Chapter 9
DUNK
For days now, he had been searching for a knight or a lord who would remember his Master. Ser Arlan was a good knight. A noble knight who had spent years in the service of lords sitting around in their pavilions.
He had fought for them. He had bled for them. He had lost for their cause, and yet none remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. None of them even bothered to try, and remember the man who had given it his all in their service.
Still, he was gone now, and it now fell to him to remember him and remind these lords of the man they had forgotten. But for that, he would have to join the lists and prove his mettle.
The lords had let him down, but his master had not just fought for lords. He had once faced a prince as well. Once. Years ago. The lords were petty, but the Crown. Dunk hoped for better from the Crown, and so when he saw the Royal family ride through the meadows, he followed after them, hoping to use this chance to have the Prince vouch for his master.
He was interrupted by a prince who would mistake him for a stable boy, and this was not the first Prince he had met. Years ago, he had met another. One with orange hair instead of pale blonde, one with a much kinder face and eyes.
He had hoped that it was him, and by some fortune, he would still remember him from that tourney years ago. But alas, it was a different Prince.
Still, he used the servant halls to reach the Great Hall, as he eavesdropped on Lord Ashford and the Princes making small talk. They spoke of the other Princes, young Princes who had gotten lost on their way to Ashford by destiny or design.
He waited for an opportunity, yet before he could find it, he was spotted.
"You there, what are you doing spying on us!" and it was the younger Prince Maekar who caught him, standing at the door, and for a second, he was stilled by his voice.
"Come out!" he ordered, and the room was silent, as his heart hammered in his chest. This was the last opportunity for him, for he had no one else to rely on.
If this failed, he would never be able to take part in a tourney, and his dream of becoming a knight would die, along with his master's memory.
So he gulped nervously as he stepped into the doorway, and he saw Plummer recognise him, as those beady eyes narrowed.
They all eyed him differently. Some saw him with rage, others with disgust, and yet one of them eyed him with intrigue. He focused on that gaze, as he stepped forward.
"My lords, I do apologise for my interruption," and he stepped forward.
"I have asked Lord Monfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so that I may enter the lists," and the younger Prince Maekar frowned.
"Who?" and Plummer shook his head at him, yet he ignored him.
"What the hell is going on here?"
"Be patient, brother. We are the intruders here, Come closer, Ser," and he was Baelor, son of Daeron and the heir to the Iron Throne. His last ray of hope.
He followed his word and came closer.
"I have asked others, too. But you see, they say they know not Ser Arlan of Pennytree," and he had bled for them all. For the Tyrells. For the Dondarrions. For the Targaryens.
"But he served them. I swear it," and that was no lie.
"I have his sword and shield," Lord Ashford scoffed as Prince Maekat sat himself down.
"Sword and shield do not make a knight," he answered as he gazed towards the younger Prince, who was indulging himself in nuts. He heard the castle rustle behind him, yet he cared little for it.
"Unless you have better proof of it. Some writing..." but he was not looking at Lord Ashford.
He was looking at him. He was looking at Baelor Targaryen, the only man who could vouch for him.
"Do you remember him, your grace?" and the Prince had turned away, now shifted as he looked towards him once more as he heard footsteps from behind, yet Dunk's gaze did not leave that face.
"Ser Arlan of Pennytree..." and he spoke the name with familiarity, yet suddenly those eyes widened as hope bubbled up in his heart, that he may have hit upon a memory, and yet it was not he who cut through the silence next.
"I remember him," and the voice came from behind, and he finally noticed a thick stench wafting through the air, as he turned his head around and saw two people standing there.
"Daeron!" and Prince Maekar was on his feet, and one of them was taller and had silver hair of his House, yet Dunk was not looking at him.
He was looking at the young man standing beside him. His face had some dirt and blood caked on it, and his eyes were weary, and yet they were the kindest eyes he had ever seen.
He would never forget them. Never, for he had been the first Prince he had ever seen up close.
"Matarys," and his name was Matarys Targaryen.
"My Prince," Lord Ashford was on his feet as the young dark-haired Prince looked down at him.
"I remember your Master, good ser, and I remember you as well," and it took a second for the words to register, and he would never presume to be of such import.
"You do?" asked Prince Baelor.
"Yes, we met at Storms End. He ran into me while he was carrying his master's lances," the Prince began as he lazily walked forward, and came to stand beside his father.
"We were around the same age, yet I had never seen a boy so big as him. I asked for his name, and spared him the guard's ire and sent him ahead," and he then turned towards his father.
"Afterall, I had put quite a wager on the joust between you and him," and Prince Baelor chuckled at those words.
"Indeed," he agreed as hope bubbled in his chest, and he was proven right.
"Four tilts," Prince Baelor added, and he frowned, for he remembered his master telling a different tale.
"Seven," and the words came out of his mouth without thought, as the whole room turned towards him.
"My master said that it was Seven," and the young Prince laughed as shame filled his body.
"I am afraid your master may have embellished the tale a bit, my good ser. It was four lances," Prince Matarys answered, and despite the rebuke, he was kind as he turned towards his father.
"Indeed, it was four lances only. Still, he was a good knight, your master," and Duncan was on his knees as he began.
"Of course. It was four lances. I apologise, your grace. My master always said that you were the kindest and noblest knight in the realm. You took no ransom from him that day. He believed that the Seven Kingdoms would be blessed to have you as their King," and he was rambling now.
"Not for many a day, I hope," and he realised his mistake quickly.
"I apologize..."
"Enough!" and it was Prince Maekar who spoke now in his powerful voice.
"You have your testimony now," he said, as he looked down at him.
"Leave, for we have some royal matters to attend to," and he turned towards Plummer, the castellan who gave him a nod.
"I am very grateful for your words, your grace. I shall never forget this kindness," and he rose up, as the young Prince called out.
"You will need to change the sigil on your shield," and he turned around to look at the young Prince.
"Since you are not of Ser Arlan's blood, you cannot carry his sigil. You must have one made for yourself," and he nodded as he walked out of the room, as Prince Maekar's roar came from behind.
"WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU!"
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BAELOR TARGARYEN
"WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU!" Maekar's voice tore through the castle as he shouted at his son, and young Daeron nearly folded in on himself.
"I..."
"Brother," he called out softly as he placed a hand on Maekar's shoulder and stopped him from causing another scene.
"We are guests here," he reminded him, as Maekar ground his teeth.
"We have created enough trouble for our hosts as it is," and Maekar wanted to scream.
"Where is your brother? He was supposed to be with you?" he inquired, and Daeron lacked the courage to answer.
"Aegon rode ahead for Ashford with a few men. He is in Ashford Meadows already, probably hiding in some lord's or knight's pavilion," and it was Matarys who answered as he slid into a chair.
"I shall find him for you by the end of the day. He is safe," and if Maekar doubted his words, he did not say anything as he simply ground his teeth and stormed out of the Hall.
"Come with me," he called out to Daeron, who turned towards him for support.
"It was wrong of you to deceive your father. But I will speak to Maekar on your behalf after I am done dealing with my own wayward son," and Daeron sighed at that.
"I am grateful, uncle," and with that, he walked off, as Baelor turned towards his own little troublemaker.
He seemed weary, and there was dirt and blood in his hair.
"Wayward?" Matarys asked, and Baelor raised a brow.
"What else am I to call you?" and he shrugged.
"I could think of a few words," and it was Lord Ashford who cut in.
"We were not expecting you, my Prince. We were told that you had been delayed, and would not be able to make it to the tourney," and his face had lit up at Matarys's arrival, and for good reason.
"Well, I was delayed indeed, but I did not wish to miss such a genuine gathering, so I rode hard and fast to make it in time," and he had only ever gotten better with his words over the years.
"You do have my sincerest greetings on Lady Gwin's birthday. May she enjoy many more such joyous days," and Lord Ashford nodded, and answered with a smile.
"You are very kind, my Prince. My daughter is rather fond of your tales of gallantry, in how you routed the Vulture King in the Red Mountains. She shall be very glad with your presence," and so the rumor had already made its way to Ashford as well.
"I hate to impose, but could you give us the room, my lord?" he turned towards the lord of the castle.
"Of course, your grace. Of course," and with a final nod towards him and Matarys, Lord Ashford and his castellan left the castle, leaving him alone with his youngest son.
It had been a year and a half since he had set eyes on him, and he had changed much in that time. He was now nearly as tall as Valarr, and yet he was broader than his eldest, and stronger if those shoulders were anything to go by.
"You have ridden hard," and Matarys nodded.
"I made a promise, and I tend to keep those," he countered, and indeed that was one of his virtues.
"You did well in bringing Daeron back," and he nodded.
"I saw him outside an inn, emptying his guts into the field. That was enough for me to understand the rest," and that would be enough for anyone.
"He does not wish to enter the lists. The only way I could convince him to come back was by promising him that I would replace him on the lists," and while that was honorable of him, it was unnecessary.
"Valarr has already agreed to take his place," and his eldest was solid at jousting. Matarys was better, but few would dare to humiliate the grandson of a King.
"You should rest. The journey must have been tiring," and Matarys nodded.
"It was," and as he stood tall, Baelor could not help but admire his son for what he had become. He did not agree with all of his choices and decisions, but there was no denying that he had achieved more at his age than Baelor had even thought possible.
"While you will hear an earful from your mother because of your rather lengthy adventures, I must say that I am proud of what you have made of yourself," and as he put a hand on his shoulder, Matarys surprised him, as he wrapped his arms around him and gave him a hug.
"It's good to have you back, son..."
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