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The trouble began, as most troubles did, with Egg opening his mouth.
It was supper. The great hall was warm with torchlight, roasted venison and seasoned duck spread along a trestle table. Cups knocked together, knives scraped plates, and somewhere down the hall a minstrel struggled bravely through a song no one was truly listening to.
At the head of the table sat Prince Baelor Breakspear, broad-shouldered and polite. Beside him sat Prince Maekar, stiff-backed and sharp-eyed.
Farther down the table sat Prince Aerion Targaryen.
He lounged in his seat with that languor of his. One hand curled loosely about a cup of dark red wine, and his expression suggested that supper, the hall, and perhaps the entire realm had disappointed him greatly.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood a few paces away in his white cloak.
Kingsguard did not sit. They watched.
Dunk had watched many suppers since donning the white cloak. Most passed in the same fashion: the royal family eating, drinking, and conversing about matters of court and council that wound around one another like knotted thread.
Names of lords he had never met. Border disputes. Grain shipments. Dornish envoys and crown levies. Stories about their day.
Tonight had begun no differently.
Egg sat between Baelor and his father, swinging his short legs beneath the bench as he ate. The boy had been chattering happily about a new friend for some time now.
His name was Pate.
Dunk already knew more about Pate than he had ever wished to know.
Pate had red hair. Pate had once fallen into a duck pond. Pate’s father kept horses. Pate could shoot a bow better than Egg but was rubbish with a lance. Pate claimed his pony was descended from Dornish sand steeds, which Egg said was plainly a lie because the creature had legs like sausages.
“. . . and then Pate said he could outride me,” Egg was saying, waving a torn piece of bread for emphasis. Crumbs scattered across the table. “But he cannot because his pony is slow, and his saddle sits crooked, and he pulls too hard on the reins when he turns. Ser Duncan says you should not pull at a horse’s mouth unless you want him fighting you.”
Maekar speared a piece of venison with his knife. “You are not riding tomorrow.”
Egg blinked. “Why not?”
“You have lessons.”
“I always have lessons.”
“Then the arrangement should no longer surprise you.”
Egg frowned. “Well . . . Pate asked if he could sleep in my chamber tonight,” he said, trying for a tone of innocence that fooled no one who knew him. “So we might rise early and ride before the master-at-arms sees.”
"Absolutely not," Maekar scoffed. “Princes of the realm do not sleep among squires. That is the end of it."
Dunk saw the stubbornness settle into the boy’s face. He had seen it many times on the road. It meant Egg was thinking very hard about how to win an argument.
Across the table, Prince Aerion had been watching the exchange with idle fascination.
The princeling’s legs were stretched out beneath the table, as though the whole matter were a show put on for entertainment. One pale hand toyed with the stem of his goblet while the other rested along the chair’s curved back. Candlelight danced in his hair; the strands became moonlit steel.
There was something almost catlike in the curve of Aerion’s mouth.
He was clearly enjoying Egg’s squirming beneath their father’s refusals. Dunk could perfectly imagine what Aerion was thinking: Go on, little brother. Ask him again. Perhaps Father will grow tired and throw you from the window.
Then Aerion’s gaze slid away and landed squarely on Dunk. Slowly, the princeling lifted the goblet as if toasting him alone, and drank the wine without breaking eye contact. Dunk’s thoughts betrayed him at once.
Memories of last night rose.
The door of Aerion’s chambers closing behind them. The click of the lock had scarcely sounded before the prince was upon him, mouth first.
It was always mouth first with Aerion.
There was nothing gentle in the way he kissed. Aerion seemed to regard tenderness as a thing to be conquered before it could conquer him, and so even his kisses came armed. Teeth caught Dunk’s lower lip. Fingers twisted into his hair. His back struck the door hard enough to rattle the hinges before Dunk recovered his senses and pushed forward in turn.
Hurry up, Aerion had snapped, dragging him down by the scalp. Leave the virtue for smaller men. You’re no septon.
It would have been easier if their sins belonged only to the night.
They did not.
Once they had indulged in a corner of the stables. Aerion had been pressed against an empty stall, one hand fisted in Dunk’s cloak as they grinded into one another. Bratty, too, biting out insults between breaths.
Another time was spent in a castle corridor, where they’d slipped into an alcove between armored statues. Aerion’s smirk fought with a groan as Dunk pushed into him.
And once – despite the godsforsaken risk of it – a storage room by the kitchens. Aerion sitting on the edge of a workbench, pulling Dunk between his legs, murmuring something filthy. Dunk had ended up on his knees and took Aerion into his mouth. The princeling’s hand shot into Dunk’s hair at once, tugging hard, breath breaking in frantic bursts. For all his arrogance and pride, Aerion fell apart quite beautifully.
They were all small moments. Stolen moments.
Moments that should never have been.
Dunk blushed fiercely now.
A man his size ought not be brought low by a single stare, but Aerion had ways of undoing him with the smallest of gestures. The damned prince couldn’t even sit across a supper table without turning it into some wicked little game.
Suddenly, Egg drew breath to speak again. Dunk knew that look.
There were many Eggs: hungry Egg, sleepy Egg, sulking Egg, the Egg who lied badly and the Egg who lied well enough that Dunk only discovered it three days later. This, however, was the worst Egg.
This was the Egg whose brows knitted together whilst some dangerous little thought marched toward his mouth without encountering a single guard along the way.
“That’s unfair,” Egg replied hotly. “If Pate cannot sleep in my chamber because he is a squire, then why does Ser Duncan sleep in Aerion's?”
The words came out bright and quick. They carried.
Gods, how they carried.
Dunk's stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Across the table Aerion went very still, wine cup at his lips. Prince Maekar's knife stopped halfway through a slice of venison. Baelor Breakspear sat with one hand resting beside his trencher, so motionless he might have been carved there.
Egg blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly – very slowly – the boy’s eyes widened. Realization crept across his face like a sunrise over the Narrow Sea.
“Oh,” said Egg.
Dunk stood frozen. He dare not move. That's it, he thought. Done. Finished. They'll have it off me before pudding.
Prince Maekar turned his head. His gaze settled on Dunk. “Explain,” he commanded. “I would know how such a thing comes to pass.”
It was not friendly.
Dunk's mind emptied. He'd never possessed much talent for lying. That was a pity, because lying seemed likely to become the most important skill of his life within the next several heartbeats. He opened his mouth, then closed it again in a panic. His gaze darted helplessly toward Egg.
The boy looked as shocked as Dunk felt.
Egg’s eyes were wide and round, his mouth hanging open as if the words were echoing from the rafters. The color in his face had drained away; it left him pale beneath the candlelight.
The lad had only meant to win an argument.
Now he’d started a war.
Prince Aerion set his goblet onto the table with exquisite calm, adjusting it until the stem stood perfectly straight between his knife and trencher. When he looked up at Egg, his eyes were hard; wisteria made winter glass.
“Do not lie because Father has denied you a playmate for the evening,” Aerion chided. “You are petulant enough without becoming a liar besides. If you mean to behave like a spoiled child, at least have the decency not to drag me into the performance.”
Egg flushed at his brother’s words.
“I . . . I did not–”
“You did.” Aerion’s tone was casual enough that one might mistake it for courtesy if they didn’t know him. “Though what possessed you to say such nonsense, I cannot begin to guess.”
“I only meant . . .”
“What did you mean, brother? Do enlighten us.”
“Aerion,” Baelor warned.
The princeling's eyes never left Egg. From the corner, Dunk prayed silently to every god who might be listening.
Please let this pass. Please, before Maekar decides to finish the conversation with his knife.
Prince Maekar’s hands were tight around his silverware. The man had said nothing else, which was near as worrisome as when he did speak. His bearded jaw worked like a mastiff chewing gristle.
Baelor Breakspear finally set down his knife.
The heir did not hurry. He never hurried. Baelor wiped his fingers upon a linen cloth with the same care he might show before rising for council or donning armor for battle. The rag came away glistening with duck fat. Only then did he look up.
Baelor’s gaze settled first on Egg, who sat stiff as a post. It flashed to Aerion who was grinding his teeth.
He looked at Dunk last.
Dunk felt suddenly enormous and terribly visible. He tried not to fidget. A knight of the Kingsguard stood straighter than this, he told himself. Although right now, Dunk felt less like a knight and more like a castle wall.
Baelor regarded him carefully.
The older man’s light eyes were thoughtful, calm, and entirely too perceptive. They were not the eyes of a fool, nor of a man easily misled. Prince Baelor had commanded armies and ruled in his father’s stead; he'd seen plots and lies enough to know their shape.
And in that moment Dunk understood.
He knows.
The thought struck him harder than a mace. Dunk felt as though the floor beneath his boots had turned to thin ice. One wrong step and the whole thing might crack open.
And, just as suddenly, Baelor looked away.
“I suspect,” he finally said, “that Aegon speaks of Ser Duncan’s vigilance.”
Dunk was bewildered.
“Vigilance," Maekar repeated. His heavy brow drew down. "Is that what they call it now?"
Baelor shrugged. “The Kingsguard are sworn to protect the royal family. Aerion is a prince of the blood and, if memory serves, has never possessed much talent for remaining where he must. It would not surprise me if Ser Duncan kept watch near his chambers from time to time.”
A small pause followed.
“Aegon is ten,” Baelor added thoughtfully, “and he sees Ser Duncan outside the door at some late hour. A boy so young would assume Ser Duncan is sleeping there. A child's telling often makes a straight road crooked. There need be no greater mystery to it.”
Egg seized upon the rope Baelor had thrown him.
“Yes, Uncle."
Dunk stood as still as a carved statue behind the high table. Inside, he felt like a man dangling from the edge of a cliff by one hand. Maekar’s gaze snapped to him.
Those eyes were sharp as spearpoints, and Dunk had the uneasy feeling they might pierce through chainmail and leather and bone besides, until they reached the guilty heart thudding beneath.
Dunk tried to avoid that stare.
Instead he focused upon a tapestry on the far wall, where some long-dead Targaryen prince was astride a monstrous dragon. The beast’s wings were wide as sails, its painted jaws open in a roar that promised fire and ruin.
The dragon looked fierce enough to swallow him whole.
Aye, if only it would.
“I said it wrong,” Egg nodded, quieter now. “That is all.”
His voice was stripped of its earlier confidence. The boy glanced nervously from Baelor, to Maekar, and finally toward Dunk, as if trying to find a way to climb out of the pit he had dug.
Dunk could not help him.
He dared not even blink encouragement. A glance had already betrayed too much once tonight, and Dunk was beginning to suspect his eyes possessed no more discretion than Egg's mouth.
Across the table, Aerion tossed a walnut into his mouth. The princeling appeared far more at ease now. He chewed, eyes blazing with mirth. There was laughter in his expression: dangerous and relieved all at once. The profile of a man who believed himself safely beyond the noose.
Dunk felt a flare of irritation so hot it briefly overcame his terror.
There Aerion sat, bold as brass, sucking salt from his thumb as though Egg had not just come within one breath of announcing their affair to Prince Maekar over roast venison.
It was bad enough that Baelor likely knew of their nightly excursions now. If Maekar guessed as well . . .
Gods above.
Dunk could picture Prince Maekar’s hard face tightening with cold fury.
A prince of the blood was expected to wed. Princes married daughters of great houses, or cousins with suitable blood, or a foreign lady whose name sealed a peace or bought ships or put spears beneath the king's banners. Then came more silver-haired babes to carry old Valyria into another generation. Sons, if the gods were kind.
He doubted very much that the Targaryens looked kindly upon men warming their beds with other men.
Some called such things unseemly. Others spat when they spoke of them. There were septons who preached that men were made for women, and whatever wandered outside those bounds wandered from the Seven as well. Knights sometimes told coarse jests about perfumed Lyseni and “Free City vices." Dornishmen shrugged and called it pleasure.
The Targaryens were strange folk, to be fair, with customs that bent where others broke.
They claimed dragons obeyed no common law. Maybe they thought little of men tumbling men, or maybe they hid their scorn under all that silver and satin.
Dunk didn’t know.
He only knew what he’d seen traveling all those years: men fucking men in shadowed alleys, rutting like beasts. Dunk had peered sometimes, curious and confused, wondering why they did it. Maybe they couldn’t find wives. Maybe they didn’t want them.
Back then, it had seemed odd. A little shameful because everyone treated it as shameful, though Dunk could never have explained precisely what harm was done.
And now?
Now he had a Targaryen prince groaning into his mouth every day.
Dunk imagined telling Prince Maekar that instead of thinking upon some highborn maiden beneath his son, he had spent the previous night with Aerion's legs wrapped around his waist. If Maekar thought the princeling dishonored, there would be hell to pay, and Dunk doubted very much that hell would fall on Aerion. Knights were easier to punish than princes.
The man could scarcely abide his son’s temper.
What would he do knowing Aerion was getting a cock up his royal arse?
At the end of the table, Prince Baelor reached calmly for his wine. His expression was mild as summer rain, composed and courteous. It was as if nothing of consequence had passed at all.
“Then we are agreed,” he said, as if settling some household matter rather than steering a cart away from a cliff. “Ser Duncan is diligent in his duties.”
Maekar frowned, but did not speak again.
Dunk was a sweating mess until dinner was over.
He marched down the corridor in long, thunderous strides, white cloak snapping behind him like a banner in a storm. Behind him trotted Egg. The boy was doing a poor job of pretending he was not relieved.
At last Dunk rounded on him so abruptly that Egg nearly walked straight into his chest.
“Are you out of your wits, boy?” Dunk demanded.
“I still have them, ser,” the boy said. “You nearly lost yours though. You looked like a man awaiting execution.”
“I was awaiting execution!” Dunk ran both hands through his hair in agitation. The gesture left the brown locks standing in wild, uneven spikes. He began pacing the corridor again: three long strides one way, three the other. “Gods be good, Egg, you cannot say such things in front of–”
“I only meant to convince my father.”
“You meant to win an argument!”
“Well.” Egg gave a small shrug, the sort boys use when they know they have caused trouble but are not entirely sorry for it. “I did win.”
Dunk stopped pacing and stared down at him. Egg had the good sense to look sheepish then.
“I am sorry, ser. Truly.”
“You almost had me killed,” said Dunk flatly.
“I do not think my uncle would have allowed that.”
“Prince Baelor may not, but Prince Maekar would have asked his help to sharpen the sword.”
“Oh.”
“Aye, oh.”
Egg kicked lightly at a loose stone on the floor. It skittered away down the corridor with a clack. “I said I was sorry,” he mumbled.
Dunk scowled. “You did not mean it.”
“I do now.”
“That hardly matters! You were talking about–” Dunk lowered his voice instinctively, glancing down the corridor though they were alone, “–about me sneaking into Prince Aerion’s chambers!”
Egg looked thoroughly disturbed. “So you do sneak into his chambers.”
Dunk choked. “I did not say that!”
“You implied it.”
“I did no such thing.”
Egg rocked back on his heels, clearly pleased now. He drew himself up in what he very plainly believed to be a princely stance. Unfortunately, he was still a very short boy with a very shaved head.
“You are bad at secrets, ser.”
“I am just fine at keeping secrets,” Dunk scoffed, far more offended by this accusation than he ought to have been. “Particularly the king’s.”
“Yes.” Egg nodded sadly. “But not your own.”
Dunk dragged a hand down his face. Seven Hells, the boy was insufferable. “I swear,” he muttered darkly, “if you repeat a word of this to anyone–”
“I will not.”
Egg said it so quickly that Dunk paused. The boy’s expression had changed.
The mischief was still there, for Egg always had mischief, but it had softened somehow. His hands slipped out from behind his back, and he looked up at Dunk with a seriousness that sat strangely upon such a small face.
“I would not betray you, ser,” said Egg simply. “I swear it.”
Dunk blinked down at him.
The words struck him oddly in the chest. For all Egg’s teasing and clever tongue, there was iron in him too. Dunk had seen it before: in the stubborn tip of his chin, in the way he stood his ground even when men towered over him.
Egg might chatter like a magpie, but he kept faith like a knight.
Dunk went to speak. He was not entirely sure what he meant to say – thank you, perhaps, or you’d best not – when another voice rang out from behind them.
“That will be quite enough for one night.”
Both of them turned at once.
Prince Baelor stood at the far end of the corridor.
He had come so quietly that Dunk had not heard him approach, which was alarming in a man of Baelor’s size. The prince was broad of shoulder, with long straight legs and the easy bearing of a man long accustomed to armor and command. Torchlight danced along the gray streaks in his hair and caught in the calm eyes below.
Baelor Breakspear had the look of a man who missed very little.
And tonight, Dunk suspected, he had missed nothing at all.
Egg straightened at once. “Uncle.”
“It is past your hour,” Baelor said gently. “You should be preparing for bed.”
His voice carried easily down the corridor: warm, amused, and utterly certain of itself. Beneath that lay a firmness that made arguing seem rather foolish.
Egg hesitated, clearly considering whether this might be one of the rare occasions worth risking defiance. He glanced at Dunk. Then at Baelor. Then back to the knight again.
Dunk gave the smallest shake of his head. A warning.
Egg finally sighed. “But I was speaking with Ser Duncan.”
“I suspect Ser Duncan will survive the loss of your conversation for the night.”
Dunk coughed awkwardly. “I’m certain I will, Your Grace.”
Baelor inclined his head toward him. The gesture was courteous, almost companionable, but Dunk had seen enough courts to know that Baelor wasted no motions.
Every word the prince spoke seemed carefully weighed. Every glance was purposeful. It was rumored that Baelor remembered every man who had ever stood against him, every knight who had fought at his side, every lord who had once bent the knee too slowly.
Looking into those steady eyes now, Dunk believed it.
Baelor turned back to Egg. “You have lessons in the morning. If you arrive half-asleep, your maester will complain. And then I must listen to him.”
Egg made a face. Not an openly rude one – the boy was too clever for that – but Egg’s mouth twisted sideways to show his displeasure. His nose wrinkled, as though the very idea of a maester’s lecture smelled worse than a stable muck heap.
Dunk would have laughed at it any other time.
As it was, his heart had taken a sudden and unpleasant plunge straight into his boots.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Egg murmured. His eyes slid toward Dunk, and there was something in that look that made the knight uneasy. A spark of mischief. A glimmer of conspiracy. “Good night, ser.”
“Good night.”
Satisfied, the boy turned and padded down the corridor. When Egg completely vanished, Baelor turned back to Dunk.
Up close, the prince seemed even taller. Dunk towered over him, but Baelor carried himself differently than other men. There was no insecurity in him, no need to fill the space with noise or bluster. He simply was.
Dunk felt suddenly like a boy who had been caught stealing apples from a lord’s orchard.
Except the orchard was a dragon prince, and the apples considerably more complicated.
“You handled that rather well, ser," Baelor said at last.
Dunk swallowed.
“Your Grace, I–”
“There is no need to explain.”
Baelor’s tone was patient. It was the voice of a man who had reached a problem’s end and found the answer waiting there.
Dunk was speechless. What could he say? Aye, My Prince, I have been sneaking into your nephew’s chambers like a lovesick fool. The words lodged in his throat. So he just nodded, vigorously.
The prince's eyes warmed slightly. “You need not worry overly much tonight, Ser Duncan. If my brother suspected anything truly alarming, he would not have remained so quiet.”
Dunk tried to find comfort in that. He could not. Prince Maekar had the look of a man who could remember a slight for twenty years and still sharpen his sword for it on the twenty-first.
"A-As you say, Your Grace."
Baelor clasped his hands loosely behind his back. “Do tread carefully from now on, ser.”
“I will!” Dunk blurted. His face reddened at once. "I will, Your Grace."
It seemed the matter might finally be done with when Baelor turned as if to leave, until he paused. When the man looked back, there was an unmistakable amusement on his mouth.
“You should get to Prince Aerion’s chambers soon."
Dunk froze. He could not breathe.
“The guards change their watch in a quarter hour,” Baelor continued mildly. “After that, the corridor tends to become . . . busier.” He straightened, and gave Dunk a small, knowing smile. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”
And with that he turned and walked calmly down the hall.
Dunk stared down the passage where Baelor disappeared, as though the prince might suddenly return and explain himself. He did not.
Then he groaned.
“Gods above,” he muttered to the empty corridor.
Baelor Breakspear – Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, wisest man in the Red Keep – had just calmly advised him to hurry along to his lover’s bed before the guards noticed.
Dunk considered this carefully.
Then he decided there was something very wrong with the world.
Seven save me, he thought. The heir of the realm is helping me sneak about like some stableboy chasing a kitchen girl.
If Ser Arlan could see him now, the old knight would laugh himself silly. Or worse: shake his head and say Dunk the Lunk the way he used to when Dunk had done something particularly foolish.
Dunk stared up at the ceiling beams.
He briefly entertained the notion of simply going to bed. A fine, sensible idea. A knight’s idea. He could sleep soundly. Dream of nothing more scandalous than horses and tourney fields. Wake tomorrow and pretend the evening had never happened.
Yes. That would be wise.
Responsible.
Proper.
Then he remembered the look Aerion had given him across the table earlier. The one with the walnut.
Dunk sighed again and straightened the cloak. Adjusted his belt. Glanced cautiously down the corridor.
Still empty.
Right.
He set off at once, very quickly, for a man who was absolutely not sneaking anywhere.