either 11 or 13 for dunk/daeron if you please
Dunk/Daeron; a fresh tattoo, a sacristy, and guilt
The warm light of sundown still streams through the stained windows, morphing into something colder as it penetrates into the sept. The purple glow of the Stranger bathes the narrow hallway, along with the otherworldly blues of the window depicting the Crone, making the long-haired person standing at the threshold of the sacristy look as if they were underwater. Dunk has never been to an aquarium, but if he had he supposes that someone so beautiful would look like standing by the pools, their expression nearing suffocation, their skin and fair hair tinted a pale shade of blue. There is blood welling up their pale wrist, their baggy shirt barely covering a wide set of shoulders that precede slender arms.
“You said I could come if I needed to,” Daeron speaks. His words this time are not slurred, nor lost to the drink.
“I did,” Dunk replies with a certainty he does not feel. He traverses the length of the sacristy in a set of long paces, trying to invite the eldest Targaryen in, hoping that it will help stop making him look like a wraith.
Daeron flinches at his approach, as if he were waiting for a blow that never comes, his eyes peeking from under blonde matted hair. He must be his same height, Dunk realises, poor thing hunches so much he barely thought him a head taller than his brother.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, apprehensive of making Daeron cross the threshold. Dunk wants him to feel safe, not scare him further.
Another more insistent shake of his head. Dunk has to keep himself from reaching out and touching his hair now that it is free from the tie he had seen it bundled into the first time they came across each other, the first time he got scrutinised by those glassy violet eyes.
“I did something terrible,” Daeron says, his voice just as steady. “I did something terrible and I need your help, ser Dunk.”
Dunk swallows a bout of fast rising vile down his throat. Father Arlan would have known what to do. But he is not around anymore. It’s just him now, him and the Gods.
“What can I do for you?” he asks, with a determination he does not feel, buoyed by the instant relief that seems to soothe the crease over Daeron’s brow.
“I need somewhere to hide.”
It is not like Dunk has much of a choice. “Okay,” he replies, trying for his hesitance not to show, curling his fingers around Daeron’s bony wrist. “Follow me?”
And much to his surprise, the prince follows.
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