OF OATHS AND ASHES I.
pairing ♱ ser duncan the tall x targaryen!reader
synopsis ♱ the realm mourns the death of prince baelor breakspear; his daughter most of all. by the king’s decree—and baelor’s final wish—dunk is assigned as her sworn protector. to the princess, dunk is a constant reminder of everything she lost. to dunk, she is the grieving daughter of the best man he ever knew, and another burden he never asked to carry. but grief has a way of changing shape, and hatred is not always as steadfast as it seems.
tags ♱ slowburn, enemies to lovers, dual pov, princess/knight, post-ashford meadow, grief/mourning, emotional hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence and misogyny, reader has no given physical traits beyond targaryen silver hair, features valarr + king daeron ii, ser duncan being ser duncan
wordcount ♱ 4.2k
notes ♱ wow this has been in my drafts for a hot minute. so relieved to actually get part of it out there. future chapters will be longer but it felt more appropriate to cut the first one off here than drag on. reading playlist here if it tickles your fancy. + thank you to @violained and @voidsuites for being ever so helpful and beta reading for me!! <3
THE PRINCESS
The wind off the Narrow Sea was colder than any you had known in Dorne.
It carried the smell of salt and distant storms, or so the sailors said, and it tangled in your hair until the silver strands whipped against your cheeks like you were being lashed. The captain had apologised for the weather when you first boarded the ship at Sunspear, bowing so low his beard brushed the deck. Summer storms were common in these waters, he had said. The crossing might be rough.
You had told him it did not matter. The weather was the least of your concerns. What was a storm beside death?
The deck pitched beneath your feet as the ship cut through another wave. Spray leapt up over the railing and dotted the wood with dark stains. Your ladies had long since retreated below deck, pale and miserable with seasickness, but you had not joined them. The cabins below felt suffocating, the air too thick with the stench of vomit and the cold grasp of grief. Up here, there was at least wind enough to breathe, and space to think.
Not that thinking had brought you any comfort.
The letter had arrived ten days past, carried by a rider whose horse had nearly collapsed in the courtyard of the Water Gardens from sheer exhaustion. The seal had been unmistakable even before the maester placed it in your hands: three-headed dragon, red wax, pressed deep by a signet ring you knew as well as your own reflection. For one foolish moment, you had smiled. You hoped it was your father. He often wrote to share the tales of gallant knights he met in passing.
Perhaps he meant to summon you to court at last. Perhaps there was news of your brothers. Perhaps some new marriage proposal had emerged from the endless parade of lords and heirs who wished to tie their blood to House Targaryen.
The urgency behind the rider had not concerned you in your girlish excitement to hear from him. It was only when you did not recognise the handwriting as Baelor’s that panic began to crawl up your throat.
And as your gaze swept across the parchment, your heart sank to the depths of your stomach.
Your father was dead.
It took reading the line three times before it made sense. Dead. You could not wrap your head around the word. It did not make sense. Princes died, certainly. Songs and histories were full of dead princes. Yet somehow you had never imagined death could touch a man as good and kind as him.
When you were small, his visits to you in Dorne had been rare and fleeting. Duty stole most of his days. But when he did appear, the world seemed to bend around him. Men listened when he spoke: lords, knights, and even the king.
A child could be forgiven for believing such a man immortal.
Alas, the letter had not been mistaken. The king himself had written the command that followed the news. Return to King's Landing at once. The words had been courteous enough, yet the order beneath them was transparent. Your presence was required and your household was to depart immediately. There had been condolences as well, of course. Long sentences about duty and sorrow and the grief of the realm.
You remembered none of them. Only the one detail that had preceded them: Baelor Targaryen had died at a tournament. A tourney. Another word that still struck you as absurd.
You had heard of the gathering at Ashford Meadow, of course. Knights flocked to such places like flies to honey. Noble houses gathered to celebrate the name day of Lord Ashford's daughter, Gwin. There would have been bright banners, tilts and feasts, ladies tossing flowers to their favoured champions. It was easy to picture. The songs of such gatherings had filled your childhood.
But the letter had spoken not of tilts and gallantry. It had spoken of a trial. A trial of seven, the first in more than a century. You had heard the words whispered among your attendants the morning after the letter came, though they fell silent whenever you entered the room. They believed you deaf to their murmurs, perhaps. Or too lost in grief to hear.
They were mistaken. You had heard every word.
The prince, Aerion, accused a hedge knight. A challenge had been issued. Seven champions on either side: seven men fighting in judgement of the gods.
Such trials had not been fought in generations, thought to be a relic of a harsher age, yet the story the rider carried had been clear enough. Your father had taken the field, not as a judge, but as a champion. For a common hedge knight, no less.
Your ladies had tried to comfort you. One had even begun to weep. You had not. Not then.
Far off on the horizon, a line of dark shapes rose from the mist where the sky met the water. The captain had pointed them out at dawn. The first sight of the Crownlands, he had said. Beyond them lay the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, and past that the city itself.
Home.
Describing it as such left a strange taste in your mouth. You had spent so many years in Dorne that King's Landing had begun to seem more like a memory than a place. It belonged to another girl now, a younger girl who still believed her family would remain whole forever. A city of distant towers and red stone walls only half recalled from your childhood. When the King sent you to Sunspear, your father had always promised you would return someday. When the time was right and when duties allowed it, you would dine with him again. Foolishly, you had believed him.
You drew your cloak tighter and watched the shore grow slowly clearer through the haze. Somewhere beyond those waters waited your brother and the king who had summoned you home. Somewhere in that same city walked the knight your father had died to defend.
You did not yet know his name, but you meant to learn it soon enough.
As the ship grew closer, the red of the walls rose above the morning mist. Then the towers came into view, jagged shapes climbing the hill. The sailors pointed them out one by one as the ship moved up the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. There was the Great Sept, they told one another. And there the Dragonpit, broken and black. And above them all, perched upon the hill like a crown, resided the Red Keep.
In your mind it had always been larger, grander, something out of the songs the minstrels sang in the shaded halls of Sunspear. The seat of dragonkings. In truth it looked older than you remembered. The red stone seemed darker, worn by wind and time. Or perhaps grief had stolen the grandeur from it.
When the ship finally docked, the harbour you were met with stank of fish and tar. At least there was some familiarity in the harsh smell of the city. Smallfolk crowded the piers, shouting to one another as sailors hauled rope and cargo across the boards to other ships. You had no intention to linger in such a place.
Your escort had already assembled on the docks: a dozen men in the king's colours. They bowed when you stepped from the gangplank, though their expressions of pity were hard to miss. News travelled quickly in the realm, let alone in the capital. By now, the bakers knew. The fishmongers knew. The whores in Flea Bottom knew. Every tavern from the Mud Gate to the Street of Silk would be telling the tale.
Prince Baelor dead at Ashford Meadow.
Prince Baelor slain in a trial of seven.
Prince Baelor dead for a hedge knight.
A carriage waited to take you through the streets, lacquered black and trimmed with crimson dragons, but you refused it. The ride from the harbour to the gates of the Red Keep was not so long that a horse could not manage it, and the thought of being shut away behind velvet curtains while the city watched you pass felt unbearable. Let them stare openly if they wished. You would not skulk through your own city like a widow.
Thus, you rode.
Crowds parted slowly before your escort, some bowing their heads when they glimpsed the silver of your hair. Others merely stared. An old woman made the sign of the seven-pointed star as you passed.
You kept your eyes forward until you reached the castle gates, great wooden doors banded in iron pulled back by another set of guards. The yard beyond was busy with men and horses, servants hurrying about their errands, men-at-arms drilling beneath the watchful eyes of their captains. The familiar sight of it stirred some half-buried memory in you, something from long ago when you had run laughing across these same stones with your brothers.
That life felt very far away now.
A stableboy hurried forward to take your horse, bowing so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet. You scarcely noticed, your gaze falling upon the figure waiting near the inner gate.
He stood apart from the others, clad in black and red. The three-headed dragon adorned his surcoat, stitched on his chest in a dark thread. One hand rested lightly upon the pommel of his sword. For a moment, you did not recognise him.
“Welcome home,” he said, stepping forward.
The voice was familiar enough to pierce through the fog of grief. Valarr had grown taller since you last saw him. His shoulders were broader too, his face leaner than you remembered from your childhood. The chubby boy who had once chased you through the gardens with a wooden sword was gone, replaced by a man in a prince's armour.
His eyes were the same, though more tired than a man of his youth. For one terrible moment you saw your father in them. You had not realised how tightly you had been holding yourself until you saw him. Something inside you loosened then, though it brought little comfort.
“Valarr.”
Your voice sounded raw to your own ears, rough after days on a ship with only sick ladies as company. He closed the distance between you in a few quick strides. For one hopeful moment, you thought he meant to embrace you, as he might have when you were both children. Instead, he stopped short.
Court habit died hard within these cold walls.
“My sister,” he said softly.
"You should have written,” you accused.
“I did.” His mouth twitched faintly, though there was no humour in it. “The letter likely crossed your ship.”
Perhaps it had. A silence stretched between you for a moment, the buzz from the yard a distant sound as you worked up the courage to speak. Finally, you forced yourself to ask the only question you could.
“Is it true?”
Valarr did not pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
You had expected the answer. You had known it already, though some foolish part of you had hoped it to be an elaborate ruse, or a mistake. But death was not so easily undone.
“How?”
“You have heard about the trial—”
“A trial for a hedge knight,” you interrupted, bitterness creeping into your voice before you could stop it.
Valarr did not rebuke you for it. “Yes,” he confirmed quietly.
“And Father chose to fight?”
“He did.”
You felt the old anger stirring in your chest again, one that had followed you from Dorne to the Red Keep. “Why?”
Your brother's jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might refuse the question outright. His gaze slid away from you, and propriety had you fighting the urge to demand he look at you and answer your questions. With great effort, you held your tongue until he was ready.
“He believed the knight had been wronged,” Valarr said at last.
“Wronged.” The word tasted sour.
“He believed it strongly enough to take the field himself.”
“So he fought,” you said slowly, “for a stranger.”
“A knight,” he corrected.
“A hedge knight.”
Valarr did not answer that.
You remembered your father teaching you the names of the great houses when you were small, his voice patient as he pointed to banners in the yard below your window, each adorned with their own sigil. Stark of Winterfell, the direwolf. Lannister of Casterly Rock, the lion. Baratheon of Storm's End, the stag.
Great men fought for such houses. Princes rode beside such lords, not for hedge knights whose names no one knew of. And yet somehow one nameless wanderer had proven worthy of Baelor Targaryen’s life.
No, that could not be right.
“He died for a hedge knight,” you repeated in disbelief. The thought had haunted you for days, but it was only now you had spoken it aloud with such scorn.
“He died from a wound he took in the fighting,” Valarr corrected carefully, attempting to appease you. It was not truly a denial, and the distinction did little to soothe the ache in your chest.
“And the knight?”
“He’s here.”
You scoffed. Of course he was. No doubt he was walking these halls, enjoying your grandsire’s hospitality, while your father remained ash in the wind over the Reach.
“You should not judge the matter so quickly,” he added.
“You expect me not to?”
“I expect you to hear the whole of it first.”
You laughed then, though the sound held little humour. “The whole of it?” You repeated. “What tale could possibly make this sensible, Valarr? Our father was the finest knight in the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne. And he chose to risk his life in a trial meant for lesser men.”
“You were not there—”
“No,” you said sharply. “I was not. I was in Dorne, as everyone thought best for me.”
It came out more bitterly than you intended. You had understood the reasoning behind your appointment then, just as you understood it now. Duty came before sentiment. It had always been so. But standing there in the shadow of the keep, knowing you had not been at Ashford when your father died, the resentment felt unbearable.
Valarr's expression softened slightly. “He spoke of you often,” he offered gently.
“Did he?” you said, looking away before your brother could see the sudden sting in your eyes.
“He meant for you to return soon.”
Soon. Such a little word. Such a cruel one. It was intended to console you, you knew that, but the information hurt to learn. Before you could answer, the great doors behind you creaked open. A pair of guards stepped through. Your brother glanced toward them, then back at you.
“Your Highnesses,” one greeted with a dip of his head. “The king is expecting you.”
Of course he was. There was no time for rest. Your grandsire did not summon his kin across the realm simply to allow them time for grief. You straightened slightly, drawing your cloak more tightly around your shoulders. You lifted your chin, forcing the thick lump of emotion in your throat down.
“Then I should not keep him waiting.”
THE HEDGE KNIGHT
Dunk’s first thought as he stood beneath the vaulted ceiling of the throne room was it was unnecessarily large. The hall seemed built for giants, with its long ranks of pillars and the high narrow windows that let in thin grey light from the afternoon sky. Despite this, he felt too big for it and too small all at once, like a beastly animal led into a lord’s solar. He wished he were outside. Give him a horse and an open road any day.
He shifted his weight from one boot to the other and tried not to stare at the Iron Throne.
It was uglier than he’d imagined. Egg had talked about it often enough on the ride north. The Iron Throne this. The Iron Throne that. It was grand, it was wonderful, it was proof of a thousand victories.
Now, he thought the boy to be biased. It was more like a heap of swords melted together in a blacksmith’s forge than a seat fit for a dragonking. Jagged points jutted from every angle, points bent and hilts broken. A man could cut himself a dozen ways just climbing into it.
He would not wager a man of his size would be very comfortable. He’d need armour just to sit in it.
The king sat there all the same. Daeron II Targaryen’s crown rested crooked atop pale hair, thin hands clutching the armrests shakily. Dunk kept his eyes lowered. Best not stare at kings. Ser Arlan had taught him that much.
“Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. Lords like obedient squires better than clever ones.”
Good advice. Though Ser Arlan had never prepared him for standing in the throne room of the Seven Kingdoms—or nine, as Egg had informed him on the road—whilst half the good men of the realm watched.
In all his years, he had never felt more out of place.
His boots were polished as well as he could manage, but still the boots of a hedge knight. His surcoat was plain brown wool, faded from sun and road, mended more times than he could count with clumsy hands made for hard labour, not careful stitching. Everywhere he looked he saw velvet, silk, jewels, cloth-of-gold.
Lords. Ladies. Princes.
Their colours made him feel drab as mud.
They all knew who he was. Or, rather, what he was. The hedge knight the heir had died for. Not Ser Duncan the Tall.
His stomach tightened. He stared hard at the floor and tried not to remember what it felt like to watch the life drain from Baelor’s eyes. If he thought about it too long, his stomach turned queer. Seven save me, he thought. I never wanted any of it.
The groan of iron hinges rescued him from his thoughts before they could get any darker. The great doors at the far end of the hall opened wide, and the murmur of the court around him died. Every head in the hall turned.
The prince entered first. Dunk knew him well enough by sight now. They had hardly spoken on the road—Valarr rode ahead with his wife, Kiera of Tyrosh. Dunk hardly blamed him for wanting to return home as swiftly as possible. He looked older than he had at Ashford; the prince who had once rode valiantly on his horse while Dunk cheered now had sunken eyes and gaunter cheeks. But it was the figure beside him that held Dunk’s eyes.
You were smaller than he’d expected.
Most folk were smaller than Dunk expected, truth be told. Yet there was something about you.
You wore a dark riding cloak trimmed in black fur, the fabric still dusted from travel. Beneath it he glimpsed deep crimson silk. Pale hair spilled loose over your shoulders in silver strands, bright as a moonlight on a river. When you lifted your chin to look around the hall, your hair shimmered in the light that caught from the high windows. It was the sort singers liked to write songs about.
Pretty, Dunk thought.
No. Pretty wasn’t the right word. You were beautiful.
The realisation struck him so suddenly that he scolded himself at once. You great bloody oaf, he thought, ashamed. Your father had died less than a moon’s turn ago. What sort of man looked at a grieving daughter and thought about her hair?
Heat crept up the back of his neck and he dropped his gaze quickly. Not without first thinking that you looked sad behind all that royal grace. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? He felt foolish for thinking it.
What was a man meant to say to the daughter of the prince he got killed? Sorry your father died for me? That sounded wrong. Thank you? That sounded worse.
Nothing, he decided. Best keep your mouth shut and hope she never notices you. Dunk had always been good at saying nothing.
He watched you cross the hall with Prince Valarr until you stood before the dais. Then both of you knelt before the Iron Throne.
“Rise,” the king said.
You rose first. When you lifted your head again, Dunk saw your face clearly for the first time. Young. Younger than he had imagined. Not much older than himself, perhaps, though noble ladies always seemed older somehow. A Dornish sun had left warmth upon your skin despite the silver hair.
It was your eyes that stood out. You had Baelor’s eyes. The thought struck him painfully. Not the same colour, perhaps—yours seemed different in the light. During his few encounters with the late prince, Dunk thought he had the sort of eyes that saw more than most men wished.
Kind eyes. Honest eyes. Good eyes. His throat tightened.
“Your Grace,” Prince Valarr said respectfully.
“My granddaughter,” the king murmured. His pale gaze lingered on you. “You have returned swiftly.”
“I came as soon as your letter reached me, Your Grace.” Your voice carried clearly through the hall. It was steady enough, though Dunk thought he heard a roughness behind it, grief wearing it thin.
“There is a matter we must speak of,” the king said. Something heavy settled in Dunk’s gut. Ah, bugger. Here it comes. “Before his passing, my son made a request.”
The hall had gone so quiet he swore he could hear the intake of each breath taken around him, his own most of all. The king lifted one age-spotted hand and gestured at him.
“This man.”
Dunk stepped forward because there was nothing else to do. His boots sounded far too loud against the stone as he crossed the floor. One step. Two. Three. When he reached the foot of the dais, he dropped to one knee. He did not dare look at you.
“Your Grace,” he forced out. His throat felt raw. His voice sounded thick.
The king’s voice drifted down from his perch. “Prince Baelor spoke highly of this knight.” Knight. Dunk almost winced. “He asked that the man who stood beside him at Ashford serve his family henceforth. As protector to his daughter.”
A heavy silence followed. Dunk kept his eyes downcast, trying not to fidget. Who in the Seven Kingdoms would choose him for such a thing?
Then he remembered. Baelor would. The thought made him sadder than before.
“This man?” Your voice was sharper now, less pleasant than it had been when greeting the king. When he forced himself to look up, your eyes were on him, studying him. He felt like a horse being inspected at market. A horse might be worth more.
Suddenly, he became aware of everything. His enormous hands. His worn surcoat. His battered sword belt. His bruised face.
“This is—“ The king glanced to his left, where the Hand murmured something to him. “—Ser Duncan the Tall.”
His son died for me, and he does not even know my name, he thought. Regardless, Dunk bowed his head again quickly. “Your Grace.”
When you spoke again, you sounded colder. “This is the man my father died for?”
He kept his head lowered. He was certain he would rather be on the field being pierced repeatedly by Aerion’s sword again than suffer through this moment. “Aye,” he said quietly. “That’s so.”
Your brow furrowed and for a moment he expected to be yelled at for speaking out of turn. Instead, you stepped closer. “You expect me to accept him as my protector?” The question was meant for the throne, not Dunk. “I am a princess of the realm, and I am to be guarded by a hedge knight?”
He winced inwardly. He could not blame you for your anger. If he were a princess, he’d want a better knight too. One with a castle and banners, who knew how to speak properly and wield any weapon in an armoury. Not some great lummox from Flea Bottom who still felt nervous holding a spoon at noble feasts.
“You will address him properly,” Prince Valarr said quietly at your side. Dunk wished he hadn’t.
“The man whose trial killed our father?” you replied.
Again, Dunk said nothing. What was there to say?
The king shifted slightly upon the Iron Throne. He looked exhausted. “This was Baelor’s wish.”
Your jaw tightened. “With respect, Your Grace,” you said carefully, “I would prefer another knight.”
Aye, he thought. That would be for the best. But the king shook his head.
“No.” The word echoed around the hall. “Baelor chose him. And my son’s word carries weight in this court, whether he’s here or not.”
Your gaze returned to Dunk. For a moment, he thought you might say more. Instead, you said quietly, “Very well.”
Dunk remained kneeling. He was no fool. You only relented out of duty. He understood duty. He understood resentment, too.
As the silence settled over the hall, one miserable thought kept circling through his head:
Every time she looks at me, she’ll remember how her father died.
