Hedge Knight II

"And how did you get here?" Duncan demanded, his sword still leveled at the bald boy.

"I rode in the back of a cart with a man delivering lambs to Ashford Castle." The boy replied.

"Then you can find another cart." Duncan said sharply.

"You can't make me go!" The boy shot back, crossing his arms defiantly. "I've had enough of that inn!"

"And I've had enough of your insolence!" Duncan growled, stepping closer. "I ought to tie your hands and drag you back to where you came from!"

"Then you'd have to miss the tourney , dragging me all the way to King's Landing." the boy countered.

Duncan was taken aback. "King's Landing?" He asked, brow furrowing.

He had thought the boy to be the innkeep's son. A simple lad trying to escape his dull life. Was he not?

Duncan looked around the campsite. "What've you been doing here? Who are you, really?"

"The boy didn't answer immediately, his expression unreadable. Instead, he motioned to the campsite. "What does it matter? I've washed your clothes, groomed your horses, caught the fish, and made the fire. I'd have raised your pavilion too, if I could've found one."

Duncan gestured to the mighty elm tree looming above them, its sprawling branches offering a modest canopy. "That's the only pavilion all true knights need," he said.

"What if it rains?"

"The tree will shelter me," Duncan replied with a shrug.

"Trees leak," the boy said flatly.

"So they do!" Duncan admitted with a sigh. "The truth is, I don't have the coin for a pavilion, despite my best efforts." His gaze shifted to the fish roasting over the flames. "Best if you turn that fish. Otherwise, it'll be raw on one side and burnt on the other."

The boy smirked again and reached for the spit. Duncan's thoughts lingered on the boy's earlier words. King's Landing? Who was this lad, really, and why was he so determined to follow a hedge knight to Ashford?

As the boy made to flip the fish, Duncan spoke again. "What happened to your head, Egg?"

"The maesters shaved it." The boy replied without looking up.

"And why's that? Are you sick? You have lice?"

"No ser. It's just better this way."

The boy was probably too embarrassed to admit he had fleas. Duncan thought. Shrugging, he sat down beside the boy and watched as the fish sizzled over the fire. The aroma made his stomach growl, but his curiosity refused to let the matter drop.

"You mentioned Ser Emery back at the inn," Duncan said, leaning back against the tree. "How did you recognize him?"

"From his device, ser," the boy replied, keeping his eyes on the fish. "It's rather distinctive."

"Was he famous?"

Egg looked at him questioningly. "How did you not know him when you traveled together?"

Duncan scratched the back of his neck, feeling a little sheepish. "We met by chance on the road. He never told me much about his life—just bits and pieces. Enough to pass the time, I suppose."

Most of what he knew of the knight, he heard from others.

"He was said to be one of the most skilled swordsmen of this generation," Egg began, his voice admiring like any lad when they talked of knights. "I don't know where he's from—only that he earned his knighthood by winning Lord Hightower's melee as a mystery knight, some four years ago. After that, he won a few more melees, like at Lord Harroway's Town and the Gates of the Moon. In Wendwater, it's said he won the joust, melee, and archery all by himself."

Duncan listened intently, intrigued. Some of those he had heard before.

"More importantly though, he always refused any attempt by lords to earn his service. He seemed to prefer to be on the road, having some adventure." Egg continued. "I've told you of the hillmen in the Vale, but he's also famous for defeating the robber knight who menaced Massey's hook, among others."

That part gave Duncan pause. Why would he refuse to enter a lord's service? Most hedge knights dreamed of being taken into the service of a powerful lord, where coins and even land would be assured. Why would someone like Ser Emery turn all that down?

Duncan's mind drifted back to Ser Arlan's voice, echoing from the past.

We hedge knights keep to our vows the best, Dunk.

Had Ser Emery come to the same conclusion as the old man?

"You've cooked that fish for a while." Duncan said. "Now let's try some of that fish. See if you have what it takes to be a cook."

Egg took the fish off the fire, and they both sat down to eat. The fish was a little raw, still bony in places, but it was leagues better than the salted fish Duncan usually had. They ate in silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them.

"I still think I should send you back," Duncan muttered after a while. Maybe with a good clout on the ear. He paused, the thought lingering for a moment. "Though if you obey what you're told, maybe you can serve as a squire for the tourney. After that, we'll see."

Serve for whom? Duncan wasn't even sure if he could participate in the tourney, and Ser Emery had already refused the boy. Though perhaps he could be persuaded to let the boy serve for at least this tourney.

They lay there in silence, staring at the sky, and it didn't take long before the boy was asleep. Being able to fall asleep easily on hard ground would be an invaluable skill for a hedge knight's squire. He considered the boy again, this time with less annoyance. He wasn't so bad, after all. Probably an orphan, like him—another wretch from the streets of Flea Bottom trying to escape that place.

Duncan couldn't blame the boy for wanting out.

As Duncan lay back, gazing at the stars, he spotted a falling star high above, and he smiled. A falling star was said to bring luck to those who witnessed it, and with the lords gathered inside their pavilions, their eyes on the silk and frippery, Duncan was content to know that the luck would be his.

Perhaps tomorrow wouldn't be so bad after all.

Duncan felt the hope he'd carried yesterday slowly slipping away.

Here he was, back at Ashford Castle, searching for that ornery steward of theirs and hoping he might convince the man to let him joust—even without Ser Manfred's vouching.

Ser Emery's offer from the last day was sorely tempting, though Duncan held himself.

It didn't take long for Duncan to find himself outside the steward's door. He knocked firmly and waited, his knuckles tapping against the wood.

"Master Plummer?" he called out, his voice echoing faintly in the corridor.

He waited, but there was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time, but the silence persisted. After a while, it became clear that Plummer wasn't inside. Instead, Duncan wandered until he met a guard who told him that Plummer was in the great hall. Nodding his thanks, Duncan made his way to Ashford's great hall.

The great hall wasn't so great as far as halls went, but Ashford was a small castle.

Duncan pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside the crowded great hall. Duncan saw Plummer and a plump man wearing Ashford's color standing nearby, surrounded by courtiers in colorful clothes. However, beyond them he saw a broad man sitting on the seat of honor, arguing with a silver-haired man.

"If they were your sons, you'd be more concerned, I'll wager." The silver-haired man said, his sharp tone cutting through the air. Duncan couldn't even guess whom the remark was directed at, though his frustration was obvious.

"This isn't the first time Daeron's done this," the brown-haired man replied, the calmer of the two. "You should never have forced him into the lists. He has as much tourney knight in him as Aerys or Rhaegel."

"By which you mean he'd sooner ride a whore than a horse!" The silver-haired man's voice rose now, "I needn't be reminded of my son's failings, Brother."

"Daeron is what he is, but he's still your kin," the brown-haired man countered, his tone softening. "Have faith in Ser Roland. I believe he'll find Daeron and Aegon in time."

"After the tourney is over, perhaps," the silver-haired man muttered.

He made to turn, his attention seemingly lost in thought, but then his gaze landed on Duncan. Without hesitation, he pointed and shouted, his voice ringing across the hall.

"Who are you, and what do you mean by skulking in the shadows?!"

Duncan realized he had walked in on something he shouldn't have heard. Thankfully, the brown-haired man saved him.

"Ah, that must be the knight our good steward is expecting. We are the ones intruding here, Brother." Gesturing, he added. "Come closer, ser."

Duncan obeyed, stepping closer. The brown-haired man had a certain presence that seemed to radiate effortlessly. Though Duncan was taller and broader, he suddenly felt small and out of place in the man's presence, like a green boy fumbling in a lord's hall.

"My lords," Duncan hoped his voice wasn't as small as he felt in that moment. "I—I asked Ser Manfred to vouch for me so I might enter the lists, but he refuses. He says he knows me not." He hesitated, then pressed on, desperation creeping into his tone. "Ser Arlan served his father, though. I swear it. We were with the marcher lords when they hunted the Vulture King. I have Ser Arlan's sword and shield here—"

"Sword and shield alone do not make a knight!"

The sharp interruption came from the plump man clad in Ashford colors. His face was flushed with indignation, and Duncan realized with a sinking heart that this might well be Lord Ashford himself.

"I've heard of you from Plummer," Lord Ashford continued, his voice booming. "Even if those arms belonged to Ser Arlan of Pennytree, it may well be that you stole them!"

Duncan flushed at the accusation. "I did no such thing, my lord. Ser Emery could vouch that I didn't steal it. He helped me bury Ser Arlan, and he saw for himself that Ser Arlan's death was natural."

The brown-haired man gestured for them to stop. "I remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He had never won a tourney that I've heard of, but he never shamed himself either." The man leaned forward slightly. "Sixteen years ago, he overthrew Lord Stokeworth and the Bastard of Harrenhal, and before that he unhorsed the Grey Lion himself."

Duncan's eyes lit up at his words. He recalled those tales.

"He told me that many times before!" He said excitedly.

The brown-haired man smirked at that. "Then surely you will remember the Grey Lion's true name?"

"...Ser Damon Lannister." Duncan answered. It didn't take long, for it was a tale he knew well. "He's the Lord of Casterly Rock now!"

"So he is." The brown-haired man said. His smile kind. "I suppose it's unlikely for you to know that unless you knew Ser Arlan well."

"How can you possibly remember some insignificant hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?"

"It was nine years past, during the tourney at Storm's End. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before it was done."

"No, it was seven! And it was against the Prince of Dragonstone—" Duncan blurted, his words tumbling out before he could stop himself.

Duncan stopped and felt his face redden as the implication of his words struck him. He could hear the courtiers chuckling behind him. He almost heard Ser Arlan's words. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.

He was talking to Prince Baelor, the Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the King. Dunk almost smacked himself in the face as he hastily kneeled. The man, meanwhile, only regarded Dunk patiently.

"So it was. Tales grow in the telling. Do not think ill of your old master, but it was four lances only."

"My lord, er, your grace..." Dunk blurted, still trying to make sense of everything. "The old man used to say I was as slow as an aurochs."

"And as strong as one too, by the look of you. No harm was done, rise ser." He glanced at Plummer before he talked to Duncan again. "You wish to enter the lists, don't you? That decision lies with the master of games, though I see no reason to deny you."

Plummer bowed and voiced his agreement. Duncan almost couldn't believe it. However, as he bowed, the prince's brother cut him out.

"Yes, yes. You're very grateful ser. Now off with you."

Prince Baelor laughed. "Pardon my brother's impatience, ser. Two of his sons have gone astray on the way here, and he worries for them."

His brother, likely Prince Maekar unless Duncan was horribly wrong, merely scoffed. "I did not need to hear counsel from a hedge knight."

"The spring rains have swelled my streams." Duncan said. "Perhaps the princes are merely delayed."

Prince Baelor inclined his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Are you related to Ser Arlan by blood, Ser Duncan?"

Duncan shook his head. "No, Your Grace."

"By law, only a trueborn son of a knight is permitted to inherit his arms. If you are to enter the lists, you must craft a sigil of your own."

That was something that Duncan had not considered before. "Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely in the tilts; you'll see."

With his place in the tilt secured by the Crown Prince himself, the only thing left would be to take his new armor and find a sigil for himself. He wondered what it would be.

Duncan and Aegon watched in silence as the puppeteers performed their play of Florian and Jonquil. Aegon had heard this tale a hundred times before, but this time it held his attention in a way he couldn't quite explain. It was exciting, Aegon admitted.

There was another reason for them to watch the play, or so Ser Duncan insisted. The puppet looked finely painted to his eyes, and he thought the puppeteer girl could've done a good job painting his shield.

It was almost funny how the man was obviously smitten.

They approached as the troupe finished packing away their puppets, and Duncan cleared his throat to catch the woman's attention. She turned, raising an eyebrow as she looked him over.

M'lord?" she asked, her voice carrying a distinct Dornish accent, as if the olive hue of her skin and outfit hadn't made that obvious already. She was very tall for a woman—easily over six feet.

Well, credit where credit was due. "It was a good show! I can't believe how you make the puppet move like that! I had seen puppet shows times before, but none was as smooth as that!" Aegon said. He didn't even need to lie.

The woman smiled brightly. "Thank you."

"And your figures are well carved too, especially the dragon." Duncan interjected. "Did you make them yourself?"

She shook her head. "No, my uncle does the painting." The woman answered. "I painted them."

Ser Duncan pulled his shield from his back. "Speaking of paints," he said, holding up his shield, "Can you paint something for me? I have the coin to pay. I need to paint something over the chalice."

The woman glanced at the shield thoughtfully. "What would you want me to paint?"

Duncan faltered at that. "Uh..., I don't, I'm not certain." His voice trailing off.

Aegon held the urge to smack himself in the face. How did you not think that before?

"You must think me an utter fool." Duncan continued, rubbing the back of his neck.

The woman tilted her head; though instead of a cutting remark, she instead smiled. "All men are fools, and all men are knights."

Well, look at that! It seemed the woman might have some interest in Ser Duncan after all—or, at the very least, she was willing to give him a chance. She had compared him to Jonquil, for gods' sake! They talked a little longer after that, with Ser Duncan mentioning his desire for a sunset-colored shield. He had no idea what device to put on it yet, though. Actually, now that he thought about it, wasn't it at sunset when Ser Duncan had first accepted him as his squire?

"An elm tree!" Egg blurted out suddenly. Both Ser Duncan and the woman turned to him. "A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches!"

Elm tree was good. They were sturdy, enduring, and they had a certain dignity about them. As far as heraldic devices went, it was a solid choice.

"Yes, that would serve." Ser Duncan agreed, nodding. "But it needs something more… a shooting star above the tree. Can you do that?"

"Leave it to me," the woman said with a smile. "I'll paint the shield tonight and have it back to you on the morrow."

Ser Duncan smiled back. "I'm called Ser Duncan the Tall."

"I'm Tanselle," she replied, "Tanselle too-tall, they boys used to call me."

Aegon could see how she got that nickname.

Ser Duncan, in his usual blunt fashion, plowed forward. "You're not too tall. You're just right for—"

"For?" Tanselle raised an eyebrow.

"Uh…" Ser Duncan faltered. "For… puppets."

Egg winced. That could have gone better.

The first day of the tourney dawned with the blare of trumpets and the heavy thud of hooves as knights in polished armor rode into the field. Spectators filled the stands, their cheers rising to meet the sky as the banners of noble houses fluttered in the breeze. Lords and ladies, clad in their finest attire, gathered in the box of honor, their eyes fixed on the events about to unfold.

Unlike the nobility though, Duncan and Aegon stood at the edge of the field, watching from the ground rather than the elevated stands.

'"...Five champions defend her, and all others are challengers. Any man who defeats a champion—"

"Yes, yes, yes." Aegon interrupted, his voice bored. He had seen nearly all forms of jousting in King's Landing already. "Anyone who defeats a champion takes his place until another challenger unhorses him," he waved a hand dismissively, "and the five champions determine if the fair maid retains the crown of love and beauty or if another wears it in her place. I've seen it before." Aegon searched the stand for Lord Ashford's daughter, and found her, wearing some gaudy orange gown that was impossible to miss. "That's the fair maid."

He turned to Duncan and wiggled his eyebrows. "Maybe if you become one of those champions, your puppet girl could wear the crown of love and beauty."

Ser Duncan smirked at that. "Perhaps I should give you a clout in the ear."

They stood in the shadow of the grand tournament grounds, waiting for the final ceremonial speeches and flourishes to be completed before the tilt could truly begin. Finally, the signal was given, and the joust began in earnest. The five champions spurred their horses forward with a sudden, synchronized movement, their lances held steady. The sound of wood splintering on armor echoed across the field as the first clash erupted—each of the five knights breaking their lances in the first charge. The crowd roared in approval, the noise swelling into a frenzy, as this was considered a good omen for the day ahead.

Duncan and Aegon stood there among the roaring commons, pointing and talking of this knight and that. Many of whom Aegon knew from King's Landing, whose deeds he could recite from memory. Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Hardyng, Beesbury, Rhysling, even his cousin Valarr.

Baratheon was laughing as always, cutting down the crest of his opponents and throwing them to the smallfolk. Lord Leo Tyrell was as gallant as ever, carefully unhorsing one enemy after the other. Ser Humfrey Hardyng was strangely dominating this tourney, and had a good chance to unhorse the most knights by the end of today. Valarr, in comparison, was somewhat disappointing, though that was less his fault than his opponents. All the truly capable knights seemed content to challenge someone else.

Not many people were willing to harm a prince, it seemed. Had Duncan known who Aegon was, would he have been willing to bring him here to watch from among the lowborn?

The herald's voice rang out, cutting through the din of the crowd.

"Ser Emery Shepherd!"

The Herald's announcement caught both of their attention, and they saw Ser Emery ride onto the dusty field atop his grey courser. His black-grey armor was well-made but plain, as hedge knights' armor tended to be. The only flourish was the red plumes that topped his helmet and the tabard draping over his chest bearing his personal arms.

"I didn't know Ser Emery would joust today." Ser Duncan remarked. "I thought the first day was reserved for highborn lords and knights only."

In response, Aegon merely shrugged. "He's fairly famous. It's no surprise that they put him on the first day." He watched as Ser Emery lined up against his opponent—Ser Tybolt Lannister, a red figure in gleaming golden armor. "No need to worry, ser. The later you joust, the more likely you are to outlast them all."

It was a fine display of chivalry. The two red knights exchanged six fierce lances, time and again, until Ser Emery emerged victorious. He raised his broken lance high before riding out of the field.

"Is Ser Emery a renowned jouster?" Ser Duncan asked.

"He's more famous as a swordsman than a jouster," came the reply. "Though he did win the joust in Wendwater, and he's always performed well in others."

Ser Duncan seemed to ponder this for a moment. Aegon couldn't help but find it strange that, despite their companionship, he knew so little about his friend.

"Will you congratulate Ser Emery?" Aegon asked.

"Perhaps later," was Ser Duncan's answer.

They watched as a few more knights took the challenge until Aegon heard the herald announce him, listing all his titles and relations as if it mattered. Brightflame, bah! He was the only one who ever called himself that.

The horseshit acted as if he intended to challenge Valarr, only to ride past and jab Ser Humfrey Hardyng's shield. That was good. Valarr was too kind to hurt him terribly, but hopefully Ser Humfrey would have fewer compunctions. Hopefully.

As the knights began to ride, Aegon couldn't help but cheer for Ser Humfrey.

"Kill him! He's right there! Kill him! Kill him!"

The world would be a better place with that shit dead.

Aerion held his lance low, too low to hit Ser Humfrey's shield. Aegon's eyes widened. Surely he couldn't be stupid enough...

Blood gushed as Aerion's lance pierced the neck of Ser Humfrey's horse, and the cheers immediately turned to screams of horror. Aegon saw as Ser Humfrey fell, with his rampaging horse crashing above his leg. Men ran to help him, while some instead went to Aerion, trying to restrain him from advancing to Ser Humfrey.

Fucker.

"Poor horse." Was all he could say. He didn't deserve this.

Ser Duncan patted his shoulder. "A terrible sight, aye, but you need to be strong. You'll see worse mishaps at other tourneys, I fear."

"It was no mishap." Aegon said coldly. "Aerion meant to do it. You saw." Anyone with eyes could see that.

Ser Duncan looked at him oddly. He knew the truth but feared voicing it. Instead, he knelt and said, "I saw a knight green as summer grass lose control of his lance, and I'll hear no more of it." Rising to his feet, he added, "The jousting's done for the day, I think. Come, lad."

Aegon followed Duncan, the shrill scream of the horse echoing behind him.

Duncan and Aegon wandered about the tourney ground.

The sun was low in the west by the time the whole chaos was cleared, and Lord Ashford called for a halt. However, many of the entertainers were still performing, so Duncan brought him to see the sights and listen to music. Even bought him half a horn of ale.

Still, the memories turned bitter when Aegon recalled that last joust. Aerion had a talent in that, of making everything worse and bitter.

"Puppets?" Aegon asked as he saw where Duncan brought him. "Are you sure this will cheer me?"

Duncan shrugged. "Coming here cheers me too."

Good man, but he was an open book.

They watched the current play—of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships—for a time, until a sound from behind drew their attention.

"Ser Duncan!"

Ser Duncan turned his head in surprise. "Raymun!"

He was a highborn. Perhaps it was unlikely, but Aegon moved slightly so Ser Duncan would cover him, just in case he recognized Aegon.

"I saw you among the smallfolk today, and the boy with you." He said with a friendly smile om his face. "Both of you were hard to miss."

"This boy here is my squire." Duncan pushed Aegon lightly. "Egg, this is Raymun Fossoway. Speak for yourself."

Egg bowed his head low and averted his eyes as he spoke. "Hullo, ser."

Raymun chuckled. "No need for a ser, lad. I'm not yet knighted. And well met." He turned his attention back to Duncan. "Why not watch from the viewing stand, Ser Duncan? All knights are welcome there."

"I would not have wanted to see that last tilt any closer." Duncan answered.

Raymun's face turned serious. "Nor I." He said. "Lord Ashford declared Ser Humfrey the victor and awarded him Prince Aerion's horse. Unfortunately, his leg was broken in two after his horse crushed on it, so he won't continue." He shook his head sadly. "Prince Baelor sent his own maester to tend to him."

"Will there be another champion in Ser Humfrey's place?" Ser Duncan asked.

"No, Prince Baelor declared it would be unseemly to remove Ser Humfrey's shield under the circumstances. They will continue with four champions in place of five."

Ser Duncan looked thoughtful as he spoke further.

"Who is your cousin meant to challenge?"

"Ser Emery. It was a good thing they hadn't sparred last time, yes?" Raymun answered. "They're finely matched I'd say. Though, I'm certain if any other champion be wounded or shows weakness he would be quick to knock on their shield. No one has ever accused my cousin of an excess in chivalry." Raymun patted Duncan on the shoulder. "Ser Duncan, would you join me for a cup of wine?"

That's not good. The more I was surrounded by highborn, the higher the chance someone would recognize me.

Ser Duncan was uncertain. "I have a matter I must attend to."

"I could wait here and bring your shield when the puppet play is over. It should be Symeon star eyes after this, and then Serwyn again." Aegon said.

And more importantly, giving him less chance to be recognized by a Fossoway.

Ser Duncan hesitated for a moment, but eventually relented and departed with Ser Raymun. Aegon let out a long sigh of relief. His father would undoubtedly be wroth beyond reason once he found him, but there was no use in rushing the inevitable. He might as well make the most of the situation while he could before he had to face the anvil.

Aegon remained as the play of Nymeria drew to a close, and the troupe began their next performance, the one about Symeon and later Ser Serwyn of the mirror shield afterward. Glancing at the darkening sky, Aegon realized it would likely be the last play of the day.

The dragon was nice. Aegon thought. Red, a good, proper color for a dragon and powerful-looking. Rather lifelike as well, though not like he could claim to have seen a living dragon.

Aegon heard a laugh from behind, and a lump formed in his throat as he turned to see the source. There he was—Aerion, that wretched pox, wearing his obnoxiously gaudy tunic, flanked by his house guards as they made their way toward him. Did he see me? Aegon wondered. No, he wasn't even looking in my direction. He was probably just passing by.

He'd recognize me, hair or no, and I have no intention of seeing his ugly face.

Aegon glanced about the area and moved toward the most heavily shaded path, hoping to avoid notice. He ducked behind a tree, watching as Aerion stopped in front of the puppeteers. Though he was too far to catch the conversation, Aegon could tell from the stiff set of Aerion's shoulders and the tightness in his jaw that he was livid. He'd seen that expression often enough to recognize it without needing words.

He signaled the men and, to his astonishment, they began ransacking the puppeteers tools.

The play! The sudden realization struck Aegon. That lackwit Aerion believed himself an actual dragon; he must've taken offense at Serwyn's tale.

As Aegon debated what to do, his gaze landed on Aerion, who had seized the puppeteer's woman by the hand and snapped one of her fingers.

Her scream pierced the air, audible even from where Aegon stood.

No! Aegon's mind raced. Someone has to stop him! Who!? Uncle was too far, and I don't know anyone else here! Ser Duncan—he should be with the Fossoway!

Aegon sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, not knowing where the Fossoway's camp was, but it didn't matter. Once he reached the pavilions, he scanned frantically until his eyes fell on an apple banner, red on yellow.

"Hey!" Aegon called out one of the men in Fossoway's color. "I'm looking for Ser Duncan the Tall. He should be with Lord Raymun Fossoway."

"Lord Raymun would be in that big yellow pavilion over there."

Aegon already ran before the man finished speaking. Inside, he saw both Raymun and Ser Duncan.

"Ser Duncan!"

Duncan looked up, startled. "Egg?"

"You have to run! He's hurting her!"

"Hurting? Who?"

"Aerion! He's hurting her!"

In a calmer moment, Aegon might have realized he should have explained more clearly, but panic had taken over.

"Hurting who?" Duncan asked.

"The puppet girl! Hurry!"

Realization hit him, and Ser Duncan began to run. However, just before they left, Raymun caught his arm.

"Ser Duncan!" He called out. "Aerion, he said. A prince of the realm. Be careful."

With that simple warning, both Duncan and Aegon sprinted toward the puppeteer's tent. The chaos had only grown, with scattered objects being tossed into the fire. Aerion was still there, gripping the woman's arm. She still had a few fingers intact, at least. But then they saw him—he twisted his hand and snapped another finger with a cruel, deliberate motion.

Aegon saw Duncan's temper break.

He approached Aerion, uncaring of the men-at-arms calling for him to stop. As he reached Aerion, he punched him squarely in the jaw.

Whatever satisfaction Aegon felt at the sight of Duncan's brutal beatings of Aerion evaporated when he understood the implication. Ser Duncan was a hedge knight and unarmed besides. Aerion will kill him for this!

Is there any way to-

Behind the crowd, Aegon saw a throng of men in Fossoway's colors approach. Raymun! He must've brought them. Aegon thought. But still, they wouldn't dare to act against a prince and his men.

Unless they had another prince with them.

Mind steeled, Aegon sprinted toward the Fossoways.

"Lad!" Raymun shouted, voice thick with concern. "Are you alright?"

Whatever else he intended to say faltered as Aegon met his gaze. His violet eyes, unmistakable even in the dark, were all the proof Raymun needed.

"I'm Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Maekar," Aegon began; he thought he could feel his blood pulsing in his ears. "My brother Daeron and I were supposed to travel here together, but we were delayed. I came on ahead, accompanied by Ser Duncan. He doesn't know this. Please, ser, you must help me save him."

Raymun nodded at him with grim determination, and Aegon felt a wave of relief. He was a man of honor. Without hesitation, they rushed toward Duncan.

"No! Don't hurt him!" Aegon shouted, trying to keep his voice steady.

A squire must be brave.

Before he could get any word in, Ser Duncan shouted.

"Hold your tongue, stupid boy! Run away! They'll hurt you!"

"No they won't!" Aegon shot back firmly. These were Targaryen men—none of them would dare harm him. "If they do, they'll have to answer to my father and my uncle."

His eyes flicked to the two men gripping Duncan, the words coming faster, more urgent. "Let go of him! Wate! Yorkel! You know me! Do as I say!"

"Impudent little wretch!" Aerion shouted, blood dripping from his mouth. Aegon hoped it hurt him badly. "What happened to your hair?"

"I cut it off, brother. I don't want to look like you."

The standoff stretched on, the tension thick between them. Aegon's heart raced, but he kept his stance firm. He knew the chances of preventing some sort of repercussion for Ser Duncan were slim—after all, Aerion's was still a prince no matter how cruel he was. But even so, that was enough. As long as Ser Duncan wasn't directly under Aerion's whims, Aegon believed his uncle or father would eventually see the truth. They would understand that his ser actions were in defense of honor, not in treason.

Even then, Aegon couldn't help but feel guilty deep in his heart. Would Sed Duncan still see him as his squire?

It was a chaotic sight—half-burned items piled up haphazardly atop ground that looked recently trampled upon. The people looked fearful as they whispered to each other, eyes roaming about. Amidst the confusion, a figure moved purposefully through the crowd, his face stony. He had heard there was a commotion here and come to see, though whatever it was had passed by the time he arrived. Only leaving marks of something gone terribly wrong.

"T'was a right frightenin' sight, it were!" He heard someone say. Glancing to the side, he saw a pair of men, peasants by the look of them, conversing quite a distance away. They carried no blade that he could see of, but his ears had always been sharp.

"Aye, who'd thought, eh? A prince, no less, with such a quick temper. Never seen a man so ready to fly off the handle—breakin' a woman's fingers!" His friend said in response, shaking his head. "Even our previous lord wasn't that harsh."

"Keep yer tongue!" The first man scolded. "Ye wanna get it pincered!? All these king's men were jittery, you see them. I don't want t'be like them Dornishwomen or worse."

He cleared his throat. "Friends," he said, his voice silencing their conversation. As they turned to face the source of the interruption, they saw a tall knight with fiery red hair, clad in fine clothes. Emery offered a smile, as disarming and non-threatening as he could muster. "Mind telling me what has come to pass here?"

AN: Well, didn't expect that level of enthusiasm for this fic. Gotta say, I'm grateful for y'all. That so many people are actually interested with just one chapter out.

Other than that, not much to say. Next chapter or the one after that should wrap up the arc. To be fair, summarizing the event of an entire book in 3-4 chapters is pretty harsh, but I'll see if I manage.

For people who are concerned, no, it won't be a step-by-step reiteration of canon, but I guess some station just can't be skipped. The events of hedge knight is important to solidify the dynamic duo of Dunk and Egg.

Trivia time, the reason why Shirou is described as tall here but not in previous chapter is because the previous chapter is told entirely through Dunk's perspective. If you're curious how tall Shirou is, he's Archer's height, so he basically towers over the average commoners and even many nobles.

Anyway, thank you greatly for reading this fic.