered his lance far more than the proper technique of a tilt required. The sharpened tip struck neither shield nor armor, instead tearing clean through the neck of Hardyng’s horse in a devastating, gruesome blow. The deafening sound of the horse’s agonized whinny sent a chill through your bones. The sickening sight of blood spraying as the helpless creature collapsed made you recoil in fear, hands brought up to cover your eyes and hair standing on end. Unable to watch any further, you turned and fled. The dense, rioting crowd posed no obstacle to your escape and you ran away from the tourney grounds as far as your legs could possibly take you, without stopping to see whether Dunk or Egg had followed.

Your desperate flight only ceased when you heard a thickly accented voice call after you.

“My lady! My lady!”

You turned to see a young man jogging toward you—the squire from the training yard, who you now recognized to be Raymun Fossoway. Once he reached you, he flashed you a big grin that spread across his face like a warm sunrise.

“Did you need something of me, my lord?” you asked warily.

“You are Ser Duncan’s friend are you not?” Raymun asked, tone bright and easy. “I have oft seen you following him around these grounds, along with that bald boy.”

The young Fossoway found it rather amusing that Ser Duncan’s entourage for the tourney consisted only of a scrawny bald boy and a maiden of no known name. From what he had heard of hedge knights, he had assumed them all to be wandering, old sellswords who lived in solitude. Much to his pleasant surprise, the first one he ever encountered proved quite the subversion of all his expectations. Granted, the presence of the boy could be reasoned—all knights reared squires, however puny, even hedge knights. But he was more perplexed by you. Your presence could not be reasoned away so easily. What could a pretty young woman like you be doing wandering around a tourney with a hedge knight?

“Yes,” you answered him candidly. “I have put my trust in Ser Duncan’s protection and company for the duration of the tourney.”

Raymun’s grin widened even further at that—a near impossible feat—delighted to hear of your companionship with the half-man-half-giant. It was proof. It confirmed what he had already begun to take as truth in his mind. Ser Duncan the Tall was an honorable knight, humble and loyal to his vows. Raymun certainly could not say the same for his cousin—a man about as chivalrous as a starved weasel, who spat cruel words and battered knights in the training yards just to weaken them in the lists. After suffering the abuse of the senior branch of the apple tree for so long, it was refreshing to finally meet someone so opposite in the hedge knight. Someone he sorely wanted to befriend.

Befriending Ser Duncan meant befriending you, too. Of course, Raymun didn’t mind that in the slightest, for he so enjoyed making friends and craved them in abundance. He had oft heard people whisper behind his back, calling him “Raymun the Reluctant” when they thought he wasn't listening. Yet he was anything but reluctant when it came to the matter of congeniality, ever eager to find more companions to share cups of cider with. But, in truth, beneath all that easy cheer lay a quieter longing. He desperately wished to step out of the oppressive shadow of his cousin. He wanted to belong somewhere, lead his own life, make his own company. This tourney seemed as good a place as any for this unripe apple to start branching out, and he was quite joyful at the opportunity to do so.

“Can you believe the nerve of those pale-haired barbarians?” Raymun scoffed. “Striking a horse down like that, in front of everybody.”

“It was quite the… spectacle,” you said slowly, still shaken by the memory. “I had no taste for it.”

“I doubt Aerion would have tried such a trick had his father been here,” Raymun conjectured. “Prince Maekar left the castle early this morning to look for his two sons. They’re missing, you know. His eldest and his youngest. That’s why he’s been in such a shit mood.” Raymun’s eyes lit up. “Did you see his sour face yester-evening as he watched the tourney? I reckon there’s never been a Targaryen quite so pissy as The Anvil.”

Raymun was quite the talkative fellow, but you found you did not mind it—you could be rather wordy too when the mood struck you. His round brown eyes held a steady warmth, and they shone brightly as he spoke. He had the most engaging smile you had ever seen on a man, with deep dimples that fit his face just right. Thick curls of dark hair formed a woolly helm about his head, now growing curlier as sparse droplets of rain began to fall over the meadow.

“It’s no wonder he’s cross, though,” Raymun continued. “All his sons are useless! Mad Targaryen blood is flowing through that brood full force, no doubt. The eldest son is an utter sot—they call him ‘Daeron the Drunken.’ Everyone else here thinks the prince is dead or being held ransom for war… But if you ask me, he’s probably just holed up gods know where drinking himself ill.”

Hm, a drunken prince.

While Raymun went on an impassioned rant, your mind wandered again to the handsome stranger at the inn. You tried to envision a prince of the blood in the same unbecoming, drunken stupor in which you had found that man, but quickly found you could not—the idea was simply too ridiculous to grasp. You then sought to mentally replace the stranger’s tangled sand-colored hair with Targaryen locks of silver—yet the concept did not sit right in your mind at all. Again you attempted, in vain, to imagine an heir prince of Summerhall haggard and slumped in the street of a forgotten town, rambling about his dreams. Still, the image remained unfathomable, evading you with its absurdity. Eventually, you stopped trying altogether and deemed the task impossible.

Perhaps you would have been charged with high treason had you gone any further with the notion.

House Targaryen descended from mighty dragon masters—they were not to be portrayed as drunken fools.

Eventually, Raymun realized that it was only his own voice filling the space between you. He noticed your silence, the pinched look on your face, your furrowed brows. Not privy to your thoughts, he assumed your troubled expression was in judgement of him—not a result of your inward musings of a drunken prince.

“Beggin’ your pardons,” the young Fossoway smiled sheepishly. “I came in a little strong there.”

“No,” you shook your head. “It is alright.”

“My cousin, Steffon, says I run my mouth too much,” Raymun admitted with a bitter chuckle. “Claims I throw myself upon unassuming souls like an unripe apple fallen from a tree.”

“You have not offended me,” you assured him, offering a small smile.

“I am grateful for that. Truth be told, I just… I saw how upset you were by the joust and I had to make certain you were well, my lady,” Raymun explained earnestly.

“That is very kind of you,” you replied warmly.

The amiable squire was sure to make a good knight one day—one day soon, you hoped.

The rain came down heavier, sending commonfolk scurrying about the meadow in search of shelter. Raymun tipped his head upward, squinting his eyes as large droplets hit his face.

“Well, it seems the sky is wroth at Prince Aerion too, eh?” He gave a crooked grin. “I ought to find my cousin, he gets cranky when he thinks his squire’s been gone for too long. You’re welcome to come along with me to the Fossoway tent for a hot cuppa’ cider, if you’d like.”

“I thank you for the offer,” you said, bowing your head graciously, “but I think it best to rejoin my companions. I left them without a word.”

Raymun nodded and flashed one last radiant smile before heading off to his pavilion at a light jog.

The clouds had now brought an ominous gray curtain over the meadow, weeping heavily upon the earth. You were thankful that you had mended your old cloak and had the foresight to wear it today. The cloak had belonged to your mother; she had gifted it to you once you grew big enough to fit in it. It was patched in several places and tattered with age. Nevertheless, the weight of it draped perfectly around you and it looked as though it had once been a fine cloak in another life. It was made of some fancy black fabric—heavy silk brocade, your mother had said—now threadbare and covered in stains. A roughened, lackluster gold chain wrapped around the collar, paired with a sturdy clasp to fashion it to the shoulders. There may have once been some figure embossed on the clasp, but the metal was too worn down now to tell. Yet, even after so many years, the cloak still fared well against harsh rains, as if it were made just for that purpose.

You drew the hood of your cloak over your head and embarked on your search for Dunk and Egg, skipping over widening puddles of mud as you went. They had most likely taken shelter in the tavern tent by the bridge, for it stood not too far off from the tourney grounds where you had last seen them. Eventually, you reached the large pavilion, its cream-colored canvas walls holding fast against the pounding wind and rain. Despite the dreary downpour outside, the place was alive with chatter and drunken revelry. The flaps of its entrance were left partially tied open to allow potential patrons to find sanctuary within it. Sure enough, the tall hedge knight and his little squire were sitting at one of the tables inside.

You were just about to slip under the flaps and join them, but your steps faltered when you caught sight of a group of men gathered at an adjacent table, singing quite raucously.

“—now feeling awfully glum! Oh! Alice with three fingers, a copper in her glass. Had two fingers less than most, she’ll shove them up your arse!”

Their slurred delivery of the crude song roared through the tent, along with their stomping boots. You hovered at the threshold, hesitant to take another step forward even though Dunk and Egg were inside. The place was crawling with unruly, riotous, drunk men—some of whom you recognized to be high lords and knights. It was surely no place for a woman. At least not some common woman with nothing to her name—a woman like you.

The voice that soared highest among the cacophony belonged to the man that intimidated you most. Lyonel Baratheon—Lord of Storm’s End, head of one of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. You had seen the fearsome feats he was capable of the night before, in the first joust of the tourney. He had charged boldly into the tilts, splintering lances upon shields with such force it sounded like booming claps of thunder. He had swung his longsword with a masterful and strong hand, the steel of his deadly weapon flashing bright as lightning. He had ripped crests off helms as though they were the spoils of war and flung them into a crowd that cheered him on like roaring gales of wind. And he had done it all with boisterous laughter that echoed loudly across the tourney grounds, as though it was all just a merry game to him.

He was a fierce knight—there was no denying it—and even if you had not seen many knights in your life, you suspected he was among the fiercest in all of Westeros. Why else would they call him The Laughing Storm? But you knew what havoc storms could wreak. Storms waged wars. Storms crashed upon the earth loud and free. Storms uprooted even the strongest of elm trees. Storms could swallow you whole. So, no, you would not dare enter the pavilion. You had not the courage to face The Laughing Storm, not yet.

After all, how could an unknown commoner like you ever hope to sit beside a high lord like him?

In your curious exploration the day before, you had become keenly aware of the quiet division within the meadow. You had seen firsthand the great disparities and petty hierarchies of the realm. There was an entire river to separate commonfolk from nobility. Who were you to think that you could cross it? Your mother’s voice responded faintly in your mind, as though she was reaching out beyond the grave to remind you of your purpose. She had urged you to carve out a place for yourself in the world while at Ashford Meadow. Yet now that you were finally here, you could not find the strength to pick up the metaphorical blade to do it. Perhaps the world and its injustices would turn the blade and carve itself into you instead. Your stubborn pride would not allow that, though—you had no intention of rolling over in submission to play a mere puppet in The Seven’s cruel little game of life.

You peered into the pavilion again to intently observe The Laughing Storm from afar, to ponder what a seat at his court might be like.

The lanky lord stood bare-chested atop a table, singing at the top of his lungs while flinging his arms about with careless abandon, a cup of sloshing ale in hand. An intricately-carved wooden circlet with lofty antlers crowned his long curly locks of black and silver, giving him the silhouette of a mighty stag. Though he had stripped himself to near indecency, his remaining garments spoke plainly of coin and power. A broad war-belt was cinched at his hips, the dark leather stitched with three gold stag heads and gold buckles. The yellow panels that hung from the belt were carefully cut from some rich fabric, and swayed fluidly around his fine-tailored black trousers with every capricious movement. He was adorned in pure, shining metal as well—an earring in his left ear, a heavy pendant dipping between his collarbones, and signet rings upon his fingers.

Even in drunken revelry, he proudly wore his rank like a second skin. He was free to laugh as loud as he pleased, sing as high as he wanted, dance as wild as he wished, indulge as much as he liked, dress in the highest fashions, surround himself with company eager to appease him, and live without consequence. Such was the privilege of high lords, it seemed—and the world would cheer them for it.

Could you bear to live alongside that? Did you even wish to? The longer you lingered at the tent’s edge, the more uncertain you became.

But how grand it must be to live as a drunken lord.

…Or a drunken prince.

Your thoughts returned to Raymun’s curious gossip. To the missing heir of Summerhall—the wayward prince people called “Daeron the Drunken.” How privileged it must be to live so lavishly as a Targaryen just to spurn it all for a cup of wine. To steal away from the comfort of castle walls just to hole up in seedy taverns. To be born with a silver spoon in the mouth yet want for a silver goblet instead. What could possibly drive a prince of the realm to such roguish behavior? What would compel him to disgrace himself and his family in such a way? You could not grasp a sensible conclusion.

But perhaps you were passing too harsh a criticism. After all, you could never truly know what heavy burdens weighed upon the blood of the dragon. You could scarcely even imagine what it meant to shoulder the legacy of Aegon the Conqueror. The life of a drunken prince may not be so simple as it appeared. Perhaps all a drunken prince needed was a bit of mercy, a bit of forgiveness. Guilt began to eat at you—you did not like how this world was turning you so quickly to self-righteous judgement.

By the time you snapped out of your thoughts, the rain had stopped. The gray clouds rolled away to reveal a shining sun that poured beams of liquid gold upon the meadow. Those sheltering within their pavilions soon took notice of the clearing sky as well. Not long after the last droplet of rain struck the muddy earth, Dunk and Egg came filtering out of the tavern tent and immediately spotted you lingering at its edge. The hedge knight’s hair was still wet and plastered to his brow, but his squire did not suffer the same nuisance—for obvious reasons. Dunk was quite perplexed as to why you had remained outside in the downpour, but you brushed it off with a light chuckle and a careless flick of your hand—the rain did not trouble you, so long as it did not become a storm. He did not press the matter further, and instead proposed to browse the market stalls now that the tourney had ended for the day. A fine idea, and a welcome distraction. The three of you set off at once, leaving the tavern tent and the thundering laughter within it well behind.

Dunk bought three roasted sausages, steaming and dripping with grease, and you happily munched on yours while strolling the winding dirt paths of the meadow. With the sun having returned and the mud puddles quickly drying, the day carried on as if the rain and the dreadful joust had never even inconvenienced it at all. Merchants laid out their wares anew, calling out to passersby with promises of high-quality goods and bargains.

“Did you ever know your father, Egg?” Dunk asked curiously, while leading you and the boy through a dim tunnel of stalls joined by a sagging canopy overhead.

“Mm… No,” Egg responded, indifferent, dragging his feet across the dirt. “Not really.”

“How about you?” Dunk turned to you with raised brows, before taking a hearty bite of his sausage.

“I didn’t know mine either,” you answered truthfully with a shrug.

Back at the cottage, it was only ever just you and your mother.

“Most like I saw mine hanged,” Dunk confessed as he turned a corner out of the tunnel and further through the market. “There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom—I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for brown. The cook there always said my father was some thief.” Dunk smiled ruefully. “If he was as big as me, he wouldn’t have made a very good one.”

The hedge knight had only made it a few more paces when a stout old woman suddenly lurched in front of him, a dented metal cup rattling in her bony hand. She was swathed in many thick layers of inky black lace and adorned with peculiar jewelry—clunky rings upon her fingers, dull brass pendants that chimed sharply against each other, and tangled chains of beaded twine. Her skin was deathly pale—almost gray—and her lips were painted a deep charcoal color. Beneath her heavy veil, her dark eyes fixed upon the three of you with a knowing stare that sent a slight shiver creeping down your spine.

“Say your fortune,” the woman insisted, voice hollow and raspy.

“Oh, yeah,” Dunk replied, passively. “Go on, then.”

“You shall know great success,” she whispered, “and be richer than a Lannister.”

“Thank you,” Dunk nodded, none too impressed, then he pointed at you. “And her?”

The woman tilted her head your way. “You will soon find yourself on a forked path of three.”

Well, that was quite boring. No riches or success?

“Do the boy now,” Dunk ordered, jerking his chin at Egg.

Egg smiled up at the woman, eager to hear what absurd fortune she might bestow upon him. Hopefully something more interesting than your meager one of three dull roads. But once the woman’s gaze settled on the boy, a dark, grave expression passed over her face—like smoke shrouding a burning forest.

“You shall be king,” she muttered ominously, “and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes… and all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”

Egg’s smile instantly fell from his face. “What?”

Dunk, however, was quite tickled by the fortune.

“Thank you,” he wheezed in a single deep chortle, “that’s very good.”

He dropped a copper in the woman’s cup, and she hobbled off in search of another patron.

“Why would she say that?” Egg asked, voice small and shaken.

“Why would she say what?” Dunk’s brows furrowed. “Come on.”

He took another bite of his sausage and sauntered further into the market, wholly unbothered. Egg stood frozen, his short legs rooted to the earth by fear. You anchored an arm around him and pulled him along with you, following after Dunk before his long strides could get him too far.

“She did not mean anything by it,” you murmured softly, with a comforting squeeze to his shoulder. “It was but the ramblings of a mad old woman.”

Yet the words felt like lead on your tongue, and you were uncertain you completely believed them. There was something dire in the way the woman spoke. She had uttered the fortune with such conviction, such sinister finality. Dunk may have taken it all to be a jape, but it lingered in the air, haunting Egg—that was enough to suggest otherwise.

Before you could dwell on it a moment longer, a familiar young Fossoway approached from the direction of an armory stand—he had been looking to improve his own set, no doubt.

“Ser Duncan!” he greeted, arms outstretched in a jovial manner.

Dunk returned the greeting with a slight bow of his head.

“I have met your lady friend here,” Raymun said with a nod your way, then he pointed at Egg, “and I saw you earlier with this boy.”

Egg fixed his stare upon the ground, quiet and timid, which was strange because he was so often the opposite. Perhaps he was still shaken by the fortune.

“Yeah—uh—this boy is my squire,” Dunk replied. “Egg, this is Raymun Fossoway.”

Raymun nodded once at the boy with a polite smile.

“Good day,” Egg greeted tersely, eyes still averted. His attention then caught on the grand orange pavilion on his right, where a puppeteer was gathering a crowd for the next show.

“Will you join me in my tent for a cuppa’ cider?” Raymun eagerly asked the hedge knight.

“I could wait at the puppet show, ser,” Egg suggested, “and bring your shield when the performance is over.”

“We make it ourselves,” Raymun added with an enticing smile.

Dunk assented, albeit hesitantly. “Very well.”

“I’ll go with the boy,” you offered, seizing the chance to finally watch a show, having missed out on one the night before.

Dunk gave a silent nod and followed Raymun toward the Fossoway pavilion, while you and Egg split off toward the orange puppet pavilion. The place had made quite the reputation for itself in the meadow, already drawing a lively crowd of spectators hurrying to claim a good seat. Some of the puppets had been set up ahead of time on the stage and—if the large, leather-scaled beast in the center was any indication—it seemed tonight’s show would tell the tale of dragons. The prospect stirred a rising thrill within you, for stories about such creatures always promised great entertainment.

Perhaps the show would even end with a grand finale of dragonfire.

As it turned out, the puppet show had, indeed, ended with a grand finale—but not the kind you had hoped for in the slightest.

Prince Aerion Brightflame had—yet again—ruined what was meant to be but a display of good-natured entertainment. It seemed he possessed quite the strong affinity for cruelty, having now mutilated not only an innocent horse’s neck but also an innocent woman’s finger within merely half a day. The tall puppeteer’s blood-curdling scream undoubtedly served as the show’s grand finale, and in turn invoked Ser Duncan’s righteous fury. Yet, however just his cause had been, laying hands upon a prince of the blood proved an impulsive and grievous error. It was only the bold words of his squire that had spared the hedge knight from an agonizing fate of a shattered jaw—and likely far worse pain to follow.

In an effort to save Dunk, Egg had revealed himself as one of the missing princes of Summerhall.

The revelation had shocked you to your very core. Of course, you suspected he was hiding something but you never imagined it to be of this magnitude. How could sweet, spirited little Egg possibly share blood with the likes of The Brightflame—sadistic, vain, and monstrous? Yet, everything else had begun to make sense; his brazen attitude, his refined speech, his vast knowledge of knights and princes, the vague way in which he spoke of his family, even his bald head. The stray threads had finally woven together into a complete, satisfying whole.

But you had not even a moment to speak with the boy before he was quickly ushered away by Prince Aerion’s men-at-arms, along with the hedge knight. Egg had only been able to shoot you one apologetic glance over his shoulder—dark blue, almost-indigo eyes swimming with guilt—right as the heavy oak doors of Ashford castle slammed shut between you. The guards shunned you further away outside the gates, effectively separating you from him—and Dunk, who had also been swiftly imprisoned within.

Now here you stood before the cold walls of the castle, at a complete loss for what to do. Fortunately, you were not alone. Raymun Fossoway had followed as well, eager to offer his aid where he could.

“Quite a mad turn of events, eh?” Raymun commented wryly.

You only managed a slight nod, at a complete loss for words as well it seemed, your gaze fixed upon damning walls of stone. Perhaps, if you stared hard enough, your eyes could burn a hole straight through the rough stone and you could pull Dunk and Egg out yourself.

“I reckon Ser Duncan will need someone to see to his horses while he’s stuck in there,” Raymun reasoned aloud.

That snapped you out of your reverie at once. Yes, the horses. Old Lady. They’d been tied to the elm tree the entire day, subject to the elements and the possibility of thieves happening upon them. They needed you just as much as Dunk did.

“Of course, I shall go see to them now,” you replied, pivoting on your heel away from the castle.

Before you could get far, Raymun stepped in front of you.

“No, my lady, I shall do it,” he insisted. “You can stay and wait here for Ser Duncan. Should he be released, the sight of a dear friend is surely the first thing he will need—he’s got no friends in those walls, I’d wager.”

The young Fossoway made quite a sensible suggestion, and you wouldn’t mind waiting for Dunk—even if it took a thousand years. He was one of the only friends you had, and a good one at that. These past few days, he had served you well in both protection and company. It was only right that you returned the favor and held out for him.

“Alright,” you conceded. “The horses are tied to an elm tree, along with my donkey. The tree stands in a clearing within a forest on the outskirts of the meadow. Follow the road out of Ashford, and you’ll find it.”

Raymun nodded deeply, committing your directions to memory.

“Well I’ll be off, then,” he said, then he offered a warm, crooked grin. “Rest assured, my lady, I’ll keep a watchful eye on your donkey too.”

He turned and took off quickly back down to the meadow in search of the elm tree. But before his figure disappeared completely into the tall grass, you remembered there was one last matter you had yet to address.

“Raymun!” you called after the young Fossoway.

He paused, turning back.

You called out your own name, offering it to him. “Please use it—I am no lady.”

Raymun gave a wink and hurried away to make good on his word.

You were left alone then, the castle gates remaining closed to you—unyielding as the cold stone walls themselves. No guard spared you more than a passing glance, and none thought to grant you entry. You were no one to them, not worth the trouble or the notice. Still, you lingered at the edge, steadfast and waiting.

Night had taken full charge over Ashford, draping it in shadow and leaving only the silvery glow of moonlight to illuminate the vast meadow beyond. Torches were lit along the walls, their flames flickering in the cool air, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like specters across the castle gates. The lively hum of the day had faded into scattered murmurs, distant clatter of carts being packed up, and the low call of nocturnal animals. Smoke rose in thin, weak threads from dying cookfires by the pavilions. Somewhere far off a dog barked, answered only by the whisper of wind through tall grass.

You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the evening biting at your skin. Still, the cold would not deter you.

About an hour had passed when, suddenly, movement stirred upon the road below. A small company of riders crossed the bridge in the meadow, heading up toward the castle. In the dark of night and at such a far distance, you would have barely even noticed them had their shiny banners not been reflecting the moonlight. A red three-headed dragon lay stitched upon obsidian silk, flying through the whistling wind. No doubt, the red dragon’s flight meant to announce the arrival of a Targaryen.

The company itself came into clearer view as it drew nearer to the castle. It was indeed small, comprising only five riders in total atop armored destriers. Two rode side by side at the front bearing the banners—royal men-at-arms charged to accompany the house of the dragon. At the rear followed a knight in gleaming white armor, a cape of the same pure color billowing around him—a knight of the Kingsguard. In the middle rode The Anvil—instantly recognizable by his fur-lined mantle of black and crimson, his imposing hard angles, his unmistakable silver hair, and his powerful form set rigidly upon his horse.

Ah, Prince Maekar has finally returned with his last missing son.

You surmised he would not have come back to the castle so quickly elsewise, for he’d only been gone a little less than a day—that is, unless he found his son dead. The thought unsettled you, your mind flashing with the image of a drunken prince slain in the middle of a forgotten countryside. But, no—it could not be true, for there was another rider. You closely observed the fifth rider, a hooded figure who rode upon his horse quite poorly. Surely he had to be the missing prince. And yet he was dressed so plainly in a dull cloak, ill-fitted to the company he kept. All the other Targaryen princes had ridden into Ashford Meadow with a commanding presence, tastefully dressed in ornate doublets, embroidered silk tunics, flowing capes of rich velvet, shimmering brooches, and clasps of pure silver. Could the hooded figure really be a prince if his appearance was so far from the regal precedent set before him?

As the company finally approached the castle walls, those within began to take notice of the royal arrival. Stable boys and servants frantically darted left and right within the courtyard to prepare the proper accommodations. The heavy gates rolled open with the sound of creaking wood and grating metal, welcoming the riders inside. You stood close by the threshold, curious to watch the anticipated arrival. The horses rode through the gate at a fierce gallop, the speed of their thundering hoofbeats stirring up dirt and dust. Your gaze tracked the hooded figure as he passed you, and what you saw gave you pause.

The hood of the man’s cloak was drawn up, concealing his face with the dark shadow it cast. Yet, the hood did not completely hide the hair haphazardly tucked under it, threatening to spill out. Oddly enough, you thought you might have spotted stray blonde strands the color of sun-warmed sand peeking out and whipping in the wind. The thick curtain of the cloak itself proved futile in fully concealing the man as well. For a brief moment, the flap of it lifted with the galloping motion of his horse, revealing a fleeting sliver of his form. Within that small window, you swore you might have caught a flash of wine-soaked cloth and a glint of ivory and gold hiding behind the cloak.

Could it be…

Alas, your eyes were merely playing cruel tricks on you—taunting you with the handsome stranger that never seemed to leave your mind completely.

But your feet moved before you could even comprehend it, and you found yourself slipping past the castle gates and into the courtyard. Fortunately, the presence of a common woman went wholly unnoticed, for all the guards and servants were more concerned with receiving Prince Maekar. Waiting stable boys dutifully assisted the riders of the company once they came to a stop, taking their reins and steadying their horses. You watched as each of the riders dismounted their destriers. The hooded man was terribly unskilled in the maneuver, stumbling off his horse with not a single semblance of grace and nearly falling into the golden straw below. Once he was finally steady on the ground, Prince Maekar clapped a large, heavy hand on him and pushed him forward by the scruff of his neck toward the castle doors. The action was not quite so rough as it seemed, resembling paternal discipline more than cruel punishment. There was a distinct closeness between the elder prince and the hooded man, like that of a kinship between a father and son.

A servant came up to Prince Maekar, whispering some sort of urgent news in his ear. The prince’s silver-haired head shot up at the news, surprise deepening the aged lines of his scarred face. He turned quickly to the hooded man.

“Your uncle has found Aegon and his captor,” you heard the prince say, his voice gruff and gravelly. “He is unharmed—thank the gods.”

“Ah, what happy tidings,” the man replied lazily. “Let us pour out a cup of wine and toast to Egg’s safe return.”

“No, your brothers need you sober, Daeron,” Prince Maekar snapped, glowering at the man. “You are not to drink another drop of wine whilst we are here. You’ve done well enough to go without it the entire miserable ride to this fucking meadow.” The Anvil did not care to hide the sneer that had crossed over his features. “But if you disobey me in any way again, Seven help you, I will strike you down where you stand.”

“Your empty threats do not work on me like they work on Daella or Rhae, father,” the man shrugged, unbothered. “You know why I need the wine, and you have never struck me down when you’ve sworn to before.”

The silver-haired prince let out a warning growl, rumbling deeply in his throat.

“But you have my word,” the man conceded airily, his hands raised in sardonic surrender and shaky from what you could only assume to be withdrawal. “I will not indulge—for the rest of the night.”

Your uncle… Your brothers… Father… Daeron…

The way the two addressed each other presented the truth of it quite plainly—this hooded man was indeed none other than the wayward drunken prince.

“I must speak with your uncle urgently and inform him of the story you told me at that inn,” Prince Maekar went on. “We are to seek justice and swift punishment against this ‘huge robber knight’ you spoke of. He will not be spared any mercy for kidnapping your brother.”

The drunken prince only gave a sullen nod.

“Unless you lied,” Prince Maekar added pointedly, raising a thick silver brow.

There was a beat of silence before the drunken prince responded.

“I did not lie, father,” he said, voice hollow.

“Very well,” Prince Maekar sighed, too tired to press the matter further. “Your honor has been put into question far enough.”

“Good. I have no use of it anyway,” the drunken prince muttered with a faint swat of his hand.

“Do not be a fool. You are my son. You are a prince of the realm—it is time you acted like one. Get inside and get washed up,” Prince Maekar commanded roughly. “You reek of alcohol.”

With that, he stormed off into the castle with heavy footfalls befitting a man called The Anvil, leaving his son alone. The drunken prince made no move to follow, silent and despondent. He took in heavy, uneven breaths and lifted a trembling hand to pinch the bridge of his nose—an effort to shake off the lingering effects of intoxication, most like. The servants, knights, guards, and men-at-arms had since vacated the courtyard, leaving only you and him in the open space. Fortunately you were positioned off to the side, yet to be noticed.

At last, the drunken prince shrugged off his cloak, carelessly bunching the fabric and tucking it under his arm. Now fully unveiled, you took the chance to finally behold him in his entirety. Before you stood Daeron Targaryen—blood of the dragon, descendant of Aegon the Conqueror, firstborn son of Prince Maekar, Heir Prince to Summerhall—and he looked nothing like what you had expected.

He had wavy locks of sandy blonde hair, not straight locks of silver like that of his father or Prince Aerion. He wore a damask mantle of velvet over a wine-soaked gold tunic and an ornately-beaded black chemise. Fine leather belts wrapped around his waist and an opulent dagger of ivory and gold was sheathed at his side. The garments were devastatingly familiar to you, causing a strange feeling to rise in your chest.

Even from his profile, you could plainly see his striking features. Tall, straight nose. Thick, heavy brows. Deep, regal contours. Pale skin, faintly sallow. Sharp jaw. Dimpled chin. Coarse blonde stubble. Pink wine-stained lips. His features fit his face in a way that felt undeniably right to you—and his appearance fit altogether as a whole in a way that felt undeniably identical to the stranger from the inn. To the handsome man you could not shake from your mind no matter how hard you tried, who pressed upon your very soul and would not yield, who was branded into your very being like a hot iron.

However, the drunken prince and the drunken stranger could not be one and the same. That was simply absurd, ridiculous, unfathomable, impossible. It was merely an uncanny likeness, nothing more. But there was only one way to be completely certain.

Suddenly, as though he sensed your presence, the prince turned his head and—there they were.

Those pools of ice you had sought so desperately for at the market, to no avail.

In an instant, those frosty irises met your gaze.

Then—just as you had hoped, beyond all reason—they melted into blooming, glistening violets.

Gods be good.

For the second time, those enigmatic eyes stole your breath away, and you stared upon the man who possessed them, utterly transfixed. The drunken prince returned your gaze in earnest, and it seemed his breath had been taken from him all the same. His brows rose high and his mouth hung agape as though he had encountered a specter of a beloved memory lost long ago.

Yet, it was not disbelief alone that colored the handsome features of his face.

No, there was something else, something wholly disarming. Something that looked a lot like desire—raw, desperate, and aching.

For a moment, only silence occupied the space between you.

Then it was quickly shattered.

“You are real,” the prince whispered, voice thick with reverence.

You responded in kind, a different sort of revelation passing over your body.

“You are Daeron the Drunken.”

A/N: whew, there you have it! part 3 finally finished...on a cliffhanger! i hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was such a massive beast for me to tackle, and i highkey struggled with all the worldbuilding and plot development. but, it was a huge payoff for me to write all these scenes parallel to the show. i wanted it to feel like you could go back and rewatch episodes 2-3 and now imagine the reader there, seamlessly placed in ashford meadow alongside dunk and egg. of course, full credit again to GRRM and Ira Parker for the rich story, world, and characters. i have had so much fun playing in the sandbox that is AKOTSK. please feel free to leave feedback in the comments or in my ask box, i absolutely love hearing from you! thank you dear readers for sticking with this series so far, i hope to see you in part 4!

°•*⁀➷taglist: open! lmk if you would like to join!

@huskyhunny @valarrsgirl @shady-ass-tavern

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