Hedge Knight IV
Aegon had never witnessed knights charging each other with real lances before. The sheer brutality of it far exceeded anything he'd seen at any tourney. Lances struck against shields with deafening cracks, or pierced through wood and steel, their force hurling riders from their horses. Daeron was the first to fall, quickly followed by others. By the end of the first charge, fewer than half the knights remained ahorse.
Aegon's gaze fixed on Daeron, who lay motionless on the ground. A flicker of worry crept into his chest. He must be pretending, right? Daeron had promised him that much, and Ser Emery had only hit him with a tourney lance. He should be alive.
Daeron might have been a sloth and a drunkard, but he was still Aegon's brother. And Aegon loved him.
Around the field, others were sprawled in the dirt. One of the Kingsguard—Ser Willem—lay still, a lance protruding from his armor. On the opposing side, Beesbury was in a similar state, his body pierced and unmoving. Duncan knelt a few paces away from Wylde, having been thrown from his horse early in the clash. Aegon thought he saw a shard of broken lance embedded in Duncan's armor and prayed it hadn't pierced through.
The battlefield had descended into chaos. With most lances shattered, the knights drew their secondary weapons. Swords flashed, axes swung, and heavy mauls crashed down, the harsh noise ringing across the blood-soaked field.
Aegon's heart pounded as the clash of steel and the cries of men filled the air. The ground churned beneath the warriors, slick with mud and freshly spilled blood. He clutched the wooden fence tightly, watching from a safe distance, but his hands shook nonetheless. This was no noble tourney or display of valor—this was raw bloodshed.
He saw Ser Roland Crakehall, still ahorse, wielding his sword with terrifying precision as he clashed against Ser Emery. Ser Emery deftly met his attacks with his own sword, and he forced him to crash down to the ground, both men continuing on foot. On the other side, Ser Lyonel Baratheon fought with his father, his sword strikes heavy enough to cleave through men, and deep gashes marked Maekar's shield. Maekar, not to be outdone, returned each and every attack; his maul slammed into Ser Lyonel's shield heavily each time. The armor of both men remained pristine—thank the gods.
In the middle of the fray, Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard fought with a grace that seemed uncharacteristic of this chaos. His steel sword gleamed in the pale sunlight as it danced through the air, pushing back Ser Robyn as they duelled ahorse. Even amidst the madness, there was something beautiful in the way he fought, almost a dance.
Ser Raymun, true to his word, sought out his cousin, and the two men clashed in a fierce battle, their shields battered and half-ruined. Blades rang against each other as the duel raged, each strike more ferocious than the last. Raymun's sword struck hard against his cousin's shield, splintering its edge further, yet the man held firm, countering with a strike aimed at Raymun's side. With a swift twist, Raymun deflected the blow, and they resumed the dance.
Aegon spotted the cowdung Aerion—the very man who had started this chaos—riding toward Duncan leisurely. His eyes darted frantically in search of Ser Humfrey Hardyng, and when he found him, the sight made his heart sink. Ser Humfrey, a far more skilled knight than Aeron, lay sprawled in the mud. Even a knight of his caliber couldn't fight with a broken leg.
Everything moved too fast!
Was this what a battle was? So many things happened at once, so much bloodshed at such a pace.
Aegon's eyes shifted back to the still kneeling figure of Duncan. His heart pounded as he saw Duncan pulling something from his armor. Was it the lance tip? Had it struck something vital, or could he still fight?
If Duncan couldn't fight, he wouldn't survive.
"Get up, ser," Aegon whispered, his voice barely audible, his fists clenched tight. "Fight!"
Duncan rose slowly. His movements were labored, his breath ragged, but he still had a fire in him. Aegon could see it even from the distance—Duncan wasn't ready to yield. Blood seeped from his side, but he gripped his sword with a determination nonetheless.
Aerion was upon him in the blink of an eye, his flail swinging menacingly toward Duncan as his horse thundered past. Duncan narrowly escaped death, leaping aside just in time. Unfazed, Aerion wheeled his horse around, charging once more. This time, Duncan made a bold choice—he didn't dodge. Instead, he feinted to a side before he reached out and yanked Aerion from his saddle with a swift motion.
Aerion hit the ground hard, landing on his back, but he sprang to his feet with startling speed, weapon in hand, ready for battle. Duncan hesitated, unable to seize the moment, as both men locked eyes, each gauging the other's strength and intent before the fight resumed.
There was no elegance in their fight, nor any beauty—just the desperate struggle of two men battling for survival. Aerion's flail swung wildly, its angry arcs crashing against Duncan's battered shield, but he held firm. Duncan's sword lashed out in return, seeking any opening in Aerion's defense, but his shield and armor deflected each blow with frustrating efficiency. In a clean, uninjured duel, Duncan's greater strength would have ended this fight quickly. But the bloody injury on his chest had dulled his movements and sapped his endurance. The advantage now belonged to Aerion, who fought with the sharpness of someone who sensed victory just within reach.
"GET HIM, SER!" Aegon shouted, uncaring who was listening. "HE'S RIGHT THERE!"
A whirlwind of thoughts churned within Aegon's mind. Memories of Aerion's years of cruelty toward him and Aemon flashed. The chance to finally strike back at his tormentor tugged at him, a temptation he could barely suppress. Bitterness surged as he recalled his father's persistent habit of turning a blind eye to Aerion's malice time and again.
Yet all of it—his anger, his pain, his thirst for justice—faded into the background, eclipsed by a single, burning hope: the desire to see Duncan prevail. For Aegon, nothing mattered more in this moment than watching the man who had stood by him, who had fought with honor and kindness, overcome the one who had caused so much pain.
They didn't know each other for long, but Duncan had proven himself as honorable as any knight of the song. He wouldn't allow Ser Duncan to die because of his own mistake. He wouldn't allow it. The rest of the field blurred as Aegon kept his focus singularly on Duncan's fight.
The fight had turned sluggish, though no less brutal. Both men were weary and injured, their movements slower, more labored. Despite Duncan's relentless effort, the advantage remained firmly with Aerion. His injuries were fewer, his strikes still fierce, and his confidence unshaken.
Duncan's strength was fading, his shield arm trembling as he parried another vicious swing of Aerion's flail. A misstep, a slip in his footing, and he was down, collapsing onto his back with a grunt of pain. The breath seemed to leave him all at once.
Aerion loomed over him, the flail dangling menacingly from his hand. He advanced slowly, likely savoring the moment. Aegon's heart pounded, his fear mounting as he watched the scene unfold in horrifying clarity. Aerion raised his arm, the flail poised for a killing blow, and swung the spiked steel to the downed Duncan.
Duncan rolled at the last possible instant, narrowly avoiding the spikes by a hair's breadth. Instead of rising to his feet, he seized both of Aerion's legs and yanked, toppling him and forcing him to release his weapon. In the blink of an eye, Duncan was on top of him, wrenching Aerion's shield from his arm and raining blows upon him, wielding the shield with the ferocity of a man possessed.
Aegon let out a triumphant cheer as the tables turned. Arrogant Aerion, mere moments from victory, was now at Duncan's mercy, helpless as he was battered with his own shield. When Aerion tried to draw his knife, Ser Duncan contemptuously disarmed him, then resumed his relentless assault.
Unfortunately, nothing good lasted forever. Duncan paused his assault for a moment, and from a distance, Aegon thought he was demanding Aerion's surrender—far more mercy than the man deserved, but Duncan was a true knight for a reason. Aegon couldn't hear Aerion's squirming surrender from where he stood, but that didn't matter. The sight of Duncan dragging Aerion to Lord Ashford's stand like a sack of barley was enough.
"Repeat what you said." Duncan's voice wasn't a shout, but he said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
Aerion, whose armor looked to be more mud than steel, swallowed hard before answering in a much subdued voice.
"I withdrew my accusation."
"You look a fine mess," Ser Emery remarked.
"Aye, just look at this poor armor—all banged up and scratched!" Steely Pate added, shaking his head in dismay. "And the mail... we'll likely have to cut it off him. The lances drove it in deep."
"At least you're alive," Raymun remarked. "The armor did its job."
"Raymun," Duncan interrupted with an urgent tone. "How are the others? Has anyone died?"
Raymun glanced at Ser Emery before answering somberly. "Ser Humfrey Hardyng was slain by Aerion. Ser Humfrey Beesbury took a beating but still breathes, so he'll likely survive. The others are bruised and bloodied, but none seem worse off than you."
"And the accuser side?" Duncan asked.
"Ser Willem Wylde was killed in the first charge by Ser Lyonel," Raymun replied. "He was the only one slain on their side. Ser Roland seems to be limping as he left, but he's alive." He cast a questioning look at Ser Emery.
"Likely cracked a few bones," Ser Emery answered the unspoken question. "He was a persistent foe and highly skilled besides."
As expected of a Kingsguard knight. Aegon thought. All of them were skilled and honorable, though the fact that one of them slain was lamentable. Ser Willem deserved better.
"The others were just battered somewhat, though I do hope I broke some of my cousin's ribs." Raymun said.
"Prince Daeron." Duncan said, his voice sound dazed to Aegon. "Is the prince alive?"
Ser Emery approached closer. "Lie down, Duncan. You're unwell. Prince Daeron is alive, along with Aerion. Do you remember that?"
"I..., I think so. The memories are blurry. It feels like I was drunk, the pain fading as quickly as it comes, over and over."
"Ser?" Aegon asked with a growing concern. "What's wrong with him?"
Ser Emery knelt and examined Duncan's wound. "He's likely delirious from the pain and blood loss. He might also be concussed if he took a blow to the head. There's not much we can do until the maester arrives."
"Gods be good, the rings of his mail were driven deep into his flesh," Raymun muttered.
"He'll be fine. He should be," Steely Pate replied confidently. "Maesters know how to treat wounds like this. They'll make him drunk and pour boiling oil on the injury."
"Not oil—boiled wine," Ser Emery corrected. "Preferably a strong one. They'll need to bandage the wound as well." He waved a hand before Duncan's eyes. "His vision's blurry, but he should remain conscious. Stay awake, Ser, and don't move."
Aegon felt a gnawing worry, but as a squire, there was nothing more he could do but wait. He could only hope the others were right—that Ser Duncan would be fine. Aegon had made his decision long ago to be loyal to this man alone, his squire and no one else.
Duncan stirred, slowly opening his eyelids as he struggled to focus. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.
"Where is this?" He asked with a hoarse voice.
"The Ashford's maester room." A steady voice answered. A hand appeared beside him, offering a cup of water. "You must be thirsty. The maester insisted you drink often once you're awake."
Duncan took the cup gratefully, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He sat up slightly, taking in his surroundings, still feeling groggy and disoriented. The room was dim, filled with the scent of herbs and the faint rustling sound nearby. His mind tried to piece together the events that led him here, but the fragments came slowly, as if trapped behind a fog.
"How long have I been here?" he asked, his voice now stronger.
"A full day," the voice answered. "You've been in and out of consciousness. The maester says you'll recover, but you need rest."
Duncan nodded, leaning back against the pillows as the realization sank in—he was alive.
"I'm glad to see your health is recovering quickly." The voice continued. "You gave us quite a scare back then, ser."
Duncan turned his head to find the source of the voice—and nearly choked on his drink when he saw none other than Prince Baelor seated.
"My lo—Your Grace!" Duncan stammered with all the grace of a bull in a potter's tent. "I beg your pardon for my rudeness, Your Grace. I don't expect you."
Prince Baelor simply raised an eyebrow, his expression calm and unbothered. "No need for apologies, Ser," he said, his voice light. "I'm the one who's here uninvited. I told the maester to alert me when you woke up, and he did when you awakened earlier. Though perhaps you had not awakened completely if you couldn't remember."
Duncan tried to remember it, but couldn't. Instead, he scrambled for anything to say.
"Your grace." Duncan said after a pause. "How may I serve you?"
"I'm not here to ask for your service, ser." Prince Baelor's voice was unruffled. "I'm here to offer my apologies."
Duncan was taken aback. "Apologies?" he repeated, his confusion evident. "For what, Your Grace?"
The prince's expression grew more serious. He leaned slightly forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table. "For everything that happened before." Baelor said quietly. "Daeron and Aerion might not be mine, but they're of my house, and their conduct reflects on me as well. You were put in danger because of their shortsightedness, and for that, I am sorry."
Duncan let the prince's words linger as he thought over it. Not long ago, he would have loathed both Daeron and Aerion—his anger had burned so hot that he had wished he could kill them. But now, he found himself simply weary, the fire of hate flickering out. He couldn't even summon any bitterness toward Daeron, though Aerion remained a sore memory.
"None that happened was your fault, Your Grace." Duncan answered awkwardly. In a sane world, a crown prince should never have to seek forgiveness from a hedge knight. "And I regret what happened to Ser Willem Wylde. He was a true knight."
Prince Baelor's smile shifted as it turned melancholic. "That he was," he murmured. "Ser Willem remained true to his oath until the very end. The Kingsguard was honored to have a man like him among their ranks. It would be a challenge to find another to receive his spot." Prince Baelor's gaze turned to Duncan. "Mayhaps you're interested? A man of your qualities would be welcome to take the white."
Duncan felt a wave of queasiness wash over him at the offer. The white cloak had been a longtime dream of his, something he had aspired to for years. Yet, given the circumstances, he found himself unable to accept.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, but I couldn't accept it. I'm unworthy."
"I won't force you." Prince Baelor replied calmly, as if expecting his answer. "We all have our own circumstances, but allow me to say this: I would never consider you unworthy of it."
The prince was an understanding man. Duncan thought. A hedge knight refused the highest honor the crown could give, and he simply accepted it. The world kept making less sense ever since he awakened.
Duncan hesitated before responding. "I may not be your Kingsguard, but I'm still your man. You've helped me and trusted me when no one else would. If there's any other way I can serve you, I'd be glad to, Your Grace."
Prince Baelor gave a small, approving nod. "Just stay as you are, Ser Duncan. Remain true to your oath, and I'll ask for nothing more. The realm needs more good men."
Duncan's heart swelled with a quiet resolve. "I'm your man, Your Grace."
As Prince Baelor stood to leave, he turned to give Duncan one final glance. "Before you depart," he said, "speak with Maekar as well. He, too, likely has much to share with you."
True to Prince Baelor's words, Prince Maekar found him standing under a tree.
The days had been anything but quiet. Since he awoke, the maester had checked in on him daily, declaring he would need a few more days of rest before he could truly be considered healthy. Egg and Raymun visited often, along with Ser Emery. Even Ser Lyonel had come by once, though only to offer his well wishes before returning to Storm's End. But Prince Maekar had never done so.
It made sense to Dunk, Prince Maekar was never as affable as Baelor, and more importantly, Maekar had fought against him. Dunk couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility that the prince might harbor resentment, and a part of him quietly dreaded their inevitable meeting.
"You're a difficult man to see, ser." Was Prince Maekar's curt greeting. "I trust your injuries aren't troubling you too much?"
"Not as much as it used to, Your Grace." Duncan replied as respectfully as possible. "The Maester has done good work."
Maekar gave a brief nod, his sharp eyes studying Duncan for a moment before he turned and motioned to his companions—four guards clad in royal livery—to remain at a distance.
"A word with you, Ser Duncan," Maekar began. Duncan wondered if he was born with that resolute tone of voice or if it was something he practiced. "My son, Aegon, is insistent—stubborn as a mule, really—that he will serve no other knight but you. No amount of reason or persuasion will sway him. So, I've decided to make you an offer."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Join my retinue, ser. Serve as a sworn sword under my banner. You'll have a place in my hearth and table. In return, you'll continue to mentor Aegon as his knight. It's clear the boy respects you, and though I may not fully understand why, I cannot ignore his resolve."
Maekar's piercing gaze locked onto Duncan, his expression unreadable. "What you need, I will give, as long as it is possible. As my son squires for you, you will complete your own training under my own Master-of-Arms. There are many things you need to learn still."
Duncan was at a loss for words. "Your Grace," he managed, "I fought against you and your sons... and yet you offer me a place under your roof?"
For a moment, the proud Prince Maekar's stoic demeanor faltered, and a hint of regret flickered on his face. "Daeron has confided in me that he holds no grudge against you," Maekar admitted quietly. "As for Aerion..." He paused, his expression hardening slightly before softening again. "I've sent him to Lys. A few years in the Free Cities might do him some good."
Duncan didn't know how he should feel, but he was glad Aerion was no longer in the Seven Kingdoms.
"Will you have Aegon?"
"Your Grace," Duncan spoke. "I'm only a hedge knight. To entrust your son to me is a rare honor, I know. I will accept him as my squire—but only if he follows me on the road."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You've said yourself that I have much to learn, and I believe Aegon and I will learn better together out there than within the walls of a castle. He'll learn to sharpen my sword and clean my armor, to wear my old cloak, and live as I do—staying wherever we're accepted, be it under a landed knight's hall, or inns and stables, or perhaps sleeping under the open sky, beneath the trees."
Duncan met Maekar's gaze directly. "If he is to become a true knight, he must first understand the life of those he swore to protect. If you can accept that, Your Grace, then I'd be honored to take him as my squire."
Maekar's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Have your injuries addled your mind, man?" he said, his voice sharp with incredulity. "Aegon is a prince of the realm—of dragon's blood! And you want to have him sleep in ditches and gnaw on stale bread?"
The prince's tone carried both outrage and astonishment, as though he couldn't decide whether Duncan's words were audacious or simply absurd. His gaze bore into Duncan, awaiting an explanation that might justify such a notion.
Duncan had none.
"Neither Daeron nor Aerion ever did either," Duncan replied.
Maekar's frown deepened, his expression unreadable as he stared at Duncan for a long, silent moment. Without another word, he turned on his heel, his cape trailing behind him as he began to walk away.
He paused briefly, his back still to Duncan. "My thanks," he grated, as if the words were dragged from him. "For sparing my sons."
And with that, the prince continued on his way, leaving Duncan alone beneath the tree.
"So you took Aegon as your squire after all?" Ser Emery asked, tightening the straps on his horse's saddle.
"I did," Duncan replied with a small shrug. "So many things have happened that I never expected. This is just the latest of them." He glanced at Emery's horse and nodded toward it. "Where will you go?"
"I've no destination in mind," Emery admitted. "I suppose I'll follow the road and see where it takes me."
Duncan raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "If you've no destination, ser, then why not ride with us?"
"Ride where?"
"Until I speak with Egg, I've no destination yet also." Duncan admitted. "But I'm sure it won't take us long to decide."
Duncan was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I was a fool," he said finally. "I strutted around as a knight, thinking only of what it could bring me—glory, coins, maybe a better life. I never stopped to think about what being a knight truly means until the trial. There's much I still need to learn about knighthood."
He let out a weary sigh. "In that way, I'm no better than Egg—just as ignorant, just as untested. And now, I'm expected to teach him the meaning of knighthood."
Ser Emery's expression grew solemn at Duncan's words. "Do you expect me to teach you knighthood in turn?" he asked, his tone more serious than usual.
Duncan nodded, and Emery shook his head slowly, his gaze downcast. "I'm afraid that's beyond me," he said with a faint sigh. "I'm not as great as you think I am."
Duncan met his gaze, unwavering. "I've heard of your deeds, and I've witnessed them myself, ser," he replied. "I can name few knights as skilled as you, and even fewer as selfless."
To his surprise, Ser Emery looked guilty at his words.
"I'm a selfish man, Ser Duncan." He spoke. "Far more selfish than you'd know. There's nothing I know of knighthood that I can teach you."
Duncan was at a loss for words. No man willing to fight for a cause that wasn't his own, for no reward or personal gain, could ever truly be called selfish. Yet Ser Emery seemed determined to see himself that way, despite all evidence to the contrary.
The world stopped making sense long ago.
"Even so, I'd still ask you to accompany us, Ser Emery." Duncan said earnestly. "If not to teach, then simply as a friend."
Emery paused, considering the offer before nodding. "I'd accept," he replied with a wry smile. "As long as you don't expect me to teach you anything. The path I've trod isn't one I'd recommend to anyone. But," he added, his expression turning more thoughtful, "if we are to be traveling companions, may I ask you a question?"
"What question?"
"You were never sworn as a knight, were you?"
The question struck deep, and Duncan was silent, unable to answer. Emery hadn't asked if he had been knighted—he had asked if he had ever been. The shame rose in Duncan's chest, and he bowed his head, unable to meet Emery's eyes.
"How long have you known?" Duncan asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Ser Emery met his gaze calmly. "I suspected it from our first meeting," he replied. "Though I wasn't certain until the trial. You refused to knight Raymun because you were afraid of dragging him into your own lie, were you not?"
Duncan didn't answer immediately, the weight of Emery's words pressing down on him. "Then why did you fight for me," he asked, struggling to understand, "if you suspected the truth?"
Emery's gaze softened, but his voice remained steady. "Because I believe you're in the right. Knights aren't the only ones who can do the right thing. Whether you're a knight or not, I'd still fight for your cause."
"Even if it was a false cause?" Duncan asked, his voice heavy with guilt. "Only knights have the right to trial by combat. Because of my lies, two knights are now dead."
He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. Duncan knew, deep down, that his cause was just—but at the same time, he knew it was built on falsehoods. The contradiction gnawed at him, an unsettling puzzle he couldn't quite make sense of.
"I can't answer that, Ser Duncan," Emery said, his voice quiet but firm. "Nor can I speak for anyone else." He paused for a moment, then added with conviction, "But if it were me, I'd be proud to die fighting for my ideals."
"Had I not lied of my knighthood, I'd be the only one dying." Duncan insisted.
Emery frowned, his expression hardening. "Don't do that. The value of life isn't measured in numbers. To compare lives like that is the road to madness."
He paused, studying Duncan with a steady gaze. "Do you truly wish to die? Ask yourself, deep inside your heart, if you regret the life you won after that trial."
Duncan fell into a heavy silence with Emery's words pressing on him. He thought long and hard about the conflicting emotions churning inside him. Despite the guilt that gnawed at his conscience, despite the lies that weighed on his soul, he realized something he hadn't fully acknowledged before.
As regretful as he was, as much as he wished he could undo the past, he didn't truly wish to die. There was still so much of life he hadn't experienced, so many roads he had yet to walk, and deep down, a part of him still clung to the hope that he could find redemption.
Though the burden of his mistakes was heavy, and the path ahead uncertain, Duncan knew one thing for certain: he still wanted to live.
"If you don't regret your life, then live it," Ser Emery said as if he could guess what Duncan was thinking, his voice firm yet not unkind. "You've erred, but so has everyone else. If you regret the deaths of Ser Humfrey and Ser Willem, then live on in their honor, rather than blaming your own life for their deaths."
He gave Duncan a steady, knowing look. "Use the guilt to guide you, not to condemn you. There's more to do with your life than to carry the weight of your past."
"I see," Duncan said quietly. "I have so much debt to them, so many wrongs to right. I don't think I could ever repay all in a lifetime. Prince Baelor once said the realm needs good men. Do you think it would be enough—to simply be good?"
Ser Emery took a deep breath, considering the question before answering thoughtfully. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I think you underestimate just how difficult it is to be merely good."
The two men fell into a long silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, Duncan broke the quiet. "Ser Emery," he said. "Once I finally learn what it means to be a true knight, would you do me the honor of knighting me?"
"I offered to knight you before," he replied with a hint of a smile. "The offer still stands. When you believe you're ready, I will have you swear the words."
The two men walked in the direction of Duncan's camp, the quiet of their journey filled with the soft crunch of their boots on the earth. As they walked, the conversation slowly drifted between them.
"Did you know Prince Daeron dreamed of all of this?" Duncan asked, his voice thoughtful. "He told me he saw both of us before that night in the inn. He dreamed of two dragons falling. I suppose the dragons were meant to be Aerion and Daeron. They both fell, in the end."
Emery shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Who knows? Magic, if it's real, is by nature ambiguous. If the tales are true, dreams are rarely clear. What else did Prince Daeron see?"
Duncan hesitated for a moment before speaking. "He also said he saw you surrounded by swords, some sprouting from your own body," he continued. "It still confuses me. At first, I thought it meant you would die in the trial, but it doesn't seem to have any meaning now."
He looked at Emery, uncertain what to expect, but certainly not the laugh that followed.
"Is that so?" Emery said with a slight smile. "Well, forget what I said before. If Prince Daeron's dream is true, then I suppose it must be. I didn't know there was still magic in this land, but I suppose they're the blood of the dragons."
Duncan glanced at him, still curious. "You know what it means?"
Emery shrugged lightly. "Nothing that complicated. Just an old dream of mine," he replied with a hint of wry humor. "Don't be so confused. It wasn't that deep."
Duncan wasn't entirely convinced, but Emery's tone made it clear that any further probing would be fruitless.
"Look, there's Egg," Emery said, pointing to the approaching figure. "He must be here to fetch his ser."
Duncan waved to get Egg's attention, waiting for him to catch up. When the young prince finally reached them, Duncan grinned. "Egg, Ser Emery has agreed to travel with us."
Emery gave a small nod, his expression softening as he spoke. "Oh, and while we're on the road, just call me Emiya," he added with a smile. "It's an old nickname of mine."
Egg glanced at Dunk, clearly puzzled, and Dunk shrugged in return. He had no idea what Ameeya meant either.
"I'm glad you've decided to accompany us, Ser Ameeya," Egg said with a smile, his tone light. "Though I'm afraid we still have no destination in mind."
Duncan thought for a moment, then spoke up. "Why not Dorne?" he suggested. "I've never been beyond the Red Mountains before."
Egg's smirk widened. "Why not? I've heard of their famous puppet shows."
AN: And with that, we wrapped the first arc. Sorry for the delay, but lots of things happened. Couldn't be helped I guess.
This fic turn out to be the first one updated on 2025, so even if it's late, Happy new year folks!