summary: Two secret Targaryens are bound and determined to help a hedge knight make his mark at the Tourney of Ashford. Only it wasn't in the way they had planned for his name to be known.
cw: MDNI 18+ canon typical violence, death, swearing mentions of targcest, opposite of slow burn, eventual smut, reader has violet eyes, but other than that no physical description is used, etc.
moodboard
next update: 25.07.26
prologue
one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve
summary: A hedge knight arrives to an inn three Targaryen’s are currently hiding in.
words: 2.2k
cw: MDNI 18+ canon typical violence, death, swearing, mentions of targcest, opposite of slow burn, eventual smut, reader has violet eyes, but other than that no physical description is used, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
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209 a days ride from Ashford Meadow
"I do not understand why we're cutting his hair," you said watching as your elder brother shaved their youngest brother's gorgeous silver locks. It brought a
Daeron had somehow convinced their father to allow the three of you to ride ahead, without guards, just the three of you, and the open road. Maekar had somehow agreed. Though now that you were thinking of this you wondered if Daeron had lied about that part.
The eldest now had no intention of leaving the inn, til after the tourney much to both yours and Aegon's complaints of protests. You both wanted to go to Ashford, but alas your brother was not budging on his decision.
You wore a tattered pink dress and brown cloak that the innkeeper had graciously provided you. Egg and Daeron also wore lowborn clothes in an attempt to blend in. "It was nowhere close to the typical silk and garments that usually adorned your skin, but that was the least of your worries currently.
"Because if someone sees a small silver hair boy they will immediately know what family he is from," he answered with a shrug, causing your frown to deepen as you watched his beautiful hair fall away.
"It is okay. I don't mind," Egg assured you, but it did nothing to ease your face.
You only her pursed your lips, "We should just ride on to Ashford. Father, wouldn't even blink if we arrived without you," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Then he would ring me upside the head for allowing you two to wander off," he said finally finishing shaving Aegon's head.
The now bald boy looked up with a small grin, "How does it look?"
"As handsome as always," you assured him, kissing the top of his head. "I want some of the coin," you then said turning to the elder, a pointed expression filling your face. Your hands moved covering Egg's ears, "I know what your plans consist of and if you end up wandering off to wet your dick I don't want to be stranded," you added as the younger tried to push you off.
Daeron rolled his eyes giving, before giving you a third of the coin, Maekar had sent (or Daeron nabbed). He kept the majority for himself so his cups would stay filled, no doubt.
The three of you went on to eat together. And then the inevitable started, Daeron started to get drunk. You looked at him with a sad expression before leading Egg outside, mayhaps some fresh air before bed would do the both of you some good.
You sat down next to your brother, as you both stared around at the vast nothingness surrounding the inn, "I am sorry that we don't get to go. I know how excited you were to squire," you told him, a sad smile filling your face.
"We can still make it to the tourney. Once father knows we never arrived he'll come looking, especially since you're with us," he predicted. You hummed in agreement, not sure how long it would take for your father to discover the three of you.
Your brother's head perked up at the sound of approaching hooves. He stood to his feet making his way out to peek. You followed him, doing the same, but staying back in the shadows slightly.
"Hello there. Are you the stableboy?" a voice asked.
Egg said nothing approaching the man. You now peeked your head out, your eyes widened taking in the man's size. He stood almost the same height as his mount, his clothes worn, with an equally as worn shield across his back, suggesting he was more than likely a knight.
"I want the palfrey rubbed down. And oats for all three. You tend to them?" he asked, turning now showing his face. He was slightly dirty, but handsome nonetheless with dirty blonde hair, and eyes that appeared to be blue from this distance.
"I could, if I wanted," the young boy countered.
"None of that. See to the horses. You'll get a copper if you do well, and a clout in the ear if not," he said, trying to appear stern, handing the boy the reigns, still not noticing you lurking in the shadows.
Egg took them as the tall man made his way inside, "Are you going to tend to his horses?" you questioned.
"Mayhaps," he replied with a shrug. You chuckled, shaking your head before helping him to lead the three horses into the stable,
You watched him for a moment, petting the large brown one, whispering something you could not quite hear, "I am going to go put Daeron to bed. I am sure he's beyond drunk," you told him.
You entered into the inn with a sigh as you found Daeron exactly how you expected. You were unaware of the eyes following you as if they were star struck.
Your elder brother laid sprawled, drunk, over the table. You moved toward him, shaking him slightly, "Let us get you to bed," you whispered.
Within a flash, your brothers eyes to the knight sitting across from him, "I dreamed of you," Daeron drunkly muttered pulling his knife out, "Stay the fuck away from me. You hear?" he warned, weapon extended at the unknown man.
Your eyes widened in horror. Your hand shot forward ripping the knife out of his hands, as you pulled him to his feet.
The prince slapped a golden dragon to the table, glaring at the man. You wrapped you arm around his forearm, "He'll leave you alone if you leave him alone," you hissed pulling him sway from the knight.
"Seven fucking hells," you muttered shaking your head as you practically dragged your brother up the stairs. Daeron almost falling several times. Not seeming to help you in the slightest making you support most of his weight.
It was a miracle you finally got him into bed, and even bigger one that he did not puke on himself in the process. You pulled his boots free from his feet, before propping him on his side incase the contents from earlier made their way out through his mouth.
You sighed, pushing his matted head from his forehead, before pulling the blankets back over him, "Please do not spew on yourself," you whispered to him and preferably to the Gods to grant you this blessing not wanting to clean him in the morning.
With one last glance at him, you closed the door gently before making your way back down stairs. The unknown knight sat eating his food as he cautiously started at you, "I am sorry about him," you told him, a kind smile pulling at your lips.
He stared up at you mouth open slightly as if he couldn't believe you were talking to him. "No need to apologize," he assured you.
You nodded, sliding in across from the man as he continued to stare at you wide eyed, "Are you going to the tourney?" you questioned eyeing his shield, trying to rack your brain for whose House that sigil belonged to, but fell short. He nodded, as his mouth spluttered slightly trying to make words, "What is your name, ser?" you then asked.
"Dunk," he replied, finally able to conjure up words.
You laugh slightly, at his awkwardness, "Well, it is nice to meet you Dunk. I'm…" You thought over it a minute before telling him a nickname. Something that still belonged to you, but would not expose your identity fully. You reached hand across the table.
He stared at it a moment before wrapping his larger, dirtier one around your. You smiled once more at him, causing his stomach to flutter slightly as you moved to stand, "Do you wish to sit and eat me—I—I mean eat with me," he corrected himself. "I am not hungry, but I will sit with you."
"Alright," you agreed, a laugh slipping out as you continued to sit with him. Neither of you talked much, and when you would asked a question he would end up stumbling over his words before eventually getting an answer out.
Once his meal was done you made your way outside, toward the stables. Dunk had a small smile on his face as you walked beside him. It soon vanished as he heard his horse l and a small voice yelling, "Hiya! Take that! Yah!"
He moved forward with large strides, as you followed after him trying to keep up. He pushed opened the door revealing Egg on top of his horse wearing a chain mail and helm. You pressed your hand to her mouth to suppress a loud laugh.
"Aye!" the man yelled, startling the young boy.
"My lord!"
"You thief!" Dunk cried.
"He's not a thief if he returns it," you counted, crossing your arms over the chests.
"I did not mean to offend you," he insisted.
Duncan went forward pulling Aegon from the horse, "Take that armor off you. Now! And be glad Thunder didn't kick you in that fool head of yours. He's a war horse, not a boy's pony."
Egg took the helm off his head, "I could ride him as well as you," he argued.
You could not longer hide the amusement you felt. You bent over cackling causing Dunk to cast you a pointed look before he turned back to your brother, "Close your insolent mouth. I—I'm a knight, I'll have you know."
"You don't look to be a knight," Egg said plainly, comparing him to the knights he had grown up with.
"What, all knights look the same, do they?" Dunk asked, clearly offended.
"No. But they don't look like you either."
"It is a compliment even if he does not mean it as one. You don't look like a twat like the rest of them," you told the man.
He grinned slightly at the compliment. "Your belt is made of rope," Egg pointed out, ruining the elder man's slight boost of confidence.
"So long as it holds my scabbard, it serves," he said, trying to see impressive in front of the pretty woman.
"Are you going to the tourney, then? Do you mean to enter the lists?" the young boy now asked, changing the course of the conversation.
"Yeah, I suppose I do," the large man replied.
The boy's eyes lit up looking to you, "Take us with you, ser. Please," he begged.
Dunk glanced at you as if he was clearly thinking of it, "And what might your mother say to that?" he countered.
"Not much. She's dead," Egg replied flatly.
You cringed slightly, "Egg," you warned, lowly.
"Is the innkeeper not your...You're an orphan boy?" he now asked.
"Are you?" the boy countered, instead of answering his question.
"I was. Once. Til my ser took me in. Taught me arms and riding, and...taught me everything, really. Best he could," Duncan said, his eyes glazing slightly as if he was lost in a memory.
"If you could bring me to Ashford, I could squire for you, ser. My sister could wash out clothes or even just provide us entertainment. You can teach me the best you can," the boy told him.
"No, I have no need for a squire, lad," he said, with a shake of his head.
"All knights need a squire," you called out, moving toward him. You looked up to him your eyes pleading as he stared down at you.
In the inn he had thought your eyes were a blue, but being this close they appeared to be more of a purple. Which caused him to feel even more intrigued. His eyes analyzed your face as you stared up at him a smile on your lips.
"And you look like you need one more than most," Egg said, bringing you both back to the real world.
Dunk scoffed, "And you look like you need a good clout in the ear," the knight countered, throwing him a sack, "Fill me a sack of oats."
He looked back down at you. He shook his head fighting with himself over his next words before he finally grit them out, "I'm off for Ashford. Alone," he said though he stared at you, as if it pained him to leave you there.
You sighed, "Worth a shot," you grumbled. "Well. I am off to bed I wish you good fortune, Ser Dunk," you said. He didn't get the chance to reply, before you were gone disappearing into the night.
"You can continue to gawk at her if you take us with you," Egg tried, causing the knight's head to snap back toward him.
His mouth opened and closed slightly, as he tired to find the words to deny that he was gawking at the boy' sister, but that would have been a blatant lie. "Look, lad, I promise you...your better not squiring for the likes of me," Dunk said, as he finished.
Though his heart currently argued this was the wrong choice. He stuck with his gut this time. He did not want to disappoint anyone, and this was the safest option for all.
hymn to virgil taglist: @milescrypt
a knight of the seven kingdoms tags: @kyvillasstuff @goldengirl86 @scarletwolfxox @witch-of-letters @confusedwhitegirl10
summary: Two secret Targaryens are bound and determined to help a hedge knight make his mark at the Tourney of Ashford. Only it wasn't in the way they had planned for his name to be known.
cw: MDNI 18+ canon typical violence, death, swearing mentions of targcest, opposite of slow burn, eventual smut, reader has violet eyes, but other than that no physical description is used, etc.
moodboard
next update: 11.07.26
prologue
one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve
EPISODE 1. (pt.2)| SOMETIMES SELF AWARNESS IS OUR BIGGEST LOSS OF SELF
WARNINGS : mentions of grief, suicidal ideations, loss of parents, yearning, old flames, ex’s that ended on good terms
WC: 2.9k
SOMETHING, SOMEHOW, SOMEDAY MASTERLIST
Who would have thought it would take so many takes to perfect a day spent following a couple on little adventures? Yet somehow, after more than twelve hours on set, Khobe and y/n found themselves retaking a series of scenes they had been shooting since 6 am. “I feel like I am “Going to go insane, Khobe,” he says, glancing over from where he is leaning against his trailer. “Oh, really?” he says, more sarcastic than he intended, causing the girl next to him to give him the most aggressive side-eye she has thrown at him all day. “This outfit is overstimulating me,” the girl sighs as she moves through the many layers of the outfit she is wearing. “I haven’t sat down in six hours, my feet hurt, and if someone asks me to look into your eyes adoringly one more time, I think I might lose my mind.” Who would have thought the woman that most of Hollywood calls too closed off would be losing her mind over something like this? Yet here we are. Khobe laughs.
“Well, good thing we’re done now, sweetheart. I would hate for you to completely lose your mind,” Khobe jokes. “Who says I haven’t?” The joke lands, but not completely, prompting Khobe to realize there is something more bothering her. Although she has formed such incredible bonds with each individual on the cast, some more than others, one thing about Khobe is that he always knows how to read her. The smile she offers him tells him all he needs to know, not quite meeting his eyes, and the silence that follows feels heavier than the conversation intended. “Okay, what’s really going on?” His demeanor straightens, and his body language lets her know he is willing to wait as long as she needs to say what she needs. y/n looks down at her hands. For a moment, she considers brushing it off, but knowing herself, she is not capable of doing that when Khobe is around. “The way that everyone has been acting makes me feel like I’m doing it,” the girl sighs, thinking of everyone’s incessant need to see her and Belmont together when all she wants in this moment for herself is to be alone. “Khobe, I need you to be completely and utterly unbiased with me right now.” She looks into his eyes, hoping that he understands the gravity of the moment and what she is entrusting him with. His expression softened, and he nodded, knowing that she wouldn’t have asked that if it wasn’t something that had been eating away at her. “Whatever you need to say, I am here,” he replied.
“Do you think… do you think that I’m giving Belmont the wrong impression?” The words hung between them. “I don’t mean to do it intentionally,” she continued quickly. “I just… I just don’t know.” She laughed softly, as if it were meant as a joke. “I have always been a little affectionate, maybe a little flirty, but not because I’m trying to be. I guess it’s just something I picked up to make myself feel more human and not like I’m constantly playing a role, a way for me to seem approachable so that people can understand that I am not what the media portrays me as.” Khobe stayed quiet, allowing her the space she needed to convey everything that had been on her mind. “I think that has been bothering me,” she continued, rubbing at the rings that adorned her fingers absently. “For the first time in my life, I’m actually intentionally single.” The confession felt strange coming from her mouth.
“I wouldn’t say I’m alone because no one is interested, or that I’m waiting for someone, especially considering that the last year and a half have been anything but ideal.
My entire life has always been this loop of being constantly busy, and for the first time in my life, I’m at this crossroads, wondering if I still want to do this, but most importantly, if it’s worth pursuing something that might just be because of close proximity. Don’t get me wrong, I do like him.” The admission felt embarrassingly vulnerable. “But liking someone and being ready for them are two completely different things. Does that make sense, or am I crazy?” She sighed, not knowing if what she had said made any sense. After letting the admission sit, he spoke.
“I think you’re trying to protect yourself in a way you’ve never felt the need to before.” y/n didn’t argue because she knew he was right. “You’ve spent the last year surviving something that fundamentally changed you, as well as finally allowing yourself to grieve parts of you that you lost along the way, parts of you that were taken.” His voice remained gentle. “And whether” you realize it or not, a lot of people have become invested in this idea of you and belmont” she let out a breathe she didnt rember holding. “ im not talking about edits, or fans, or stephen and mika beig insufferable” thagt earned a laugh that he hoped to hear. “ i’m talking about us” y/n’s expression softened. “ the people that in such a short amount of time, have learnee to love you, someone none of us expected to ever cross paths with in our lives. “Of course, we’d love to see you with someone who makes you smile as much as he does, but I don’t think any of us would want it built on emotional enmeshment or attachment to him purely because he’s provided that safety net for you.” Those words hang silently in the air between them.
“I do know that, knowing you, you will have that conversation with him about this, and it will most likely be sooner rather than later. I also know that you have a few people you’re scared to let down because of it. I want to say it’s okay; people will be a little disappointed that it didn’t happen, but knowing who those few people are, they love you a lot, even if that means they have to set their ideas aside. Because y/n, at the end of the day, all that matters is that you feel at peace about everything; not yet spoken always means no; it could always mean later, and knowing Bel, that man would wait a lifetime before making you feel pressured into something you weren’t ready for.” Khobes says back truthfully, his voice steady in the way that always seemed to quiet the storms that are constantly raging around her head. “I do like him, but I just don’t think I’m in a place where it wouldn’t end in my emotional demise,” she sighs. “ I think you're giving yourself less grace than you would give anyone else who would find themselves in this situation.” y/n frowned, unaware of how well he could actually read her. “ if it were ella, mika, or even camila telling you tht they were trying to survive the hardest season of their life, wold you be telling them to hurry up and figure it out?” unable to let the word out she shook her head no. “ sometimes I feel like if I let someone love me right now, i would accidentally make them responsible for putting me back together” khobes expression softedned instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.” The nickname nearly broke her, even though she had heard it from him nearly every time. “I think that’s what scares me the most, not that I’d get hurt. I know how to survive that, but what if I wake up one day and realize I’m okay only because someone else is holding those pieces together, not because I took the time to figure out where they stop and I begin.” Khobe nods slowly, understanding a little more the true nature of what she has been feeling.
“Then it’s a good thing you already recognize that.” Y/n looks at him and smiles slightly. “People don’t accidentally become emotionally dependent, Y/n. The fact that you’re worried about it means you’re paying attention.” He offers a smile back to her. “Wanting someone isn’t the same thing as needing them, and when the time comes, whenever that is, I think you will know the difference.” Y/n exhales shakily, really harboring those words. “I do like him, though.” Khobe laughs. “You’ve been trying to convince everyone else that you don’t.” A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “While the only person you’ve been struggling to convince is yourself.” She side-eyes him yet again. “It’s really been that obvious.” She sighs. “I can’t with you, oh my god.”
“Well, this is officially our last normal filming day together before I, you know, you know” Khobe eluded to Beau’s inevitable demise. “Get out of my trailer.” Although Khobe knows she is joking, he makes his way to the door, but makes sure to give her a hug that makes the world feel less heavy.
khobeclarke & ynjones
Sabrina Carpenter- Don't Smile
liked by mika.abdalla and others
khobeclarke & ynjones mal and beau signing off
comments
user wait.....
ynjones okie
khobeclarke we will do that i guess.
mika.abdalla this could have been an email.
user yeah it could have
user hey so... uninvolve me
khobeclarke noted
ellabright_ mom & dad nooooo
liked by jalenthomasbrooks and 3k others
mkia.abdalla no more rommies
ellabright_ im not okay
stephenkalyn this makes me really sad
ynjones oh stephen
stephenkalyn you're still hanging out with us right RIGHT ynjones
ynjones I promise
antoniocipriano my favorite briar couple
ynjones dang i owe khobe $20
khobeclarke I told you we were the favorite
user has anyone checked on belmont?
jalenthomasbrooks he is not taking it that well
stephennkalyn when he saw y/n crying he didn't let anyone else hug her they have been in that same postion for the last 2 hours
ellabright_ we just let them have the moment
mika.abdalla i was told to leave them alone but I want to hug y/n
ynjones guys i actually cannot move at the moment he wont get off me he fell asleep when we moved to the couch
ellabright_ wait thats so cute
ynjones no I cannot move anything
user stop it
user does this mean no more y/n and Bel content
ynjones I can assure you that it does not
user this this mean no more online y/n we just got her back
ynjones I can also assure you that I have a lot of things coming soon.
khobeclarke this was fun, you're a fun gf ynjones
ynjones im glad i don't have to carry your stupid football stuff anymore
khobeclarke you loved it
user still no belmont comment
user i know i thought he would be the first one.
antoniocipriano_ he ligitimatly just woke up from a nap on y/n
mika.abdalla i've never seen such a big man look more comfortable
ynjones speak for yourself my whole body hurts
user belyn crumbs
ellabright_ trust we have crumbs
ellekennedyauthor I honestly wish i wrote about you both in a book
khobeclarke it's not to late to scrap summer
ynjones so like I don't know if you rember but....
khobeclarke so i won't miss you.
ynjones
Kendrick Lamar, SZA - luther ( with sza)
liked by belmontcameli and others
ynjones brairU it's been a pleasure mallory hayes taking her last Révérence
ellekennedyauthor it has been a plesure watching you act in real time, the way you made mallory feel so real, you're the brightest star.
ynjones one of my fsvotite projects that i have had the honor of being apart of!
mika.abdalla forever my sister
ynjones love you sweet girl
ellabright_ rommies for life
ynjones you know it
user im so sad
user we just got active y/n back
ynjones I promise I am not going anywhere
melanie_realina oh boy
qdotgrimes goregeous angel
liked by belmontcameli
user noooooo
jalenthomasbrooks best su chef in the books
ynjones happy to be of service
belmontcameli miss you star girl
ynjones I haven't even left yet
belmontcameli I know I am just preapring for the inevitable.
ynjones Bel
stephenkylan you're pretty cool
ynjones oh I know
victoriasalenacavalli mi angelo is coming home
ynjones oh how i cannot wait to hug you mommy
camilamorone MY BEST FRIEND IS FREE
ynjones I was never locked up
camilamorone from the shackles of a yearning man
belmontcameli hey
camilamorone hey so i never said i was talking about you, you did tat yourself
ynjones I AM SINGLEEEEEEE
belmontcameli I can change that
this comment has been delted.
user oh my...
antoniocipriano_ going to miss our dance breaks and kareoke sessions
ynjones my fav duet partner
user wait I am sad we didn't see much of this duo
louisalevy thank you for being our Mallory
ynjones it has been an honor!
leahketab my icon
ynjones oh I adore you
user i love this friendship
haileybieber my angel girl
ynjones when im back in cali a girls day is needed
bellahadid Do i here the band getting back together
kendalljennar oh the girls are so back
camilamorone count me there
leahketab oh I am so there
justineskye oh i'm so down
ynjones the archive has been reactivated
user its like we just watched the avengers just assemble
user it really is 2016 again
“Hello, hello, hello, it’s been quite a while. Welcome back to my little corner of the internet. This feels a little weird.” y/n laughs allowing the words to really sit.
“I almost didn't film this. Actually, I was going to completely ignore Mel's text from Monday when she pitched this altogether. I kept asking, “Who is asking for another podcast?” and then I realized maybe i wasn’t making this for anyone else and just as an outlet for myself”. y/n laughs.
“So welcome to a little series where, in all honesty, I just get to give you all little glimpses into my life while navigating what it looks like to be a girl in her 20s. Welcome to sit with me." she smiles at the camera that is infront of her"
“As you can see, we’re not at my home back in Santa Barbara. This is my Vancouver apartment which I am currently aslo in the process of packing up. I don’t know if you guys know this, but I’m the biggest introvert you’ll ever meet. I know, shocking. I think that the older I get, the more I appreciate being alone and not having to be around people constantly.
" Don’t get me wrong. I love my friends, but I love being alone more, especially because my work is so demanding. It’s truly nice to have those moments when I can just be alone." “I've come to realize that there is a difference between being alone and feeling lonely. For a really long time, I thought they were the same thing. I think because I’ve spent the majority of my life constantly being surrounded by people, that somewhere along the way I convinced myself that if I wanted to be alone, something had to be wrong. But honestly…. I think solitude is where I have felt that I can hear myself the clearest”
"Lately, life’s been weird. I don’t know. I feel like I’m in a room full of people. As cliché as that sounds, I can be seen, but sometimes I’d rather not be. I’ve been doing this for most of my life, and the more I continue to do it, the more I wonder if I see myself as up for failure. The thing about your 20's and navigating what life looks like is that everyone makes it seem like what you choose in your early formative years is what you’re stuck with for the rest of your life.”
“In this moment I don't really have a plan for what I want to talk about, this is sort of an introduction. To be quite honest, rigt now i'm living life with this sort of survivor’s guilt, if that makes sense. I don’t want anyone to take this as me complaining about any aspect of my life. I guess, for me, talking out what my brain sounds like has always been something that allows me to process the different parts of my life. And yes, I understand that many people may see this as me being out of touch, though that isn’t what I’m trying to convey. I don’t know, I guess I just don’t know. This is me trying to feel human, because at the end of the day, behind all of the different parts of my life that have been displayed, that’s all that I am; a human.” she exhales letting out a breathe that for some reason was being held in “Doing Jake's podcast reminded me how much I missed talking. Not interviews. Just talking, “ then it became something where, somewhere between answering the questions and driving home to get ready for dinner, I realized there were still some things I hadn't said.”
"One thing I have come to realize at this stage of my life is that I have become so self-aware to the point that it creates a version of myself that feels inadequate in everything I do, especially in my work. As I have navigated what that looks like, I have come to realize that sometimes, when we are searching for ourselves, especially during seasons of life that come unexpectedly, our own self-awareness can cause us to lose who we truly are at our core. Learning that at 27 years old has been something I have had to sit with.
"In all honesty, after losing my dad, grief has this funny way of introducing you to someone you've never met before. Yourself, and suddenly, you're making decisions that don't feel like your own. Everything about you is different, and you stop recognizing the girl in the mirror. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't trying to become myself again; I was trying to become someone entirely new. Because that version of me existed before my dad died doesn't excite me entirely anymore, and maybe that's okay. I became a version of myself I never wanted to be, a version of myself that, even through every news season or era of my life, hated waking up because the love I had thought I knew from my dad was gone".
" If there were a book on how to live life through constant seasons of grief, I would have annotated every page and read it at least fifty times by now. Nothing in the world can prepare you for grief, even though it is inevitable in the human experience. To be completely honest, the way I view myself has been heavily shaped by my inability to truly process what the last few years of my life have looked like. I don’t mean to be so somber about everything. There are times when being in the public eye has made me feel less human, like my humanity has been stripped from every part of me, and I’m expected to speak about everything, anything, and yet nothing at all. That if I make some wrong move, I am entitled, when all I really wanted to feel was human. To level with you all, last year, the beginning of filming for Off Campus truly saved me. The people who managed to walk right into the last two years were a big fork in the road for all my plans. I found myself looking in the mirror, wondering why I decided to actively try to take something that was just beginning.
I get a lot of questions about how Camila managed to stay so close despite the distance between us. If you believe in guardian angels, I will tell you wholeheartedly that she was mine. When no one understood the constant battle I was facing, she did. She truly is one of the soul reasons why life is worth living. She constantly reminds me that it is okay to feel every single emotion I feel, even though everyone thinks I'm this cold-hearted bitch. I promise I'm not. My ability to get on people's level and empathize with what they are going through has immensly changed in sucha short period of time . The people who choose you repeatedly, despite your mistakes, are the people worth holding on to. "
"Grieving will never get easier. Living in this limbo when it comes to survivor's guilt is also something I am still trying to navigate. The people I get to surround myself with throughout it all has really affected how I view everything. Some people walked into my life this year who completely changed what I thought healing looked like. This has been arguably the best cast I've been part of, besides Spiderman. Choosing the right people can make that process more bearable. It's something I'm learning to find comfort in. Finding those people who choose to stand by you and love you regardless of everything has been the most important thing to me. It is because of them that I am choosing to simply love myself, with all my scars and imperfections, and that is why I am accepting that it is okay not to be okay. To me, that is something I would not change for the world, because at the end of the day, a life with grief is still a life worth living, and that is what makes mine beautiful!" She smiles again, moving the microphone in her hands back and forth as she is trying to figure out how to end the video.
"I know that this was a lot. I know Mel is going to send me the longest ass text about how my “return” to YouTube was supposed to be less daunting, but hey, this is who I was in 2016, I am just less confused about how to say what I am trying to say . Anyways, I promise this won’t always be this dismal. I don’t know what it’s going to look like from here, but I just wanted to be really honest about where I am. This has been… It’s been something… Maybe we’ll go back and forth from sit downs to little vlogs, or I’ll keep the vlogs separate from this.
Thanks for sitting with me”.
Camila | Belmont | Quentin
DIRECTORS COMMENTARY
Hi Angels, I am back!
I am excited for the Sit with my/ vlogs. I originally had the beginign of this chapter already written then I had an idea to start sit with me, some of it is acrually from my comp 1 english paper from my freshmen year of college, and it felt quite fitting to add here. I am really excited to keep writting this, I also thought about using the Drew Starkey plot, ten decided against it becuase I fear Quentin Grimes owns my heart as well.
Don't forget to Reblog and comment (Especially if you would like to be added to the taglist!)
I wish that tumblr would pull a wattpad and add comments throughout the story, I loved that about wattpad, but thats just my thoughts.
ynjones do you ever think before you type ANYTHING khobeclarke
khobeclarke what I didn't say anything bad
user not ONE picture with Belmont
mika.abdalla everyones favorite step-sisters
ynjones allie and mallory supremecy
ellabright_ wait send me that picture I love
ynjones on it 🫡
masiemarie best dance trio Briar ever did see
lanirae i know that's right
ynjones thank god my mom made me take dance as long as she did.
belmontcameli your dance skills are quite impressive.
stephenkalyn buddy please
user the closest thing we will get to bringing back WAG y/n
camilamarone sadly I do not forsee her ever doing that again
ynjones cami i swear
belmontcameli 😏 📸
ynjones you are quite strange
belmontcameli so you can reply
madelyncline so like when are you coming tro NC
ynjones idk why
carlaciagrant babe you know why
madisonbaileybabe girl
jonathandavisofficial even i know why
ynjones could this not have been a groupchat message or.
camilamarone we all know you wouldn't answer that
ynjones some best friend you are camilamarone
user oh so the podcast was def talked about in the obx cast gc
madeyncline yeah we almost got him to log back onto instagram too.
ynjones again a gc would have sufficed
user y/n stressing in her own comments makes me laugh everytime
mika.abdalla roomies debreif tn?
ellabright_ I agree
ynjones you both won't let me say no so i will be there
camilamarone facetime me
mika.abdalla obviousley
khobeclarke mind you we still have a whole hour and a half left just for this scene.
ynjones don't remind me.
qdotgrimes goregeous as always
ynjones oh
camilamarone y/n DO NOT FOLD,on second thought, do it.
ynjones ALL I SAID WAS OH
camilamarone think about the prospects
ynjones there are NONE I AM HAPPILY SINGLE!
victoriasalenacavalli Mi manchi, angelo mio. ( love you my angel)
ynjones miss you too mommy ☹️
khobeclarke
Troy Sivan -Rush
liked by stephenkalyn and others
this is what i would call what beau sees
ynjones, stephenkalyn, belmontcameli
comments
ynjones why do you have so many pictures of me sleeping
khobeclarke don't worry
stephenkalyn yeah there is no need to worry that pretty little head of yours
ellabright_ we have a groupchat called I spy y/n were we soley send pictures of places we find you either asleep or dazed.
mika.abdalla you were not supposed to say anything
victorialovatsis I am glad I was not the one to tell her.
user I see why they were casted to play a couple
ynjones becuase we're both baddies
camilamarone whatever helps youy sleep at night
belmontcamlei damn i look good.
jalenthomasbrooks and this my friend is how you get nothing
belmontcameli I am going to punch you
user tell him to get out of the car neowwww
sttephenkalyn why is yn in this so many times and im here once?
ynjones be greatful you even made it at all
stephenkalyn Breaking News Hollywood's golden girl is the rudest human to grae the face of the earth.
user now that i have seen her, i do not understand how and why quentin broke up.
camilamarone i ask myself this everyday
user quick what team is everyone on: belmont, quentin, or drew?
ellabright_ wait i don't like this question
mika.abdalla sorry bel but im team wag
stephenkalyn belmont
antoniocipriano_ belmont
ellabright_ i love bel but GUYS DREW STARKEY
madelyncline DREW
carlaciagrant Joseph
madisonbaileybabe Joseph andrew
jonathandavisofficial Quentin
camilamarone If i say my answer i will never be allowed near her again and i can't live like that. So I am choosing silence.
qdotgrimes her
belmontcameli her
ynjones myself tf, i've been single for a two whole ass year's and I actually enjoy it,let me have this one.
madelyncline two years my ass
camilamarone you are one badass lier ynjones
belmontcameli it's not to late to delte this.
khobeclarke get out of my comment section
ynjones why we look good
khobeclarke yeah what she said
ynjones you wish that was you hu
belmontcamelli and if i siad yes,
ynjones womp womp.
user she's funny i like her
mika.abdalla so does belmont
ellabright_ a lot
antoniocipriano_ painfully
DIRECTORS COMMENTARY
Hi angels, here is the next part. I am still working on the tag list so that should be updated by the next part. I was in a silly mood when I started this so I thought I might just play along with what I have and I promise it’ll get better.
Y/N Jones is an American-Italian (because of her mom), actress, and model. The daughter of the late acclaimed African American director Marcus Jones and fashion curator Victoria Selana Cavalli Jones, she has become one of Hollywood's most acclaimed and sought-after young stars, known for her versatility, charm, and captivating on-screen presence. Widely regarded in both the fashion and entertainment industries, Jones has earned a reputation for her professionalism, humility, and ability to bring depth to every role.
Y/N Jones, who somehow manages to become Hollywood’s favorite it girl without ever really trying to be one. The kind of person who says thank you to crew members, remembers people's names, and still gets nervous on every project.
Filmography
Michael
Materialist
Eternity
Anora
The Barbie Movie
Maxxxine
Pearl
x
The Buccaneers
Hollywood
13 Reasons Why
POMS
Fahrenheit 451
Spider-Man: Homecoming
The Princess and the Frog
Y/n Jones, who didn't always dream of acting; for years, her backup plan was to become an art curator/ historian . She studied it in college because she always believed that some of the most important things people have ever felt were expressed through art instead of words.
Y/n Jones, who loves shows and movies that execute the stories that are told in books well, but when given the opportunity to play a character that is not mentioned in the off campus series, even if that character's story was quite close to her own current season of life.
Y/n Jones, who could get lost wandering through art museums for hours, reading every plaque, and “accidentally” losing track of time.
Y/n Jones, who loves statement pieces, lace, vintage fashion, and chic but sheer pieces.
Y/n Jones, who will always choose acting over modeling, even though she has built her career doing both, purely because she loves discovering the root of who her characters are.
Y/n Jones, who, along with shoes, bags, and clothes, collects hobbies like they're her favorite candy. If it keeps her busy and piques her interest, she wants to do it.
Y/n Jones, who is constantly making things with her hands because creating has always felt easier than sitting still with her thoughts.
Y/n Jones, who loves traveling not for the luxury but because it allows her to see how other people live, their culture, and what they create, especially the stories they have to tell.
Y/n Jones, who loves hearing people’s stories, whether it be strangers, family, or friends; it doesn't matter. She thinks that everyone has something worth saying if you're willing to listen.
Y/n Jones, who’s compassionate to a fault, endlessly curious, and believes that communication is the key to solving problems when it is done in a healthy way.
Y/n Jones, who could spend hours talking about books, especially Little Women. She's the kind of reader who underlines and annotates her books, and every emotion she feels while reading is visible throughout the pages.
DIRECTORS COMMENTARY
I am very aware that in the books, Beau and Summer have a thing, but for the purpose of this story, that didn't happen. I promise it will all make sense!
Something, Somehow, Someday | Belmont Cameli☆ smau & irl au
Genre
slow burn, co-stars to lovers, friends to lovers, he fell first, she fell hard, he loved the loudest, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION!
(FC for y/n will be Laura Harrier along with Alisha Boe and various pictures on Pinterest.)
Pairing
belmont cameli x oc!costar!reader
Media Coverage
The social media of our lovely cast!
More fun things to come!
Synopsis
Y/n is a nepo baby in every sense of the word, something the media has never let her forget. Born into a legacy, Y/n grew up surrounded by fashion archives, red carpets, film sets, and some of the most influential names in entertainment. As the daughter of Victoria Selena Cavalli, one of fashion's most iconic household names, and the late Marcus Jones, she inherited two worlds that were larger than life.
To the public, she is the definition of Hollywood royalty, but they don’t quite see beyond the persona she has built for herself, missing the humble, gracious girl who has pushed herself to a limit that can no longer be defined. Instead, they have labeled her as just another nepo baby who has been handed it all on a silver platter, when in reality, she is just a girl who inherited the world before she was old enough to understand it.
As her life in the spotlight takes an unexpected turn into a season no one is ever truly prepared for, she accepts a role many believe could be a career regression. In reality, it becomes the role that connects with her more than anything she has done before. Raw, complicated emotions; maybe because, for the first time, she no longer has to pretend she is perfectly put together. She never imagined herself playing a role in a book that she had read just for the fun of it, even if it meant playing a character that never quite existed. She never expected that playing Mallory Hayes would heal her in a way that was unconventional.
What she doesn't expect is to find herself falling for her co-star, something she swore she would never do. Especially not someone like Belmont Cameli: a man who sees through every carefully built wall she's spent years hiding behind. Someone who makes her realize that safety was never supposed to feel like confinement.
Belmont never expected to fall for the girl Hollywood had labeled as closed off after the sudden death of her father, but somewhere along the way, he began to understand that Y/n Jones was never distant; she was just a girl who learned how to perform before she allowed herself to heal.
Warnings:
Parental loss, angst, discussion of loss, trauma, communication, survivor's guilt, alcohol consumption, nudity, grief, panic attacks, ED
About Y/n Jones
the women behind the headline!
SOMETHING, SOMEHOW, SOMEDAY
☆ The pilot
☆ episode 1
☆episode 2
☆ episode 3
☆ episode 4
☆ episode 5
☆ episode 6
☆ episode 7
☆ episode 8
☆ episode 9
☆ episode 10
This all is going to take place after this season has already come out !
DIRECTORS' COMMENTARY
Hi guys, I’m honestly really excited for this series! It honestly stemmed from a dream and some life experiences as well, so this is purely self-indulgent in the best way possible. I’ve been sitting on this idea since they announced Belmont as Garrett, so I’m truly so excited to share it. The name of the series is from Rolemodels' song Something, Somewhere, Someday
First off, my layout is very largely inspired by @calumsargwife , @astridwisp , @maverist
This series explores grief, healing, and everything in between that we don’t often see others navigating, as well as what it means to find safety amongst people when you have spent a majority of that time protecting yourself. While at its core it is a romance, it is also a story about growth, loss, and allowing people into that.
Thank you for supporting me and my little corner of the internet; I cannot wait for you to experience this story with me!
Also don’t be afraid to comment, I love talking to you all it makes my heart happy!
Discussion of loss, grief, angst (let me know if I missed anything )
WC: 4.6k+
Reblog and comment!!
passthatpuss
Liked by belmontcameli and others
passthatpuss surprise the ynjones made her Therapuss debut!
Miss Hollywood it was pleasure. Avalible to you guys now on all platforms including netflix!
Comments
belmontcameli 🫨
ynjones can we not
belmontcameli now that you said that, we shall
ynjones you piss me off
ellabright_mother
passthatpuss right
sofiarichiegrainge my babies
passthatpuss guys i actually do not know how to be normal about htis at all
liked by ynjones and others
mika.abdalla that’s my best friend.
camilamorrone I will allow this, but just know i was here first.
ynjones
jalenthomasbrooks quite excited for this listen.
bellahadid my babygirl!
kyliejenner this is so major.
kendalljenner queen
victoriasalenacavalli my princess, I’m so proud of you.
therealmalichijones where are your clothes?
ynjones stfu
victorialovatsis oh, I cannot wait for our dinner debrief!
shot May and released May 26th
Session 124: Y/n Jones
Therapuss with Jake Shane
This is one of those moments where I felt like I was dreaming because what do you mean that this is real.....
Thank you, Liquid IV, for sponsoring today's episode!
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Instagram | ynjones
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Instagram | @passthatpussTikTok | @octopusslover8
Listen to "THERAPUSS"
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/1BHDdC0OVuHqZ706FobfOF
Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/therapuss-with-jake-shane/id1723626781
Amazon Podcasts: https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/93117357-1f23-46e1-8f26-88f5182a68b8/therapuss-with-jake-shane
Jake was already bouncing off the walls, having only met Y/n less than an hour ago, and had gone to sit down on the couch across, where he had thought Y/n had already made herself comfortable. Seeing that she was not already in the designated spot, he took it upon himself to really soak in the entirety of the moment that was about to take place.
“Oh my gosh, this is incredible. I am literally shaking right now. Louise, wait, I’m going to throw up,” He says, talking to his producer about how unreal of a moment this seems to be
“Wait, am I allowed to come in frame yet, or do I have to stay over here? I'm kind of cold. I don’t think I fully comprehend how cold it would be in here when you texted me this morning.” Y/n had already been debating all morning whether she was actually going to show up today. Truth be told, she had cried while driving to the film location, but she wasn’t someone who quit when things got hard. If anything, she embraced what those moments had to offer. Yet having to be in a place while already experiencing so much change had felt daunting, and yet her face had never shown it.
“You're all good, Y/n. We have a blanket ready for you on the couch, so we can go ahead and get started if that sounds good to you.” Louise, the kindest soul, had reassured her. Y/n nodded, thankful for the patience of the team guiding her around the set. “This is so homey, oh my gosh. Sorry about that, I honestly had no clue that you wanted me over here already. I was just standing over there, freezing my ass off, while looking around like a little lost child.”
“I promise you it is more than okay. I am still in shock that you even said yes, especially considering this was so last-minute.” Jake had apologized profusely all morning, still trying to comprehend how he had managed to pull this off.
“Jake, as much as this scares me, I am so honored to be here. Every time you show up on my FYP, I laugh so hard because your energy is infectious. When Kiley told me you and she were filming the other week, I am pretty sure I let out the loudest audible sigh ever heard.” The words had flown out of her mouth before she fully grasped that the fact that she would be on the app would surprise people.
“Wait, hold on, you have TikTok. Before, people are all up in the comments talking about how everyone has TikTok. We haven’t seen you on any other platform other than Instagram since your vlogs in 2016-2020.” He was perplexed that he had made it onto her FYP, let alone that she had known all about his shenanigans on the app. “I mean, I have the app; I just got tired of everyone sending me TikToks and not being able to open them unless I had an actual account, but I don’t necessarily post on that account. Well, actually, I’m lying. I definitely post on it. It’s just a private account with all my friends, so basically my whole page is just me vlogging for them, and my feed is very much curated as well. I am pretty sure I only follow ten people, one of them being you, of course.” The energy in the room was shifting, and anyone in that moment could see that y/n’s guard was coming down- not that she is a guarded person, but rather that she is very attentive to the people she surrounds herself with.
“Before we start, I just wanted to say thank you for being here because I know this is something that you do not do often, so I do not take this lightly at all,” Jake exclaimed. There were no words in the English dictionary that could adequately sum up the honor he felt in being able to share this moment with her.
“Well Pussies, today's guest, I have been quite excited and nervous for since our teams were in contact, i honestly didn't know how we were able to pull this off, but I am so excited to be here with you i have been obsessed wit you and watching you on off campus really solidified my love for you even moreso i feel like i am benign quite tame, Miss Y/n Jones welcom to therapuss” Jake announced. “ Thank you so much, also guys i don’t know if you can see it but this blanket has a bunch of different pictures of belmont and i think its hilarious, hes always with me wherever i go i guess” Y/n laughs about the gag gift Jake and his team had handed her once she had said she was cold. “ it was actually my best friend brett’s idea, she said that you would truly appreciate it” he laughs causing y/n to laugh along with him. “ i will cherish this always, he will be with me no matter where i am ” she says playing into the moment. “Okay, I have to ask, how are you? I'm pissed off about what is eventually happening to Beau. How do we think Mallory is going to be?” he asks, curious about her answer. “Well, season 2 was announced, so I am a little scared to see how they play it out. I read the books, and, to be transparent, I am rereading them because it's been a while. I called Khobe, sobbing because it all just clicked again with what was happening to Beau, and he FaceTimed me and made me laugh. But it is going to be so strange. They made everyone so close to Beau on the show, and my fragile heart can't take it; he is just my baby. I usually don't particularly like it when they create characters that don’t really exist. Still, it's been a really fun experience getting to play a character I feel so similar to. I loved getting to work with Khobe. He is honestly one of the best on-screen boyfriends ever, but I don't know. There are two very specific episodes coming out following Mallory and Beau for Season Two that we have already filmed, so you'll get a closer look at their relationship and the dynamics between them.” “okay, wait, since we are already here; whats the dumbest rumor you have seen about yourself recently?” he laughs as he asks the question, not expecting a serious answer. “Looking at your face, I know there is a specific answer you’re fishing for, and I will happily oblige. I need to address the camera for this one.
“Oh my gosh, guys, I love Belmont. He has truly become one of my favorite people on the planet, but he is NOT my boyfriend. I fear that some of you have edited us together, so many times that you’ve convinced yourselves that we’ve been secretly together this whole time. I have heard the speculation, and I would like to put it to rest. He has honestly been an amazing friend, along with the rest of the cast, since we started filming. Navigating loss as you start a new project is really weird, and it was truly unexpected, at least for me. So when you start something with a group of people who know nothing about who you really are, other than what headlines have said about you, it can be quite daunting, but they truly have become like family. Bel, he’s a great friend, attentive, compassionate, funny as hell. He understands my incessant need to communicate, even if it is something so minute. I just feel better if it has been communicated so that there is no room for misinterpretation. I do know that he will make someone really happy again one day. I have never met anyone so attentive to their surroundings and the needs of others. Still, he is also really good at communicating and understanding certain boundaries without pushing the line. As sad as that is for everyone and the editors, because trust me, I have seen them all. I am single. I have been single for 2 years now. I haven’t seen anything since Quentin and I broke up. Not that that is anyone’s business,” as she finished, the room around her exploded at how serious she was looking at the camera, her demeanor never faltering as if she was giving the 7 o’clock news.
“I still can’t believe you dated Quentin Grimes, not that you are out of his league or anything, more like I was lowkey hoping that you and Drew Starkey would.” Jake stopped, taking in his body language and connecting the dots. “Guys, she’s smirking so hard at me right now.” Jake shrieks as if he has hit gold. “No comment, but let me say this, and I will shut up. Wait, do I want to say this? I fear I am too sober to disclose this information. Wait, no, come here, I'll just whisper it to you.” The girl is not one to leave people waiting on need to know information, so Jake makes his way over to her. “ y/n, you’re lying to me right now; shut up. He does not, oh no, he totally looks like he likes someone that much to do that.” Jake is shocked at the information he was entrusted with. As the two of them died down, Jake asked another question.
“What movie is your comfort movie?”
“This is always a hard one for me to answer; it always is between Mamma Mia and Pride and Prejudice, wait, I'm lying, it's totally Little Women. Growing up, my favorite character was Amy March, maybe because I was the youngest child. I felt for a long time because I was the only one who entered the entertainment industry and had to prove that I belonged, or that I was worthy of the love my older brothers, in my eyes, had so easily received. It had become so hard to feel as though someone saw me and wanted me for me, not for my last name. There is so much beauty and depth to her; even though many people see her as the annoying younger sister, I deeply resonated with Jo. The fear of being chosen, and allowing hereself to be vunurablie and susceptible to the love that Laurie had to offer just because of the fear that somweonw was choosing, what waas in a way comfort and not out of love, a love that came from an utter fear of being independent from a perso whiles also masking the ability to show the emotions that were felt so strongly.” she answers the question in a manner that she felt was fitting in the moment, even though it wasn’t some profound answer.
“ What is something people think you would be really bad at, but you’re actually quite exceptional at?” Jake leaned in, not wanting to miss the answer to his question, as he saw your face light up.
“I would have to say piano. When I was growing up, my dad had a gorgeous baby grand piano that his mother had bought for him when he directed his first film. He was so enthralled by the world of music centered on the piano that he made it his mission to make one of us kids just as captivated by it as he was. I happened to be the one who fell in love with it in the same way. I think I was one year old when it entranced me in a way I can’t even begin to explain. My dad was playing Clair de Lune, L. 32. I was supposed to be asleep, and my mom was in Italy helping my Nono with something. My brothers were asleep, but their rooms were not in the same place in the house as mine, so that I could hear the piano loud and clear. I sat at the bottom of the stairs next to it, listened to my dad play, and cried. There is something so beautiful about hearing the melody of any song stripped down to just piano. It’s been a while, in all honesty. I haven’t played since my dad passed, but I hope to get to the point where I can sit and get lost in the keys again.”
Although she hesitated, y/n recounted the memory she never wanted to part with, as if it were yesterday, smiling while allowing a tear to fall, something that would later be screen-recorded and shared online to show she had emotions. Still, for now, she allowed herself to live in the moment, no matter the weight of what it carried. The room was silent, allowing the weight of the moment to settle, not in a way that it would be forgotten, but in a way that would allow the conversation to carry on and the room to settle in such a beautiful memory.
“You studied art history in college, which, when I heard that, shocked me. I don't know, I wasn't expecting it,” Jake admits. “Hey, I am glad you knew I went to college; most people think I didn’t even graduate high school, but I graduated from both,” she answers. “What is your favorite art piece? It doesn’t have to be a painting, but what is it, and why?” he concludes.
“Wow, okay, I am going to give you my answer and not the art curator side of me, if that's okay. My favorite art piece would have to be The Birth of Venus. The first time I saw it, I was 10, and it evoked a plethora of emotions that are still evoked whenever I see it. The picture itself depicts the goddess Venus, being reborn from a clam. On the left side, you see two winged male figures blowing flowers at her, and on the right side, a woman holding a blanket, as if trying to cover the goddess, who is seemingly nude, with her long hair cascading around her body. To me, it evokes how I have felt many times in this industry. Still, the lady covering me up is the headline, trying to paint me as this insensitive, entitled human being. The male angels are a mix of people praising me for my looks and who I am, while also signifying those who see me for the depth and attention to detail I bring to my work. The original meaning of the painting is rebirth, which in its entirety seems impossible. Still, I felt as though that doesn’t necessarily apply to me right now,” she explains, in a way that makes sense, allowing for every emotion to be felt in the tone that she is conveying.
“ I know that this is your first solso long for interview, since everything occurred with your dad, and i want to be respectful, so itf you don’t want to answer this next question, genuinely tell me and we can move on.” jake sayasz being attentive to the weight that comed along within this moment. “ your dad was such a significant figure in your life, and the entertainment industry, what is something about him that you wish everyone knew” jake asked letting it sit for a bit not rushing you but allowing for the space.
“When I think about my dad and the life he lived, even though he was good at what he did, he was extremely private. If I had to choose one thing, it would be how deeply he loved, and not in the sense of the feeling, but he loved the people around him enough to tell them things that may not have been the easiest to communicate. He was actually the person who encouraged me to go for the role of Mallory. He had said “ y/n, this is not a regression from where you have been but a progression to where you will be able to be, nothing in this world is below you when it comjes to your craft, you need to be willing to step out of yur comfort zone and allow yourself to truly feel all of who your character is” In 2019-20223 when filming for the X trilogy, and anora, i honestly felt this immens disconnect from the characters that i was playing and really thought about stepping away from the roles especially anora, my rime on set was very unpleasant, i honestly think it was one of the worst and msot uncomfortable experiences of my life. Something happened on set that left me feeling immense self-hatred, and it broke a lot of trust. My dad saw that and truly empathized with me, crying with me and allowing me to feel safe asking for space.
One thing was certain. He loved my mom with every fiber of his being, and that was quite evident growing up as well. They were like two peas in a pod, but the love he showed her wasn't based on circumstances or conditions; it was the most beautiful form of unconditional love and sacrifice. There were so many times he turned down projects just because my mom was doing something that needed him to watch my older brothers and me. They’re the reason I appreciate communication so much, because you can’t expect people to be mind readers. Allowing them the space to fully understand what you are feeling and/or need in certain moments allows for understanding that comes when words aren’t being said. He would always tell me that he would rather me overcommunicate what I need than not speak at all. She related, grateful to have memories to hold, even if they brought things to the surface that she was not yet willing or able to attend to in that moment. “Wow, that was beautiful. I am truly so sorry for your loss. I cannot even fathom walking through this whole era of your life. Still, I do know, from hearing just that, that he would be proud of you, and we could all see it when you were together. I mean, he sounded so proud of everyone close to him in life whenever I saw him in interviews, so there is no doubt in my mind that he is,” Jake relays remorsefully. The room held its breath, not in a way that felt like walking on eggshells, but in a way that allowed for the grief, even though y/n felt like she was lying to herself, because in reality she was. She didn’t believe a single thing she had said. The rehearsed answer was the only thing she felt she could do, even though there was some truth sprinkled into it. There was not one part of her that believed her father had loved her on his deathbed, because she never really knew he did. No one did, but her mom, and that was a truth she would have to navigate in her own time. “I do not want to take up too much of your time, but I do want to ask you one more question,” Jake exclaimed, trying to be still attentive but with a little lasting joy so that she remembered her time on his podcast as a moment of just existing.
What are you therapeutic about today?” he laughs, seeing that he had gotten a little bit of a smile from her. “ I am therapissed that I keep getting sent edits of me and a certain person, not insanely mad, pissed, just annoyed because I am loving being single, in other words, I've been doing what i want,” y/n states quoting the tiktok sound, with not a serious bone un her body about the confession because deep down everyone hopes her and belmont finally admit to themselves that they like one another.
“By pussies thank you for tuning in.” Jake closes out the podcast as y/n comes over and hugs him.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to let me be the person you let have this time with you,” he says into the hug. She doesn't say anything; she doesn't have to. “In all seriousness, do I get to keep this blanket?” she laughs, holding up the blanket with Belmomnt in every form, and Jake laughs and nods.
Y/n, you need to head out if you're making it on time for that dinner,” her manager says, ushering her to the door. “Well, this was fun; you have my number, text me,” she yells as she is being ushered out the door.
The car ride home was quiet. She had opted for complete silence after pouring out a piece of herself that she hoped was believable; a part of her knew she was genuine, but another part felt as if she were holding back the ability actually to feel and process her grief. They say it comes in waves, so maybe this was just another crash of emotions on the shore that is her life. Thankfully for her, the drive home is not that far, so she doesn’t have to sit alone with her thoughts for too long. As she pulls into her driveway, she sits there for a while, opting not to pull into the garage. Heading for the front door, she tries to ground herself by listening to the many sounds surrounding her as she makes it to the front door. When she makes it inside, she is immediately met with her one year old golden retriever, Mango, who mainly has access to the downstairs. “Hi, baby, how I missed you,” she says to the dog as if the dog would reply. As they venture to the kitchen, she grabs her phone.
Although she was aware that Belmont was most likely driving using his phone hands-free, a familiar knot settled in her stomach every time his name flashed across her screen. The idea of him being distracted by her, even for a second, always carried a weight she couldn't quite explain.
Somewhere between overthinking and staring blankly at the same page of a book she had stopped reading about twenty or so minutes ago, time slipped through her fingers.
A sharp knock at her front door had pulled her back to reality.
“I'm coming, hold on,” she called. Crossing the room, she swung the door open and was immediately met with Belmont's easy grin.
“Hi,” she said softly, her lips curling into a smile. “You look nice,” she whispered. His smile widened. “You look nice as well.” His expression softened as he studied her face, which she had grown accustomed to over the last couple of years of getting to know him. “And you look a little lost. Are you okay?” he asked attentively. “Do you need anything?” he asked, looking over the girl. For a minute, she considered telling him everything that had been running through her mind since she had made it home. Instead, she stayed quiet, opting for a soft smile. “I think I’m okay,” she replied. Belmont's eyes lingered for another second, not because he didn't believe her, but because even in this short time, he had come to know her. He knew that her “okay” and truly being okay were vastly different things. Still, he nodded. “Well, we must not leave everyone hanging; let's head out.” He nodded toward his car, and she nodded, running to grab her purse and coming back to close the door.
The evening air wrapped around them the moment they stepped outside, carrying the familiar scent of saltwater and blooming jasmine from somewhere down the street. The sky had just begun its slow transition to dusk, streaks of gold and pink stretching across the horizon as if painted on. For a moment, neither of them talked, because being in each other's company had never required constant conversation. As they reached his car, Belmont moved ahead of her, pulling open the passenger door before she could reach for the handle. It was such a simple thing, something she should have been used to by now; something so ordinary, yet somehow it had never felt ordinary coming from him. His hand found the edge of the door as he willed her to climb in. The other ghosted the nape of her back, never quite making itself comfortable there because that would cross an invisible line that they, she, had drawn between them. Close enough that her heart had increased in speed, something she had been trying to calm herself from noticing. It was ridiculous; they had spent countless hours together, filming, press tours, and late night cast dinners; yet somehow, the smallest gestures always managed to affect her the most. It was as though her heart had never quite gotten used to him, but then again, she had never been put in a position where a friendship like this meant too much for her to jeopardize. So she did what she did best and decided she had to pull away for her own sake because she was not ready.
By the time Belmont had settled into the driver's seat, she was already buckling herself in. He tossed his phone into her lap. “Aux.” She side eyed him. “The last time I was on aux, you booed me.” The words fell from her mouth in a sarcastic tone. “Y/n, you played Hot Wings four times.” He laughed. She rolled her eyes and looked for a song.
belmontcameli added to their story
ynjones replied to your story
ynjones
First off when did you even take this? Second get off your damn phone and pay attetion to the road.
A magician never reveals his secret & the light just turned red relax.
ynjones
you won't be the one relaxing when i take your card and pay for everyones dinner tonight.
I was planning on paying for your's anyways , that off campus check was pretty nice!
ynjones
you piss me off
you liked this message
“Hello, hello, hello, your favorite person is here,” Y/n announces to the group once she reaches the table, Belmont following behind her. “Finally, oh my gosh, it took you guys so long to get here,” Ella squeals as she greets the older girl with a hug. The moment her eyes find Mika, she knows. Although they had talked that morning and the girl seemed at peace with the decision, it didn't negate the hurt written across her face. Without a word, she crossed the room and wrapped her in her arms. Mika's shoulders immediately relaxed as though she had been holding it in silently for hours. Across the room, Belmont watched quietly, his eyes following the interaction, watching the way that yu/n instinctively showed up for the people she loved, even through her own hurt, knowing exactly what they needed. “Make it less obvious,” Stephen whispered, suddenly appearing next to him. Belmont blinked. “What?”
“The staring,” Stephen laughed. “Dude.” Belmont looked away, which only caused Stephen to laugh harder.
ynjones oh how I miss you. I feel like a wife whose husband is at war.
camilamarone WAR
ynjones that is what i said.
camilamarone i miss when you were off your phone.
user the show about the four guys scared of commitment?
ynjones sums it up perfectly.
ellabright_ Nope, is it any good?
ynjones nah
mika.abdalla lover
ynjones babbyyy
user the freindship I need
mika.abdalla we look hot
ynjones i need a tan stat.
user who is your favorite character?
ynjones hannahs helmet
ellabright_ garretts water bottle.
mika.abdalla tuckers wings
stephenkalyn wellsys car
antoniocipriano_ she has a car
ynjones no
jheuston yellow haze
jalenthomasbrooks deans six flags
khobeclarke beau's kazoo
belmontcameli garett
ellabright_ blocked
mika.abdalla and reported
camilamorone come home the bed is cold.
ynjones Belmont will not stop talking out of his ass, so unless you come pick me up im stuck.
belmontcameli
camilamorone take an uber, on me.
ynjones they scare me.
camilamorone valid.
victorialovatsis that debrif was in fact the best one we have had yet
ynjones all we did was talk shit
victorialovatsis duhh
stephenkalyn so what no picture of me
ynjones boo hoo
stephenkalyn rude
khobeclarke my fav onscreen lover,till death do us part
ynjones so..... you actually wont belive what i have to tell you.
khobeclarke shut your ass up
ynjones beau were breaking up
khobeclarke oh no whatever shall beau do.
ynjones Do not get in a car.
user
khobeclarke how am I supposed to get home ?
ynjones I don't know, walk maybe?
belmontcameli 👁️👅👁️
ynjones what if i just block you?
belmontcameli i know where you live.
ynjones ha 🫥
jalenthomasbrooks I would say that the show off campus is quite good highly reccomend
ynjones thank you, I will totally watch now.
user your honor I love them
user i'm still so confused why y/n is in tis show, isin't she too famous.
ynjones baby can i be your girlfirend
mika.abdalla if i can be yours
ynjones deal
belmontcameli wtf
user day545676158 of belmont being desperate for y/n on main.
belmontcameli
stephenkalyn so you all just hate me?
mika.abdalla you were otherwise occupied the whole dinner
ynjones she means that you were hogging victoria so yeah.
stephenkalyn she's my fiance
mika.abdalla and?
ellabright_ bels hands smell like beef
belmoncameli beans.
ynjones sleepover in my condo when were back in canada.
mika.abdalla yess
ellabright_ the roomies are back
jalenthomasbrooks
🎵 MoRuf & SZA- PT Cruiser
liked by stephenkalyn and others
look over there
stephenkalyn, antoniocipriano
comments
stephenkalyn not pictured belmont eating shit
ynjones don't worry it was pictured
stephenkalyn send it
ynjones liked this comment
belmontcameli what if i made you walk home ynjones
antoniocipriano did you crop me out of the secomd picture?
jalenthomasbrooks no comment
antoniocipriano blocked
mika.abdalla we took all those pictures for what?
jalenthomasbrooks 🤷🏽
ellabright_ over where?
jalenthomasbrooks everywhere!
user he's funny
stephenkalyn
🎵 Mario- Let Me Love You
liked by antoniocipriano and others
Smoke break before dinner becuase some people took way to long.
antoniocipriano
comments
belmontcameli stephen and I kiss on the mouth.
antoniocipriano stephen are you cheating on me.
stephenkalyn no
jalenthomasbrooks he's loyal belmont is lying.
ynjones this feels targeted
stephenkalyn how are you going to make a reservation and be the lst one there.
ynjones all you boys do is piss me off.
ellabright_
🎵 Fergie-Glamorous
liked by ynjones and others
me and mother
ynjones, jalenthomasbrooks, mika.abdalla
comments
ynjones my baby
ellabright_ oh how I love you
user I love how ella met her idol.
ynjones the first day we met she cried in my, and in that moment i became a mother.
mika.abdalla jalen is a cheater
jalenthomasbrooks no you just suck at pool.
ellabright_ 🫥
ynjones again i need a tan stat.
ellabright_ you look beautiful
mika.abdalla glowing even
belmontcameli you brought a drink in the bathroom eyuuuk
ynjones it is actually my drink.
ellabright_ yeah.....
belmontcameli
🎵 The Ballroom Thieves - In The Morning
liked by jalenthomasbrooks and others
No seriously, have you read those books off campus?
jalenthomasbrooks,ynjones,mika.abdalla
comments
ynjones so, when are you sending me any of the pictures you took tonight?
belmontcameli I be doing what I want
ynjones 😙🖕🏽
user so when are they getting married
mika.abdalla y/n and i have been married for 3 years.
ynjones yeah what she said
user i am living for how online y/n has been recently.
ynjones my team has not been.
user omg
user i love how y/n commented but didn't like the post
belmontcameli yeah yn, why did you not like the post
ynjones i am not a fan.
mika.abdalla #keepingmenhumble2026
ellabright_ #nothingisfree
mika.abdalla Send that those to me.
belmontcameli $50
mika.abdalla what if i just show y/n your....
belmontcameli woah now noneed to be violent
user one day we will look at these and rember when we lived in a y/n and belmont relationship denying drought.
ynjones I take it you did not watch the therapuss episode?
user I have but i still have hope
liked by camilamorrone and 100k others
camilamaorrone oh wait i didn't mean to like that.
user im dead they are so alike.
ynjones i mean we have been best friends forever so..
jalenthomasbrooks Looking good captin
belmontcameli thank you thank you I try.
stephenkalyn everyone hates me on this cast.
mika.abdalla quit crying
ellabright_ Have you read anything ever?
user 🫢
ynjones I saw him read one flish, two fish, red fish, blue fish the other day.n He looked like he was struggling
user 🫣
mika.abdalla then he read green eggs and ham.
belmontcameli 😶🫥😐
antonicapriano why are you jumping like that?
belmontcameli I don't know science?
The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and countless photos, and in 48 hours, they would all be on a plane back to Vancouver. As everyone drifted off, Belmont found himself once again in the driver's seat, with y/n beside him. His drive back to her house was filled with comfortable silence. Streetlights painted fleeting shadows across his dashboard as whatever playlist y/n had chosen played through the car. As he pulled into her driveway, neither of them made a move to get out. “Well,” she sighed dramatically, grabbing her purse as she unbuckled. “Try not to miss me too much in the next forty-eight hours.” Belmont lagged. “I’ll do my best.” “Goodnight, y/n.” She smiled. “Goodnight, Belmont.” She closed the car door and headed toward her house. Belmont stayed, ensuring she made it into her house before departing for his own place. Once the door had been shut, he finally made his way back home. Neither of them knew it yet, but this season of their lives, as they knew it, was going to change them in ways they never could have imagined.
DIRECTORS COMMENTARY
Hello beautiful humans, I had a vision for this so it is quite long , but I am so sorry that this took so long to Post, I had some family things come up that needed my attention so this got pushed back. I also am quite the perfectionist so I was being really nit picky about how this turned out! I hope you enjoy, and i am working on creating a taglist, so look out for that! I was up so late last night working on this😭😭
Morning light barely breeches over the horizon as Egg is the first to wake. His eyes open and staring towards Duncan, who still sleeps soundly. The young boy turns over to you, mouth slightly open as you snore lightly when he slowly gets up and walks over to Thunder who backs away from him at first until he holds a treat out in his hand.
The horse slowly approaches, taking the treat as a sign of peace between the two. Egg then walks over to where Dunk has placed his longsword against the tree and as quietly as he can grabs the blade, but steps on a branch. You stir lightly as you open your eyes and don’t see the young boy.
Dunk, in his sleep, has moved closer now that Egg has gotten up and sleeps beside you as you look from Dunk to the sky. Seeing that the sun hasn't even risen, you just blink and slowly shuffle as your mind stirs.
You slowly get up, blinking your eyes even more as the fogginess of sleep leaves you and spot Egg clutching the sword with wide eyes.
You squint your own as you look between him and Thunder who simply eats the grass at his legs. You’re quiet before simply sighing out and laying back down, but not before telling the young boy, “wherever you go, just be careful.”
He nods his head with a whispered, “okay,” giving a glance at Dunk who has now thrown an arm around your waist in his sleep and takes Thunder away to practice his squiring.
You lay back down, the weight of Dunks arm around your waist grounding you as you curl your body. Turning to Dunk you huff out a breath as Dunk stirs lightly.
"Is your boy awake?"
"Before the sun rises, he's your squire," you mumble out.
"Where'd he run off to?"
"Took Thunder and your sword squiring, he'll be fine."
Huffing out a breath of his own, Dunk just curls his arm further around your waist and pushes his front closer to you. Your head now getting tucked into his neck as your breathing evens out. Brain still fuzzy with sleep that he doesn't even realize he's tugging you close to him.
Later, when the sun has risen further above the horizon, Dunk wakes first seeing your face up close and puffing out light breaths. His mouth immediately falls open as he almost flies up but realizes your head is on his bent arm. He leaves his arm as he pulls his arm off your waist and tries to slowly get up without waking you.
"Seven hells-"
His eyes are flying from where his arm was on your waist to where you lay comfortably on his arm then to the sky to thank the gods for putting him in this position. He searches the area for Egg, but remembers you mumbling about him taking Thunder to practice squiring.
"Right, squiring," he slowly slips his arm from under your head as you stir lightly.
"What's going on?"
You mumble out as you feel Dunk's arm acting as your pillow leave. He stops as you fully wake now, now sitting up as you wipe your eyes.
"I've some mending I need to be doing. You can go back to sleep."
You inhale as you watch Dunk pull out some ripped clothing, blinking at the sun that is now higher in the sky.
"It's fine, I needed to get up anyway, need to get breakfast for you boys."
Dunk, now perched under the elm tree casts you a glance as you stretch, "no need, I'll get it today. You were kind enough to get it yesterday."
The both of you hear neighing as Egg approaches the both of you, Thunder in tow as he trots slowly behind him.
"Where've you been?"
Egg casts him a glance, seeing the large mans face set firm.
"Training," the young boy kneels down by the fire, stoking it to encourage flames.
"Don't wander off without telling me."
The boy looks up, first at Duncan then at you who listens in as you continue to stretch out, having only just gotten up yourself.
"I told her where I was going."
"But you didn't tell me. That's my horse and my blade."
Dunk purses his lips as he continues his stitching as you say nothing, now going to your satchel and pulling out your air bag and sewing materials, intent on finishing the stitching and hopefully finding something to inflate it. Maybe someone wouldn't mind letting you use their bellow for a quick second.
Egg is quiet as he pushes the stick in his hand around before he continues, "what are you doing, Ser?"
Dunk doesn't glance up as he responds, "sewing a patch."
"Is that not my job?"
Dunk clenches his jaw and raises his eyebrows as his eyes meet the young squires'.
"You know how?"
Egg doesn't respond, only looking down at the fire, a clear sign that he doesn't know. You wouldn't expect him to. Needle work and sewing aren't things that a prince does. You cast him a sympathy filled gaze, Dunk is being a bit harsher on him this morning, but he did take his horse and blade, so you're not surprised he's less than enthused with the young boy.
"Then quit jawing and get the brushes," Dunk calls out to the boy, who looks up from the fire with a remorseful look in his eye.
"Thunder looks like he's been dragged through a hedge."
Egg purses his lips.
"What's for breakfast?"
"There's salt beef after your done."
Egg makes a look like he's smelled curdled milk.
"I'd sooner eat the horse, ser."
You snort before catching Dunk's stern gaze and quickly coughing to mask it.
"You'll eat my fist if you don't do as you're told."
Egg rises slowly, looking too much like a puppy that's been kicked, as he goes to the saddle bags to grab a brush for Thunder. Dunk softens his face at the boy's walk and clenches his jaw before sighing out.
"Never mind that," he rises and goes to the boy as you watch him pull out another needle and thread and hand it to the boy.
"Grab your linens, I'll teach you."
They go to the stone hedge, Egg leaning over as he mimics Dunk's movements. You smile briefly before resuming your own stitching, happy with how tightly woven the leather is. You listen in as they chatter lightly amongst themselves.
"Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Keep it as close to the edge as possible and that's your whipstitch."
Egg looks at Dunk's stitching compared to his own with a frown on his face.
"How'd you get it so even?"
Dunk scrunches his face at the words as he thinks for a second, looking back at your form as you cut the thread of your own sewing and pack it away, rising and lifting your arms above your head to stretch them. He quickly looks back at his work.
"Just, like- just practice. Just try again."
The young boy furrows his brows before resuming his stitching, more focused this time as Dunk looks down to watch. You approach the two boys quietly not wanting to interrupt their concentration. You stand by Eggs side as he doesn't glance at you. You watch intently as he finally gets the stitch correct.
"There."
"Yes!"
Both you and Dunk cheer him on as the boy cuts the thread with his teeth. You rub his shoulder softly as you walk off to read and add more to your medical texts. The two boys grab brushes for the horses to keep up with their grooming. They work silently until Egg speaks up as he's brushing. He turns to Dunk with a questioning look on his face.
"Ser?"
Dunk hums noncommittedly as he continues brushing, "mhm?"
"Is it odd that I have black hair growing out of my stones?"
Your eyebrows fly up to your hairline at the question as Dunk just makes a face of disbelief.
"It's odd that you're telling me," Dunk's own eyebrows are up to his hairline as he speaks.
Egg just blinks for a second before turning to you as you resume your reading and occasional jotting of notes.
"(Y/n)?"
You glance up for a second to acknowledge the young boy, "yes, my dear?"
"Is it odd that I have black hair growing out of my stones?"
You squint your eyes at the question, not expecting him to ask you of all people. Dunk smacks the back of the boy's head as you think on how to answer his question in a way that's not too modern.
"You don't ask a lady that!"
Dunk has a scowl on his face as Egg just yelps quietly at the smack.
"What? You wouldn't answer!"
You just laugh out air through your nose as they bicker.
"I don't mind the question, and no, Egg, it isn't odd. It's normal as you get older for hair to start growing."
Egg just gives Duncan a smug look as he continues to brush happily at his question being answered. Dunk gives you a bewildered look, "don't answer that! And how do you know that, anyway?"
He thinks hotly for a second on if you've seen other men in stages of undress, but you just wave off his words.
"Everything I've learned, I've learned from my father and mother. Including the stages of growth, ser. Don't shame the boy for being curious," you tut at Dunk as he brushes Thunder's coat now avoiding eye contact with you as Egg gleefully watches the interaction.
They finish brushing Thunder's coat as they put away the brushes and Egg decides to climb the elm tree and sing while Dunk starts to feel nauseous at the thought of finally entering the tourney. The boy carries a carving knife and branch as he sings a song you assume he learned from one of his brothers. Probably Daeron.
"Prince Baelor was the first born, Prince Maekar sprang out last. Daemon was the bastard, so they kicked his bastard-"
Dunk retches a good few yards away, eventually vomiting, close enough that you can hear it hitting the ground as you make a face.
"Dunk, would you like something for your stomach?"
He makes a noise of agreement before retching again as Egg continues his singing.
"Grass is green in summer, green grass I adore. But grass is red all over when you kill a rebel-"
Dunk vomits once more as you boil some water and some ginger in a pot to soothe his stomach.
"Horses die in battle, this battle was the front. Blackfyre's not a trueborn, he came from the wrong-"
Dunk groans as he steps over some branches and crosses a gap in the stone hedge separating himself from the two of you and approaches sniffing and wiping at his face.
"Country was in peril, The Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny Host of Dornish spearmen."
Egg continues to carve at the branch, leisurely leaning back atop the elm as Dunk stands beneath, hands on his hips.
"It's time."
You hold out a now filled skin with the ginger tea.
"There's no sugar, but it will soothe your stomach."
Dunk takes it gratefully, as he takes a swig, wincing at the sharp taste at first but swallowing anyway.
"Fetch my armor."
Egg makes a face, scrunching his eyebrows and eyes, "now?"
Dunk just glares at him.
"Aye, now."
"Why?"
Dunk's mouth is now agape as he stares at the young boy with disbelief. Did he forget about the tourney amidst his singing or was he playing at being daft?
"Wh- Because I mean to enter the lists."
Egg just looks down at the tall man with a frown on his face.
"You don't have your shield," he states matter of factly as you sit and watch the interaction between the two boys with a look of amazement. They truly make the best duo of dumbasses in the kingdom.
A sheep chimes in with its vocalizations as you try to not laugh at the timing and Dunk's own blundering of his words at Egg's acknowledgement.
"We'll- yeah, we'll gather it along the way."
You close your eyes as you pinch your lips together, 'don't laugh, don't laugh.' Dunk just sniffs to try and deflect his embarrassment. Egg looks down at the large man to correct him.
"Mhm. Also, the right of the first challenge goes to knights of high birth and renown."
Egg looks squarely at Dunk while you just keep a smile to yourself.
"Are you a knight of high birth and renown, ser?"
Dunk looks at the boy with his eyebrows scrunched together and a frown on his face then around the area, eyes flitting everywhere as he thinks about these words.
"Wait, so I- I cannot enter the lists today?"
"Not today, ser, no," Egg speaks plainly as he lays back and calmly carves at his stick again.
"Only knights of high birth and renown."
He leans back up as Dunks frown grows deeper and more exasperated. Mouth open to complain as his eyes grow wide.
"Then why have I been vomiting all morning?"
"It's a mystery."
Egg lays back with a tone of finality as you finally let out a giggle and try to muffle it at Dunks poor face. He looks like you've told him the dragons have come back.
"You- you're laughing?"
He looks down at you as you try to hide your face.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh, drink the ginger tea, it'll help your stomach."
Dunk begrudgingly drinks the tea from the skin, downing the last of it as the taste settles on his tongue.
"Bitter," he grumbles lightly as you kick at his calf from where you sit, leaning against the elm.
"It's for your stomach, if I had sugar or honey it would have been much better," you get up from where you sat and pat down your dress. Grabbing your satchel and book, putting it away, you pull the satchel over your shoulder and pat Egg's leg and hold out your arms for him to climb down.
"Now that it's been established that you don't enter the lists today, how about some breakfast?"
This leads to the three of you now in the market as Dunk tries to explain to the butcher that he wants eggs and not the whole goose. Egg stands by with his cloak hood pulled up while your eyes flit everywhere, people watching. There are many men drunkly stumbling around, still drunk from the night before and others practicing their skills, still waiting for their turn in the lists.
You listen off hand as Dunk tries to stop the man from killing the goose.
"Shit, um, goose eggs, like," Dunk crouches like he's shitting and you make a quick glance before looking away just as fast.
"Good gods, Dunk," you pinch the bridge of your nose as Egg looks over briefly and makes a disgusted face. You turn his shoulders away from the sight as you see Tanselle walking close to you. Her gaze landing on Dunk who is still crouched.
"Oh, this isn't good for him."
You hide your face with your hand, embarrassed to be associated with a man looking like he's shitting his pants while Egg watches the two interact with raised eyebrows and a look between you and Dunk. He thought that Dunk fancied you, but the smile he gives Tanselle is one that has him doubting himself. Still, he does enjoy a good show.
You absentmindedly play with the fraying edges of Egg's hood as Dunk speaks to the puppeteer. Tanselle glances at you then back at Dunk with a strained smile on her face. You don't pay attention to their conversation, merely half-listening and your eyes find that Dunk finally got the goose eggs.
"Your shield will be ready this evening, ser."
She gives you a nod as she passes by, you wave at her with a friendly smile.
'She's so pretty,' you think with a small smile, then your face falls flat at Dunk's lovesick look on his face until you hear Egg's teasing of him.
'Oh, that's right, Dunk is in love with her,' you sigh to yourself feeling a pinch at your chest, while you just shake off the thought. Dunk sees your face fall and his own smile falls just the same, a pinching at his heart inciting at the look on your face. He doesn't like to see you unhappy. Before he can ask you what's wrong, Egg has already seen the interaction between all parties.
"Ooh, ooh! Ooh!"
You crack a smile at the young boy's teasing, grabbing the bread from him to free his hands as his free hand goes to hold the strap of the bag on his back.
"Shut up," Dunk just mumbles at him as he steels a glance at you, eyeing your profile. Your cheeks are soft, lips slightly turned up in amusement, and your eyes are focused elsewhere. He thinks you look beautiful and nearly runs into a cart before you make it back to camp.
Now with meat sizzling on a pan, Dunk cracks his egg in. Egg follows suit as you just watch the boys cook breakfast. You're back to your medical book, reading every note you've made on modern medicine.
You have handwashing techniques, disinfectants, poppy sap in place of anesthesia, a drawing of the brain and the human body mapped out with various notes pointing at different areas. You still feel like there's more you could be adding as you twirl your charcoal pencil in your hand. You hear sticks and dry grass crunching as you look up and see Egg holding out a large sandwich for you to eat.
Your eyes widen as you take it with a small smile, "thank you, sweet boy."
Egg turns bashful as he goes to sit with Dunk against the tree and the two eat together happily. You steal bites from your sandwich every now and then, taking large mouthfuls and trying to gulp it down until it eventually is gone and your belly is full. You still write notes down, this time on different suture techniques when Egg stands in front of you with his hands on his hips.
You look up with a questioning look on your face as he has a frown on his face.
"Yes, Egg?"
"You are to join us in watching the jousting."
He says this with such a tone of finality in it you can't help but crack a small smile, he looks so serious. Like he's declaring a royal decree and not telling you to not rot in your book like how you have been.
"Am I? Do I get a say in this?"
You say this, yet you place your pencil between the pages of your book and close it. Placing it in your satchel that you throw over your shoulder. Rifling through to make sure you have all the balms, pastes, and other things you could potentially need. You know that today should be the day that Aerion breaks and nearly skins poor Tanselle's finger. You need to be ready.
Egg just stares at you, watching as you stand and stretch, running your hand through your hair. Maybe you should braid it, it'd help with keeping the strands out of your face even with the scarf.
"You are to join us this time."
Egg says it with finality as he pulls your arm for you to follow him and Dunk to the tourney. You just let the boy drag you with them and soon enough find your way to the front of the tourney, your eyes wander to the lords seating. Maekar still isn't in his seat, most likely berating Daeron you have no doubt.
The tourney commences, knights colliding and shards of wood flying everywhere as Dunk and Egg cheer. You can find some entertainment in the sport, but you can't help but feel for the knights and their wounds.
You cheer with the boys when the knights come out of the collisions with minor to no wounds. When the wood shards come flying too close to where you're standing Dunk brings a large arm to shield you from any debris. You thank him quietly as the knight's ride again, colliding and both being knocked from their horses.
Egg cheers loudly as Dunk grabs his arm, cheering with the rest of the crowd while you smile fondly at the two, clapping your hands together. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see a man offer Dunk a drink of something from his flask. Dunk, being none the wiser, takes it and sips generously before spitting it out just as fast as the man and others cheer and laugh around him.
Dunk coughs loudly, heaving at the taste as both you and Egg pat his back to help him along. Back at the knights, one rides into the other before he can wield his lance and is thrown from his horse. Egg cheers loudly while Dunk smiles fondly at the boy. Then starts the teasing.
"Do you want some hard salt beef?"
Egg mimics Dunks deep, baritone while Dunk just scoffs and raises his voice to a nasally pitch.
"Oh, I'm Egg. I- I can't eat hard salt beef. I just eat lovely food and grapes and all the bleh bleh eh."
The larger man turns away from Egg who just smiles, and you laugh a bit at their teasing. Boys will be boys you suppose.
"Can't even drink a pint of ale."
At this Egg just turns back forward and in his mocking voice responds, "yeah, cause it's disgusting."
Dunk in his normal voice responds back, stern look in his eye, "it's not disgusting."
"Yes, it is disgusting."
The boys continue with this repetition until Egg turns to you to settle the debate. You look at Dunk with a smile on your voice before you settle the debate.
"It's pretty disgusting, Duncan, my apologies."
You stick your tongue out at him as he just scoffs at both you and the boy.
"Ridiculous, the both of you."
Eventually, the three of you leave the front of the jousts and walk yourselves to the top of a hill overlooking the meadow. It gives you the sight of the whole population, tents billowing and smoke rising from the various fires that are used for cooking.
Dunk lends a hand for you to take as you sit down and lean back. Egg takes his spot next to you with Dunk on the other side of you. The three of you look out to the meadow, watching as the people walk on with their horses or with their companions.
"I think I could be quite happy in a place like this," Egg says as he looks out. You cast him a gaze and small smile while Dunk turns his head to him.
"You're in a place like this."
"I meant for a while."
You smile at his words. You could see yourself happy in a place like this too. It's lovely even with the drunkards, the music is lively and the people are happy.
"Ah, yeah."
"After I lead a great campaign for my lord, of course."
Egg says triumphantly, head tilted up while you and Dunk throw a look at the young boy.
"Of course," Dunk says from his laid-back position on the hill. Lips pulled back in a half smile.
"I return a war hero and he gives me a parcel of land for my very own, and the hand of his second most beautiful daughter," he enunciates with a finger pointed up, matter of factly.
Dunk turns to him, questioning look in his eye.
"Second most?"
"Well, you've already married the first most. Have you not, ser?"
Egg throws a look to see your reaction and Dunk's when he says these words. You have a blank look on your face, no emotion to be seen and Dunk merely lifts his chin up going, "oh." He looks to you to see your face, but you have none. You just make a little face at your own thoughts, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
If Dunk is disappointed at your lack of reaction, he certainly shows it, not that you see, but Egg certainly does. Giving Dunk a look as if to say, "say something! Do something!"
When he doesn't Egg just continues with his thought.
"I'd keep horses, plant oats and peas. Raise cows."
"And lambs, perhaps."
Egg makes a disgusted face, "fuck your lambs."
Dunk and you just laugh as you pull at his coat lightly. Egg looks to you with a smile on his face and then to Dunk with a blank look.
"Did you really ride all the way here in the back of some farmer's wagon?"
Dunk asks with a grin on his face as you push his shoulder lightly.
"Terrible," you mumble with a grin on your own face while Egg just turns to Dunk with his eyes wide.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Dunk just snorts while watching you and the young boy. You both stare out as Dunk watches fondly.
"I'll say this for you. You're a good worker when you put your mind to it."
Egg turns to Dunk, "you think so?"
Dunk just hums a confirmation, face back to its neutral look while you lay flat on your back, now watching the sky.
"Does that mean I can stay on as your squire after the tournament?"
Egg looks to Dunk with a hopeful look on his face. Dunk looks to the boy with a pensive look on his face, hands pulling at the grass at his fingertips.
He sighs out before saying, "if I lose my first joust, I'll scarcely be a knight after the tournament."
Both their faces fall at his words as they think on the very real possibility of him losing everything. Their faces are crestfallen until Egg speaks up.
"But if you win?"
Dunk inhales deeply in thought as you sit up to look at his face. He looks to you before back out to the meadow.
"If I win..."
He pauses as he lets the thought sink in.
"If I win, you can-"
He's cut off at the call of his name. A man is down the hill looking for him as Dunk tosses him a confused gaze.
The man yells out, "a word, if you please."
Dunk descends the hill as you and Egg look at each other before shrugging, continuing to look out at the meadow with a content gaze.
"Do you want to go watch more of the tournament?"
You turn to the young boy with a pensive look on your face.
"Should we wait for Duncan?"
Egg just thinks for a moment, "we'll wait a little bit, but if he's not back before the next tournament begins then we go without him."
You nod as you continue to look up at the sky from your laid-back position.
"I can agree with that."
You and Egg sit in silence while you wait for Dunk to return, soon enough the trumpets for the next joust play and Egg pulls at your arm to get up.
"Come on, come on!"
Your pulled up to your feet and back to the tourney when Dunk finds you again. You walk swiftly as Egg holds your arm and pulls you along to the front of the fence holding the population back when the announcer calls out:
"Son of Maekar, Grandson to King Daeron the good and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame."
As soon as you hear Aerion's name, the blood runs from your face. Your face going pale as you mumble, "I need to get out of the country."
Egg just turns to you with a quizzical look on his face, Dunk just leans down a bit to hear you better.
"What?"
"Huh? Oh, nothing, just my inside thoughts slipping out, my apologies."
You manually turn Egg's head away from facing you to face the front, luckily for you he lets you move his head and just follows the movement. With your other hand you lightly push Dunk's head back up and away as you try to remain as normal and neutral as possible. Hopefully, inconspicuous as to not bring attention to yourself.
Aerion rides on his horse, lance straight up and helm visor down as he rides throughout the rows of the jousting ring. He lifts his visor up to nod to his uncle, Baelor who merely watches as he spins his ring on his finger in contemplation at what game the prince is playing. Baelor nods to Aerion's delight as he now rides to where Valarr sits.
Your eyes flit to Baelor who you see is already watching you, spinning his ring around his finger once more as you chew on the inside of your cheek before looking elsewhere. Your eyes find the knights tents, gaze landing on the Targaryen tent where Valarr sits, slouched in his seat as he waits for his turn to ride.
'He looks bored, just getting drunk and sitting there. Seems rather dull,' you think as you watch the prince look around until his eyes settle on your form. He sits up a bit straighter, no longer slouched and offers a small smile. The ladies that are near you swoon as they see the smile on his face.
'Oh, gods there's fangirls everywhere,' you think as you cringe at their screams. Dunk feels your flinching and angles his body so that he covers you a bit more, thinking you're trying to shield yourself from the men who cheer and throw themselves around. Valarr, whose gaze hasn't left your form, clenched his jaw and felt his eye twitch as he watched you lean into the large man's body.
His mood, already down turned at seeing you cuddle up to some hedge knight, sours even more when Aerion rides in front of him, greeting him plainly. Valarr stands with his helm in arm as he leans to one leg, staring blankly at the silver-haired man.
Aerion lifts his visor to look at the crown prince, "cousin."
The lords and crowd watch with bated breath as the two cousins face off. Aerion's eyes flit to the crowd and spot you before just as quickly landing back onto his cousin who clenches his jaw when he sees who he viewed.
Dunk and Egg watch the two princes with apt attention while you look in nervousness. You're certain that the tension between the two of them isn't any better since Aerion found you and Valarr together. If they're discussing it though, they're too far for you to hear it.
Aerion only gives a slight smirk to Valarr's expression, cooly saying, "not to worry. I won't embarrass you today."
He throws another glance toward the crowd, finding you and meeting your eyes before turning to Valarr once more and quietly saying for him only, "not in front of her, at least."
Valarr just grinds his teeth and grips his helm tighter as Aerion trots to the knight he'll be going against, calling out to him.
"Come out, come out, little knight."
The knight exits his tent with a solemn look on his face, hands clasped together while Aerion taunts him.
"It's time you faced the dragon."
Your lip curls up in a wince at his words, and you throw a glance to Baelor and where Maekar should have been sitting.
'This is not going to end well,' you already prepare yourself for the shit show that Aerion is going to make of the joust.
Aerion pulls his visor down and rides his horse to his side of the joust while Dunk, Egg and you stand watch with the rest of the crowd who cheers for the knights. Your faces are tense as you all know how bad his temper is, preparing for just what he could be doing this round.
The knight, Ser Humfrey Hardying you recall, rides his horse with his lance to his side as the two knights face off from opposite sides.
"I have a terrible feeling," you mutter, gaze worried as you eye Ser Humfrey and his horse.
Egg nods, agreeing with you as Dunk casts you a furrowed brow then looks back at the two knights.
The three of you along with the crowd clap for the knights, waiting for the signal for them to face off. The horses neigh and scratch at the ground, itching to run, while the crowd falls silent, wind blowing and thunder rumbling in the distance.
As if the skies know the acts that would take place on this day.
Ser Humfrey is the first to ride with his lance pointed out and Aerion follows suit, tilting his own lance down.
"Kill him. Kill him!"
Egg cries as Dunk gives him a strange look, while you echo the same sentiments in your mind.
'Knock his ass to the ground, take him out, please!'
The knights get closer and closer until Aerion duck just out of the way of Ser Humfrey's lance. His lance falls to the ground and he briefly loses his balance as he rides on, before grabbing another lance from his squire. The crowd boos at Aerion's act, and you can't help but agree.
Your breathing picks up as Aerion on his horse stands pin straight with his lance up at the other end of the jousting ring. Watching as Ser Humfrey rides forward once more, lance pointed out intent on knocking the prince from his horse.
Aerion rides forward, lance out, before tilting it down further, aim lower than it should be.
"He's too low," Dunk mumbles as you and Egg watch nervously, waiting for what comes next.
"No, no, no," your mumbling as you watch Aerion get closer and closer to Ser Humfrey's horse before shutting your eyes just as he embeds his lance into the horses neck, blood spurting out and across the field as the horse cries out in pain.
The crowd is yelling in disbelief and horror as they push against the fence. Dunk using his body as a shield for both you and Egg as the crowd pushes forward in anger.
You wince and your lip wobbles, you hate to hear the horse's cries in pain and you don't open your eyes until you hear a scream. Your eyes snap open as you see Ser Humfrey on the ground leg crushed beneath his horse's weight as a man comes forward to the horse, long axe in hand to end its suffering.
One man even throws a stone at Aerion's helm while he watches in satisfaction as it bounces off his visor knocking it down. A glance to Baelor and you can see him with a tense expression as he continues to spin his ring, now in quiet anger at his nephew's actions. One glance to Valarr and you see a scowl etched onto his face at his cousin's deeds.
Some of the crowd breaks through the fence, jumping over to storm the prince as the king's guard rush forward to hold them back from the prince.
The crowd continues with its rioting as guards from the Lord Ashford's own knights come to keep the crowd from completely pulling the prince apart. The same man who came forward with the long axe now quickly ends the horses suffering as a maester comes to care for Ser Humfrey and his shattered leg.
"I want to leave," Egg turns to Dunk who grabs your wrist and brings you with them both.
"Aye."
The three of you push through the crowd to exit to the markets and stalls, knights running past you to control the crowd still gathered at the jousts.
The three of you trudge through the stone cobbled street as Egg pulls his hood up and Dunk finally speaks.
"That was a terrible sight. But a squire must be strong. A mishap may befall me, and I'll need you to keep your wits if it does."
He speaks pointedly to Egg, but glances at you, your face pinched together in a frown at his words as you mutter.
"'A mishap,'" you scowl even further as Egg echoes your sentiments.
"That was no mishap."
His face is Dark as he looks Dunk in his eye. For once, Dunk can't find himself to scold the boy. Face pulled in shock at the look on the usually carefree boy's face.
Dunk purses his lips as you grab Egg's shoulder, smoothing his cloak as you worry about Ser Humfrey's condition.
"The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come, lad, my lady."
He puts an arm behind Egg's back, laying a palm on his shoulder and skimming your own hand that sits on the boys opposite shoulder. He leads the three of you away from the horrific events and onto something cleaner.
Soon enough you enter the Baratheon tent to find Lyonel already drunk, shirtless, and singing with his antler crown as your mouth and face drop at his antics.
"Oh, for the love, it isn't even midday," you say with a pinch your eyebrows in the middle with your free hand as you lead Egg to an empty spot where he takes a seat on the table. You take place next to him with a huff, listening to Lyonel and Ser Manfred sings along with him about some girl named Alice.
"Oh! Alice was a special lass, born bereft 'er thumb!"
Lyonel stands on a table and grabs at the hanging candles as he stumbles around with a drink in his left hand.
"Lost a digit tending flock, now feeling awfully glum."
Ser Manfred and the crowd sing along with the next words.
"Oh! Alice with three fingers, a copper in her glass! Had two fingers less than most, she'll shove them up your arse, hey!"
Lyonel bends over at the words as one of the men in the tent mimes shoving his finger up his ass. You move to cover Egg's eyes as Dunk laughs at the image, Egg tries to move past your fingers while you just sigh.
Ser Manfred sings now and leans off a pole in the tent, "I once gave her silver, feeling down and lone, I tried to buy a pinky, but I got the whole arm bone!"
Once again, the crowd chimes in while you huff and laugh lightly at the words.
"Oh! Alice with three fingers never had a lot. She gave me all she had to give, two more than what was sought! Oh! Two more than what I bought!"
Dunk left shortly and comes back with three cups, ale and two ciders for you and Egg. You gratefully take both ciders and pass one to Egg, sipping as you pay no mind to their conversation regarding Alice and her origins.
You only tune back in once you hear the word 'honor' leave Egg mouth, licking your lips of the cider as you think on it.
'Honor, in shoving your fingers up a man's ass... girl,' you make a face and go back to your cider.
"A misfortuned girl making the best of her natural gifts."
Dunk just raises his brows and huffs out a breath, "one might wish for more."
Egg turns to you to get your opinion, but you just throw your hands up in surrender.
"Beats me, my business is in healing not pleasuring men, I'm afraid."
Egg sighs and turns back to Dunk.
"But is this not the act of a dogged spirit? Giving more than what is asked?"
Dunk makes a contemplative face at the young boys words, thinking them over.
"'The whole arm bone,' as it were."
Dunk just purses her lips as you respond now, cider completely gone as you wipe your mouth with your sleeve.
"Perhaps her name does not matter, then," you offer with raised brows.
Dunk speaks up now, "it's- it's her story that abides."
"Her name is Hope, ser. Belongs to all who invoke it."
The three of you fall quiet after those words are spoken as Lyonel starts back up with his singing about Alice and her talents.
Eventually, the three of you leave the Baratheon tent and walk amongst the stalls. Your eyes dart to the various stalls with a look of awe on your face as Egg keeps a hold of your dress to keep you from wondering off, the other hand holding a stick of meat that he periodically takes bites out of.
"I just want to look, Egg-"
"You'll be lost for the remainder of the day."
You pout lightly as your eyes continue to dart out, Egg now taking hold of your wrist instead of your dress. Dunk just laughs lightly at your antics as he takes a bite out of his own stick of meat. He offers you a bite, but you just shake your head.
"Did you ever know your father, Egg?"
Your eyebrows fly up and your eyes widen at the question, 'that's rather bold,' you think as you chance a look at Egg who doesn't even look disturbed. He just keeps a hand around your sleeve-covered wrist and takes a bite out of his meat stick. You shift so that his hand falls into yours and you swing your arms lightly.
Egg just goes makes various noises of question until falling onto a simple, "no, not really."
Dunk turns to him briefly as the three of you exit the canopy covered markets.
"Most like I saw mine hanged."
Your eyes flit to Duncan with a horrified look on your face as your hand clenches Egg's before relaxing a bit. What a horrifying thing to have seen.
"There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom, I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for brown."
Dunk takes another bite of his meat before he continues, "cook there always said my father was some thief."
He shakes his head briefly as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. Sunlight lands down from the sky, vaguely shadowed by the smoke from the burning wood of some fire pits, and lands on Dunk's sandy blonde hair. You turn your head away and focus on something else when his eyes dart to meet yours.
You purse your lips as your eyes fan out again, hand still in Egg's own as you swing your arms lightly.
"If he was as big as me, he wouldn't have made a very good one."
Dunk slows down his walking when he sees the same man who called him over before Aerion's unfortunate joust and clenches his jaw, eyeing him warily before moving on. You give Dunk a strange look and look at Egg who just gives you a shrug and take a bite out of his meat.
'Wonderful, mystery. Definitely doesn't lead to anything ominous.'
It's then that an older woman with a dark and patterned cloak comes to a stop in front of you.
"Say your fortune."
The three of you stop as Dunk thinks it over, whereas you give her a wary look. You'd seen fan theory online of her and if she was potentially a part of bloodraven's sect and you'd honestly rather not get a fortune read by her. Dunk just nods his head and tells her to go ahead as you take in a deep inhale.
"You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister. "
Dunk just gives her an unimpressive look with his eyebrows up, "thank you. Do the boy now."
He glances down at Egg who looks at the woman with some excitement in his eye. You wince as you know what's coming next.
"You shall be king and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying."
Egg looks horrified and just says, "what," while Dunk starts to laugh hysterically, even choking briefly on his spit while you slap his arm.
"Enough!"
You hiss out at the large man, while the seer looks over at you with a glint in her unseen eyes.
"Say your fortune, young lady?"
You eye her up and down as the boys give you looks, Dunk with amusement and Egg with worry. The young boy grips your hand, clammy and unsure as you swallow before going, "sure, might as well since we're all getting one."
The woman looks at you before going, "your name will be known throughout the land, and you will fight against death. A fight for your hand will be bloody and long."
Your face scrunches and your mouth falls open.
"What the fuck-"
Dunk laughs again, this time a bit more strained as he gives her some coins for her fortunes.
"Thank you, that's very good."
Egg still looks horrified and your face is still scrunched in distaste as you mutter, "a fight for my hand, who the hell would fight for my hand."
"Why would she say that?"
"Why would she say what? Come on."
Egg throws one last glance at the woman before turning forward as you pull him along and fix the back of his cloak with your free hand.
"Come on, let's just ignore her."
The three of you continue forward until you hear someone yell for Dunk.
"Ser Duncan!"
You see Raymun with his arms extended and you give him a smile."
"Raymun!"
"My lady," he mockingly bows to you as you just give a small laugh. He points at Egg as he speaks to Dunk once more.
"I saw you earlier with this boy."
Dunk stutters for a second before gesturing to Egg who awkwardly looks away from Raymun, stepping closer to you and hiding himself lightly behind your dress.
"Uh, yeah. This boy is my squire."
Dunk turns to Egg and gives him a look to step out from you as you lightly push the boy forward.
"Egg, this is, um, Raymun Fossoway."
Egg barely glances up towards Raymun and gives him a light, "good day."
Just ahead his attention is pulled to the puppets tent where some of the actors are gesturing and calling out for people to come see their show. Egg let's go of your hand and pulls your dress and points at it before glancing at you.
"Can we go watch their show?"
You glance down at him, then back at Dunk, with a shrug.
"I don't see why not, we'll bring your shield back when the shows over," you give Dunk a smile and start to walk away with the younger boy while Raymun continues to talk with Dunk.
"Will you join me in my tent for a cup of cider?"
Dunk glances to where you and Egg are walking and then to Tanselle who gives him a glance and smile before greeting the two of you as you walk into her tent.
You push Egg to sit near the front of the show with the other children while you stand at the back, leaning on one side of your hip as you watch the actors get ready to start their show. You think on maybe if you should have joined Raymun and Dunk with that cider. It did sound good.
You glance down at Egg as he chats with some of the other kids and deems he should be fine enough on his own. As long as you remember to leave a little early so that you can try to keep Aerion from completely ripping off Tanselles finger you should be good.
You step a little forward to Egg and tap his shoulder, he glances back at you with a questionable look on his face.
"I'm gonna go have some of that cider that Raymun was offering, I'll be back."
He gives you a nod and smile before going back to chatting with the other children.
You walk away from the tent and give Tanselle a wave as you pass her, she gives you a hesitant one back as you stalk off to Raymun's tent.
Soon enough you reach in and part the sheets as you spot Dunk's larger frame and listen to them as they speak on the jousting from earlier.
"I heard Aerion were in a spittin' rage at Lord Ashford for givin away his horse."
You nod to Raymun who stands and offers you a cup of cider, you take it gratefully and take a small sip.
"Oh, gods, that's good," you nearly moan out at the sweet taste.
Raymun takes a seat in front of Dunk once again as the larger man turns to see you.
"I thought you meant to watch the puppet show?"
You take a seat on a nearby keg, declining Raymun's offer of his seat with a wave of your hand.
"The actors were setting up and Egg was busy chatting with some of the other kids. Don't worry I'm sure you'll see Tanselle tonight."
You wiggle your eyebrows at Dunk over your cup as the large man flushes like a tomato.
"I don't- I wasn't-"
You bite your lip as a mean to keep your laughter in.
"I'm only teasing you, Ser Duncan."
He just huffs as he continues with his conversation, Raymun lifting his brows as he watches the two of you over his own cup of cider.
"Little comfort that will be to Ser Humfrey. It looked as if he was going to carry the day."
"Now his leg's shattered like a baking dish."
You take another sip as your brows furrow together, you worried for Ser Humfrey. His leg shattering had to have been awful, and you had no clue how they were going to mend it. You wished you had followed the maester's that were treating him to learn.
"Damn, missed opportunity," you mutter as Dunk just glances at you until you wave him off with your free hand.
"My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse," Dunk says with a disbelieving chuckle.
You and Raymun fall silent, and the air goes still as silence permeates the setting.
"Duncan, Aerion did mean to kill the horse."
You look Dunk in the eyes with a serious look, nothing like the usual neutral and carefree look you have. It looks uncharacteristic on you.
Raymun and you take another sip of your ciders as Dunk purses his lips together.
"Just hard to accept that a knight might be so dishonorable. Let alone a prince."
You let his words sit as Raymun is the one to speak up now.
"Why is that hard?"
Dunk shakes his head, "no, I-"
Raymun interrupts him with a growing disbelief in his tone.
"They're incestuous aliens, Duncan. Blood-magickers and tyrants who've burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs."
Raymun is nearly spluttering with how quick he speaks.
"Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how."
Dunk is looking at Raymun with furrowed brows and glances towards you, who only looks away with pursed lips. It's not as if he was wrong. It was said the gods tossed a coin when a Targaryen was born and that couldn't have been more true.
Raymun leans forward with a scowl on his face, glancing at you briefly before his eyes return to Duncan as he speaks lowly.
"The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife's tits. So, aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse."
Duncan looks to you in shock and nearly admonishes Raymun for his language in front of you before you down the rest of your cider, deciding now would be the best time to head back to the puppet show, before Aerion arrives and you can get your healing supplies in order.
"And with that gentlemen, I will be off."
You glance towards Raymun with a smile, "you are definitely not wrong about the Targaryen dynasty, Raymun. They're mad, but I'm sure there's some good men among them."
You place your empty cup on the keg you sat on and pat Dunk on the back before heading off.
Both the men watch you leave, before Raymun just says quietly.
"I hope I didn't scare her off."
Dunk just scoffs before taking another sip of his cider.
"You definitely didn't, she's tough as stone."
The walk to the puppet tent is quick. The sun has fallen further in the sky and now sets a golden glow across the land as you pull open the tent flaps and get to the start of the show, eagerly watching as you cast a glance at Egg who watches with wide eyes.
'I'm glad he can be just a child for now.'
Your attention falls back to the show as you watch with the rest of the crowd.
The play commences with Tanselle acting as the knight fighting a dragon, shield held high and sword at her side. She ducks and weaves from the puppet that lunges at her. She jumps to the side as one of the crew comes up and holds a lit stick with fire in front of the dragon and watch as the dragon 'breathes' out fire, hitting her shield as she hides behind it.
The crowd watches in awe, cheering for Tanselle as she peeks out from behind the shield. Unknown to anyone else, Aerion walks into the room, eyes on the dragon as he watches mystified. Even as a Targaryen, he's only ever seen dragons in books or artworks, so seeing the large dragon puppet is the closest he will get to seeing one in person.
Your eyes land on the mop of silver hair as you step forward and pull the cloak on Egg's head higher up to hide his face, he looks back at you, but your face is serious as you turn it forward.
You lean down and whisper, "Prince Aerion is here, do not turn your head."
Egg stills immediately, face falling in terror at your words, more so than at the thought of his brother, now at the thought that you know who he was.
You lean back, rubbing his shoulder before telling him softly, "just enjoy the show, Egg, we'll talk later."
You give his cloak covered head a small kiss before rubbing his shoulder softly and standing behind him. Nervously glancing at Aerion who still hasn't noticed your presence.
You pray to the gods, old, new, and whatever deity is in this world, that he doesn't freak out even though you know that's what's supposed to happen. You feel small hands grip you dress and look down to see Egg holding your dress skirt. You grab his hand and pull him back so that he's resting against your front, you put one hand on his shoulder and let him hold the other, hoping that the action keeps him calm.
In front of the both of you, Tanselle, acting as the knight, rushes forward and stabs her blade into the neck of the dragon puppet. Right in front of Aerion who takes in the whole scene with wide eyes.
Red petals acting as blood spurts out of the puppets neck as no one cheers. Tanselle turns in question until she sees Aerion and knows that she has made a grave mistake. Before anyone can say anything, Aerion has rushed forward and grabbed her as she screams. His guards come forward and push out the crowd and show watchers as people panic and yell.
You turn Egg so that he faces you as the crowd starts to stir in horror and shock at the prince's actions.
"Grab Duncan! Now! He's at the Fossoway tent!"
Egg runs away as you push him forward, leaving you as you watch in horror as Aerion pulls out a dagger and holds it to Tanselle's neck.
"Prince Aerion, please!"
The crowd is still screaming though some look to you as you call out to the prince, who just turns to you with a scowl.
"Healer," he spits out.
"You're defending her? This treason against the crown?"
You hold both hands up as you look at Tanselle, who has gone pale at Aerion's hold around her neck.
"I'm not defending treason. I'm defending a girl who you are currently choking."
He looks to Tanselle and pushes her down so that her knees hit the stage and he holds his dagger against her middle finger and cuts the skin, pulling up until the skin tears and her bone is exposed. He then pulls her finger back until the bone snaps out of place, causing her to cry in further anguish.
Tanselle screams in terror and pain as Aerion tosses her over as you try to run forward and give her some aid, until Aerion steps down, now holding the dagger out toward you.
Your eyes are wide as you watch the blood drip from the dagger to the floor and Aerion steps towards you.
Before he can do anything, Dunk rushes forward, punching his face with a right hook and tossing him away and onto the floor. You take the opportunity to run to Tanselle, dropping to your knees as you hold her hand.
"I'm so sorry, Tanselle, I'm so sorry."
You hold her finger and snap it back into place as you pull out a piece of clean cloth and pull her skin down. She cries in pain as you rifle through your bag and pull out some sticks and twine to tie her bones in place to heal.
"I know, it hurts, I'm so sorry I couldn't stop him," you wipe the tears from her face with your thumb as she sobs in pain. Your fingers are bloody as you pull out some catgut and needle.
"I have milk of the poppy in my bag if you need it, nod once if you would like it," you watch her face as she glances at you through her tears, nodding her head.
"Okay," you pull out the bottle containing it and hold Tanselle's face as you use a finger to open her mouth a little bit.
"Stick out your tongue, I'm sorry I don't have anything to hide the taste," you drip a couple drops on her tongue and wait for the effects to take place.
You glance out at Dunk and see him kick out at Aerion, sending his head flying back as he's held back by his guards. You turn back to Tanselle and messily stitch her skin back together, wrapping her hand with the cloth and tying the branches with twine to keep her finger upright.
One of the other actors comes over to take her from you as you tell them to keep her wound clean and to not move her fingers. You turn back to Dunk and see that he's being held back by three of Aerion's guards.
"No," you mutter as Aerion glances at you before spitting blood out of his mouth.
"Keep her back."
A guard comes to you and holds your arms back as you struggle against him. Dunk sees you being held back and struggles once more as one more guard comes forward to hold him back. His nostrils flare as he glances from you to Aerion.
Aerion gives a glance at you, who stills under his gaze, jaw clenching, before looking back at Duncan.
"Why did you throw your life away for this whore?"
He gestures towards Tanselle, though his eyes flit to you before going back to the larger man.
"She's scarcely worth it."
Dunk turns back to Tanselle, who is much calmer under the effects of the milk of the poppy and sees that her hand, though bloody, has been bandaged and sees a needle and sewing thread on the stage, as well as your satchel. His head whips to your frame as you look down with a furrow in your brow.
You're calmer now and he can see that your hands are bloody from when you'd helped Tanselle. His face falls and his brows soften as he realizes you'd taken the time to help her, his healer. Aerion notices the softened look and scoffs.
"She's a traitor. The dragon ought never lose," he steps closer to Dunk until he stands nearly a foot away.
"Nothing more to say?"
Dunk struggles a bit more, but says nothing, eyes darting from the prince to you, who still hasn't looked up.
'Fuck me, maybe I should have just fucked him and tried to keep him from coming to this stupid puppet show,' you grimace as your eyes fly to Aerion's frame before breathing out sharply through your nose.
Aerion steps back once more, glancing at you then back forward before licking the inside of his mouth, feeling his teeth. He sniffs once before swallowing his spit.
"You've loosened one of my teeth," his left wrist rests on the hilt of his sword as he gestures with his pointer finger and thumb up, "so, we'll start by breaking out all of yours."
You struggle more against the guard that holds you while Aerion just boredly gazes at your struggle. He's disappointed really, this is the knight that you rejected him for. Him?
"No!"
The guards holding Dunk back pull him towards the stage as he grunts and yells, trying to free himself. They struggle to push him to his knees and place his head so that his upper jaw is held open with the stage in his mouth. Aerion takes a seat on the stage as he watches the guard push Dunk further onto the stage, about to curb stomp him until a young boy cries out.
"No! Don't touch him!"
The crowd parts for the young boy to come through, Egg rushing forward as Aerion's eyes narrow and he lets out a low, "ah," as he rises slowly, watching the young boy closely.
Dunk calls out to Egg, "you stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they'll hurt you!"
Egg just stands a yard away from Dunk with his shoulders squared and chin jutted out as you turn to Egg with wide eyes.
"No, they won't."
Raymun follows behind softly calling to the crowd, "watch out, please."
Following with him is his cousin Steffon, who looks none too pleased to be involved in any matters of the crown, and Lyonel who staggers lightly, only slightly drunk. The men could only watch as Dunk was held down, you were held back, and Egg stood tall.
"If they do, they'll answer to my father. Let go of him. Wate, Yorkel, do as I say."
The two guards that were holding Dunk's head against the stage and pushing him down let him go at the young boy's words. Dunk stills in his struggle as he's let go and he turns fully, now crouched, eyes flying from the guards who were just holding him, to you who doesn't struggle anymore, then to Egg.
"You impudent little rat. What's happened to your hair?"
Aerion states as he glares down at the boy.
"I cut it off, brother. I didn't want to look like you."
Dunk's eyes widen in shock and horror as the rest of the crowd watches as it's revealed that the young squire boy is in fact one of the missing Targaryen princes.
You breathe steadily as you watch the faces of everyone in the room. Aerion is pissed, Dunk is horrified, and Egg is standing proudly despite dropping a bomb on everyone gathered.
'What the fuck,' you think as you drop your head, tired from the events.
summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.
authors note: im so sorry this took so long. i really love this chapter tho! so thanks for being so patient with me. pls tell me what you think, the story is really picking up eek! go check out the playlist for this story, its very good - from a 19 year old with questionable taste.
warnings: hints to sexual harassment (not heavy at all), cursing, blood, cliffhanger, not proof read im lazy.
word count: 14+
Masterlist
<previous chapter I next chapter>
...
You wanted to burst into a ball of smoke, disappearing not only out of the castle but out of your skin. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting hard enough to feel something real. All you could see were eyes, eyes of astonishment, worry, and disgust. They followed you from the entrance to the solar where your father stood. Almost swaying in red, hot anger. If there was ever someone who desired your position, they could have it.
You and your brothers had been escorted by several yearning guards who all wanted to be the first one to report your arrival to the prince. They practically tripped over one another trying to all pile into the darkly lit room. You walked in last, hoping that maybe they could not see you.
All you could see was Dunk. And the last look on his face when he was dragged away by the guards. No words left his mouth, but you could feel the deep betrayal in him. The image stuck, unmoving, no matter how hard you tried to look away. There were so many thoughts left in your brain, unsaid feelings, and questions you wished to shout at the man. And yet, when his eyes were on you for the last time, you couldn't even meet his gaze.
You killed him, and you couldn’t even give him the decency to look him one last time in the fucking eyes.
Maybe you should take his place.
Maekar’s booming voice pulled you out of your trance. The room seemed to shrink around him before he even spoke. “Why weren’t my children brought to me at once when I asked?” he yelled. The words cracked through the chamber, sharp enough to make even seasoned men flinch.
“There was too much commotion, my prince. We apologize,” one of the knights said, head bowed as if he was scared of poking the dragon.
Maekar’s gaze shifted from steaming anger to landing on the three of you. He studied you all closely, the drawn lines on delicate skin, exhaustion etched in your brows and shoulders carrying the weight of the whole world. He was particularly stricken by the bloodied faces of you and Aerion. His eyes also lingered on the disguises of you and Egg.
But for the first time, you could not read what he was thinking. Only then did he shift back to anger and bark out for all the guards to get the fuck out. Leaving the three of you alone in a den with a wild animal.
When the three of you stayed silent, Maekar spoke for you. “Well, someone explain!” he shouted.
Explain? Where to even start?
The three of you all spoke in unison, shouting several different accounts of the events that took place in the spacious puppet tent. Maekar tried to make you quiet down again and again. After the fifth shout, your ramblings collapsed into silence.
“Silence! From all of you. I will no longer hear this buffoonery.” He gritted his teeth.
He focused on the youngest. “Aegon.” The name made the little boy stiff, even though it was his own; he had tried not to think of the name for so long. “Go. I will deal with you later.”
Egg looked up at him, stunned wide. “But—”
“Now, boy. The maids will show you.” The tone left no room for argument. Egg hesitated only a moment longer, sparing one last glance in your direction. You could see the fear in his eyes, the unspoken apology. Then he turned and walked out of the room as the door closed softly behind him.
Maekar’s brows scrunched at the two of you, sharp and accusatory. “Why? Why is it always you two?”
You tried not to audibly shriek at the way he roped you in with your brother.
“Because he never stops,” you said, voice low. “He struck a woman!”
Aerion scoffed, though there was a flicker of something uneasy beneath it. “She was a threat,” he said. “Anyone who dares to bring down our nam—”
“You don’t care about that!” you snapped. “You only care about yourself, how she made you look small.”
That one landed. You saw it. Just for a second.
“You came at me with a dagger,” Aerion shot back, “and sent your beast on me.”
Your head whipped toward him. “That’s a lie.”
“Aerion struck Tanselle first,” you said, forcing the words steady despite the heat rising in your chest. “She did nothing,” you went on, louder now. “She didn’t fight you. She didn’t touch you. She begged you to stop.” You swallowed, but didn’t stop your rant. “And you broke her fingers anyway.”
Aerion’s jaw set. “I will not be made a fool of by common—”
“You made a fool of yourself,” Maekar cut in. The words cut him further than any punch Dunk threw at him. “You name every slight a threat,” he continued, each word measured. “You turn sport into spectacle, and spectacle into scandal. Do you think the realm blind? Do you think they will not speak of what they saw? I will not have my children running wild through tourneys in disguise, striking at puppeteers and performers, and calling it justice.”
Then his lecture stopped. He ran a hand through his beard. You waited for something, anything, a sign that this was not simply going to slide. “I care little for which of you struck first,” he said at last. “What I see is disorder. So fix it.”
You watched him, really watched him this time. The way his anger bent, not toward what had been done, but how it had been seen. The way Aerion still stood, unbowed, unbroken, and unafraid. He wasn’t going to punish him. Not truly. Not for this.
The realization settled warm in your chest.
Your voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but it carried. “After all of this? Where is his punishment?”
Aerion’s head turned toward you sharply, but it was Maekar who answered first, his expression hardening at the challenge. “You presume much—”
“Oh, I think it’s quite clear,” Aerion cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw attention back to himself. There was something eager in the way he spoke now, sharpened by the opening. “There will be punishment.”
You didn’t like the sound of that.
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”
Aerion’s lips curved, faint and cruel. “The man who aided her,” he said. “The hedge knight. He raised his hand against a prince of House Targaryen.”
Your stomach dropped.
“He will answer for it,” Aerion continued, almost lightly. You already knew. Before he said it.
“As any traitor would, with death.” The words rang in the room like a sentence already passed.
You stepped forward without thinking. “He defended—”
“He struck a prince,” Aerion snapped, the edge breaking through now. “Before witnesses. That alone is enough.”
“You speak as though the judgment is yours to give.” Maekar let out a sound that could've doubled as a laugh.
Aerion stilled.
“It is not,” he finished. The words were quick, but absolute. “You do not decide who lives or dies,” Maekar continued. “Not here. There will be a council held.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened, something frustrated flashing beneath his composure. “What?” he yelled.
Something in you snapped. This still was not good enough.
“You may not give him the power,” you said, your voice tight and body trembling, “but you’ve never taken it from him either.” Maekar’s gaze shifted to you slowly. That was your warning. You didn’t take it. “You ask why it is always us,” you went on, the words coming faster now, sharper. “It is because you let it be.”
Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Careful—”
“For years,” you cut over him, “you’ve let him do as he pleases. Call it temper. Call it pride. Call it anything but what it is.”
Maekar went very still. “And what is it?” he asked.
Your hands trembled, but you didn’t stop. “Unchecked foolishness. It festers,” you said. “Because you allow it.”
The room felt smaller now. Dangerous.
“You look at what happened today and see embarrassment,” you continued, your voice unsteady but unyielding. “You see whispers, and witnesses, and shame to your name.”
His expression hardened.
“But you do not see what he’s done,” you finished. “Not to them. Not to me.”
Aerion’s head turned toward you, almost giddy that you were about to set your father up and face the consequences. Maekar’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “Choose your next words carefully.”
You met his gaze anyway. “When has it ever mattered what he does?” you asked.
Your voice faltered, just for a second.
Not from fear. From something older.
“You didn’t even care when it was me.”
Silence, complete and suffocating silence.
For the first time, there was no quick answer. No immediate anger, just stillness.
A command left your father's mouth with swiftness. “Leave.” You flinched, thinking his words were thrown at you. But they weren't, for the first time, your father picked.
Aerion blinked, caught off guard and disappointed for no fight. “Father, what?”
“I said leave,” Maekar repeated, sharper now. “Go anywhere but here.”
The finality in it landed. For once, Aerion did not have an immediate retort. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking between you and Maekar, searching for something, an opening, a challenge, anything to regain footing.
There was none, since the room no longer belonged to him.
“…As you command,” he said at last, though the words were tight with restrained frustration. He turned sharply, his outfit shifting with the motion, and strode from the room. The door shut harder than it needed to.
The two of you stood there, alone now.
Maekar let out a groan. “What in the seven hel—”
“What are you going to do with him?” you blurted out. The words burst free before you could stop them.
“With whom?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“With Ser Duncan, the knight.”
He threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t fucking know yet! I am more concerned about why my own children are sneaking out and causing problems.”
Despite his anger, you kept calm. “It wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion,” you said quietly.
“Speak up, girl.”
You cleared your throat, heart pounding. “I said it wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion. He always ruins everything. I mean, he thinks of himself as a dragon.”
“Aerion is no longer of your concern; he is gone,” he barked. “The concern lies with my daughter disobeying me. You were told to stay at Summerhall.”
“I had to do something!” you cried out.
“You shouldn’t even be here!” The words hit harder than a blow.
“Is that all you care about?” you demanded. “What rules have I broken when a man is now being imprisoned, and a woman’s fingers are broken? All because that idiot took her craft as a snide against House Targaryen?”
“It’s your fucking house!” he shouted.
“This hasn’t been my house,” you said, voice shaking with fury. “Not for a long time.”
Maekar stood rigid near the hearth, broad shoulders tense, his shadow stretching long and crooked across the walls. He had always been loud when angered, sharp and cutting. But where others bowed and withered under his fury, you only grew brighter, hotter, and more defiant.
After all, you were your father’s daughter.
The words tore out of you like something breaking. “I will not hear this anymore!”
He turned on you sharply. “You will? You will?” he snapped. “I am your father. What you will do is listen to me. Heave my words into that thick, stubborn skull of yours.”
Your hands shook, fists clenched so tightly you drew blood. “I care for him,” you choked out, the truth scraping your throat raw as it escaped.
For one fragile heartbeat, Maekar froze.
Then his face twisted, disgust curling through his expression. “Care? What is this? Love?” he scoffed. “What do you know about love, girl? You are a foolish child who believes desire is destiny, who thinks she can force the world to bend simply because she wants it to.”
Something inside you fractured.
“I know enough about love,” you said, voice trembling but rising, “to know I have not felt it from you in years.”
The room seemed to contract, the fire dimming low.
“Ever since Mother died,” you went on, the words coming faster now, harder to hold back, “you shut me out. You vanished into grief and left me to pick up everything you dropped.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “That is not—”
“I was a child,” you cut in, sharper now. “Barely old enough to understand what death was, and suddenly I was expected to run a household.”
You took a step closer.
“The feasts. The guests. The expectations. All of it.” Your voice wavered, then steadied. “And I did it without you.”
He said nothing.
“I raised them,” you continued, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Egg. Daella. Rhae.” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.
“I was the one who put them to bed. The one who dried their tears when they cried for a mother who wasn’t coming back. I taught them their letters. I braided their hair.” A breath. Sharp. Unsteady.
“They won’t remember her,” you said. “Not really. Just pieces. Stories.” Your gaze didn’t leave his.
“Stories I had to tell. Because you wouldn’t.” Silence pressed in around you. “I was a child,” you said again, softer this time, but it cut deeper. “And you left me alone.”
“I will not hear another word,” Maekar growled, teeth clenched.
“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer, the space between you suffocating. “Why must I always be quiet? Why do you never want to hear me?”
He turned away from you then, already moving toward the door, as though your pain were something he could simply walk away from, as he always did.
“Maekar!” you cried. “I am standing right in front of you. Listen to me.”
His hand closed around the latch.
Something desperate and dangerous rose in your chest. “Or you will never see me again!” you shouted, the words tearing free. “I will leave, and you will never see me again. You will hear of me only through others… and songs for the rest of your life.” Your voice echoed violently against stone and timber, louder than you had ever spoken, louder than you ever thought you could. The castle itself seemed to shudder beneath it.
For the first time, you realized that no matter what he chose, something between you had already been irrevocably broken.
Maekar stood at the door with his back to you, hand braced against the latch as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could almost hear him breathing, slow and uneven, as if he were forcing himself not to turn around.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by restraint. “There are chambers set up for you,” he said. “Go to them, and fucking stay there.”
The words were not shouted. That almost made them worse. Then, quieter still, thick with bitterness and something dangerously close to care, “And wipe that muck out of your hair.”
He did not look at you. He did not say your name. You stood there for a moment longer, chest aching, then turned away before he could see what his words had done. The door remained closed behind you.
Not slammed.
Just shut.
Tears would not come. Not for him. They had not for years. Whatever had once existed in you had long since run dry. But your breath caught, and you folded in on yourself, shoulders caving as the sound tore out of you anyway, raw and broken, nearly choking you where you stood.
Blood started dripping again from your nose, warm and persistent as it slid past your lips and down your chin, each drop landing softly against the stone beneath you in a rhythm that felt far too loud for how distant everything else had become.
You did not wipe it.
You kept walking.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, torchlight bending and warping against the walls as if the castle itself was shifting around you, and for a moment, you thought you recognized where you were, until you turned a corner and found yourself staring at the same tapestry you were certain you had already passed.
Or maybe you hadn’t.
It was hard to tell.
Your hand drifted outward, fingers brushing along the cold stone as you moved, grounding yourself in something solid while everything else felt just slightly out of place, like your body was moving a half step behind your mind. The ringing in your ears had not stopped since the hall, a low, constant hum that swallowed the edges of every sound around you, turning voices into distant murmurs and footsteps into dull vibrations beneath your feet.
You turned again, slower this time, your steps faltering as something inside your chest tightened, not sharp, not sudden, but steady, pressing inward as if the weight of everything was beginning to settle all at once.
The pain followed.
Your nose throbbed first, then your ribs, then something deeper that you could not name, each ache arriving dulled and delayed, as though your body had been waiting for you to notice it.
You exhaled slowly, though it did nothing to steady you.
Shadows moved at the edge of your vision, figures passing you in the corridor, their presence marked only by the faint shift of air and the suggestion of motion. Someone spoke, perhaps to you, perhaps not, but the words slipped past before they could take shape, leaving only tone behind, soft and uncertain.
You kept walking.
Or tried to.
At some point, your steps slowed without your permission, your body lagging as if wading through something unseen, until you stopped entirely, your hand pressing more firmly into the wall beside you as the stone seemed to tilt beneath your touch.
That was when they approached.
Three girls, their movements quick but careful, their expressions shifting the moment they took you in, the blood, the bruising, the way you swayed slightly where you stood, as though even remaining upright required more effort than it should have.
“My princess—”
The words reached you this time, though faintly, as if carried from a distance too far to matter.
Another voice followed, overlapping, softer but more urgent, and though you could not catch the meaning, you understood enough from the way their hands hovered near you before settling lightly at your arm.
You did not pull away.
Not out of trust.
Simply because the effort of resisting felt too far removed from where you were.
They guided you forward, their touch careful, almost tentative, as though you might break beneath it, and you let them, your steps falling into place beside theirs without thought as the corridor shifted again around you, unfamiliar doors and dimmer light replacing what had come before.
Voices grew clearer, then blurred again, questions asked and left unanswered, your silence passing unnoticed or unchallenged as they led you somewhere warmer, somewhere quieter, where the air did not feel quite so sharp against your skin.
You blinked,
and the space had changed.
A washroom now.
You did not remember entering.
Their hands lingered a moment longer, one of them reaching for you again, more hesitant this time.
“My princess, you should—”
“No.”
Your voice came out low, flat, but it was enough.
They stilled.
You moved past them without looking, stepping toward the basin as your fingers curled around its edge, gripping it tighter than necessary while the room swayed faintly around you.
Then, without allowing yourself to think, you lifted it and poured the water over your head.
The cold struck immediately, sharp enough to force a breath from your lungs, dragging you back into your body with a suddenness that almost hurt, and for the first time since leaving the hall, something felt real.
You filled it again.
And again.
Each time the water ran heavier, soaking through fabric and skin alike, dripping from your hair and pooling at your feet as the world narrowed to the simple, repetitive motion of lifting, pouring, breathing.
Your fingers moved next, scrubbing harshly at your arms, your neck, your scalp, nails dragging across your skin as if you could strip away more than just the dirt and sweat that clung to you. Dark streaks began to run with the water, curling and twisting as the dye bled free, staining the floor in uneven patterns that thinned with each passing moment.
You did not stop.
Not when your hands reddened.
Not when the skin beneath them began to sting.
Only when there was nothing left to take.
The movement slowed, then ceased entirely, your hands falling still at your sides as the last traces of color slipped away, leaving only pale strands clinging wetly to your shoulders.
For a moment, you did not look.
You only stood there, water dripping steadily from your frame, your breath uneven, your body suddenly too light without the weight of what you had been hiding behind.
Then your gaze lowered.
The reflection wavered in the shallow water below, distorted at first, then slowly settling as the ripples stilled.
White.
Not pale.
Not faded.
White, bright, and unmistakable, catching what little light remained and holding it there.
Silver, just as your father’s had always been.
Your throat tightened, a small, involuntary hitch of breath breaking the quiet before you could stop it, and though you blinked quickly, something still slipped free, vanishing the moment it fell.
The door opened behind you, softer this time.
They had returned.
You did not tell them to leave.
Hands found you again, gentler now, more certain in their movements as they worked in practiced silence, drawing dry fabric over your shoulders, guiding your arms when needed, careful not to jostle what was already bruising beneath your skin.
You let them.
The resistance you might have offered before never came, not because it had been taken from you, but because you could not find it within yourself to reach for it.
They moved around you with quiet efficiency, tending to what they could, drying your hair, smoothing oil into your skin, their touch light but steady, as though trying to ground you in a way you no longer seemed able to do on your own.
You barely registered it.
The warmth.
The closeness.
It passed through you without settling.
By the time they finished, the room felt dimmer, the candle they had lit casting long, wavering shadows along the walls as they guided you toward the bed, their presence lingering only a moment longer before slipping away entirely.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
You lay back without remembering the moment you decided to, your body sinking into the mattress as you stared up at the ceiling, the faint flicker of light above you the only indication that time was still moving at all.
You were tired.
You could not sleep.
Your thoughts did not come all at once, but in pieces, slow and uneven as they found their way back to you.
Egg, somewhere in this castle, alone.
Dunk.
That thought did not continue, catching too quickly, too sharply, leaving behind only the image of stone and iron, of space too small and too dark, of him held somewhere you could not reach. Your hand shifted slightly against the bedding, searching without thinking, your fingers brushing space where your dagger should have been.
Gone.
You felt that absence more than anything else, your hand curling faintly against the sheets as if holding onto something that was no longer there.
The room remained still around you, unmoving, unfamiliar in a way that settled deep beneath your skin. And when your mind drifted, it did not linger here.
It returned to the road.
To uneven ground and open air, to the crackle of a small fire and the quiet weight of Dunk’s presence beside it, to Egg’s voice cutting through the night with something bright and unguarded.
Simple things. Clear things. Things that had felt solid beneath your feet. You held onto those small, steady memories for as long as you could. But the quiet stretched too far.
It settled into something familiar in a way that made your chest tighten, something you had felt before, long before the road, long before Dunk and Egg, back when silence did not mean peace but absence, when rooms full of people could still leave you entirely alone.
And without meaning to, your thoughts shifted again.
Not to the road.
To a table.
To a hall filled with voices that had never once been meant for you.
Aerion’s boot found your foot beneath the table, not by accident, never by accident, pressing down just enough to make your toes ache before easing away, only to return moments later, measured and deliberate, as though he were testing the boundaries of your patience, or perhaps simply reminding you that he could.
The red dress did not help.
It clung where it should not, tight across your ribs when you tried to breathe too deeply, the fabric heavier than anything you would have chosen, thick and warm beneath the candlelit heat of the hall, its color impossible to ignore even when you wished to disappear into the background like you usually could.
You never wore your house colors.
Never allowed yourself to be wrapped so plainly in what you were meant to represent, but tonight there had been no avoiding it, no slipping past the expectation, only careful hands pulling you into something presentable, something proper, something that sat on you like a lie the longer you remained still in it.
A perfect princess, if anyone cared to look closely enough.
Aerion’s boot pressed down again.
Above the table, he ate without restraint, chewing loudly, wet and unrefined, as though he took some quiet pleasure in fouling the air itself, in making his presence unavoidable in every possible way.
You kept your gaze fixed ahead, on your uncle as he spoke, forcing yourself to follow the shape of his words even as their meaning slipped past you, your focus pulled again and again to the pressure beneath the table, to the slow, deliberate way it returned.
“Sit still,” Aerion murmured, not looking at you. “You make it obvious when you twitch.”
You stilled.
You had been looking forward to this night. Foolishly. Tomorrow, you will ride to Ashford. There would be banners, horses, a tourney held in honor of Lord Ashford’s daughter, a girl you knew only through stories, spoken of as something gentle and kind, something untouched by the sharp edges you had grown used to.
The thought of her had stayed with you. A small, fragile thing. Proof that the world could be something else.
All you had to do was endure this. That had never been difficult before.
You knew how to sit quietly, how to fold yourself inward, how to let discomfort pass without acknowledgment. You had done it for years.
But Aerion did not tire of testing that control. Everyone knew it. They saw enough to understand what he was, even if they chose not to name it. Most of all, your father. You had told him. More than once.
Aerion did not simply provoke you. He lingered where he was not wanted, broke what was not his, turned your chambers into something you could not recognize when it suited him. He struck your attendants when they displeased him. He laughed when they flinched.
And those were only the things spoken aloud.
His hand brushed your leg beneath the table, light at first, then firmer, lingering where it should not have been, and your entire body went rigid.
“If you speak,” he said quietly, “they will only hear you making noise.”
Above the table, his voice lifted easily moments later, answering a question with practiced ease, as though nothing at all had changed.
You stared at your plate until your vision blurred. This was the only meal you were required to attend. One evening, before you could return to your chambers, to quiet, to something that belonged to you.
One night.
Your breath came shorter without your permission, your fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table as the pressure beneath it shifted again, more deliberate now, more certain.
The hall seemed to tilt. Candlelight wavered, stretching and bending at the edges of your vision. When his hand moved higher, something inside you faltered.
You stood abruptly, your chair scraping sharply against the stone. The sound cut through the hall. Voices faltered. Heads turned. Not in concern. In interruption.
“Little sister,” Aerion said lightly, almost amused. “Have you forgotten yourself?”
The name settled cold in your chest. Your pulse hammered, too fast, too loud, your thoughts slipping just out of reach as you turned, not to him, but to your father.
“Father,” you said, forcing the words out through a tightening chest, “the hour has grown late. I am spent from your talk of battles and knightly deeds, and I would retire.”
“Sit.”
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
For a moment, you only stared at him, disbelief rising slowly and heavily in your chest.
“I—”
“Sit down,” Maekar said, irritation threading through the words now. “You are not dismissed.”
You lowered yourself back into your seat, slow and controlled, moving as far from Aerion as you could manage without drawing further notice.
Conversation returned. Cups were filled. No one spoke of it.
No one asked.
Your uncle glanced toward you once, something tightening briefly in his face before he looked away, as if even that small acknowledgment was more than he could afford.
You picked at your food until it went cold, untouched, your appetite gone entirely, leaving behind only a hollow, uneasy weight in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
Perhaps it was over.
Perhaps he would tire of it.
He did not.
His hand returned, slower this time, deliberate in a way that left no room for doubt.
Your palms struck the table before you fully understood that you had moved, the sound cracking through the hall, sharper than it should have been.
“That is enough.”
Your voice carried, strained but steady.
“Father,” you said, more tightly now, “I will leave.”
“No.”
The word came heavier this time, edged with annoyance.
“But Aerion.” Your voice lowered, controlled in a way that felt fragile, as though it might splinter if pushed even slightly further. “You know his behavior. Everyone does. I will not sit here and be treated as though I am something to be handled at his leisure.”
Then, quieter, more dangerous, “I am done enduring it.” You said.
Aerion let out a soft breath beside you, almost amused.
“What is she speaking of?” he asked mildly. “I have done nothing.”
“You are lying!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Always so certain,” he said. “And yet never correct.”
“I have had enough of you,” you said, the restraint in your voice beginning to splinter. “Enough of this fucking table, this fucking silence.”
“I have had enough of both of you,” Maekar cut in, his hand striking the table hard enough to still what little movement remained. “Cease this fucking arguing or starve.”
He looked at you when he said it.
Aerion smiled.
Something in you gave way, not slowly, not in pieces, but all at once.
You seized his goblet and threw it over him, the red wine soaking into his pale hair, running down his face in uneven streaks that looked almost like blood.
“You insufferable, miserable creature,” you said, your voice breaking where you had meant it to hold.
Aerion wiped at his face slowly, unbothered.
“There,” he said softly. “Now they will remember you.”
You turned before anything else could be said, moving toward the doors, your pulse still racing, your hands shaking despite yourself.
“Come back,” your father called after you.
You did not stop.
“I choose to starve,” you said, not turning.
Laughter followed you.
Aerion’s.
“Let her go, Father. She was never suited for this. No man would take her as she is. Might as well send her to the Silent Sisters before she worsens.”
You stopped.
Your hand tightened against the door.
For a moment, you stood there, the distance between you and him stretched thin, your breath uneven, your body held in place by something that had not yet decided what it would become.
Then you turned.
The space closed quickly.
Your fist connected with his jaw, the impact sharp, immediate, reverberating up your arm in a way that felt almost grounding.
For a heartbeat, the hall froze.
Then it broke.
Voices rose, chairs scraped, Daeron laughed too loudly for it to be anything but a spectacle as Aerion staggered, then straightened, blood and wine mixing as he reached for the nearest cup and threw it back at you, soaking you in turn.
“Better,” he said. “Now we match.”
You were on him before the guards could react, striking again and again, each blow landing harder than the last, the force of it carrying something you had not been allowed to release before, something that refused now to be contained. He couldn't even shake you.
Hands grabbed at you.
Pulled.
Shouted.
You fought against them, even as they dragged you back, your breath ragged, your vision narrowed to him and nothing else.
He laughed. Spitting blood.
They tore you away. For a moment, everything fractured into noise and motion, hands still gripping your arms as you fought against them, your breath coming sharp and uneven, your pulse loud enough to drown out the first few words thrown your way.
“Have you lost your mind?” Maekar’s voice cut through it, not concerned, not even surprised, but furious in a way that made it clear the offense was not what had been done to you, but what you had done in return.
“Unhand me,” you snapped, twisting against the grip on you, the fabric at your shoulders pulling tight as you struggled, the dress biting where it had already begun to strain.
Aerion laughed again, not even shaken.
“You see?” he said, dragging a hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face only to smear the last of the wine further along his temple. “You can lace her into silk, sit her at the table, teach her which fork to use, and still this is what comes of it.”
“Enough,” Maekar said sharply, though his gaze stayed on you. “You will hold your tongue.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering that, but did not stop.
“Though I suppose we should not be surprised,” he went on, his tone turning almost thoughtful, as if he were making an observation rather than an accusation. “Some things do not take, no matter how much effort is spent trying to make them fit. Blood will show itself in the end.”
A chair shifted softly along the stone.
One of the ladies lowered her gaze to her plate, adjusting her sleeve as though something about the fabric required her full attention, while a knight further down the table reached for his cup without looking up, his posture settling into something deliberately neutral, as if stillness itself might keep him from being drawn into it.
No one spoke.
No one asked him to clarify.
They did not need to.
Your hair had come loose in the struggle, pins slipping free one by one until it fell unevenly around your shoulders, strands sticking where the wine had soaked into the fabric at your collar, where sweat and heat had undone whatever careful work had been done to make you presentable.
You could feel it, the difference. The unraveling.
“Look at you,” Aerion said more quietly now, his gaze moving over you with something like quiet satisfaction. “All that effort, and it slips the moment you are pressed.”
Maekar said nothing. He did not look at Aerion. He did not correct him.
His attention remained fixed on you, hard and unyielding, as though you were the only part of this that required discipline.
Something in the room settled again, not into comfort, but into understanding, into something unspoken that passed easily between them all, as though a question had been answered without needing to be asked aloud.
Your grip on the moment slipped. The hall, the voices, the hands on your arms, all of it began to pull away from you, not all at once, but in pieces, like something receding just beyond your reach.
A strand of silver hair caught against your lips when you tried to breathe. You did not move to fix it.
Morning came without ceremony, and you woke into it already in pain, not the sharp kind that demanded immediate attention but the deep, spreading kind that had settled into your body overnight, lingering in your knuckles where they had struck harder than they should have, in your ribs where each breath pulled a little too tightly, and behind your eyes where the world felt slightly misaligned, as though you were still half a step out of place in it.
You lay there for a moment without moving, staring at the canopy above your bed as if it might offer something recognizable, but all it gave you was stillness, and the faint pressure of sunlight pressing through narrow windows that had already begun to warm the stone of the room, turning it from cold to indifferent.
When you finally sat up, it was not with urgency but with the slow acceptance of something already decided for you, and only then did you notice the clothes laid out across the foot of the bed.
Carefully prepared in a way that made it clear this morning had been arranged without your input, the riding dress already pressed and waiting, boots placed side by side as though you would simply step into a role that had been set for you in advance, your cloak folded with precise attention to the colors of your house, bright and undeniable in a way you never dressed yourself.
It was wrong, sitting there like that, too intentional, too composed, as though nothing had happened at all, as though you had not spent the previous night shouting until your voice broke and your hands bled, and yet the castle itself seemed to insist on continuing forward as if you had never stepped out of line.
You dressed because there was nothing else to do, each movement slow and quiet, the fabric of your clothing feeling unfamiliar against your skin after everything that had been stripped away from you, and when you finally stepped into the corridor, the emptiness of it was the first thing that struck you, not just quiet but emptied in a deliberate way, as though the life of the castle had been carefully removed rather than simply absent.
There were no voices ahead of you, no distant arguments, no footsteps of attendants or guards shifting in their routes, only the long stretch of stone and the echo of your own movement, and it did not take long before you understood why.
They had already gone.
The realization did not arrive as anger, not yet, but as something hollow and weightless that settled in your chest and stayed there, unmoving, as if your body had accepted it before your mind had fully caught up.
You made it halfway down the stairs before a servant appeared at the base of them, hurrying toward you with visible hesitation, his hands restless at his sides as though unsure where they were meant to rest, his expression carefully neutral in the way of someone delivering something they did not wish to be responsible for.
“My princess,” he said quickly, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder rather than on you, “I was told to find you.”
You stopped, though not because you expected anything good.
“Told by whom?”
“His Grace, the prince, Maekar,” he replied, swallowing once before continuing, “I am to speak in his place.”
That, more than anything, told you everything you needed to know.
“Well,” you said, your voice even in a way that felt distant from you, “speak.”
He hesitated only briefly before reciting what had clearly been given to him word for word, the cadence of it rehearsed and stripped of warmth, telling you that in light of your conduct the previous night and in consideration of what was appropriate for ladies of the realm, you would remain at Summerhall while the rest of the court departed for Ashford.
There was no softness in it, no pause that suggested uncertainty, only the clean delivery of something already decided, and when he finished, the silence that followed felt heavier than his words had.
Then, as if remembering something secondary, he reached into his sleeve and produced a small parcel wrapped in plain cloth, holding it out toward you with visible reluctance, as though even this gesture felt misplaced.
“And from Prince Baelor,” he added more quietly, “he says happy name day.”
The words did not land immediately, not as meaning, only as sound, until they slowly gathered weight and became something sharper, something that did not belong in the same space as the message you had just been given.
Your name day.
The thought of it surfaced belatedly, disjointed from the rest of the morning, and with it came the realization that the clothes, the preparation, the careful arrangement of your chamber had not been for nothing, but for something you had been excluded from before it even began, remembered only enough to be acknowledged after you had already been left behind.
You took the parcel because there was nothing else to do with your hands.
It was light.
Almost carefully so.
The servant lingered for a moment longer, then bowed with something that might have been discomfort or pity or simply the desire to leave quickly, and when he finally spoke again, it was no longer part of his message but something that escaped him despite it.
“I am sorry, my princess,” he said quietly.
Then he turned and left you standing there alone in the corridor, still dressed for a journey that no longer existed, holding something meant to soften an absence that had already taken shape around you.
You remained there for a long moment, listening to the quiet settle properly into the castle, and somewhere beyond its walls, far enough that it no longer mattered whether you heard it or not, hooves had already begun to fade into the distance toward Ashford, carrying with them every sound that should have included you.
And you were still at Summerhall, in the highest, hidden tower of the castle.
Egg pushed open the large oak doors, the hinges creaking softly against the stillness of the chamber, and he came in with the kind of urgency that did not belong in a place like this, his steps uneven and too quick for his small frame, as though he had been running long before he reached you and only just remembered how to be careful once he arrived.
“Sister,” he said, and then again, faster this time, “sister, please, please say something.”
It took you longer than it should have to understand that he was speaking to you at all, because for a moment the room still felt slightly unreal, like you had not fully returned to it yet, like your thoughts were still catching up to the fact that there was a floor beneath you and air in your lungs that required effort to use properly.
When you did breathe, it came uneven, too shallow at first, as though your body had forgotten how to regulate itself in the absence of violence, and you only slowly became aware of Egg standing near your bed, hesitating in that way he always did when he wanted to be close but was not entirely sure he was allowed to be.
You noticed the clothes then, belatedly, the way the maids had dressed him in black and red without explanation, as though color alone might prepare him for something they had not told him about, and yet it only made him look more exposed, more like a child being fitted into a role that had not been designed with him in mind.
He climbed onto the bed without fully asking, but in a way that made it clear he did not expect permission anymore, not from you, not from anyone, and his hands were already reaching for your cloak before he even spoke again, clutching at it as though it might tether you both to something stable.
“Please,” he said, voice breaking now, “please come with me. We have to go to Dunk.”
The name did not strike as it had before.
It settled instead, heavier, slower, as though it had been waiting in the background of everything else and had only now been allowed to exist fully in your mind.
What followed was not a memory so much as a layered awareness of absence, of where he was not, of what had been taken out of your hands before you had been given any real chance to understand the shape of it, and you felt the weight of it without needing to see it again.
“I can’t,” you said, though the words did not feel like refusal so much as delay, as though your mouth had spoken before your mind had agreed.
Egg shook his head immediately, too fast, too desperate to accept it.
“He doesn’t hate us,” he insisted, voice rising in a way that made him sound even younger than he was. “He can’t. He wouldn’t. We just have to explain it. We just have to fix it before Father—before he decides anything.”
His grip on your cloak tightened as he spoke, fingers curling into the fabric as if it might anchor him, and only then did you realize how hard he was trying not to fall apart in front of you, how carefully he was holding himself together because he believed you were still the one who could steady him.
And then his voice faltered, just slightly, as if something in him had finally caught up to itself, and you saw it clearly then, not just his fear for Dunk, but the strain of being the one who had come to find you instead of the other way around.
“Egg,” you said quietly, and he looked up immediately, as if your voice alone could change direction.
For a moment, you hesitated, not because you did not know what to say, but because you were suddenly aware of how small he still was compared to what he was trying to carry.
“Are you okay?” you asked, softer now, and it did not feel like a question you expected an answer to so much as something you needed to say out loud so he would not forget he was allowed to be more than the messenger of something breaking.
He blinked at you, caught off guard by it, and the urgency in him faltered for just a moment as he tried to process it.
“I’m fine,” he said too quickly at first, then quieter, more honest without meaning to be, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
That answer did not fully hold.
But it was enough to show you what he was doing with himself.
So you let your hand rest against his head again, slower this time, grounding him as much as yourself.
“I’m here,” you said after a moment, though it felt more like something you were reminding both of you of rather than a promise.
He nodded quickly, but did not let go of your cloak.
“Then come on,” he said, voice still unsteady but determined in a way that did not match his size. “We have to help him. You always know what to do.”
That should have made something in you tighten.
Instead, it only made the silence inside you shift, as though responsibility had simply changed direction rather than disappeared.
You stood slowly, not fully because you were ready, but because staying still no longer felt like something you were permitted to do, and when you reached for your cloak properly this time, it felt heavier than it should have, as though it understood more than you were willing to say aloud.
“Go on,” you told him quietly. “Put on something heavier, it's cold.”
He obeyed immediately, too quickly, as if afraid you might dissolve again if he waited.
When he returned, you followed him out.
The corridor beyond your chamber felt narrower than it should have, though you knew it was not, the stone walls closing in with every step as though the castle itself had begun to adjust to the weight of what had happened within it, and the quiet that followed you was no longer peaceful but deliberate, almost watchful, as if even sound had learned to move carefully around you.
Egg walked ahead, but not far ahead, always close enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing back at you without meaning to, as though he needed confirmation that you were still there, still moving, still something he could rely on to remain steady even when he was not.
The stairs came sooner than expected, or perhaps you simply had not noticed reaching them, because one moment you were walking level ground and the next you were descending, the angle of the world shifting underfoot in a way that made your stomach tighten, and the air grew colder almost immediately, as though the castle was pulling warmth away from you with every step downward.
Stone replaced stone, but it no longer felt like passage, only repetition, the same turn of corridor, the same narrowing light, the same weight pressing in from all sides until even Egg’s small footsteps began to sound louder than they should have, echoing too sharply in spaces that felt too enclosed to properly contain them.
At some point, a guard passed you without speaking, his eyes lowering too quickly, not in respect but in avoidance, and that small refusal to acknowledge you at all lingered longer than it should have, settling into the space between your thoughts as another confirmation that the world above had already made its decision and was no longer interested in revisiting it.
Egg did not notice.
Or if he did, he chose not to stop.
He kept going.
Always forward.
Always downward.
Until the light behind you had thinned into something distant and unreliable, and the only remaining certainty was the sound of his voice when he finally spoke again, quieter now, as though even he understood that raising it too much might disturb something he could not see.
“It’s just down there,” he said, and it was not really reassurance, only direction, as if naming the destination might make it less frightening for both of you.
The air changed again as you reached the lower levels, becoming damp and still, carrying the scent of stone that had not seen sunlight in a long time, and the walls here were closer now, not visibly but perceptibly, as though the castle had forgotten how much space was necessary for comfort and had begun to prioritize containment instead.
Every sound felt absorbed before it could fully form.
Even your own breathing seemed muted.
Egg slowed without meaning to, his steps shortening as the corridor ahead grew darker, and for the first time, he did not look back immediately, as if whatever lay ahead required more attention than reassurance, and that small shift in him made something in your chest tighten without fully becoming fear.
You did not speak.
There was nothing to say that would not change what came next.
So you followed him into the narrowing dark, where the castle stopped feeling like a place you were moving through and started feeling like something you were being lowered into instead.
The only thing separating you from Dunk was a guard and a kitchen servant bringing his meager dinner. The food was gruel fit for the lowest kitchens, thin enough that even from a distance it looked like it would not hold a man upright for long, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what it meant to be kept here like this.
Egg did the talking, his small voice steady in the way it only ever became when he was afraid but refusing to show it.
Explaining carefully that you were there on official business from the crown, that there was no need for disturbance, no reason for alarm. The men at the door exchanged glances that lingered just long enough to make you feel it, that subtle shift of recognition that did not quite settle on you as a person, but on something more distant, something half-real, like a story being repeated rather than a presence being acknowledged.
Royals, yes.
But not one they had expected to see in a place like this.
And then they let him pass.
You pulled Egg aside before he entered. “Talk to him first,” you said gently. “I’ll go in after.” The boy nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the dungeon door and stepping inside.
The door closed again, and the sound of it felt heavier than it should have, like something had been sealed rather than opened. Suddenly, there was only the corridor, the dim torchlight, and the realization that you were still standing on the outside of something you had already set in motion.
You did not move at first.
In that gap, in that thin stretch of waiting that had no structure to hold it, your thoughts began to press in on you more sharply. Not in words, but in implications, in the slow awareness of what could happen behind that door without you, of how little control you actually had over anything once it was out of your sight.
Your breath came uneven again, and you found yourself staring at the seam where stone met iron, as though watching it closely might prevent it from becoming something irreversible.
Time did not feel like it was passing correctly.
It felt like it was gathering.
Each second stacking without release, without sound, until even the corridor behind you seemed too narrow to stand in, as if the space itself had begun to lean inward.
When Egg finally came back out, it was so sudden you almost stepped forward without thinking, your body reacting before your mind had fully caught up, but he was already there. Wiping at his face in a way that did not fully hide the relief in him, the kind that came from a tension finally loosening rather than a fear worsening.
“What happened?” you asked immediately, voice sharper than you intended.
He sniffed once, then steadied himself.
“He’s ready for you,” he said. “I will be here.”
There was something in the way he said it that made it sound like a promise he was offering you rather than something you had asked for.
You hesitated only a moment longer, because the thought of stepping through that door did not feel like movement anymore but like consequence, like entering a space where every decision you had made so far would finally stop being theoretical and become real in front of you.
Then you drew a breath that did not fully settle your nerves but forced your body forward anyway.
And with one last moment of stillness at the threshold, you stepped inside.
The first thing Dunk noticed when the door swung open was that you were not a guard telling him it was time to die. You were yourself, but different. Smaller somehow, drained of color, silver hair loose around your frame as if whatever had been holding you together had finally stopped doing its job, and the dress you wore did nothing to keep the cold from reaching you.
And yet it was still you.
Neither of you spoke at first. The silence did not feel calm, only uncertain, like neither of you trusted what would happen if you filled it too quickly. Dunk stayed seated, rigid in a way that suggested he had been holding himself still for far too long, while you stood near the threshold longer than necessary, as if crossing it meant committing to something that could not be taken back.
When you finally moved, it was careful, almost hesitant, as though even your steps were asking permission.
You did not sit immediately.
Instead, you hovered near him, hands twisting into your cloak, and when you spoke, your voice came out thin, strained by something you were still trying to keep under control.
“Are you alright?”
Dunk let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but something tired. “I’m alive.”
That should have been enough to settle something.
It wasn’t.
You swallowed and tried again, quieter. “Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, heavier now, stretching until it became uncomfortable.
“Has anyone told you what happens next?”
“No.”
Each answer made the space between you worse instead of better, because there was nothing in them to hold onto, and your chest tightened as you realized how much of this had been decided without either of you being allowed to speak inside it.
Dunk shifted slightly, the scrape of chains or restraint faint in the background, and when he finally looked at you again, there was something more fragile underneath his earlier anger.
“I do not understand this,” he said, voice rougher now. “I do not understand how I go from standing for your honor to sitting here like this while you walk in and look at me like I am already something you are trying to fix.”
Then his voice sharpened slightly, not angry yet, but worn at the edges. “What is this supposed to be?”
You hesitated. “I had to see you.”
That earned you a look, not cruel, but searching. “Had to,” he repeated.
And something in that made your chest tighten.
Because it sounded wrong out loud.
Like everything else.
Your fingers tightened in your cloak. “I needed to make sure you were—”
“Safe,” he finished for you, but there was something guarded in the way he said it.
That word pressed harder than the rest. And suddenly the air felt too thin to hold your thoughts.
“I do not know how to do this,” you admitted, voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I do not know how to explain it in a way that makes sense because nothing about this should exist in the first place.”
Dunk’s jaw tightened. “Then explain what you can.”
And that was where it cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once.
Just enough that everything you had been holding behind your ribs began to press outward.
“I did not want this,” you said, and your voice wavered before you could stop it. “I did not want any of it. I did not want the court, or the name, or the way everything I do becomes something someone else decides for me.”
Your breath hitched.
“And I did not want you in this,” you added, softer now, more broken. “I did not want you dragged into something that started because I exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Dunk frowned slightly. “That is not how it happened.”
But you were already shaking your head, the thought turning inward before you could stop it.
“It is,” you whispered, and then it came out worse, more fragile. “If I had never met you, none of this would have reached you. None of this would be sitting in a cell because of me.”
Your voice cracked fully then.
“And I keep thinking that maybe I am just… a curse that follows people until it ruins them.”
The words landed in the space between you as something dropped too hard.
Dunk went still.
Not softened yet. Not comfort yet. Just still.
Your fingers tightened into the fabric at your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself in place.
“And I did not want to lose you.”
That last part came out smaller.
More honest than you intended.
Dunk exhaled slowly. Then, quieter, sharper in refusal than argument:
“No.”
You flinched anyway.
Dunk leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you now in a way that did not let you disappear into your own thoughts.
“That is not how this works,” he said more firmly now. “I chose to step in. I chose to act.”
Then, slightly lower, less about logic and more about truth:
“And I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”
That part lands heavier than the rest.
You shook your head again, but weaker this time. “You would not have been there if not for me.”
“And I would have been somewhere else,” he cut in, sharper now, but not unkind. “Getting myself into trouble in some other way, because that is what men like me do.”
That pulled something out of you that you were not ready for. A broken sound that was almost a laugh, but not quite. Almost a sob.
“I cannot keep pretending I am fine,” you said, quieter now, but unstable. “I cannot keep doing this and acting like I am not breaking every time I am alone.”
You did not speak clearly after that anymore, only fragments of breath and pressure, and Dunk did not force you back into words.
Dunk’s expression shifted, something in him loosening, not in relief but recognition.
“You are not the only one carrying it,” he said finally, lower now, more grounded. “I am not angry at you. I was angry because I did not know what I was supposed to do with all of this. With being taken, with being used like a point in something bigger than me.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“And because I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”
Dunk exhaled slowly, then added, more quietly, “I came here thinking I was going to lose something I did not even understand I had yet. That is what scared me.”
Your hands came up to your face before you could stop them. The sound that left you next was uneven, torn between relief and grief, because it was not just about him anymore; it was everything that had been sitting behind your ribs for too long, finally finding somewhere to go.
Dunk moved immediately as you lost yourself, crying uncontrollably.
He reached for you and pulled you in, steady, anchoring, his presence solid in a way the rest of your world had not been.
“Hey,” he said quietly, closer now, voice rough but not unkind. “Dry your eyes, sweet girl.”
That was all it took to make it worse and better at the same time.
Because now you could let it happen. Now you were not holding it alone.
You clung to him without thinking about dignity or titles or anything that had been built around you, and he held you there like it was not something unexpected, like it was not something dangerous, just something real that had finally stopped being denied.
And after a long moment, when your breathing began to slow again, Dunk spoke again, lower, steadier.
“I am not letting you walk into whatever this becomes alone,” he said. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
It wasn’t a promise of certainty. But it was a promise of presence. And that mattered more.
Neither of you moved after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because anything spoken now would have felt too loud for the space between you. Dunk’s hands were still steady where they had settled around you, not holding tight anymore, just there, as if he had forgotten the exact moment he was supposed to let go.
And you had not moved away. Not even slightly.
It took a moment for you to notice that.
The silence stretched, but it was no longer empty. It felt like something suspended, like time itself had stopped asking either of you to make a decision too quickly.
Dunk looked at you then.
And something in his expression shifted in a way that did not belong to anger, or confusion, or duty anymore. It was quieter than all of that. Present in a way that made your breath catch without warning.
You realized you were looking back.
And neither of you corrected it.
You should have looked away. You did not.
The distance between you had not changed, but it felt smaller now, like it had been worn down by everything that had already happened and simply forgotten how to stay large.
Dunk’s voice came low, uncertain in a way you had never heard from him before.
“You are still shaking,” he said.
“I know,” you whispered.
Neither of you moved after that, either.
But the moment did not break.
It deepened instead, quietly, as if it had found somewhere to settle.
His gaze flicked once, briefly, to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he had not meant to do it but also could not pretend he hadn’t.
That small moment changed something.
Your breath slowed without permission. Dunk didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. And then, very quietly, as if neither of you had fully decided to allow it, the space between you stopped feeling like distance.
It stopped feeling like anything that could be maintained.
He kissed you, as if it had been decided long before either of you spoke.
Everything went still in a way that felt almost unreal, like the world had paused mid-breath and forgotten to continue. When he pulled back, it was only slightly, as if even that distance felt uncertain now. Neither of you spoke. Dunk looked at you like he was trying to understand what he had just done without undoing it.
“I am so sorry. We shouldn’t,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move back.
“I don’t care,” you admitted, barely above a breath. “Just you and me, together.” You pulled him back in.
It shocked him at first, he expected to be slapped or yelled at. But when you kissed him like you needed his air to breathe he pulled you in closer. If that was even possible.
The two of you pulled and pawed at each other like youd be gone if you stopped kissing. It was so intense that you, too, flopped over. You land back first on the cold ground, with one of his hands shielding your head from it slamming. All while still grabbing at each other, even here, he still protected you.
You only pulled apart to reposition yourself, and then went back in. He moved his affection from your lips to your neck as he began to kiss down your body. Hands roaming to hold onto your thighs, stopping only when the sound of knocking was heard.
You were in a dungeon, don't forget
It was Egg who was knocking. He said that it had grown quiet and that he was coming in.
The two of you halted. Slowly, Dunk adjusted your dress and cloak to make sure everything looked right. But it could not fix the way your body flushed against his, and your chapped lips. It was enough for Egg not to say anything, though.
“Prince Baelor request your presence.” The boy looks at the two of you. “Sooner than later.”
There were no escorts as you walked back down the hallways of the cobblestone castle. Egg’s words weighed heavy on your chest. The crowned prince is requesting you, in all of this.
Still, you followed.
By the time the doors opened, you had already braced yourself. For more judgement, more words you would have to learn how to let slip down your brain.
The first thing you noticed was how warm the room was. It was almost comforting. The exact opposite of how it had been when you and your father stood in here together.
It instantly seeped into the cold of your bones. Light from the calm fire caught onto dust in the air, softening the edges of the room, making everything feel quieter than it should have been.
Baelor did not loom. He did not fill the space with his voice or force. He sat writing as if he hadn’t noticed your presence at all.
“Uncle?” you croaked, the word feeling foreign in your throat.
He said your name—your true name—softly. His face almost brightened when he looked up at you, but it settled quickly when he saw you still standing there, unmoving.
You weren’t sure what to do. How this conversation was going to go. If you needed to keep track of the door behind you.
“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I assume you’re confused as to why I called you here.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I just… I already spoke to Prince Maekar. My words have lost their emphasis.”
Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your formality.
He paused before answering, studying you for a moment longer than expected. “You are still my niece, yes? No matter what you present as?”
You looked anywhere but at his mismatched eyes. “Well ye—”
“Then why do you speak to me like this?” he interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. “We are family. I did not call you here to make you explain yourself again.”
The words struck something deep in your chest.
“Then why am I here?” The question came out sharper than you meant it to.
“This situation is less than ideal—” he began.
“The situation?” you cut in, something hot rising up before you could stop it. “This situation… it’s not new, Uncle.”
The words hung there.
Baelor did not snap back. He did not raise his voice.
He simply waited.
And somehow, that was worse.
“I was not called here for this,” you said, your voice tightening despite yourself. “If this is about Aerion, then you already know what he will say. What everyone will say.”
Still, he said nothing.
Your hands curled at your sides.
“You all do,” you added, quieter now. “You always do.”
Baelor set the quill down carefully. Not rushed. Not startled. Deliberate.
“I know what has been reported to me,” he said. “That is not the same as knowing.”
You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “And what difference does that make?”
“A great deal.”
Silence stretched again, but it did not feel empty. It pressed, gently, insistently, until something in your chest gave way.
“You ask why I did it,” you said, your gaze fixed somewhere just past him. “Why I left, why I interfered, why I put myself there.”
A pause.
“No one else was going to.”
The words landed heavier than you intended.
Baelor’s expression shifted, something quieter settling behind his eyes.
“No one?” he repeated.
You swallowed.
“That is not how it works,” you said quickly, like you could reshape it into something safer. “People don’t step in. They watch. They always watch.”
Your voice faltered slightly on the last word.
“And you have learned that from us.”
It was not a question.
Your throat tightened again, but you did not answer.
Baelor leaned back slightly, his gaze still on you, but different now. Not distant. Not weighing.
Trying to understand.
“That is my failing,” he said quietly.
The words did not make sense at first.
You blinked. “What?”
“My failing,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Not yours.”
You stared at him.
“I have no daughters…” he began, the words slower now, less certain. He paused briefly, as if searching for the right way to say it. “Maybe one day. But until then, I told myself that meant I did not know how to guide you. That your father would. That your brothers would. That the household would.”
A faint, humorless breath left him.
“I see now that I used that as an excuse to stand at a distance.”
Something in your chest shifted, uncertain and sharp.
“When your mother died,” he went on, quieter now, “I told myself grief was a private thing. That it was not my place to intrude.”
Your hands trembled slightly. You stilled them quickly.
“When Aerion’s cruelty began… I told myself it was a matter of temper. That boys grow cruel in ways they must unlearn.” He paused again, jaw tightening faintly. “I thought it would pass.”
It didn’t. You both knew that.
“When you were given responsibilities beyond your years,” he continued, “I told myself it was because you were capable.”
Each word felt placed carefully between you, like something fragile that might break if handled wrong.
“I watched you carry all of it,” he said. “Silently. Without complaint. Without asking anything in return.”
Your vision blurred, but you refused to let it show.
“And I thought that meant you did not need anything from me.”
That hurt more than anger ever could have.
Baelor’s gaze returned to you fully.
“I was wrong.”
The room felt too warm all at once. Too small.
“You should not have had to step into that situation today,” he said. “Not because you were wrong to see it for what it was, but because you should have believed—known—that someone else would stop it before it came to that.”
His voice lowered slightly.
“That is what we failed to give you.”
We.
Not you. Not just him.
Your breath came unevenly now, something fragile cracking under the weight of it.
“I did not—” you started, then stopped.
You didn’t know how to finish that.
Baelor did not rush you.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that we have mistaken your silence for strength, and your endurance for willingness.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“They are not the same thing.”
No. They weren’t.
You had just never been given the space to separate them.
Baelor straightened slightly, though his voice remained gentle.
“I cannot undo what has already been done,” he said. A pause. “But I can do better than I have.”
Another pause, quieter this time.
“If you will allow me to.”
The words settled somewhere deep, unfamiliar.
“I… don’t know how,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, stripped of its edge.
That seemed to settle something in him.
“Then we will learn,” Baelor said. “Both of us.”
Silence followed again, but it felt different now. Less like something to endure.
You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling a quiet, frustrated sound, as if your body did not know what to do with everything that had just been placed into it.
“What is to happen now?”
Baelor did not answer immediately. He stood, moving around the desk slowly, as if giving both of you space to step out of what the conversation had been.
“As you know, Aerion would like Ser Duncan’s head for what he did.” He grimaced faintly. “He will not have it.”
You looked up at him, something sharp and desperate in your eyes. “How do you know that’s true?”
“I will do everything in my power to stop it,” he said. “For honor, for sacrifice… for you. But I cannot deny him a trial.”
You could finally breathe.
Relief came sharp and sudden, like something you had been holding back without realizing.
“There is one other matter,” Baelor added, his tone shifting slightly.
You stilled.
“Daeron has claimed that Ser Duncan kidnapped you from Summerhall, and the boy from the inn. A desperate attempt, I think, to cover his own failings.”
You were on your feet before you fully realized it, the chair scraping harshly behind you. “That’s blasphemy. Dunk would never—”
Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your openness.
“I mean—Ser Duncan,” you corrected quickly.
Even so, you did not take it back.
You swayed slightly, and this time when Baelor stepped forward, there was a pause—just enough to notice—before his hands settled carefully on your shoulders.
Warm. Steady.
You stiffened for half a breath.
Then… didn’t pull away.
“That is where you come in,” he said, his voice gentler now. “An eyewitness. The court will not favor him otherwise.”
His hands dropped after a moment, giving you space again.
“I will personally see that you are present when decisions are made. You will speak the truth of what happened. And we will see it set right.”
You shook your head slightly, uncertainty creeping back in. “But… what if—”
“I’m afraid we can only act on what is right, not what is feared,” he said quietly. “We will face the rest when it comes.”
You nodded slowly, drawing in a deeper breath than before, forcing something steadier back into yourself.
“I will do all I can.”
Baelor studied you for a moment longer, then nodded once.
“He has only one other option, if punishment is to be avoided,” he said more quietly. “So I will ask you this.”
A small pause.
“How good of a knight is he?”
You took a step back, but this time it was not out of fear. Something in you had settled. Something certain. There was no hesitation when you answered.
“The best.”
There was something steadier in your step as you made your way back through the halls. Not lighter, not easier, but steadier in a way that felt unfamiliar. Baelor’s words still sat heavy in your chest, the weight of what was to come pressing at the edges of your thoughts, but it no longer felt like something you had to brace against. It felt like something you could carry.
By the time you reached your chambers, your hands had stopped trembling.
The door closed softly behind you, sealing you into a quiet that felt almost unnatural after everything. No voices. Just the stillness of the room and the sound of your own breath as you stood there, unmoving for a moment, letting it all settle into place.
Your gaze drifted toward the wardrobe, looking for something else to wear other than your nightgown. Your fingers brushing across fabrics. Soft colors, simple cuts, pieces that allowed you to exist without being seen too closely. They could have been enough before. They could have been safe.
Not now.
You pushed further into the wardrobe, shifting past what you knew until something darker caught your eye. The black stood out immediately, deep and rich, threaded through with gold that caught the light in sharp, deliberate glints.
It demanded to be noticed.
You stilled, your hand hovering over it before finally pulling it free. The fabric was heavier than what you were used to, structured in a way that held its shape instead of falling away from it. It felt different in your hands, like it carried expectation within it.
It wasn’t yours. Who’s was it? You tried not to dwel.
For a moment, you hesitated.
Then the memory of Baelor’s voice returned, quiet and certain in a way that left no room to retreat from it. He had not raised his voice. He had not demanded anything of you. You could fully trust him, he was safe.
You tightened your grip on the dress.
Let it be known.
Today.
They would see you.
You dressed slowly, more deliberate than you had ever been before. Each movement felt intentional, every adjustment made with care until the fabric sat properly against your frame. It felt strange at first, the way it held you upright, but as you settled into it, the unfamiliarity began to shift into something else.
When you turned toward the mirror, it took you a moment to recognize what you were looking at. Not because it was unrecognizable, but because it was not what you were used to seeing. There was something sharper there, something more defined, like the version of you that had always been expected but never fully realized.
You looked amazing.
You reached for the brush next, dragging it through your silver hair with more care than usual. Each pass smoothed something out, not just the tangles but the lingering hesitation that still clung to you. You did not rush it. You did not avoid your reflection. You watched yourself as you worked, as if trying to understand this version of you as it formed.
Your eyes caught on the small items left on the table.
A pot of rouge. A small glass vial of perfume, the scent faint even from where you stood.
You hesitated again, your fingers hovering before slowly reaching forward. There was something strangely intimate about it, about taking what was not yours and making it part of yourself, even for a moment.
You pressed the color lightly onto your lips, then your cheeks, the warmth of it bringing life back into your face in a way you were overly noticing was missing. The perfume followed, just a touch at your wrists, your neck. Something soft, something that lingered without overpowering.
You stepped back from the table slowly, your hands falling to your sides as you took yourself in again.
Different.
Not someone else. Not something false.
Just… more.
Your thoughts drifted then, pulling you somewhere you wish you could go back to/
To him.
Dunk.
The way he had stood between you and the world without hesitation, as if there had never been a question in his mind. The way his voice had sounded when he said your name, not careful, but certain in a way that had caught you off guard.
And when he kissed you.
Your breath caught slightly, the memory sharper now that you allowed yourself to linger on it. It had not been soft or hesitant. There had been nothing uncertain about it. It had been sudden, unguarded, something that had broken through every wall you had carefully kept in place.
You had not stopped it. That thought lingered longer than the rest. Your hand lifted slightly, as if you could still feel it, before you forced it back down..
A knock sounded at the door, pulling you back into yourself.
“My princess,” the maid’s voice came, gentle but firm. “It is time.”
Finally
You closed your eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, steady breath, letting it settle deep in your chest. When you opened them again, there was no hesitation left in you.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice louder than usual, but no less certain.
When you stepped through the door, you did not pause.
You stepped back into the hallway with your head held just slightly higher, the weight of the dress grounding you, the warmth of the room still lingering faintly against your skin.
This time, you were not walking toward something waiting to judge you. You were walking toward something that would have to hear you.
Dunk spluttered as the burst of juice coated his hand, thick and sticky, spilling faster than he’d expected. It ran over his fingers in slow, glossy rivulets before dripping from his knuckles, pattering softly as it fell. Some of it caught along his jaw where he’d leaned too close, trailing down in uneven lines, clinging to the rough stubble there before slipping lower. He blinked hard, breath catching, as the sweetness hit his tongue again, too much, almost overwhelming. His jaw ached from the effort, muscles tight and trembling, and his tongue felt heavy, sluggish from the constant motion. Still, he kept going, shifting slightly as he tried to keep hold, his grip slick now, difficult.
The juice gathered at the hollow of his collarbone, pooling briefly before spilling over, creeping in thin, sticky paths down the broad plane of his chest. It caught in the fine hairs there, glinting faintly in the light, leaving uneven trails that cooled as the air touched them.
Dunk let out a rough breath through his nose, trying to steady himself, but it only made him more aware of the mess, of how much there was, how it clung, how it wouldn’t stop. His shoulders tensed, then loosened again as he adjusted, stubbornly continuing despite the ache, despite the distraction.
“Go on!,” Lyonel cheered with a bark of laughter, clapping Dunk hard on the shoulder and sending him stumbling back onto the bench. “Tongue it like I showed you.”
Dunk spluttered, nearly dropping the fruit as juice ran down his chin again. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, scowling. “You talk too much.”
“And you think too much,” Lyonel shot back, grinning like a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. He dropped down beside him, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re built like a warhorse, Dunk, but you fret like a septon’s son.” Trust me you will thank me later when she is exploding in your mouth.’’ Lyonel roared slamming him on his back making Dunk splutter against the fruit. ‘’You want her as wet as that peach, nice and stretched wide. Nothing will prepare you for that monster between your legs but it will ease it.’’ Lyonel growled as he took a swig of ale. ‘“Bedding a woman will hurt.”
“I would never hurt her.” Dunk growled, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “I’d stay celibate if it meant never harming her.”
Lyonel bared his teeth at that, something sharp and wolfish in the expression. “You soft-hearted fool,” he said, though there was no real malice in it. “The first time is never easy, it always hurts. How much depends on how you prepare them. Trust me as soon as you break you in, she will never want to stop. Trust me. I see it her eyes’’
‘’See what?”
“The fucking desire in her eyes, you lucky bastard.” Lyonel's eyes burned into Dunk’s swirling blue, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could force the truth into him by sheer will. There was nothing teasing in him now, only certainty, fierce and bright. “It is always the quiet and sweet ones that burn hot, scratch up your back and sucks your soul from your very body.” Lyonel grins, his canines peeping out of his lips ‘’among other things.’’
Dunk stilled under that gaze, the weight of it pressing down heavier than any blow. The breeze stirred the grass around them, soft and whispering, but it did nothing to ease the sudden heat rising along his neck. His grip tightened unconsciously around the fruit in his hand, fingers slick and sticky, juice seeping between them and dripping slowly to the ground.
He swallowed, jaw shifting as if to argue, but no words came. Lyonel’s voice lingered in the air between them, rough and certain, leaving no room for easy dismissal.
Lyonel leaned closer, not touching, but near enough that Dunk could feel the presence of him, solid, unwavering, like a storm pressing in. His grin had faded into something sharper, more knowing, as though he saw straight through Dunk’s hesitation, past all the doubt and stubborn fear.
Lyonel only huffed, a low, amused sound, ‘’Now again.’ Lyonel bellowed as he thrust as another peach Dunks hand ‘’This time we are going to work on you fingering, three at least then we will work on your thrusting stamina.’’
‘’My what!’’
‘’Can’t have you bursting the first time your enter her, and leave you all needy and wanting,’’ Lyonel's eyes darkened ‘’unless you want a striking stag to fill that need.’’ Lyonel's eyes twinkled and Dunk's eyes burnt into him as he lowered his mouth to the ripe fruit, glaring at the stag as he worked his mouth across the pitted flesh on the peach, all while pressing a single digit into the core of the ripe flesh, widening the gash with every thrust.
Xxxxxx
You looked down at the growing bundle in your arms, the weight of it awkward and unfamiliar. Small glass bottles clinked softly together, oils catching the light in amber and gold, while little cloth bags of herbs released faint, earthy scents each time they shifted. There were tinctures too, stoppered tight, their contents dark and mysterious, labels scrawled in hurried ink you could barely follow.
You walked mutely behind Rowan as she moved from stall to stall with quiet confidence, never hesitating, never second-guessing. Your hands were quick and sure, plucking items from crowded tables before passing over coins without a thought, as if she had done this a thousand times before. The merchants barely questioned her, only nodded, wrapping things in scraps of cloth or paper before turning to the next customer.
Your eyes drifted across the tables as she paused to count through each bottle again, softly reciting the uses she had already told you, your voice steady and assured. You tried to follow, truly you did, but the words tangled in your mind, slipping away almost as quickly as they came.
You had thought people would stare.
You had expected whispers, sidelong glances, the sharp weight of judgment pressing in from every side.
But no one cared.
The market moved around you in a constant hum of voices and motion, people bartering loudly over prices, arguing, laughing, haggling as though it were sport. They handled things so openly, so freely, items you had only ever known hidden behind veils and closed doors of whorehouse. It made something in you flinch, your jaw tightening before you forced it to loosen again, trying not to look as out of place as you felt.
“Egg, where have you been!”
The words left you in a rush, sharper than you meant, pulled from you by sudden relief. You spotted him weaving easily through the crowd, small and quick, slipping between bodies that barely noticed him. His shaved head caught the light as he moved, and he slowed only when he saw you,.
You worried your lip as he approached, a flicker of guilt tightening in your chest. You had not meant to lose track of him. Not him of all people but after the last nights events you had complete forgot about your young charge.
“I spent the night with the other squire boys.” Egg came to a stop in front of you, hands loosely at his sides, but his eyes were already moving, quick, observant, taking you in piece by piece. They lingered on your arms, on the faint redness there, the marks not yet fully faded. His brow creased, subtle but unmistakable. “What have you been doing?”
“I am getting supplies.”
“Supplies.” He repeated it slower this time, like he was testing the word, weighing it. His gaze flicked briefly to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face, sharper now. He wasn’t a child when he looked at you like that. “You aren’t leaving then… You aren’t leaving, are you?”
There was something quieter beneath the question, something careful. Not fear, not quite but close enough that you felt it all the same.
You shook your head, adjusting your grip on the bottles as one shifted dangerously. “No. I will be staying with you. And Dunk.”
Egg’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. It was small, easy to miss, but you saw it. His posture straightened again almost at once, as though he had not meant to show even that much.
“Will you marry him?” he asked, tilting his head up at you, eyes clear and direct.
“What?”
“It is logical,” Egg continued, unfazed by your surprise. “If you’re going to stay with us, you are his lady after all. His Smiling Lady.”
The title caught oddly in your chest, warmer than it should have been. You blinked down at him, thrown, searching for an answer that did not come easily. “I…” Your voice faltered, quieter now. “I don’t know. It depends what Dunk wants.”
Egg studied you for a moment longer, really studied you, as though measuring something you couldn’t quite see. Then, without hesitation, without doubt: “He does.”
The certainty in his voice made your breath catch. There was no teasing in it, no childish guesswork, only simple, unwavering belief. As if to him, it was already decided.
You opened your mouth, something rising up, protest, question, you weren’t sure, but it stalled before it could take shape. Before you could speak, before you could press him, the moment snapped. The pretty dark-haired girl lunged at the scrawny boy beside her.
“Bertha! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”
The boy stumbled back, nearly colliding with a stall, laughter breaking out around them. The noise rushed back in all at once, swallowing the quiet space you and Egg had been standing in.
xxxxxxxxxxx
Rowen to her time time. She did not rush her explanations. Instead, she lingered on every detail, carefully walking you through each step as if it were something delicate, something that required both precision and intention. She explained not just what to do, but how to do it, where to rub, how to move, when to pause. She described positioning with a quiet confidence, demonstrating with subtle gestures and a knowing look. Even the smallest things mattered to her, the placement of hands, the rhythm of movement, the timing of touch. She spoke about what to notice, what to respond to, and how to adjust in the moment. Nothing was left vague. Every instruction carried purpose, layered with an understanding that came from experience.
“You are really sure he has never bedded anyone else?” Rowen asked at last, peering through your long, dark lashes. There was something searching in your gaze, something measured, as though the answer would shape everything she had just told you.
“Yes.”
“The kingdoms loss is your gain, so you will have to make sure to wind him up to the point that he dare not even think anyone else could make him feel that way… but I am pretty sure he does that already.” Rowen’s words were soft, but they carried weight, confidence wrapped in subtle teasing, as if she already knew more than she was saying aloud.
“But what if…”
“I have dealt with many men in my time and seen enough besotted fools, arrogant pricks, and everything in between. Men come to the pleasure houses for many reasons. To release stress, to try something their wives will not, because they are lonely. I have seen it all, darling, and I have seen that look.”
“What look?” you ask.
“The look he gives you. The way he always looks at you. I have seen it right before a man buys out a lady.” Rowen’s voice softened, but there was certainty in it. “And it is not just that. It is the way he treats you. He serves you first without thinking, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. He walks on the outside of the road, as though he could shield you from anything that might come your way. Your cloak is always thicker than his, because he would rather bear the cold himself than see you shiver.”
She glanced at you, a small knowing smile forming. “He notices when you are tired before you even say a word and finds some excuse to let you rest. He remembers the little things you like, the way you take your tea, the foods you favor, the stories that make you smile.”
Rowen adjusted the contents of the satchel as she spoke, your movements unhurried and she packed it neatly. “It is in the way his hand hovers at your back. The way his gaze softens when it lands on you, it is daft and soppy,” she added with a quiet huff of amusement, “but there is not a more deserving lady, nor a more deserving man.”
She tied off the satchel and looked at you fully now, your expression warm, certain. “You will take care of each other and I will take care to make sure you get all the pleasure you deserve.”
xxxxx
“Dunk!”
“My lady.”
You blinked up at him, momentarily pulled from your thoughts. The day had carried on in an odd, suspended sort of way. The last hunt was not expected to return until the morrow, and after that the final feast would commence before all traveled on to the tourney after the next moon. Everything felt like it was waiting, holding its breath before something grand.
“Ahh, if it isn’t the famous Smiling Lady! I do hope you have a lot to smile about, and if not, I do hope you will have something to smile about this evening.” Lyonel’s voice boomed across the space before he even reached you, his presence arriving as loudly as his words. He swung himself down beside you with easy confidence, all broad shoulders and effortless charm, as though the world simply made room for him wherever he went.
“Lord Baratheon, I thought you were on the hunt.” Rowen’s eyes narrowed slightly, you glare sharp as it fixed on the stag lord.
“I didn’t much fancy a hunt today myself,” Lyonel replied lightly, waving a hand as if the matter were trivial, “and Dunk here has been… fruit picking.”
“Here?” Rowen’s hands found her hips in an instant, posture stiff with disbelief. “You decided to go fruit picking rather than hunting?”
“Of course!” Lyonel grinned, entirely unbothered.
Your gaze, along with Rowen’s, lifted toward the towering figure beside him, and only then did you truly take in Dunk’s state. He was covered in sticky juice, the evidence smeared across his hands, his arms, even faintly along his tunic. The scent of something sweet, peaches perhaps, lingered faintly in the air around him.
“Poor Dunk here got a little messy,” Lyonel continued, clearly amused. “Such sweet things, peaches. Takes a lot of practice to eat them correctly.”
Dunk let out a nervous, breathy laugh, his eyes refusing to meet yours. His fingers fidgeted with the tacky residue on his skin, rubbing absently at his forearm. You could not help but notice the way the muscles there flexed with the movement, the quiet strength in something so simple. He swallowed, shifting his weight slightly, and the motion drew your attention in a way you could not quite explain.
Heat crept up before you could stop it, a lingering echo from earlier that day, and you pressed your thighs together subtly, willing yourself to remain composed.
“That was quite a misfortune for someone who is an honoured guest,” Rowen said coolly, though there was an edge beneath your words.
Lyonel turned his head toward her, his grin sharpening just slightly. “Yes, such a poor host,” he echoed, though his tone suggested he did not feel poor at anything. Then his attention returned to you, his expression softening into something more deliberate. “I shall have to make it up to him.”
There was a pause, brief before his muse took him. “Take my chambers tonight,” he said, as though offering something entirely ordinary. “I find I will not need them. I must prepare for my last feast.”
You felt your stomach drop, a sudden, dizzying awareness flooding through you. The ground might as well have opened beneath your feet for how desperately you wanted it to. Beside you, Dunk had gone just as still, his panic far less concealed. His eyes darted quickly to Lyonel, searching, uncertain, but the lord remained entirely unfazed, as though nothing about this was unusual.
“Hot water will be brought, and I will have all your things sent. Your boy can help. Now, Leeum… LEEUM!”
The bellow cut through the air, and within moments an older servant appeared, moving with practiced efficiency.
“Oh, Leeum,” Lyonel continued, gesturing toward the two of you, “take these two to my chambers and get them settled.”
There was no room left for protest, not truly. Things were already in motion.
You found yourself moving before you had quite decided to, following after the servant. Dunk fell into step beside you, quiet, almost too quiet, his earlier nervous energy now replaced sheer terror.
Rowen pressed your satchel into your chest as you passed her, the gesture firm, grounding. Your fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, a silent reassurance before she let go.You clutched it close as you walked, the weight of it suddenly comforting, something solid in the midst of everything that felt far too uncertain.
Behind you, Lyonel’s voice carried once more, lower now, edged with a different sort of amusement.
“I am now in want of a room, my lady. Care to accommodate me?” he purred.
“I am a married lady, Lord Baratheon,” Rowen replied sharply, though there was a controlled steadiness to your tone.
“That is quite all right,” Lyonel returned without missing a beat. “Your husband can join.”
Xxxxx
Dunk would never be able to look at a peach the same way again. The sticky sweetness clung not just to his skin but to his thoughts, lingering in a way that made his face burn even now. As he peeled off his trousers, his hands fumbled slightly, his movements hurried and clumsy. There were stains along the seams he could not ignore, no matter how hard he tried to push the memory away.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw tightening. The echo of Lyonel’s booming laughter still rang in his ears, the heavy clap of a hand against his back as he came with a whimper as peach juice dripping down his skin as spurt after spurt of cum twitched from his cock.
“God lad! Means you won’t lose your head as quickly when you finally bed her.”
The words twisted in his chest. He should never have gone to Lyonel in the first place. He knew that now. Foolish hedge knight, letting himself be swept along, too uncertain to refuse, too naïve to see where it would lead.
Heat crept up his neck again, this time sharper, edged with shame.
With a quiet, almost desperate motion, he sank beneath the water, the bath carved from stone and tucked into the side of the chamber. The warmth closed around him, muffling the world above. For a moment, there was nothing but the muted stillness and the faint distortion of light through the surface.
He stared into the murky depths, letting the silence press in. If he stayed there long enough, perhaps he would not have to face you at all. Not your eyes, not the way you might look at him now. Not the possibility of disappointment, or worse, pity.
His lungs began to ache, the pressure building until instinct finally forced him upward.
He broke through the surface with a sharp gasp, water cascading down his face as he dragged in air, chest heaving.
And then he saw you.
You were sitting at the edge of the bath, closer than he had expected, closer than he was prepared for. The soft light of the room caught along the curve of your form, your hands resting loosely in your lap, your expression unreadable in that first stunned heartbeat.
For a second, he froze completely.
Then panic struck.
Dunk scrambled backward in the water, nearly slipping as he tried to cover himself, his hands moving too quickly, too uncertainly. Water sloshed against the sides of the stone, rippling outward from his sudden movement. His face had gone red, deeper than before, eyes wide and refusing to settle anywhere near yours.
“My…my lady…” he stammered, voice rough and uneven, as if the words themselves struggled to find their way out.
He turned slightly, one arm crossing awkwardly over himself, the otyougripping the edge of the bath as though it might steady him. Every inch of him seemed caught between the urge to disappear back beneath the water and the need to somehow explain, though he had no idea how.
The words fell apart before they could form into anything meaningful.
He swallowed hard, shoulders tense, water dripping from his hair as he kept his gaze fixed somewhere just beyond you, unable to meet your eyes.
‘’Dunk if you do not seem to remember I had your cock in my hand, this morning? You really do not need to hide from me.’’
“It is indecent. You’re a lady…” Dunk spluttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his embarrassment, his attempt at propriety unraveling with every passing second.
“Yes,” you said softly, the hint of a smile curving your lips, “I am a lady… and you are my knight.”
There was something almost playful in the way you said it, but beneath it lay something steadier, more certain. You shifted slightly at the edge of the bath, realizing, perhaps for the first time, how much you liked this vantage point. Looking down at him like this, seeing him undone, uncertain, all that strength and steadiness turned shy under your gaze.
“A knight I very much wish would take me to bed.”
The words were gentle, but they landed with quiet clarity.
Dunk’s breath caught, his hands tightening slightly where they rested, his whole body going still as if he scarcely dared to move. His eyes flickered up to yours, searching, disbelieving, as though he feared he had misunderstood.
You leaned closer before he could retreat into that doubt again. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the distance between you. Your lips met his in a soft, tentative kiss, warm despite the lingering dampness of the bath. He froze at first, startled more than anything, but there was no resistance in him, only uncertainty.
You lingered there for a moment, just enough for him to feel it, to begin to respond, before your lips shifted slightly. Your tongue brushed lightly along his lower lip, a quiet invitation rather than a demand, before you pulled back just enough to look at him again. His expression was utterly undone, breath uneven, eyes wide and fixed on you as though the world had narrowed to this single moment.
A small smile touched your lips, softer now, almost amused.
“You really do taste like peaches…what on earth have you been doing?” you blink in confusion
Xxxxxx
Dunk would not so much as step out of the tub until you were settled, properly and modestly, behind the heavy curtains that draped around the bed. Only when he was certain you were out of sight did he move, the faint sound of water shifting and stone scraping echoing softly through the chamber.
The bed itself felt almost indulgent beneath you. Layers of thick furs and soft linens had been piled high, the mattress yielding gently as you shifted your weight. The curtains, rich and heavy, softened the light into a warm glow, turning the space into something private and cocooned. The tincture still tasted strange on your tongue. Something to sooth and dull the pain. The rest bundled up at the side of the table, just in case.
“Where is the boy?” Dunk’s voice came from behind the curtain, quiet as he flapped around the bed.
“Playing with the squire and a rather pretty girl named Bertha. Raymund is watching them.”
There was a pause. You could hear it in the slight stillness of the room, the subtle shift in his breathing. Then the quiet sounds resumed, the rustle of cloth, the drag of a towel against skin, his footsteps against the stone floor.
You sat there, hands resting in your lap, but inside you something entirely different stirred. Excitement bubbled up, bright and quick, twisting together with a nervousness that made your fingers curl slightly against the fabric beneath you. Your heart beats faster, each second stretching just a little longer than the last.
“My lady… would you turn around?”
You did as he asked, shifting on the bed. For a brief moment, you found yourself facing nothing but the softly lit curtains, blinking in confusion till you lowered your eyes and slowly, you leaned forward, peering down over the edge of the bed.
Dunk was there on one knee on the floor beside the bed. He was shirtless, his broad frame still slightly damp, his hair darker where it clung to his skin. His breeches hung loose at his hips, hastily fastened, as though he had not trusted himself to take the time to do it properly. And in his hand, was a small wooden ring.
“I know it’s not a lot,” he began, his voice rough, earnest, every word pulled from somewhere deep and unguarded. “And I know it’s wooden, but I carved it myself and I will turn it into gold. I want to do this right, have you as my wife, and if you want to wait for… you know… I will happily wai…”
He did not get to finish. You moved before he could, launching yourself forward and into his arms. The force of it nearly knocked the breath from him, his hands coming up instinctively to catch you, to steady you, his surprise melting quickly into something warmer, something certain.
You pulled back just enough, your hand already reaching, fingers opening as you held it out to him.
Dunk’s hands, still a little unsteady, guided the ring onto your finger. The wood was smooth beneath your skin, simple and imperfect, but it fit. And somehow, that made it feel more right than anything polished ever could. His gaze lifted to yours, still searching, still almost disbelieving, as though he needed to see it there to truly believe it was real.
Dunk’s eyes traced every part of you as if committing it to memory, as if he could scarcely believe you were real, let alone his.
Adoration softened everything about him. It gentled the strength in his features, turned his usual steadiness into something almost vulnerable.
You lifted your hand, small against the breadth of him, and cupped his cheek. The contrast made your breath catch for a moment, your fingers brushing along the rough warmth of his skin. He leaned into the touch without thinking, as though he had been waiting for it.
You drew him closer and kissed him, slow and certain this time, no hesitation left between you.
When you pulled back, your forehead nearly brushed his, your voice soft but unwavering. “Take me to bed… and make me yours.”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, something fierce and tender flickering together in his expression. Then he moved.
Dunk gathered you up as though you weighed nothing at all, his arms firm and sure around you. The sudden lift drew a quiet breath from you, your hands finding him easily, instinctively. He set you gently onto the bed, the soft furs shifting beneath your weight, the curtains parted as learned forward claiming your mouth in a searing kiss.
Xxxxxx
The scent of peaches and Dunk filled the air as you arched your back, to meet his lips, your breasts pressing against his broad chest. His hands roamed greedily over your body, pawing at the soft swell of your hips and the delicate lace edging the gown, while your fingers traced the scar on his side. Its gnarled edges caressed your fingertips as you pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss. Fervent urgency, tongues dancing as your muffled gasps vibrate against his mouth as you ground your aching core against the hard bulge in his trousers.
The memory of hand wrapped around his thick cock, drawing out his release with skillful strokes, left you throbbing your pussy slick and swollen. You needed this, no more quick fumbles under your dress while you listen to Dunk’s soft snores or biting your lip as your grind against your hand in the freezing water while your eyes gaze at the guarding Dunk.
Dunk groaned into your neck, his breath hot and ragged, as he shifted above, his weight pinning you deliciously to the mattress, feeling the rigid length of his meaty cock grind against your through the layers of fabric. "Yes, oh gods, yes," you moaned. The friction sent sparks of ecstasy through your veins, your nipples hardening into peaks against his chest,
‘’Dunk please…’’ you gasped as you grinded needily into him, it was too much but still not enough. ‘’Please.’’
The knight pulled back as he gazed down at you, your eyes bright and burning in the light of the fireplace, chest heaving, hands clawing at his biceps as you stare, no beg up at him. His eyes flicker, searching for any traces of hesitation, of fear, of fakeness but found nothing but your big pleading eyes and your parted lips. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, especially for a a poor boy from flee bottom, to be between the legs of a Lady, a lady that wore his ring and between you heaving breasts lay his shield.
Gently, he slipped one arm behind your back and the other beneath your hand, fingering the ring that now decorated your hand as drawing you up from the bed and onto your feet.
Once you were on your feet, he turned you slowly, his hands never leaving you, until your back met the solid warmth of his chest.
The difference in your size became even more apparent then. His frame swallowed you, broad and steady, one of his arms settled lightly around you as his lips descended on the sensitive curve of your throat, planting open-mouthed kisses that left a trail of tingling warmth.
His hands worked deftly now, fingers tearing at the delicate ribbon that held my gown in place, the fabric yielding with a soft, whispering rip. The cool air rushed in as he pulled the neckline down my shoulders, exposing the swell of my breasts to the dim candlelight, their peaks hardening in anticipation. You could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against my lower back through his breeches and it stirred a deep, aching need within me, one that warred with the nervousness coiling in my stomach.
But the need was consuming and ate your nervousness whole. Yo turned in his embrace, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration, my eyes meeting his piercing blue gaze. The gown slipped from you fingers, pooling around my feet , leaving you bare before him. Hair cascaded over my shoulders, framing the swell of your breasts and the soft curve of my hips, while the thatch of curls between my thighs glistened. Dunk's eyes roamed over me hungrily, his hands sliding down to cup my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies were flush.
‘’It might hurt…I don’t wanna…’’ he gulped, playing with the ends of your hair.
‘’I know’’ your cooed, wrapping your hands around his neck. ‘’But I need you..’’
‘’It might not fit…I..’’ his skin was now a blotchy patchwork of fluster, his body was coiled tight around you.
Gods you loved him. Truely. A lesser man would have pushed you onto the bed and taken you by now and properly finished and snoring. But he was cupping you head so delicately, looking at you with such tenderness, you where ready to push him down and taken him yourself.
‘’We will make it fit, gods we will. I refuse to leave this room till you have been sheathed inside me at least twice. Because you are mine, Dunk and I am yours. I love you.’’
Dunk’s breath caught sharply, and for a heartbeat he said nothing at all.
“I love you.” He said it immediately, without pause, as though it had been waiting just beneath the surface, needing only your voice to bring it free. There was no doubt in it, no second thought, only certainty.
His hands came up to cradle your face, large and careful, his thumbs brushing lightly along your cheeks as if to make sure you were truly there. His forehead dipped toward yours, his eyes searching as your lips met again, his eyes never leaving yours.
Dunk’s hands never left you as he guided you back onto the bed, his touch steady but reverent, as though he was still half afraid this might all vanish if he moved too quickly. The furs shifted beneath you as you lay back, the softness of them a stark contrast to the strength in his hands as he eased you down.
He lingered there for a moment, leaning over you before he pulled back his hands and moved to the last barrier between you, his breeches. He pulled them down in one swift motion, flinging the item across the room. Leaving him bare before your eyes, his cock swaying his panting breath, smooth and pink and far too pretty, just like the rest of him, all shifting muscle.
‘’My handsome knight…soon to be husband.’’
‘’Don’t say things like that,’’ Dunk gasped as he crawled up your body. ‘’Not if you want me to be good for you. Please.’’
You wanted to tease him, you really did, but the trembled in his body as he hovered over you, and the wild look of panic hushed you. There would be time to tease him later, to push him to his breaking point. But for now you were content to let him guide you as you reclaimed his lips
Gasping against his mouth, your body responding with a rush of warmth that pooled between your legs. His fingers traced the edge of your thighs, teasing the damp flesh that clung to your swelling pussy, while his top hand threads through your hair
"Let me take care of you," he breathed, his voice husky with need, as he trailed kisses down your neck, his touch both tentative and caring. ‘’I know how.’’ he smiled eagerly as he pulled back a trailing kiss down your body, tongue flicking against your skin.
Teasingly. Slow. Make you yearn for you. Lyonel voice filled his head as he settled between your thighs.
But all Dunk could do was stare at the pretty pink flower in front of him. Red and puffy, glistening with dew, quivering and fluttering at him.
‘’Dunk! Don’t stare’’ You whimper. Subconscious and unsure, eyes shining down at him as you squirm to close your thighs, his hands shot out to press your thighs wider apart.
‘’Don’t’’ his voice was low, deep and gravelly, ‘’Don’t you dare, hide yourself from me. Hide your beauty.’’
You fluttered around nothing. A near animalistic noise rumbled from his chest. As he lowered his mouth to you, eyes never leaving your as with deliberate slowness, his wide flat tongue firm against you. He found your delicate clit fast, almost too fast.
Your body trembling under his inexperienced touch. Dunk's tongue delved deeper, circling your swollen clit with hesitant, uneven flicks that sent jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins, each stroke drawing out a soft, breathless whimper from your lips. His fingers gliding over your slick folds, preparing you with careful strokes
‘’I am gonna…’’ he moaned between flicks ‘’you taste…fuck…gonna stretch…gods...you out get you….mmmm… nice a ready. I promise.’’ he devoured you.
You arched upward in response, you fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer as he parted your slick folds with his tongue, sending jolts of electric pleasure coursing through your veins.
He started slowly, teasing your with the tip of one finger, circling your entrance before gently sliding it inside, stretching hard enough to elicit a gasp of mingled surprise and delight. It felt…good. You were so wet it, your core welcomed it, sucking it greedily in.
"Oh, Dunk... yes, like that," you murmured, your hips rocking against his hand as his mouth continued his assault on your clit.
Wounds so tight you could barely make it through the fourth swipe of his tongue before a scream tore through your as the feeling overcame you out of nowhere, surging from your belly to your toes curling as the feeling pulsed through your body.
Dunk was captivated. You came apart so beautifully, it was addictive. Pride surging through him, he wished to watch you come apart, again and again. You so soft and willing beneath him, him a lowly hedge knight and you a goddess.
He worked you with increasing rhythm, adding a second finger moments later to delve deeper, twisting and curling them to massage you, just like Lyonel told him, to find that…
‘’Arghhh Dunk!’’ He paused, eyes shooting up, as you convulsed again his tongue, his finger buried deep, curled at a stop. That spot, your most sensitive spots. The stretch was exquisite, a building tension that heightened your ecstasy, and as his tongue now pressing firmly against your clit, she felt the delicious burn of fullness, your body yielding to him completely.
He worked that spot,pumping it softly as his tongue rolled around your bud, watching you squirm as he introduced a third finger, easing it in with careful precision amid your gasps and moans.
He pumped his fingers steadily, stretching you further, the slick sounds of your core mingling with your cries of bliss, while his free hand roamed up to cup your breast, thumbing your hardened nipple in time with his thrusts. You tittered on the edge. His warm breath mingling with the slick heat between your thighs. His fingers, still gliding over your folds, curled inward gently, finding that sensitive spot inside you that made your gasp and clutch at the blankets beneath you. The combination of his tongue's teasing dance and the steady pump of his fingers built a crescendo of sensation, your pussy clenching around him in eager response, growing wetter with every passing second as he coaxed you closer to the edge.
‘’Please Dunk!’’ felt the tension in your body uncoil, your initial fears dissolving into pure, unbridled need, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as his fingers quickened their pace
‘’I need you…’’ You looked down at him, his eyes bright and swirling, his face soaked.
Dunk eyes fell to your dripping core, stretched around his thick fingers, he felt your body relax and open under his touch, he knew she was ready, your hips bucking instinctively against his mouth and hand. He slowed his movements, drawing out the pleasure to savor the build-up, his own arousal straining against the bed.
He knew he would not last long, but his beastly need could no longer be contained. With a deep, steady breath, Dunk pulled back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours as on all four, caging you, his hard, throbbing length of his cock. thick and veined, pulsing between you.
Never in his life would he think he would reach this moment, nestled between the cushion of your thighs, you spread wide to accept his thick trunk, the weight of this moment pressing on him like the first light of dawn, he waived.
‘’If I am too much just …I will stop. Promise me you’’ll tell me’’
How could you not have those large pleading eyes bearing down on you.
Your breath hitched, your body tense with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty, your dark eyes wide as she whispered, "I promise. Go slow, please," your voice a fragile thread in the charged air, as he positioned himself between your thighs, the tip of his shaft brushing against your slick entrance.
He nodded, his hand sliding down to where they joined, his fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it with gentle, rhythmic pressure to ease you into the moment. Slowly, inch by inch, he pressed forward, the head of his cock breaching your tight pussy, stretching you in a way that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
Dunk groaned, a deep grunt low roar. You were so warm, so impossibly snug around him, your inner walls fluttering in hesitant waves as you body struggled to accommodate his size, a sharp mix of discomfort and thrill washing over you.
You were no longer a maid. You had Dunk’s thick cock buried in your pussy tearing you open, carving a passage within you just for him. His.
Dunk paused, his own body trembling with the effort of restraint, his cock throbbing inside you as he continued to rub your clit, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you that gradually melted the tension but the pain still remained. "Gods…you are so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his free hand caressing you cheek, his other frantically circling your clit.
‘’I love you!’’ He gritted out as he sank deeper still, your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic flutters, each contraction pulling him closer to the edge, his balls tightening with the overwhelming sensation of you gripping him so perfectly.
‘’Am I hurting you?.’’ He nearly lost control right there, a low hiss escaping his lips as your heat and tightness threatened to push him over into release. He didn’t want to, but he would, if you asked him to pull out he would. Gods give him strength, he would.
‘’NO! Please…just’’ you gulped as you threw your head against the furs, ‘’a moment please…’’ you moaned hotly caught between pleasure and pain.
A dutiful knight he held on, jaw clenched, hips still as stone as you withered beneath him. Focusing on your pleasure, fingers dipping into your wetness, sliding it across your clit as slowly, so slowly your hips began to rock tentatively against him, till with a high pitch whine jerked from your lungs
‘’Move Dunk! Gods please’’
Tentatively, he rolled his hip, eyes taking in the silent scream that raptured across your face, head tilted as your hips rose to meet his.
Your moans growing louder and more urgent. The room echoed with the slick sounds of their joining and the heady scent of their arousal, a symphony of raw emotion and physical bliss that bound them to this profound awakening.
Moans echoed through the chamber, hers high and keening, his low and guttural, hips drove forward with unrelenting force, his thick cock plunging deep into your welcoming pussy. Each thrust sent shockwaves through your body, your inner walls gripping him tightly, the wet slap of their flesh echoing off the stone walls like a primal drumbeat. You arched beneath him, your hair splayed across the pillows, glassy eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy as his broad shoulders flexed with every powerful stroke. The head of his shaft hit that sweet, hidden spot inside you, igniting sparks that raced up your spine, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm, nipples brushing against the coarse hair of his chest. Your moans grew sharper, more desperate, a symphony of raw need that fueled his own hunger.
As the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Fingers streaked across skin, nails dug into his back, leaving crescent marks that left red streaks across the expanse of his scarred skin, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Oh, gods, Dunk!," your cried out, voice breaking as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, pussy clenching rhythmically around his invading length. Orgasm ripped through you like a tsunami. Your body shudders violently, juices flowing to coat him as you writhed and bucked, coating his cock with your spent.
Yet he didn't pause, his thrusts pulled you through your orgasm, rapt withal as you gushed around him, check flushed, hair a tangled mess against the floor.
"Sorry, my luv, I…," he growled, his voice raw, pistoning faster, more frantic, driven by the burning coil tightening in his stomach, the bed creaking beneath you.
His pace quickened, each slam of his hips sending jolts of pleasure-pain through your oversensitive core, until at last, with a deep, guttural roar, Dunk surrendered to his climax pulling out just as hot spurts of his seed coated your stomach, his cock pulsing as spurt after spurt surged from him. All strength left him as he collapsed against you, bodies slick and spent, the air heavy and hot.
Dunk lay beside you, his chest still rising and falling a little heavier than usual, his arm wrapped securely around you as if he had no intention of letting you drift even an inch away. There was a softness to him now, a quiet satisfaction mixed with lingering disbelief, like he was still catching up to what had just happened between you.
“Was I… did I…” he huffed, clearly struggling to find the words, his usual steadiness slipping just enough to show his nerves.
You smiled, pressing closer into him, your cheek resting against the warmth of his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “It was amazing… you are amazing… my handsome husband to be…” you murmured, your voice soft and content as you nestled into him.
For a moment, he went very still at that, the words settling deep. His arm tightened slightly around you, instinctive, protective.
You let out a quiet, teasing breath against him, fingering the cum coating your stomach. “But I am glad for Lady Rowen’s little tea… otherwise we might have little Dunks running around.”
That did it.
Dunk shifted, his expression darkening, “What did I say about that…” he muttered, giving you a light swat in protest on your rear, more embarrassed than anything. His gaze dropped to you again, softer now. “You want me to be good for you,” he added, voice low but steady, “then stop teasing. Or I will have you on your back again,” he finished, though the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed him completely.
I am completely fed up with corrections so this was much needed
Favorite part? Lyonel and Lady R of course!
I have maybe 3 more chapter left of this and then some shorts and what ifs...
Also if you liked this smut scene you will love Saviors smutty scenes :P (if you read that one too)
Title: (You're the) Missing Piece
Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!Reader
Rating: Fluff with a pinch of heat + usual Westeros shenanigans
Word count: 5.1k+
Summary: While on the soggy road, Egg isn't feeling the best, and instead of a hedge, you all find yourselves in a warm inn for the night. Or in which you and Dunk end up in a bathtub together and have to confront things left unspoken head-on.
...been lookin' for the one, and you're the missin' piece...
THE SPRING RAINS have not let up for nigh on a week, nor has the last grasp of a short winter let up over the Westerlands. It makes for a miserable time on the River Road toward the seat of House Tully and beyond toward the North. As if the wet clothes, mud, and chill of the nights without a proper fire to warm the camp and cook aren’t enough, poor Egg begins falling behind on his mule, Maester—a bit farther than you would have liked—complaining about a sore throat and aches in his little bones.
You offer the little prince a hunk of mallow root to chew from your satchel, telling him it’ll help with the scratch in his throat. He pulls a face at the taste and texture—like slimy tree bark—but does as he’s told; else he risks receiving a clout in the ear from Ser Duncan.
By midday, you know it’s a fever that’s got hold of Egg. His skin is clammy, warm, and paler than usual when you press the back of your fingers to his forehead, and his wide violet eyes are glassy and tired, looking up at you from under the brim of his straw hat. Even his usual chatter along the path fades to silence.
It’s enough for Dunk to say you’ll stop at the next inn along the road. It should be the Inn of the Kneeling Man, near Stone Hedge, where there’ll be a proper maester, if it comes to needing one. Though you think two or three nights with a warm bed and hearth and a soft pillow will set the little prince right again.
And so, the three of you press on.
The road winds past sodden fields, swollen streams, and bare-branched trees that should be budding with flowers and leaves by now. All day, the sky stays a dull grey, but the rain softens to a drizzle in the afternoon, even if the bitter chill never leaves.
Come evenfall, the Inn of the Kneeling Man is just around the bend in the road—just as Dunk said it would be—with smoke rising from the chimneys and a warm glow in the windows from flickering candles.
Veering off the road, you head to the stables, leaving Thunder, Storm, and Maester to be tended to for the night. Dunk gives the stableboy a copper, and you give him a few more—with how the roads have been, they’ll all need an extra brushing or two—before following after your two companions and over to the inn.
The innkeep wipes his hands on his apron as he takes in the sight of the three of you when you enter—travel-worn and carrying a sick child between you. The largest of the rooms is taken, but there are two rooms available in its place, a small one for the boy and another for you and Dunk. Before turning in for the evening, though, you all need a warm meal—and just about anything sounds better than hard cheese and salt beef.
The common room smells of woodsmoke and stew, and there are benches and tables aplenty. Only merchants and other hedge knights are traveling about the realm these days, and they mostly keep to themselves, though a few curious eyes follow the three of you. By now, you’re used to the attention. Dunk is likely to be the tallest man in all nine kingdoms—certainly, the biggest man you and most others will ever see—and wandering about the realm with a small, bald boy for his squire certainly doesn’t help.
You and Egg take the bench nearest to the fire, hanging your cloaks to start drying. Almost as soon as you all sit, a serving girl brings a tray of food over. Bowls of hot stew with venison and root vegetables, and sage. A loaf of brown bread, freshly baked before dawn. And a pitcher of ale for you and Dunk, and watered wine for the boy.
Egg picks up his bowl, drinking some of the broth—it feels good to his scratchy throat and warms his belly. The three of you eat in near silence, listening to the conversations scattered around: The Red Fork’s flooded. None of the ferries are running. It’s the worst rains many can remember, right on the heels of a summer-long drought. One of Lord Reyne of Castamere’s daughters had run off with one of Lord Lydden’s sons. There’s a new tax on the Myrish lace and samite. Dunk takes a quaff of his ale, gaze lingering on Egg when he goes to refill the cup.
He’s leaned against your side, eyes half open—fighting to stay awake after finishing his bowl of stew and hunk of bread, his lashes drooping lower with every slow blink. You smile, nudging him gently. “Come on,” you tell the little prince. “That’s enough for today.”
“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, head tipping farther against your side.
Dunk snorts. “You’re half asleep on your feet, Egg.”
“I am not, ser,” Egg insists, his protest lacking its usual fire.
You rise from the bench, easing Egg upright with you. He sways a little, and your hand finds his shoulder. “I’ll see Egg to bed,” you tell Dunk as he looks up at you, the firelight catching in his bright blue eyes. There’s worry there, plain as anything, though he tries to hide it with a steady nod.
Egg’s steps drag, head dipping forward, as you guide him up the stairs and to a small room. It’s just big enough for a narrow bed tucked into the corner and a short bedside table behind the door. But the hearth is warm and chases the chill from the air.
You help Egg out of his boots, setting them and his cloak aside near the fire to finish drying, and the little prince crawls beneath the blankets with a sigh as you draw the covers up to his chin, smoothing them down. If someone had told you a few years ago that you’d be tucking a Targaryen Prince into bed, you would’ve laughed and called them mad.
And yet, here you are.
Egg looks up at you with those wide, violet eyes—heavy with sleep, but there’s a twinkle of mischief in them, too. He may only be a boy, but he’s been on the road long enough with you and Dunk to know. And in the past few weeks, ever since leaving Standfast, he’s become determined to make something more come out of your and Dunk’s friendship.
Friends don’t look at each other the way you and Dunk do, especially when you both think no one else is looking—all longing and loving, as though you’re the only two people who can ever make each other laugh and smile. You lift a brow in question, knowing the boy wants to say something. “He’s not going to say anything,” Egg says quietly, like he’s giving away a deep and dark secret.
Your hand stills on the quilted blanket. “What are you going on about, Egg?”
“Ser Duncan,” the little prince says. “He worries he’ll ruin it.” He pauses, blinking, and yawns. “Our little family, of sorts.” It’s the only way Egg can think to describe it—you all look after one another. That’s what families do. He doesn’t remember much of his mother, Lady Dyanna Dayne, but he remembers how she’d tuck him in at night at Summerhall and tell him stories of Starfall, just like you do now. “If he tells you.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you search his young face. “And what is it you think he wants to tell me, Your Grace?” You ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your heart.
Egg’s mouth twists just a little, sleep tugging at him again—he’s fighting a losing battle. “You know,” he says simply. “You’re just waiting for him to be brave enough to say it first.”
For a moment, you can’t find any words to say. Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers lightly over Egg’s forehead—still warmer than normal. “Go to sleep, little dragon,” you murmur, maybe trying to convince yourself he’s speaking nonsense because of the fever.
“M’not little,” he grumbles—but the words slur together as sleep takes him.
You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets as Egg sleeps, listening to the crackle of the hearth and the rain against the roof. He worries it’ll ruin it—you hear the muffled voices from the common room below, hear Dunk’s voice above them all—our little family, of sorts. You close your eyes. The steps and wooden floorboards outside creak and groan with heavy footfalls. Dunk. You know. And maybe you’ve known longer than either of them realizes. It’s always been the little things he does.
Making sure you have the drier blanket, the softer spot in the grass under the trees and stars.
He’ll shorten his long strides to match yours without thinking when you’re in a market together or strolling through some lordling’s great hall.
Dunk always finds you, even in crowds, and even when he’s the center of attention.
It’s the gentleness of his hands whenever he helps you on and off your horse or when you fall asleep on his shoulder, and he decides he can go without so as not to disturb you.
And maybe it’s always been there, low and simmering. But even so, you cannot deny it’s been different since the Tourney at Ashford. “Brave enough,” you repeat under your breath, shaking your head with a little smile. There’s no one in the realm braver than Ser Duncan the Tall.
YOU PUSH THE door open to the room across the hall—Dunk is sitting at the end of the bed, just starting to work on a patch for his cloak. You’ve been meaning to do it for him, but with the rains, it was hard to focus on much else except staying dry and warm. “Egg’s asleep,” you tell him, going to sit at his side. And usually you would stay with Egg, not out of a want to be apart from Dunk, but because few road inns and taverns have beds large enough for both of you.
Dunk lets out a long, slow breath, shoulders falling just a little. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” Rest is the best medicine, or so that’s what you’ve always told him after patching him up all these years without nary a complaint. And despite his stubbornness, he knows this little break from the road will do you all good.
He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the fire. Half in front of the stone hearth is a wooden tub filled with water. “Had ‘em draw a bath for you,” he says, nodding in the tub's direction. You always liked having a proper bath whenever you stayed at an inn or tavern. It’ll certainly be a welcome one with the mud splotches on your face and bits stuck in your hair. Giving Dunk your thanks, you stand, hands going to unbind your hair and brush through the knots. He clears his throat and rises from the bed, headed toward the door. “I’ll–,” he stammers, “I’ll go see to the horses.”
“Gave the stable boy a few extra coppers to do that tonight,” you note before he can reach for the doorknob—no point in going out in this weather again when his tunic and britches have only just dried. “And asked for a farrier to see to Thunder on the morrow.” They all needed a good brushing after the last few days, and Thunder needed one of his shoes repaired.
Dunk stands there a moment longer than he means to, big hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if he might yet find some task to busy them with. And maybe if it weren’t a cold and rainy night, he would’ve. “Then I’ll–” There’s nowhere left to go, no excuse left to reach for. The bath is already drawn, and it’s been weeks since either of you had a proper wash.
“Dunk” —you pull at a knot in your hair, and he can’t help but think he’d be gentler than you are now, given the chance— “you don’t have to go.” His brows knit together. Thick as a castle wall, but by the Old Gods and the New, you love him for it. “It’s just skin. Just a bath,” you tell him. “Like when we were younger.” Propriety never stopped the two of you from sharing a tub or stream when you were children; why should now, after a week in the cold rain, when you’re both weary, be any different?
“Aye,” he says, voice tighter than usual, a far-off look in his blue eyes, “but we’re not children anymore.” It’s a dawning realization over the years that the girl he half-grew up beside is now the woman he wants.
Your eyes flit over him quickly, from head to toe. “No,” you agree. Boys didn’t have shoulders so broad, jaws so strong, or hands so callous. “We’re not.” And even so, he’s still just Dunk. Your Dunk. “But there’s enough room for both of us, and the warm water will do you good.” He tries to feign indifference, and you see the cogs of his mind turning again, trying to find an excuse.
Brave enough, Egg said. You’ve never known Dunk to back away from a challenge or deny a softly spoken request from you. You could ask him to carry you all the way to the Wall, and he would do so without a quibble, because he’s your man, your Dunk.
“Egg and I can’t haul you around so easily if you catch a fever.” He grunts his agreement as you dip your fingers into the water. The surface ripples, catching the candle and firelight. “Come on, then,” you tell him, looking back—he’s standing still as a statue with a knot in his throat, “before it goes cold.”
You hear him let out a resigned sigh, and then the rustle of cloth as he shrugs off his vest. Your own fingers begin loosening the ties of your bodice, though not as deft as usual—it must be Egg’s words causing the butterflies to flap around in your belly. He worries it’ll ruin it. Lying the dusty blue kirtle aside, you slip off your shoes and stockings and spare a glance over your shoulder.
Dunk’s half-turned away, unlacing the neck of his tunic, broad shoulders tight with a restraint you’ve never seen, or maybe you just haven’t noticed before. You’ve seen him bloodied, bruised, drunk, laughing, crying, furious, but this cautiousness is new—odd. Brave enough. You turn to the bath before he can catch you looking and shrug off a nigh threadbare linen shift, tossing it aside with the rest of your garments.
The night air in the room nips at your skin, especially when you step into the hot water and ease yourself down. Warmth surrounds your legs, hips, and waist, and it chases the chill from your bones. Dunk doesn’t miss your quiet sigh—it sends a shiver down his spine—when you sink back against the side of the tub, head leaned back and eyes shut.
Keeping your eyes closed, you wait for him to join, and he’s thankful for it; else you’d see the war he’s waging against himself. The water sloshes, spilling over the sides a little as Dunk settles opposite you. It’s close quarters, but he keeps a chivalrous distance, long legs drawn in, arms braced awkwardly on his knees. You open one eye to steal a look at him. His cheek is turned toward you, and you can make out the scars there from Flea Bottom brawls, the tourney at Ashford, and a new one from his service to Lord Eustace Osgrey.
Dunk keeps his eyes trained on the fire. He doesn’t trust himself not to look at you, really look—he’s only a man, after all. He’s caught glimpses, not meaning to, when you’d wander from camp looking for herbs and mushrooms, but decide instead to go headfirst and nude into a river or pond. And the Seven above know Dunk never meant to commit the swell of your breasts or backside to memory, but he had.
You weren’t children anymore, and he’s seen how other men look at you in towns and at tourneys. It always stirs something deep—primal—in his gut, and then his self-doubt and anxiety creep in. Those nagging little voices in the back of his mind that say she can do better than you. Always reminding him that those closest to him end up getting hurt. Dunk’s jaw clenches tight.
“Reckon it’s been a while since we’ve had a bath that wasn’t in a river or a rainstorm,” he finally says, breaking the silence, but his voice is unnaturally stiff for how long you’ve known one another.
“I like this better,” you tell him, reaching for a cake of soap and one of the washcloths hanging over the edge. A dip in a cool river on a hot summer day was one thing, but soaking in warm water after an endless week of cold spring rain makes you wish for a hot bath every night.
“Course you do,” he grumbles, teasing—hand running through his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. You flick water in his direction, and that finally cracks him. Dunk’s mouth twists into a smile, and his eyes finally shift to meet yours again. Brave enough, Egg had said. What secrets could you possibly keep from one another like this? Your heart gives a small flutter.
Dunk reaches for the other washcloth, soaking it before dragging it over his face. He scrubs hard, the stubble on his cheek and jaw rasps beneath the cloth. Next to him, you do the same, washing away the muck—and you both fall into an easy rhythm.
Rinsing the cloth, Dunk scrubs along the back of his neck, then down one thick arm. You glimpse the way his muscles move and flex—feel warmth rush to your cheeks. He switches hands awkwardly to scrub the other arm, nearly sloshing water over the edge of the tub. You bite back a smile and finish rinsing the soap from yourself.
“Turn around,” you say quietly, before you can think better of it. “I’ll get your back.” Dunk blinks, caught off guard, as if the thought of needing to wash his back hadn’t occurred to him, or maybe he tried avoiding it. His eyes flit to your face—blue mixed with gold flecks—careful to keep his gaze from drifting any lower. “You’ll miss half of it otherwise,” you tell him. It’s the first proper bath he’s had in at least two moons, and there’s no sense in doing a half-arsed job. Dunk’s lips part, the first words of protest on them. “You can’t reach the middle,” you interrupt with a small, knowing kink in your lips. “You never could.”
That earns you a huff that almost passes for a laugh. He shifts, twisting around in the small space so his back faces you. You take him in—broad and strong—selfishly. Ser Arlan liked to say he was as slow as an aurochs, but he’s as strong as one, too. The firelight and shadow trace every line and ridge of muscle, every scar. Some are thin as thread, some jagged and pale, and one or two still carry a faint, angry tint even though it’s been moons since they healed.
Your throat tightens, heart aching, seeing them all. You’ve tended to what feels like most of them over the years. What we deserve and what we get is never in balance. You press the soapy cloth to his shoulder—the one he’s been favoring for the last few days—and feel him melding into your hands. Then, quietly, Dunk says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know,” you answer, dragging the washcloth across his freckled shoulders, then down toward the center of his back, scrubbing away the road grime, “but I want to.” There’s nothing but doting affection in your voice, and he goes quiet at that—mind and heart racing. Tell her you big oaf, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he just sits there, falling further in love with his best friend like a damn fool.
Your fingers trace the edge of a scar near his shoulder blade. He clears his throat. “Wasn’t even a proper fight,” he mutters, feeling like he needs to explain it, but you remember him stumbling back from the town to camp that evening, all bruised and bloodied. “Bloke tripped over his own feet.” Big men get punched more than little men. You let out a quiet laugh, working the cloth lower along the broad stretch of his back to wash the suds away.
He hasn’t cut his hair in some time, and his dirty red-blond locks hang to his shoulders in damp clumps. Mindlessly, you run a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a little knot—the muscles in his back tighten and his breath hitches. Dipping a wooden tankard into the tub, you pour water over his head. Dunk grumbles, and you almost laugh at the churlish protest. But he doesn’t protest when your soapy fingers sink into his hair, brushing against his scalp.
The water laps at the sides when he moves, and your knee slides against his hip. He stiffens—afraid you’d be skittish—and you pretend not to notice the way the tips of his ears go red. Instead, you gather his hair at the nape of his neck, squeezing the suds through it. “Tilt your head back.” He obeys, almost too quickly, nearly knocking the back of his head into your chin. A small laugh escapes you, and he smiles too, boyish and sweet.
You finish rinsing the soap from his hair, and in a moment of boldness and bravery, you half-lean over his shoulder to press an innocent enough kiss to his cheek or temple—and then his head turns.
It’s not the first time you’ve kissed him. There have been times like this before, when you meant only to peck his cheek, but he’s shifted at the last second, and you’ve caught the corner of his mouth—always quick to pull away, flushed, flustered, and most of the time laughing at how clumsy you both can be. As graceful as an aurochs and a newborn foal, the two of you.
But this time is different.
You don’t pull away, and neither does Dunk.
A heartbeat longer, and you lift your hand to his jaw, fingers brushing the familiar line of it and all the little scars you’ve traced a hundred times over with your eyes over a campfire, but never your hands. Dunk makes a soft, surprised sound against your mouth—one that turns into a half groan when your lips press more firmly to his and when he feels how close you are to him. And that flutter in your chest and stomach comes back.
The stubble on his cheek and jaw grazes your skin when he shifts closer, not realizing he’s doing it. When you part, it’s only for the need of breath. He whispers your name, low and uncertain, his brows furrowing, trying to make sense of something that’s been gnawing at his heart for years now. Wanted to do that for a long time, he thinks, but saying it aloud will make him feel a fool.
Dunk turns around in the tub to face you properly, hands seeking out your waist, settling there, warm and rough and gentle—like how they always have been when he helps you on and off Storm—and draws you to him, half into his lap. Only now his thumbs stroke over your ribs, right under the soft swells of your breasts, mindless. His breath is slow and uneven against your cheek, and suddenly, he’s unsure what to do with his hands, with you, with the way your bodies have come so close together.
Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, and his lips part slightly beneath the touch. His eyes flick down for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re staring,” you whisper, though your gaze hasn’t left him either.
He lets out a soft, nervous breath. “Can’t help it.” His honesty makes warmth bloom in your chest, a flush creeping up to your neck and face. Your hand drifts from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp curls there, and Dunk’s grip tightens.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he finally admits quietly, almost embarrassed to say so. “For–for a long while.” Gods, he’s lost track of all the nights and days he’s thought about hauling you to him—bending down or lifting you—and kissing you, often and well. You’ve thought the same, especially when you’d find little things to bicker harmlessly over, about grabbing onto his tunic and hauling him down.
You twist his hair through your fingers—half smiling with a hazy look in your eyes. And Seven Hells, it’s not the first time he’s seen you look at him like that. Dunk, you fool. Thick as a castle wall. “Will you kiss me again, Ser Duncan?” You ask. One corner of his mouth lifts sheepishly, a combination of his title and your request.
He cranes his neck to the side, lips finding the spot where your ear and jaw meet. “As often as you’d like, m’lady.” Dunk murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine.
Then he pulls back enough and something in his expression falters. The playful edge fading. His bright blue eyes search yours, weighing whether he ought to say what it is he’s thinking. He worries it’ll ruin it. “Only ever been you,” he finally says. Brave enough. “From the start.” He swallows, gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “Didn’t know what to call it at first, but” —a crooked smile tugs at his mouth— “was you all the same.”
Only ever been you. The hand still tangled in his damp hair slips down, grazing his neck before stopping over one of his pectorals. You feel the warmth of him and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. Dunk looks uneasy after saying it, as though he expects you to laugh it off the way you’ve both laughed off a hundred other almost-moments. You don’t. “From the start?” you ask softly.
Dunk gives a loud breath through his nose—embarrassment and fondness. “Near enough.” His gaze drifts briefly to your mouth before he catches himself and looks back up. “First time you patched me up, reckon that might’ve been it.” It was how gentle you were, even as you were cursing him and telling him to be more careful, paired with a quick peck of the lips to his forehead. Didn’t much matter how any other woman looked at him after that—he only wanted you.
Your lips kink upward. “You were half-delirious with fever,” you remind him.
“Aye,” Dunk admits. “Still knew it was you.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His hands shift, sliding around to your back. “Good,” you whisper. “Because it’s only ever been you for me, too.” My missing piece.
Dunk just stares at you for a moment, earnest and stunned. Then relief washes across his face, and he grins. “Good,” he says, echoing you, a little breathless, ears still burning red. “Else I’d have to win you over proper, and I’ve never been much good at clever words.” And before you can answer, he leans down, kissing you again. It’s slow and warm and nigh bittersweet for all the things neither of you had managed the courage to say for all those years.
He keeps one arm loosely around your waist, foreheads bumping once or twice when one of you shifts, small things that would have sent you both scrambling away even hours earlier. It only makes you smile now. Eventually, Dunk clears his throat. “Turn around,” he tells you. Your brows knit slightly. “I’ll get your back,” he echoes. You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you.
Then his fingers touch your back, ghosting over your spine. You suck in a small breath. His hands are warm, calloused, and careful. The washcloth drags over your skin as he scrubs and wipes away the last of the soap and grit. When he reaches the small of your back, his hand pauses, like he’s deciding just how far he intends to go. You lean forward just a little, encouragement. Dunk’s hand lingers, but then he finishes, draping the cloth over the tub’s side again, but he’s not done. You washed more than just his back.
He reaches for the tankard, dips it into the water, and carefully pours the warm water over your head. Dunk gathers your hair, working the soap into it, fingers dragging softly against your scalp, clumsy at first with his big hands, then steadier as he realizes you’re leaning back, pressing into his touch. You hum, content, as he works the lather through the length of your hair, the same way you did for him. Now and then, his fingers catch a tangle. He mutters an apology, carefully easing it loose. When he’s satisfied, Dunk reaches for the tankard again, rinsing away the suds.
After, neither of you rush to get out—the water is still warm enough. You lean back against Dunk, head pillowed on his shoulder, and he lets his head rest against the edge of the tub. One of his hands drifts to your belly, absently tracing circles. “Egg’s going to be insufferable, you know,” you tell him.
Dunk’s thumb pauses its slow circle. He breathes out a quiet laugh. You tilt your chin so you can glance up at him. His head is still tipped back against the rim of the tub, but there’s that familiar crooked smile pulling at his mouth. The thought of that sharp-eyed little prince looking between the two of you with that knowing grin of his settles between dread and reluctant amusement in Dunk’s mind. He shifts slightly beneath you, water lapping against the sides of the tub. “So,” he starts, “what do we tell him?”
You blink at him, then snort. “Oh, nothing.” Dunk lifts a brow. “No need.” You settle back against him again, stealing his warmth. “He already thinks he’s arranged the whole thing.” You rest your hand over his on your stomach, fingers threading together.
Dunk laughs—a hearty one that rumbles through his chest and into your back. “That sounds like him,” he says, his arm tightening around you, holding you a little closer. “Seven help us if he decides he’s our matchmaker,” Dunk adds, half-amused and half-resigned as he leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your temple—unthinking this time as if it’s only natural. Then his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours again, arms tightening around your middle, savoring everything about this moment before the water goes cold.
[ASOIAF taglist: @angeliod / @batmomphd / @beelanie / @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @crispmarshmallow / @crvshnburnn / @darkravenqueen98 / @dollvi3e / @dulcehobi / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @theexaustedmermaid / @fictionaldistraction / @gallimaufrea / @hb8301 / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @idkjj04 / @instabull / @javisjeanjacket / @joossieisdabomb / @katie007123 / @kitkat160 / @ksziggy / @ladygrimmx / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @lehlyx / @lilacandgoooseberris / @lillianastras / @lostingoogletranslate / @lucyhotchner / @marzipaanz / @michellepreg / @midnightmuze / @mikariell95 / @missflutterlhamaa / @misskatiewrites / @moonlightsspirt / @moshpot24x / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @m1ndbrand / @nenelysian / @nerdy4itall / @newtsniffles / @notbrookie / @nyotamalfoy / @paprikabadger / @poisonedsultana / @purestxblood / @qhbr2013 / @safe-within-the-stars / @sandronebabyy / @sapphirehearteyes / @savagemickey03 / @schniiipsel / @singular-itae / @thewintersnoozer / @watercolorskyy / @writingsbymaree / @vigil-mort / @vymyn / @xcallmetaniax / @xinyourdreamsx / @xxgardenxx / @23victoria ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my A Song of Ice and Fire taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ “I wonder wich will kill you faster, child—your loyalty or your kindness?”
── 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: During the Ashford Meadow tournament, where she is expected to choose a noble husband and secure her place within the dynasty, Prince Baelor Targaryen's only daughter feels increasingly burdened by the weight of her lineage and her lack of self-belief and identity, finding a sense of companionship in her cousin Aerion, with whom she has long shared a secret and passionate romance, a bond as suffocating as it is unbreakable.
Amidst the chaos of the event and that of her family, she crosses paths with Ser Duncan the Tall, a humble hedge knight with a noble heart and gentle eyes. Despite the vast gulf between their worlds, an immediate and soul-stirring bond sparks between them, one that feels like a reunion with an old friend, dictated by fate itself. This encounter forces her to confront the true cost of loyalty, questioning whether love is a burden to be endured through duty, or a path to be chosen through courage.
To find her truth and claim what is hers, the Gentle Dragon must bleed; she shall surrender the skies and cast away her wings, for only in falling shall she learn how to love.
── 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader ─ Aerion Targaryen x Reader
── 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~ 30k
── 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this will contain major spoilers!): this story is intended for mature audience (18+ only). for aerion ─ targcest, dark romance, psychological manipulation, obsessive/toxic behavior, power imbalance, implicit smut. for dunk ─ past life lovers/soulmates trope, slow burn, forbidden romance, hurt/comfort. in general ─ love triangle, nudity, use of medieval contraceptives, canon-typical violence, descriptions of gore and severe physical injuries, complicated family dynamics, angst, major character death, grief and loss, canon compliant.
—summary: in the aftermath of baelor’s death, grief fractures the royal family and leaves you unmoored in a world that no longer feels like home. torn between duty and love, you must decide whether to remain a perfect princess or choose the man who only sees you.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!targaryen!reader─aerion targaryen x female!cousin!reader
—word count: ~7.7k
—content: hurt/comfort, heavy emotional themes, grief and mourning, yearning, angst with happy ending, hair dye symbolism because we are dramatic, not proofread!
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ 7 / 7 ── series masterlist here!
A/N: Thank you so much for all the love and support on this series, really<3 Its been a crazy ride, I hope you enjoy the ending as much as I loved writing it! And let’s just pretend it’s not painfully obvious who my favorite was all along hahahah
The sunlight in King's Landing would seep through the library's immense arched windows, bringing in a warm golden glow that seemed to exist solely when he was in the room.
“Don't rush, sweet child,” Baelor had told you that day, his voice a soothing balm as his gentle, patient hand guided yours to correct the angle of your pen. “Stories are not to be written in haste, but with care. If you are to learn anything from me, let it be the art of listening before you pass judgment.”
Your melodramatic little sigh made him crack a smile. As the middle child, you always had to work extra hard for his attention, trapped between the high expectations held for the eldest and the freedom enjoyed by the youngest. Only ten years of age at the time, you already couldn't find your own place in the world, often wondering if you were even in the right skin—unsure of who you truly even were.
With him, however, you never felt left out, never a stranger. You belonged. Right there, by his side.
Baelor had leaned in, letting the comforting warmth he always radiated envelop you in a quiet, reassuring embrace. He peeked over your shoulder, studying the ink-smudged piece of parchment.
“I don't think I can, Father,” you whispered in resignation and dropped the pen in a fit of frustration. Nevertheless, you held back all your emotion and the urge to cry, you never did that around him, to appear brave, like your brothers. “Valarr is so perfect, Matarys is so charming. I'm just the space in between.”
Your small body shrank even further into the big chair, your toes barely scraping the floor as you swung them with disdain. “I don't think I can ever be what the Realm expects of me...”
His soft laughter rang out in the stillness of the library, carrying a sense of pride that you didn't need to strive for, as it was already yours. You were so young, yet more self-conscious than other children of your age, more perceptive and definitely more sensitive. Patience, it seemed, was not one of your strongest traits.
That's why his chuckle came across as offensive to you, because for a moment you thought he was mocking you and your clumsiness. In reality, it was just because you happened to be the sweetest and most adorable creature he had ever seen.
Realizing that you were genuinely sulking and pouting, Baelor gently spun you around toward him so that you could look straight into his eyes, those eyes that somehow always managed to peer beyond your physical self, reflecting his own soul.
“You can do anything, little one,” your father asserted with a certainty that made you stop sniffling back the tears that had betrayed your distress. “Not because the Realm expects it of you, but because you are my daughter. And you are not the ‘space in between,’ you are the balance that keeps us all together.”
He brushed a strand of silver hair from your teary face with such sweet tenderness, sealing his promise with a smile that calmed you deeply. It was a strange thing, that you had been born with hair the color of silver, most of it, for in the midst of that silver expanse grew strands of dark brown hair—a trait inherited from his side of the family, from his own mother.
“And what will happen once you’re gone?” you blurted out, with that innocent naivety that was too sophisticated for your age, too aware. “What will become of me, Father? The world is too big, and I... I only know how to be your daughter. I don’t know who I really am.”
Your father cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze with gentle severity.
“Listen to me carefully,” he began, his voice taking on a more solemn edge. “I will never leave you. Even if you do not see me, I will always be with you. In every decision you make, in every gesture of mercy and compassion, I will be there. You are my daughter, my sweet girl. You will never cease to be so.”
He sighed softly, kissing your forehead in a slow manner that felt like a farewell, which you did not comprehend at the time.
“You will never be alone, child. I will be there in the deepest love others give you, as well”
You frowned faintly, not understanding.
“When the right person comes, the one meant for you... your person,” he hummed. “They will love you as much as I love your mother, as much as I love you. They will see you as we do. The most beautiful girl, but also the most terribly capricious—”
Then, as if he feared he had grown too serious for a child’s heart, his fingers tickled down to your stomach, bringing forth an outburst of giggles, and he joined in the laughter, scooping you into his arms.
“And if they ever fail at that,” he declared playfully, pressing noisy kisses to your temple, “I shall haunt them most terribly.”
The pen fell forgotten on the desk, and your laughs faded into the quiet air once you left the library.
The golden glow dimmed away with his departure.
The world had turned dark and cold, making you feel like a foreigner walking through it. With the relentless thought that your father was no longer around, no longer waiting for you in the library, no longer supporting your whims, no longer there to witness your growth, your marriage, or the birth of your children… nor will you ever see him seated on the Iron Throne.
He was gone.
And guilt was gnawing at you from the inside.
If you believed you were doing the righteous thing, why did the gods seem so keen to punish you? Was this the price you were to pay for following your own heart? Is this what the Gods demanded of you?
Ashes.
All that was left of your father were ashes, drifting in the wind and swirling with the clouds above Ashford.
You looked up at the trail of his smoke as it disappeared high in the sky. It comforted you to think that he was flying away, bound by no name, no sense of duty or obligation weighing him down to earth. At last, Baelor was free.
And without Baelor, what would be left of you? What would become of you in the world, in the Realm? Where would you go? So many questions tormented your thoughts, and somehow, each new one that surfaced extinguished a little more of the small flame of hope in your heart that you would be able to return to Dragonstone with Duncan.
The idea of a future without your father's guidance loomed over you like a bottomless abyss. Who would you be now?
You were no longer the Heir's protégé, but a loose piece on a chessboard that was becoming dangerously unpredictable.
You were still there, standing in front of his pyre, even after everyone else had already left, all except Valarr, needless to say. He had stuck by your side all through the day, enduring your silent tearful outbursts, your existential queries and your rambling prayers, holding you together, just like any older brother would.
He kept his distance from you to allow you some privacy in your grief, and for that of himself as well. Sitting on a boulder, he observed from afar all that your father had left behind for you. Ashes.
Your fingers fidgeted in front of you, rolling the ring you wore on one of them, a ring that had once been his. It was only a matter of fate that it fit you perfectly.
But your anxious fidgeting stopped abruptly with the touch of a big but gentle hand laid on your shoulder, which made you flinch a little, startled, forcing you to snap out of the visions of the past you were reliving in the flames that were consuming your father's body.
Ser Duncan was at your side, leaning heavily on a cane, his face was a mess of bruises, he could barely open one eye, the other was so swollen and contorted that it was painful just to look at it. The pain you were suffering was one thing, but you couldn't imagine the pain he must be going through, in both body and soul.
You hadn't seen him since dawn. You had suggested that he should come with you to the castle, that you would provide him with your own chambers so that he could be tended to by the Maester, but to your surprise, he had refused. And you had let him go, consumed by the agony of loss.
But there he was, right back to you.
Where you both knew he ought not to be, among the very people who had put him on that path to begin with, who had made him go through so much.
Where you both knew he ought not to be, among the very people who had put him on that path to begin with, who had made him go through so much. But he felt he had the right to bid Baelor one last farewell, and, most important of all, to see you.
The story that had begun had to be finished. The old man had told him.
”Ser Duncan—”
His name was taken away by the cold breeze as the towering man forced himself to kneel before you, bowing his head in a gesture of respect that displayed more of his physical frailty than any diplomatic intent.
You glanced fleetingly at your brother, who was observing the scene from afar with keen, cautious eyes. He shrugged at your gaze.
“Forgive me, Princess,” Duncan grunted, words catching in his throat from the stinging pain in his midsection. “Please do forgive me—please take all that is left of me. I am but a man at your service. I am your man, my life is yours.”
A tearful little smile curled the corners of your lips, and your hand reached out down to him, affectionately running over his features to lift his chin, compelling him to look up at you. His eye was crystallized by big tears, set in place with the weight of so many emotions—adoration and longing above all else—once his gaze collided with yours.
“Rise,” you commanded softly, leaning toward him to help him do so, slipping an arm through his. Your voice was light and slightly humorous, complicit, “Please, Dunk. I thought we’d already gotten past formalities.”
Duncan got up carefully, supporting himself with his cane, but his other hand couldn't let go of yours, clinging to it in a desperate need to feel your warmth and solace. Home. That's what you were.
He contented himself with just looking at you carefully at in your near approach, his hand tentatively sliding up your arm, your shoulder, your neck, all the way to your face, brushing away the couple of tears from your skin.
As you melted into his gentle touch, you closed your eyes for a moment to be lost in the darkness and love of his caress.
Then you drew closer to him so you could embrace him, taking great care not to cause him pain, tucking your face into his chest, breathing in his scent and succumbing to the soothing beat of his heart.
“What is left of me is yours, Your Grace. Take it,” he pleaded in a whispered voice, caressing your hair with one of his hand. Then his strong, big arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The cane fell to the grass beside you, now forgotten, since Dunk had found a much better source of support. “Take me.”
Leaning the side of your face onto his chest, you gazed at the altar where your father's body had been laid to rest, reduced to nothing but ashes, dust, and air. Nothingness.
You backed away from his body so you could look up at Dunk's face and as you did, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Valarr standing up and start walking back down the hill to the castle, offering you both that much needed privacy.
Duncan cupped both hands on your face, his gaze so full of devotion that it was almost breathtaking to see. It was too much.
“For that, I'll have to go with you, then,” at last, you you offered him an answer to his proposal—his plea, rather—keeping your voice low and secretive.
“With—with me?” Dunk furrowed his brow in confusion, having expected you to be taking him to Dragonstone or King's Landing and have him pledge his allegiance as your sworn guard.
But to leave with him? To run away and give up your entire life? For him? It was not even considered among the many possibilities and options he had been contemplating so earnestly all morning.
You took his hands carefully in yours, squeezing them with a desperate firmness. The ring on your finger—the one that had belonged to Baelor—pressed into his skin.
He was willing to do anything for you, to vow allegiance to whomever, as long as it kept him by your side and allowed him to see you every day. He'd be your secret lover, for sure. He'd be whatever you wanted him to be. But yours.
“Listen to me, Dunk,” you whispered carefully, wetting your chapped lips with your tongue. “My father is gone. Valarr will do his best to protect me, but even he can not stop the wheel from turning. They will marry me off to some Lord in the Reach or the North to secure the peace.”
Dunk’s expression faltered for a moment, then paused to gather his thoughts to express himself with the utmost precision. He wanted to be appropriate. To do what he considered the right thing to do. “B–but, a Lord... a Lord would provide for you.”
You shook your head gently, “I don’t want to be a princess anymore if it means losing the only person who sees me. The only person I know loves me as much as my father did.”
He promised you love in his voice and his eyes, in his touch, in his closeness. His body felt like it belonged next to yours—a sense of something so familiar, so right.
His throat worked.
“You think love is enough?”
Your gaze drifted back to the pyre, where the Silent Sisters were still working, blissfully ignorant of your conversation, their concern for the dead far greater than that for the living.
“I think love is the only thing that ever was.” Your fingers slid up to the ring again, turning it slowly. “My father taught me that duty is love made visible.”
“But what if love is also duty?” you whispered, thoughtfully.
By the time you finally looked back at Dunk, he was already staring back at you, appreciating every inch of your face in silent awe.
Love.
You smiled bashfully at that, at the sight of love in the azure of his eye. “We leave. We disappear. I would rather be a wanderer with you than some broodmare with a life of silent resentment.”
Duncan just let his eye slowly close in resignation, fully aware that you were right.
“You’d give it all up?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely audible over the wind.
“If you are to take me, Dunk, you take all of me. Not just fragments or broken pieces—not as a illegitimate affair. You deserve all of me,” you answered firmly. A trembling sigh escaped from your lungs, certain on one thing. “And I don't belong here anymore. Never truly did.”
Duncan glanced over at Baelor for a while, chewing his lower lip in contemplation, the Silent Sisters continued their gentle, quiet work.
And finally, he turned back to you, his fingers soothingly caressing yours.
“Then we leave, my lady.” he nodded, his voice was deep and reassuring.
Not Princess.
Not Your Grace.
Just his lady. His.
To be his gave you a deep sensation of safety and tranquility. To be free.
The wind swept across the hill, carrying the last thin ribbon of smoke into the pale sky. It felt like an omen or perhaps a blessing.
His thumb brushed over the ring again, tracing the sigil engraved upon it. He knew what it all this meant. He knew what you were leaving behind. For him.
Carefully, he lifted your hand and pressed his lips into your knuckles, and you observed him do it with soft eyes.
“Soon my family will be heading back to King's Landing.” you informed quietly. “Valarr will… delay questions or suspicions.”
At the mention of your brother, something flickered in your chest.
“Will he forgive you?” Dunk asked gently.
“No,” you said honestly. “But he will understand. He has to.”
That, perhaps, was worse.
“We'll meet by the old elm tree at noon, then.”
Aerion breathed weakly, and even though he was lost in a profound slumber, his brow was heavily furrowed, still grumpy even in his state of unconsciousness.
If not for the tightness in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, one might have mistaken him for peaceful.
But you knew better.
You had been sitting there for a while, watching his fragile state, more as a punishment than a consolation. Wondering if he would be different once he opened his eyes, if he would leave all his malice and darkness in the past.
Probably not.
“I'll send him to the Free Cities,” your uncle announced after a prolonged silence, after he too had stepped in to gaze at Aerion sleeping. “Lys. Perhaps a few years there will calm him down a bit.”
You both knew that couldn't be possible. Aerion was beyond redemption, and his father, more than anyone, must have known that even sending him to the Great Citadel to serve as a Maester would not be sufficient to soothe the rage of his broken soul.
Prince Maekar seemed distraught, paler than usual, his eyes blank and teary every time you turned to look at him, sunk in a cold shadow of grief and remorse. He had perhaps more reasons to feel guilty.
He could barely even look at you, so ashamed was he.
“He will be far from here,” Maekar continued, his voice low and husky. “And far from you. He will not trouble you again… or those you have.”
He understood that you would take Ser Duncan with you wherever you went. As a knight or as a secret lover, he could tell that Ser Duncan had devoted himself to you entirely in return for everything you had done for him, and whether you accepted him or not, Maekar would not intrude. He would leave that choice for you to take.
“I fear his absence will trouble me more,” you admitted quietly, the corners of your lips quivering.
A life without Aerion for many would be a welcome relief. But for you, it didn't feel right, it felt unnaturally wrong. Not having him right by your side during your visits to Summerhall, or whenever he traveled to Dragonstone, or the times you all gathered together in King's Landing. Those would be glimpses of a different life of yours, a past left behind.
“Yes,” Maekar hummed with wry amusement, his gaze turning back to his sleeping son, his own smile tearful as well. “I know.”
The silence was deafening, and with each labored breath Aerion drew, your heart seemed to shrink further.
Maekar was aware of the way you were looking at his son; he always had been.
“He loves you,” his statement drew your alarmed gaze back to him. “He sought my approval to ask for your hand over five separate occasions before coming here.” He cleared his throat to choke back the cry that threatened to erupt. “At the last of these, I accepted. I asked Baelor for his approval and…”
A weak, mournful laugh rumbled from his throat. You watched him attentively, always eager to hear of your father.
“And he told me he would rather be put to death than hand you over to my son,” he finally concluded, his face darkening as the recollection of reality sank in upon him again.
It took all your strength to even get the words out, the lump in your throat pressing down like a stranglehold. “I don't blame you, Uncle. I understand you'll have to live with it, but not from me. He would have done the same to protect me.”
Maekar mustered the courage to look back at you, and you caught a glimpse of his chin trembling slightly as he fought back the tears.
You reached out your hand to his trembling one in his lap, and he squeezed it back, cradling it in his palm, in need of emotional reassurance. He was always the one who contained others, so strong and tough. Now he looked like crystal about to shatter.
It was strange to see him like this. So emotionally vulnerable, so human...
Maekar gazed at your intertwined hands with a look of disbelief, as if he couldn't believe that forgiveness still existed in a world he himself had helped to destroy.
“You always were too much like him,” he muttered.
You offered a faint smile. “I hope so.”
You squeezed his hand tighter, even though your own fingers were trembling now.
Prince Maekar was just a broken brother who saw in you a reflection of the best he had just lost.
“He lives in you,” he rejoiced, smiling proud and sorrowful, his voice choked with affection.
Then he leaned toward you to press a rough, unskilled kiss on your forehead, a gesture of affection so uncharacteristic of him that it took your breath away. His lips trembled against your skin before he pulled away, and for a second, you saw a single tear roll down his cheek before he turned his face toward Aerion's sleeping form.
“That knight of yours is as stubborn as a mule. He’ll live to give me more headaches, I’m sure.” He took a deep breath, “I will have him summoned so that I may speak with him. I'll offer him a position in my service.”
You grimaced, looking up at him, “I don't think he'll accept, Uncle. He has had enough of us.”
“And refuse the chance to get to see you every day? I don’t think so.” Prince Maekar snorted, unconvinced. “Aegon has also assured me he will not be squire to anyone but Ser Duncan.”
A flicker of fondness crossed your features at that.
“Aegon is loyal,” you smiled softly. “Stubbornly so.”
“As is his knight,” Maekar replied dryly.
You studied your uncle’s face — the exhaustion carved into it, the grief he did not allow himself to voice. He had lost a brother. Nearly lost a son. And perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knew he was losing you too.
“Uncle,” you began carefully, “if Ser Duncan refuses your offer...”
Maekar’s eyes flicked toward you, perceptive as ever.
“…will you let him go?”
Your uncle was not a cruel man. Hard, yes. Unyielding, proud. But not cruel.
He just sighed, a weary, bone-deep sound. “If he refuses, I will not chain him.” A faint, dry edge touched his voice. “I am not my son.”
Relief bloomed in your chest, fragile and fleeting.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“I will not stand in your way,” he said at last. “And neither will Aerion.”
Those words felt unreal.
You rose slowly from your seat beside Aerion’s bed. For a brief, foolish moment, you considered brushing a strand of hair from his face—a final gesture of familiarity—but you stopped yourself.
Some endings required distance.
You turned back to Maekar instead.
“Thank you,” you croaked.
He shook his head faintly. “Do not thank me, niece. If Baelor is watching, he is likely cursing us both.”
A small smile ghosted across your lips. “He always did prefer righteousness over happiness.”
“You deserve it,” he said, low and firm. “Happiness. Do not let any of us make you believe otherwise.”
As you moved toward the door, you paused one last time, glancing back at Aerion’s sleeping form and Maekar's trembling back.
“Goodbye, Uncle Maekar,” you whispered, unsure whether you meant it as farewell or an apology, maybe both.
The scent of herbs and strong dyes lingered in the air of your chambers, as a couple of your maids finished packing the most essential items into a small bag.
“Darker, please,” you requested, examining your reflection in the polished bronze mirror.
Your ladies-in-waiting, with anguished faces and in absolute silence, worked quickly. The strand of hair that had once been the distinctive silver-white of your lineage was now dyed a deep black.
You wanted to just disappear. You wanted the Princess Targaryen to die with your father, leaving only a name, a shadow.
When they finished, you felt definitely different.
You watched the door swing open through the mirror's reflection, revealing Valarr, already striding in. He looked utterly devastated, his eyes tear-swollen and his posture hunched under the weight of grief. He stopped in his tracks, studying you, and for a moment he didn't seem to recognize you with your now dark hair.
“So now you're planning to flee?” your brother reproached you, gazing at you with hurt as you rose to face him. His eyes scanned your quarters, your maids hanging down their heads in shame, caught red-handed. “You're leaving?”
“Without our father, I am no one here, Valarr,” you explained, stepping closer to him and reaching out to find his hands, but he pulled them out of reach. That stung you to the core, causing you to drop your own in a gesture of defeat. “You have your wife, you have a family of your own. You have your place in this world. You will be the Heir, if the King reaffirms it. I—I have nothing,” your voice trembled in distress, “and I'm not going to stay here to be sent off to marry some lord I'll never love. I'm not like t–that.”
Silence fell again.
Your brother just looked at your dark hair, then at the travel-worn boots peeking from beneath your skirts, and let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. His eyes, usually so full of warmth, were now burning with resentment and sorrow.
One of your maids sniffled quietly and Valarr flicked his gaze toward them, then back to you. With a sharp motion of his hand, he dismissed them.
“Leave us.”
They obeyed at once, slipping out like shadows retreating from torchlight. The door shut with a soft, final sound.
“Nothing?” he repeated once you were both alone. “You have me. You have Matarys. You have the legacy he spent his entire life building, and you’re casting it into the dirt as if it were meaningless.”
You closed your eyes, dropping your head in despair, not daring to even look at him, making him scoff sourly.
“So this is it,” Valarr whispered, the so much bitterness in his. “That hedge knight has taken you away from me as well. He has taken you both.”
Your frown deepened, your view of him blurring through tears, “Valarr, that’s not fair—”
“Fair?” he spat. He took a trembling breath, raking his fingers back through his hair, visibly at odds with himself. “Do you think any of this is fair? Or does any of this even make sense at a–all?”
His voice broke on the last word.
You wanted to tell him that you weren't choosing Dunk over him—you were choosing to survive, to do the right thing, just as your father had taught you.
But you didn't have to say anything at all, because Valarr understood perfectly. He knew you were right—most of the time you were. If he truly wanted to see you happy, genuinely happy, he knew he had to let you go.
Slowly, you reached out, resting a hand on his trembling shoulder and he didn't pull away this time.
“I have to find out who I am, brother,” you croaked out, your voice thick with the tears you had been trying to suppress. “Away from the throne, away from the pressure of our name. If I stay, I’ll only be a ghost haunting these halls, a piece of property to be traded. I can't—I can't do that.”
He finally turned to face you, and the sight was heart–breaking. His eyes were swimming, the two–toned depths clouded with a pain so profound it made him look so fragile and childish–like.
His hand rose, hesitant, as though unsure whether he still had the right and he touched a darkened strand of your hair.
“You look so different,” he said thickly. “It does not suit you,”
A broken laugh escaped you. “That is rather the point, brother.”
“He will not keep you safe,” he swallowed with difficulty. “The world is crueler beyond these walls.”
“And it is not cruel within them?” you asked gently.
His mouth parted and then closed.
He knew. The marriages whispered about in corridors, the alliances already weighed against your womb, the letters waiting to be sent once mourning ended.
“Without you... I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep us all together.” he confessed, a single tear finally breaking free and tracing a path through his flushed cheek.
His composure finally shattered. Valarr reached out and pulled you into a fierce, desperate embrace and he held you as if he could physically keep you from fading away, his sobs muffled against your cloak.
He hugged you tight, as he used to when you were children and you hid from storms.
“You will always be my brother,” you promised, hugging him back tearfully.
After a long time, he pulled back just enough to frame your face with his hands. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, lingering with a tenderness that felt like a final benediction.
“If you ever find that the world is too big, or too cold, or if that big knight of yours is too much of a brute, you come home.” He looked at you with a mournful, watery smile—the kind of look someone gives a beautiful dream right before waking up. “Do you hear me? You will always have a place by my side.”
He leaned down and pressed a lingering, trembling kiss to your forehead, sealing his acceptance.
“Valarr...”
He did not look at you as he spoke this time.
“Do not thank me,” he warned. “If I look upon you once more before you leave, I may bar the doors myself.”
You nodded, unable to find the words to thank him for the mercy of his surrender. Picking up your small bag, rushing across the quarters as Valarr sat down at one of the seats at your table, pouring himself a glass of wine. At the threshold, you paused.
“Valarr,” you called out to him softly.
He did not turn. He couldn't.
“Yes?”
“You will not shame him.”
His shoulders trembled beneath your tearful gaze.
“I know,” he replied. “You won't either.”
Your feet came to a halt by some kind of gravity when you reached past the partially open door of Aerion's bedchamber. And your hand moved of its own accord, pushing the dark wood open just enough to slip inside.
The chamber was dim, heavy with the scent of herbs and pain, and death. A single candle burned low beside the bed.
And there he was.
Aerion lay exactly as you had left him earlier—on his back, silver hair spilled across the pillow, brow still furrowed, arguing with the world of unconsciousness.
For a moment, you only stood there, you had already said goodbye.
You had said it to your uncle. To your brother.
But not to him.
His breathing was steadier now, though still weak. The sharp angles of his face were softened by shadows.
Without the sneer. Without the cutting words.
Just a boy. A broken boy.
“This is foolish,” you whispered to yourself.
And yet you moved closer still.
You stood beside his bed, looking down at him.
You tried to summon anger. To remember every cruel remark, every selfish act, every moment he had forced you to be something you never were. To be his.
But all you felt was grief.
Your hand trembled as you reached out.
You hesitated only once before brushing your fingers lightly over his temple, careful not to wake him. His skin was warm beneath your touch.
His brow twitched under your gentle caress.
A sad, fragile smile touched your lips at that.
“You would hate this,” you cooed,your fingers tracing a delicate caress down the curve of his cheekbone. “You would say black makes me look like a crow.”
The words felt strange spoken aloud.
For years, distance had seemed impossible between you two. You had orbited the same rooms, the same feasts, the same summers at Summerhall. His presence had been as constant as the sun rising in the east. Something both inevitable and beyond control.
And now, silence.
You leaned down slowly and your lips brushed his forehead, just at the crease that never seemed to leave him.
The kiss was gentle, lingering and heavy. A farewell pressed into skin that might never feel your touch again.
His breathing hitched faintly beneath you.
“I forgive you,” you whispered against him, so quietly it barely existed. “You tried, in your own way. As I did.”
A tear finally escaped you, falling into his hairline before you could stop it.
You brushed your thumb once more over his brow, smoothing out the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows. “I hope Lys is kinder to you than we were, cousin.”
His breathing slowed down and softened.
At first, you thought it was only the shifting of sleep.
Then—
Your name.
You straightened before your resolve could fracture completely and forced your feet to move.
At the door, you hesitated only once, but still, you stepped into the corridor.
The door began to close.
And just before it sealed shut, violet eyes opened slowly.
He had heard it, all of it. He had felt your gentle touch, your lips softly whispering his name as if it was yours to claim. So it was, it was yours to pronounce, to love, and to hold.
Even if you were halfway across the world, even if you were in another man's arms. He knew that his name was as much yours as his whole heart had been.
It was always yours, after all. And as long as you were both looking up at the same moon, he would forever be yours.
To long for you, it had always cost him heartache. He understood that all of his bones would be broken from bearing the weight of your love.
The door clicked softly into place.
Silence swallowed the room once more.
Aerion continued to stare at the wood long after it closed, as though willing it to open again.
But it did not.
And for the first time in his life, the fire in Aerion's chest did not burn with anger.
It burned with loss.
You had spent the afternoon gathering what you would need, the most important item being Sweetfoot, the beautiful mare that Raymun had mentioned to you that Dunk had sold to get some money so he could get into the lists. It was the mare that had once belonged to Ser Arlan.
You had stopped by to pay Ser Reymun a quick visit at his tent, offering him a small bag of coins as a token of gratitude for taking Duncan's side in the Trial of Seven, he had been very brave. But he simply hugged you and handed you a couple of green apples instead, his new personal badge for his emblem.
“By the Seven… Princess? I almost didn't recognize you there.” He had told you as soon as he saw you appear with your new dark hair, hidden under your hood. “You look like a lady from the Free Cities, perhaps, or a raven-haired beauty from the North. He is a lucky man, my friend.”
You had also found out that he had married and fathered a child with a woman in a single night, allegedly. You just winced when you noticed the redhead's prominent belly as she held onto his arm, forcing yourself to offer them a smile.
Sweetfoot was a docile horse, and immediately accepted you, nuzzling your hand when you held out a piece of one of the apples that Raymun had gifted you.
Near the old elm tree, as he promised, Ser Duncan was waiting for you.
He was checking Thunder’s saddle with careful hands, movements slower than usual, his bruised ribs no doubt protesting every bend, and as you approached holding Sweetfoot's reins, you overheard him talking to the horses.
His horse huffed impatiently, pawing once at the grass. And Chestnut bobbed her head when she recognized you from behind her owner's back.
“Aye, Chestnut, I know,” Duncan sighed, straightening a strap. “You like her as well, don’t you? Yeah, she’s good, she’s so good.”
He sighed then, resting his forehead briefly against Thunder’s neck.
“Oh yeah, s–she’ll come,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than the horses. “She said she would.”
You barely had time to tighten your fingers around the reins before Sweetfoot decided for herself.
The mare’s ears shot forward, her whole body stilled, then trembled.
And before you could murmur a warning, she tugged once, very sharply and slipped free of your hold, trotting towards Duncan.
“…Sweetfoot?” Dunk asked once he sensed the mare trotting toward him, turning around so he could happily caress her. “What’re you doin’ here, eh?”
Duncan stilled once he saw out of the corner of his eye that your figure had appeared in his line of sight, walking in his direction.
His head snapped up.
For a second—just a second—confusion clouded his battered face again at the sight of the dark-haired woman approaching him.
Then recognition struck.
“My lady,” he breathed out, his jaw hanging open. “What...?”
You pushed the hood back slowly.
The dying sunlight caught in your hair, not bright and otherworldly as before, but deep as ink, soft as shadow.
“It’s me,” you said gently.
“You…” His voice trailed off.
You tried to smile, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.
“I asked for it darker,” you admitted sheepishly. “I thought it would be easier. If I bore less resemblance to—”
“To some Targaryen?” he finished for you, his naturally deep voice toning down to a humorous approach.
But you frowned at that, feigning offense. “That sounded like an insult.”
Duncan’s eyes widened immediately.
“It weren’t,” he said at once, almost tripping over the words as he hobbled closer to you. “Gods, no. I didn’t mean—”
Sweetfoot huffed at his side, as if impatient with his fumbling.
Dunk dragged a hand down his face, clearly flustered.
“I only meant...” he searched for the right shape of it as heached out hesitantly for you, rough fingers lifting a single strand of your hair between them.
Then he caressed your cheek reassuringly.
“It suits you,” he said at last.
Relief fluttered weakly in your chest.
You raised your eyebrows, hopeful. “It does?”
“A–aye.” His thumb brushed near your temple, careful and loving. “You look...”
He struggled for the word, brow furrowing.
“Different?” you offered, softly.
But he shook his head.
“You look like yourself,” he corrected. “Perfect.”
He swallowed, suddenly earnest and uncertain.
“I mean—not that you weren’t before. You were—you are. I just—” Dunk shifted his weight, wincing faintly at his ribs. “I don’t much care what color your hair is. You could shave it all off and I’d still—” He stopped, is ears burning red as you stared at him, a hint of a smile appearing on your lips, letting him ramble on. “Fucking hell—I ain’t clever with these things, but I know you. And you’re—you’re—”
“Duncan”
He exhaled sharply at that, hands opening helplessly at his sides.
“My—my lady,” he stammered back, all red in the face and struggling to hold your gaze. “I’m sorry, I’m not very g–good at this, I’ve never—”
You rose onto your toes and kissed him, his words died against your mouth.
Then his hands came up instinctively to your body, one settling at your waist, the other cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. And when you pulled away, he leaned in again, tilting his head to give you a much slower kiss.
When Duncan finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead gently to yours.
“Are you certain?”
You gazed up at him through your fluttering eyelashes, half-opening your lips, your tone of voice unquestionable. “Yes.”
His fingers ran through your hair a few more times before turning toward Sweetfoot, adjusting the reins with gentle familiarity.
“I don’t think I should ride her,” you said, shaking your head softly. “She was Ser Arlan’s. She’s yours, Dunk.”
Duncan looked back at you, offering you a little reassuring smile.
“She was Ser Arlan’s,” he agreed. “And he gave her to me.”
He stepped closer, placing the reins back into your hands.
“And I give her to you.”
Your fingers tightened around the leather, looking up at him with quiet emotion.
“Duncan—”
“Up you go, my love,” he interrupted you, moving to help you mount the mare. His hands were steady on your waist despite his pain, lifting you with surprising care onto the waiting horse.
He set you gently into the saddle atop Sweetfoot.
You looked down at him, wide-eyed.
“I can't possibly deserve this,” you insisted. “Dunk, I only bought her back so you would not have to regret selling her.”
He smiled up at you, warm.
“Aye,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You bought her back. That means she’s yours now.”
He helped you place your feet in the stirrups, using the excuse to affectionately run his hands up and down your calves.
Then he leaned close to Sweetfoot’s ear, lowering his voice in that conspiratorial tone he always used with the horses.
“Now listen here, girl,” he muttered, stroking her neck. “That’s my lady you’re carryin’. You mind your steps. Nice and steady. You treat her well, d’you hear me?”
Your hand drifted down to Sweetfoot’s pale forelock, fingers threading gently through the silvery strands that shimmered faintly in the last glow of evening. The hair was soft beneath your touch, almost luminous against your dark sleeves.
“Yeah, she's a lot trickier to please than the old man, I tell you that,” Duncan added teasingly.
“I heard that.”
Sweetfoot huffed softly as Duncan chuckled.
His smile deepened at your smiling face, and he turned toward Thunder, gathering the reins to mount as well.
He had one boot braced against the stirrup—
“Ser Duncan!”
Duncan froze and very slowly, he lowered his foot back to the ground. You twisted around on the saddle, occupied as you were with securing your bag along the side.
From the over the stone fence, stepped Aegon trying very hard to look composed despite the fact that he had clearly been running. He gasped out your name too, in desperation.
“My lord father says I am to serve you,” he declared with solemnity, raising his chin in confidence, his eyes flicking up to your face and then to Duncan’s and then back again.
“Egg...” you named him affectionately, your face softening.
“Serve you, Ser,” Dunk corrected him, giving a single nod with his head, permitting him to join you.
“Ser,” Egg repeated, a joyful smile curving his lips.
Duncan rode slightly ahead, broad back straight despite the ache in his ribs. One hand rested loosely on Thunder’s reins; the other hovered near his side out of habit more than need.
Every so often, he would glance over his shoulder, not to check the road.
To check you.
You caught him at it once.
“I won’t fall,” you assured him, snorting with amusement at his excessive concern for your well-being.
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t think you would.”
Egg guided Chestnut up alongside Sweetfoot after a short stretch of silence.
“You look different.” your little cousin pointed out bluntly.
“So I’ve been told,” you murmured, with a playful arch of your eyebrows.
After observing you for a couple of long seconds, Aegon nodded once, brisk and decisive.
“It suits you,” he declared. “You look less… conspicuous.”
Duncan made a noise under his breath. “You’ve been eavesdroppin’.”
“I have not,” Egg snapped back at him. “I still think the hair was a good decision,” he said thoughtfully after. “Less likely to be recognized. Better than shaving it all off, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Egg,” you replied warmly.
Duncan cleared his throat loudly from ahead. “We are not discussin’ her hair like it’s a cloak she’s put on.”
Egg rolled his eyes. “You were staring at it.”
“I was not.”
“You were!” Egg leaned closer to you, lowering his voice as though confiding state secrets, “he has looked back at least seven times—”
“I have not,” Duncan called over his shoulder.
“Eight,” Egg corrected.
You could not help it then—you laughed, the sound carrying lightly across the open field. Sweetfoot’s ears flicked back at the noise, and you reached forward to stroke her pale mane again, smoothing the white strands between your fingers.
Duncan slowed Thunder slightly so that he rode closer to your side as well.
His voice was quieter when he spoke this time, but his expression was just as concerned and loving. “You cold?”
“I am quite fine, Ser Duncan,” you teased. “You may look at the road now.”
A faint flush crept up his neck.
“I am lookin’ at the road,” he muttered, turning forward again far too quickly.
Egg snorted. “He’s hopeless.”
“Hush,” you chided fondly, though your gaze lingered on Duncan’s broad back. The set of his shoulders. The steadiness of him.
You let the silence settle comfortably before speaking.
“Where are we going?”
Duncan considered that.
“Well,” he admitted, “I hadn’t rightly planned that part.”
Egg piped up from behind, “We could head toward the river road. Fewer patrols.”
Duncan glanced back at him. “You’ve been thinkin’ on this.”
“I always think, Ser,” Egg replied primly.
The trees began to thin as the path sloped gently downward and the world felt wider already.
Your gaze drifted upward.
High above the open stretch of sky, a lone bird circled on wide, unhurried wings—dark against the fading gold, riding the last warm currents of air. It did not struggle. It did not falter. It simply rose.
You could almost hear him still, your father, his gentle voice, speaking of hawks and omens and how the Seven must surely favor creatures brave enough to trust the wind.
The bird soared once more, then turned toward the horizon, becoming smaller and smaller until it was no more than a shadow against the darkening blue.
You watched until it vanished.
“The river road,” you said at last, hopeful. “It sounds nice.”
As the three of you turned your horses toward the faint silver glow ahead, the sky deepened into indigo.
And though something precious had taken flight beyond your reach.
Aftermath of smut. Also celebration of freedom (me not the characters)
You had told yourself you could wait.
But the heat coiling low in your body made patience feel like a fragile lie, stretched thinner with every passing second. It wasn’t just desire, it was the quiet ache of it, the way it lingered, insistent and warm, refusing to be ignored.
You could have taken what you wanted. A meaner person might have. But the look he gave you, soft, open, filled with something dangerously close to how you saw people look at the Seven in the temples, unraveled that thought before it could take root.
He looked up at you as though you were something rare, something luminous. As though the morning itself had shaped itself around you.
His cheeks were flushed, the color spilling across his face and down his neck, dusting his skin in warmth. His freckles stood out more starkly against it, delicate constellations scattered across a sky of gold and rose. His eyes were bright, wide, still a little dazed, followed you with unwavering focus, drinking you in like he feared you might vanish if he blinked.
And his smile. Gods, that smile.
It was soft and unguarded, curling upward with quiet wonder, as though he still couldn’t quite believe you were real, let alone his to touch.
Even now, his breathing had yet to steady. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, trembling faintly beneath the lingering traces of exertion. You watched him for a moment longer than necessary, biting your lip as warmth flickered between your thighs again, low and persistent. Even now his body still trembled, chest paint with thick strips of white, his impressive cock softening slightly, which did not negate the from its impressive length or thickness. It lay hot against his stomach, imposing in the dim light, the tip glistening, luring you into temptation or fear.
You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself.
“You might need a bit of help with that,” you murmured, voice softer than you intended.
xxxxx
Cleaning him took longer than expected, not because the task was difficult, but because neither of you seemed in any hurry to finish it o the fact the amount seem never ending. As soon as you wiped up that last you found another streak across his peachy skin.
The cloth in your hand was warm and damp as you wrung it out, droplets falling in soft, rhythmic taps. You dragged it gently across his skin, careful but unhurried, watching the way he reacted to even the smallest touch. His breath would hitch, his shoulders tensing before slowly relaxing again, like he was learning you all over from the beginning.
He was quieter now, though not entirely still. Every so often, his gaze would flicker up to your face, shy and searching, before darting away again when you caught him looking.
That bashfulness crept in gradually, coloring his expression in softer shades. It sat awkwardly on him, this large, powerful man suddenly unsure of where to rest his hands, how to hold himself under your attention.
You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
When you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, you felt the heat there instantly. It spread beneath your lips, blooming outward as though your touch had set something alight. He inhaled sharply, eyes widening before softening again, that same quiet awe returning.
His blush lingered, too, spilling down his throat and settling across his chest like a fading sunset. You finished your work slowly, letting the moment stretch. Enjoying his shifting muscles underneath his fingertips.
Then, without much thought, you caught him gently by the arm and drew him closer. The kiss you gave him this time was deeper, steadier, less fleeting, more certain. Something grounding in it, something that made his hands finally find you in return.
But you pulled away before it could become anything more.
“Go on,” you said softly, nudging him toward the bathing house.
He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, as though reluctant to leave your side. Then, with one last lingering glance, he obeyed, giving you a large boyish smile over his shoulder as he made his way to the bath house and as soon as his footsteps faded into the silence, you surged into action.
xxxxx
Growing up on the road taught Dunk many things, what to eat, what to drink, how to stitch a torn seam in the dark, who to trust, who not to trust, and, above all, how cruel people could be.
He hated bathhouses.
On the few occasions Ser Arlan stopped at one, he endured them rather than enjoyed them. He hated the roving eyes, the catcalls, the careless insults tossed like scraps. The way people looked at him, not with admiration, but with something sharper, something mocking. It was why he preferred solitary bathing. The water might be cold enough to bite at his skin, the wind cutting across his back as he washed in streams or basins, but at least he didn’t have to endure the weight of lingering stares.
Maybe you would like him to bathe with you.
Something below twitched faintly back to life at the thought, warmth stirring where he had only just begun to settle.
But it stood to reason, you would want him to bathe if he was to lie with you.
Gods, it was beyond reason that you would even want to sleep next to him. But to be with you… to be with you like that…
Gods, he was still waiting to wake.
Because how could he? With you? You were so small, so soft…and he was… him.
He remembered the giddy glee he had felt when Ser Arlan had first taken him to a brothel. He had been younger then, naïve enough to mistake the place for something grand, something exciting. That glee had soured quickly under the sharp weight of judgment.
“Ya gotta be joking. I still have to take other customers tonight. If I take that thing, I aren’t sitting right for a week.”
The pale auburn-haired woman had grunted, her expression pinched with irritation as she impatiently yanked his breeches back up.
He remembered the cackling laughter that followed, harsh and unkind as the other women peered through the thin curtain dividing the rooms, abandoning their own patrons for a better look.
“Gods, I don’t think my mouth would fit that wide. I’d need to dislocate my jaw.”
“You got no more than a copper penny? For that thing, I ought to get a gold dragon,” a blonde sneered.
“Nor my hands.”
The laughter had followed him long after, echoing in his ears, settling deep beneath his skin. It stayed with him well into the night as he waited alone in the stables, the smell of hay and horseflesh thick in the air while Ser Arlan finished inside.
You had seen it and you hadn’t run.
That look in your eyes, when you had pulled him into the bed… eager, yes, but not in the way he had seen the women at the brothel paw at Ser Arlan. Not greedy. Not hollow.
Yours had been gentle. Kind. Gods, his heart might burst just thinking of it.
xxxxx
The steam of the room was almost choking.
It clung to his skin, thick and damp, curling into his lungs with every breath, heavy enough to taste. The air hummed with low voices, the slap of water against stone, the soft splintering sounds of droplets striking the floor in uneven rhythms. Somewhere deeper within, a great booming laugh rolled through the chamber, loud and unrestrained, echoing off the slick walls and high ceiling, guiding him as surely as a beacon through the haze.
He moved toward the steam room, vision blurred by the heat, shadows shifting behind veils of white.
Reaching a quieter corner, where the noise dulled slightly and the steam hung thicker, he began to undress.
His fingers moved slower than usual, not from hesitation, but from awareness. Of the space. Of the unseen eyes that might already be turning his way. Of the old expectation of judgment that never quite left him.
He tugged at the laces of his tunic first, loosening them carefully before pulling the fabric up and over his head. The cloth clung faintly to his skin, dampened by the heat, before peeling away with a soft drag, leaving his broad chest bare to the heavy air. A faint sheen of moisture gathered across his skin, catching along old scars and the natural lines of muscle shaped by years on the road.
“…Finally, he emerges, skulking off from my hunt… my hunt.” Lyonel grinned, his voice rich with amusement, carrying easily through the steam. “I would be insulted if I wouldn’t do exactly the same for such a tasty little creature. But I am sure you made her purr.” Lyonel beamed.
His curls were slicked back by the damp, falling into neatly brushed, darkened tassels against his head and temples. Droplets traced slow paths down his neck and shoulders. Naked as the day he was born and entirely unbothered by it, he stood with easy confidence, as though the world itself existed for his amusement.
“…My lord…?” Dunk frowned, uncertain, his voice quieter against the echoing space.
“You have the glow of a well bedded man,” Lyonel continued, eyes glinting as they roamed over him with open curiosity. “I am almost jealous.”
Dunk shifted faintly under the scrutiny, unsure where to look, the weight of that gaze settling heavily across his shoulders.
Dunk scratched the back of his head as he began to fiddle with his belt, fingers less certain now.
“Do not tell me you haven’t. You are all in a giddy glow like a good green boy you are…Wait… how green a boy are you?… surely not… lad like you.” Lyonel was practically giddy with glee as he looked up at the hedge knight, his grin widening. “you would have though a strong lad like you would have women throwing themselves at him left, right and center …” His grin predictory as he licked his teeth, wild eyes flickering feverously.
“I dunn… how… I never…” Dunk spluttered, the words catching awkwardly as heat crept up his neck.
“…but she made you feel good, and you did not return the favour, I take it? Not very knightly of you.” Lyonel’s face drew into a shrewd glare, though the amusement never quite left his eyes.
“I… things I do in the name of chivalry…” Lyonel muttered, uncertain, the words sounding less convincing the moment they left him.
Lyonel shook his head, a mischievous gleam sparking once more in his eyes as his expression softened again. “If you really are as clueless as you say, we must not let it continue for a moment longer. I will teach you in the way of pleasure but…” He let the thought linger. “One day, I will ask of you something…” Lyonel purred, the words curling with quiet implication.
“…My lord…” Dunk repeated, slower this time, more wary now.
“Nothing against your noble nature, my friend,” Lyonel added with a mischievous grin, teeth flashing as his expression sharpened. “Something just a little fun between friends… what do you say?” The grin widened, almost predatory now, though still laced with humor.
“…I suppose…” Dunk blinked down, uncertain but unwilling to refuse outright, his voice low.
“Agreed. Excellent.” Lyonel clapped his hands together lightly, the sharp sound briefly cutting through the damp air. “Now get those breeches off. Let me see what I am working with.”
He laughed, head tipping back, wet curls bouncing as the sound echoed richly through the steam filled room.
The worn leather creaked softly as Dunk unfastened his belt, the familiar weight sliding free into his hands. He set it aside before pushing his breeches down, the fabric dragging slightly against damp skin as it slid over his hips and thighs. He stepped out of them with a quiet exhale, grounding himself in the motion, before gathering the bundle of clothes in one hand and tossing them into a nearby bucket with a soft, hollow thud.
For a moment, he stood there bare, exposed, steam curling around him like a shifting veil, softening edges, obscuring and revealing in equal measure as the Laughing Stag gazed down at him.
“We may need more time…” Lyonel’s gaze wandered upward briefly, as though considering, before dropping again. He tilted his head, fingers coming to rest thoughtfully against his lips, eyes narrowing in open, unashamed assessment.
“We will need to drink… a lot of it… and peaches… and figs…” His grin returned, slow and knowing, amusement dancing in his expression. “Lots of them.”
Xxxxx
“I am sorry, what?” Lady Rowan choked, drawing a few curious glances from the women dotted around the feasting hall.
The hall itself buzzed with low conversation, the clatter of cups and platters, and the rich scent of roasted meats and sweet wine hanging thick in the air. Candlelight flickered across polished tables and bright silks, casting a warm, golden glow over the gathered ladies.
“Please don’t make me say it again,” you pleaded, whispering across the vast table, leaning closer so your words would not carry.
“How big are we talking?” Lady Rowan eyed you sharply, lowering her voice but not her curiosity.
You hesitated only a moment before letting your hands spread, indicating the size. Her gaze followed the motion, brows lifting slowly.
“…and length,” she pressed, eyes narrowing with interest. “My girl, you exaggerate.”
She stopped when she saw your pale, entirely serious expression, her amusement faltering into something more thoughtful.
“…but I suppose he is more giant than man, and he does wear his trousers rather baggy at the crotch…”
“Why are you looking at his crotch?”
Lady Rowan flapped her hand dismissively, waving the question away as though it were nothing at all. “Old habit… and you can tell a great deal about a man by his carriage there. But if he really is as large as you say…” She tilted her head, lips curling. “My poor girl, it seems you will be in for a very tiring night.”
The red-haired woman laughed, low and knowing, her shoulders shaking slightly with it.
“Lady Rowan… please, I beg you,” you hissed, mortified.
She leaned forward suddenly, grabbing your face between her fingers, turning it this way and that as she assessed you with a practiced, appraising eye.
“You have a face that would bring a man to his knees,” she said, her gaze trailing down your figure with deliberate slowness. “…and a body that would drain a man’s purse dry. That does most of the work.”
Her eyes flicked back up, sharp and intent. “But a woman’s true power comes from herself.”
“I know,” you said quickly, flushing under her scrutiny. “I spent my entire childhood being warded from one house to another. I know what men are like and what they want. I just don’t know how to…”
Rowan studied you shrewdly, the playful edge of her expression softening into something more understanding.
“You have,” she said, “but not like Dunk. Men like Dunk and my Raymun are like hen’s teeth in this world. Rare. That is why we cling to them, why we protect them from the world… and they protect us from the harshness of it.”
She paused as she shifted the baby from her lap, lifting the small bundle with practiced ease. The child gave a soft, sleepy sound as she settled it against her shoulder, cooing gently as she adjusted the blanket at its back.
“You did me a good turn, getting me into the good graces of the ladies of the realm… and I will do you one,” she continued, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “We are a lot alike.”
She smiled then, sly and warm all at once.
“A woman’s pleasure is key. Men will find theirs wherever they stick it, but to truly stir them, they want to see you take pleasure in the act.” Her brow lifted slightly. “I will teach you all that I know. Well, the basics. You can work out the more advanced parts yourself.”
She gave you a knowing look, one eyebrow arching.
“I am sure a bright girl like you can manage that much.”
You swallowed, still flushed, but listening intently.
“But first, you will need oils… and a few other essentials.” Rowan shifted the baby higher on her shoulder as she stood, already gathering herself with purpose. “Luckily for you, Hunter Lodge is well known to merchants for Lord Baratheon’s appetites. We should find all that we need.”
She adjusted the child at the nape of her neck, patting gently as it settled.
“I am sure you are not quite ready to have one of these yourself.”
You eyed the bundle with a hesitant nod, unsure.
“Well then,” Rowan continued briskly, already turning, her energy sweeping forward like a storm, “I must teach you my special blend of tea, and why moss and vinegar will be your next best friend. Unless you find yourself in Dorne… then lemon.”
Your brow furrowed as you hurried after the red-haired hurricane, nearly stumbling in your attempt to keep pace, her words and confidence leaving you both overwhelmed and oddly reassured.
First of all my oral exam is done, I was a rabbling mess, I didn't get awarded what I wanted but I got something at least.
Secondly, this is not my full update but I wanted to give you something as I feel I haven't written for this story in forever.
So what did you think? Favorite part? Mine was dear Lyonel... What is that devilish stag up too...?
Question....do we think Dunk is doing the deed before marriage? I am not convinced he would...Discuss.
Also if you are sending requests (which I love) please put as much detail as you can like if you funny, fluffy or smut... general idea if you can
summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.
authors note: so sorry this took so long, i've been so busy, lmk if your still here! love this chapter. I have a question for the more lore knowledgeable people, do we know when dyanna dayne died? also is jena still alive in this time period? we didnt hear about baelor's wife at all..
warnings: violence, language, blood, made up knowledge of constellations. ooc dunk, maybe? slight hints to incest (it’s the targs, it’s gonna be there) not proof read
word count: 14k+
Masterlist
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...
It was cold, since the fire had long died down, Dunk and Egg were asleep, all that was left was you and the pit feeling in your stomach that kept you awake. As you sat up from your bed roll, you tried to pay attention to the earth around you. The woods breathed softly around the camp and leaves whispered together whenever the wind passed through. Somewhere far off, an owl called, low and hollow. Everyone was prepared to rest, wary from the day's misfortune, except for you.
You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the chill in your chest had little to do with the air.
“Can’t sleep?” Dunk’s warm voice called out to you.
You turned to him with a shudder, not having realized he was awake. His large body shifted beside you, propped up on one elbow.
“You should be sleeping.” The words came out with little emotion.
The man next to you fully sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before looking your way again. “So should you,” he says gently, scooting closer across the ground until he was close enough for you to feel his breathing. “What’s wrong?”
Your hands grip your hair slightly, in a stroking motion, and you think about whether you should share your feelings. Since they were only a small preview of the ideas in the darkest corners of your mind. Dunk watched you quietly while you thought. He never rushed you, not once. Even now, he simply waited.
“You can tell me, m’lady. There is no judgment here.” Yes, there is. You wanted to scream out. That if you knew who I was, there would be nothing but judgment.
“I just have a bad feeling..” you whisper.
Dunk’s eyes soften, the crease between his brows deepening as he studies you. “About what?”
You hesitate, staring out into the trees again. “Anything could happen,” you say quietly. “Something bad. Something we can't stop.” You swallow. “Then what would happen to… us?” Your words trailed off, scared to say what you were assuming.
“Nothing bad is going to happen.” He concludes.
You shake your head. “You don't know that.”
“And how do you know?” he asks softly, not challenging, only curious.
“I just… I know.” That’s all, you knew.
For a moment, Dunk doesn’t answer. He scratches the back of his neck in a thinking matter, the way he always did when something weighed on his mind. “In that case,” he says at last, mind steady again, “even if something bad were to happen, it wouldn't go unpunished. I’d do something to cease it.”
You smile slightly, playing with the hem of his cloak. The thick material bunched between your fingers as you twisted the fabric absentmindedly. “Sweet knight..” He was truly sweet, no rotten bone in his body. It made you frown to think that the world’s cruel ways would corrupt him sooner than later.
Dunk falters at your touch, clearly unsure what to do now. He looks down at your hands briefly before clearing his throat. “You need to sleep somehow, m’lady.” An idea washes away his embarrassment as he tilts his head up to the sky. “Look up,” he says.
Your eyebrows furrow as you follow his gaze. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The stars,” he replies. “You can lose yourself in them instead of your thoughts.” He shifts slightly closer. “I’ve spent tons of nights on the road myself just staring up at the stars. Even when Ser Arlan told me to quit it.”
“Why?”
Dunk lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the faintest laugh in it.
“Because, despite the worries of future days ahead, the night sky always stays the same. No matter where you are.” He stops and turns his head to you. “Or who you're with.”
He could have sworn the purple sky illuminated you, that the stars shone down onto your frame. The silver light caught in the loose strands of your hair and traced the curve of your cheek. He could've stared at you for the rest of his life.
“So just look,” he finished.
Once you did, you could not turn away. A sight you had taken for granted every day of your life, stars you could barely see out of your tower at Summerhall. All shining for you like they were greeting you for the first time.
“So the stars all look this beautiful?” you beamed.
Dunk grinned at that. “Some more than others.” He pointed with his hand at a certain line of light stretched across the sky.
“That one there is the Crone’s Lantern,” he explains. “Ser Arlan used to say if you follow that one long enough, it’ll guide you through the darkest woods.” His finger moved again. “And those there, see the little cluster? Looks like a crown if you squint hard enough.”
You leaned slightly closer, squinting exactly as instructed.
“I do see it,” you murmured. “Though it may be a crooked crown.” You chuckled softly. “Most crowns are.”
He explained to you for what felt like a fortnight. Some stories he knew were likely wrong, half-remembered from Ser Arlan’s mutterings during long rides, but he told them anyway. About wandering stars, about sailors who used them to find their way home, about knights who once swore oaths beneath certain constellations. The two of you went back and forth in each other's company. He still lent his ear to hear your troubles even though he had no obligation.
“You're so.. knowledgeable, my knight,” you smiled.
Dunk shook his head immediately. “That is too high praise, m’lady. I just try my best.”
“You remember quite a lot for someone who claims not to know much.”
“Well,” he mutters sheepishly, “when you spend enough nights sleeping in the dirt, you start memorizing the sky whether you mean to or not.”
Your mind spoke before you did. “Your best is more than any woman could wish for.”
His breath hitches in his throat. Dunk suddenly lies back down with little grace, as if trying to bury himself in the ground. So the two of you moved from sitting up to sitting flat on the ground. Still watching the stars.
After a while, you let out a soft yawn, bringing your hand to your mouth. “And it seems you have tired me out.”
Dunk smiles. “Then my mission is complete,” he says quietly. “Now I hope you dream well, m’lady.” Then he closed his eyes. Dunk’s body once again began to grow tired, until he noticed you. Still awake, and looking up.
Your voice came softer this time, almost lost to the quiet of the forest. “I have seen and accomplished more with you than in my years on this planet. What does that say about me?”
“It says,” he says slowly, “there is far more left to see.”
You return to him then, slowly moving yourself until you're practically lying on top of him.
He gasps, trying to stay as still as possible. “M’lady!” he exclaims under his breath.
“I’m going to be selfish tonight,” you murmur, already settling against him. “As you are mine. So I will lay as such.”
You settle comfortably on him; he was as warm as a fire with triple the body mass. Despite training, despite living on the road, he was soft as a kitten. Your cheek pressed against his chest, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart thumping beneath his ribs. Dunk freezes for a moment, unsure what to do with arms that suddenly have somewhere to go.
“…Are you comfortable?” he asks awkwardly after a moment.
“Very.”
“That’s… good,” he says. Without protest, he allowed you to continue. Slowly, carefully, he shifts one arm around you, more to keep you from sliding off than anything else. His chin rests on top of your head. He looked at the stars and then at you while continuing to tell facts about the night sky.
His voice grew softer as he spoke. “And that one there… Ser Arlan always said it meant fair weather,” he murmurs.
You were asleep only minutes later. He hadn't known you before to snore, but tonight you did softly. Dunk smiles faintly at the sound, until slowly he fell asleep to the smell of your hair. It was almost walnut-ish
Egg found you two curled up on the marrow in the early day light; the two of you looked entirely unaware of the world. He stopped for a moment, hands on his hips, squinting thoughtfully at the sight. “Hm,” he muttered to himself. Then he quietly gathered his boots and slipped away without waking either of you.
He had a mission himself.
You only awoke when he accidentally made a large boom. Hands running to your dagger without a second thought, the Valyrian steel almost slicing your own palm in the process.
“Egg!” You called out.
The boy froze, turning slowly as if he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Good marrow, my lady..”
You took in his look, the way his hands slid to Dunk’s sword, and how he had already gotten the man’s horse ready to leave. “Where are you going with Thunder?”
“We are going to train for the tourney,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“I applaud your efforts, don’t misunderstand, but don’t you think you should tell Duncan you’re taking his horse?” You gestured to the sleeping man you were still next to.
Egg pouted slightly. “We’ll only be gone a little while, promise.” You had no reason not to believe him; his heart was always in the right place, if a bit misguided. And after yesterday, he seemed eager to prove himself even more.
The boy gave you a look only the cruelist of sister’s could resist.
You sighed and glanced at Dunk as if seeking his counsel. “I’ll let him know when he wakes, go ahead.” The boy did not waste a second before seizing the man’s sword and scuttling off deeper into the woods.
Your hands pressed timidly against his chest. “Dunk…” you whispered. No response.
You chose to let him sleep. After the strain and nerves that came with entering the lists, it felt like the least you could do. So instead, you got up and spun around. What to do? You were hungry to say the least. But your stomach twisted at the thought of salt beef. If you were a better person, maybe you would know how to make something. Alas, you had no idea.
But you slowly came up with another idea.
Your skills that left much to be desired would not stop you from spending a bit of your coin on Dunk. No matter how much he might grumble about it later. And if you purchased food, it would give everyone the chance to break their fast properly, to begin the day with full bellies.
You found comfort in the thought as you set off.
The market square was quiet at that early hour, the kind of stillness that came before the day truly began. Most of the vendors were only just setting up their stalls, arranging baskets, and hanging cloth awnings while rubbing sleep from their eyes. Despite the calm, the air felt heavier than it should have been. Something unseen pressed down between the rows of stands as it refused to lift.
It was the vendors, all gossiping. Low whispers slipped through the square that drew your attention, no matter how hard you tried to ignore them. As you passed by, the snatches of conversation reached your ears, but they were never complete enough to make sense of.
From what you heard, it started with a couple of lords fighting. Then a royal scandal. You could only roll your eyes as you thought of who in your family created the next big news. Each rumor shifted as quickly as it appeared, reshaped by every mouth that carried it onward. Whatever truth they started from no longer mattered. You stopped near a stall of restless geese, their loud honks masking your presence as you continued listening to the next scandal.
“Aye, it’s true,” an old woman in blue said, her voice tight with worry.
“Do you think she was taken?” a younger woman asked, eyes darting toward the stalls.
“Who knows? The prince can’t keep track of his two missing sons. How’s he meant to watch a princess?”
You sucked in a sharp gasp. Surely they weren’t speaking of you. Only when leaning in closer did you catch the whole truth of it.
“But I don’t believe it,” a man muttered, lips pursed. “She was all the way in Summerhall. How did no one see her?”
“Wasn’t she meant to come here? With her family?” the young woman pressed.
“That’s what I heard. Seems not,”
“The eldest daughter of the Anvil,” another man said, shaking his head, “the king’s favorite grandchild, yet she’s barely seen at court. Why would this time be any different?”
Your heart dropped.
They never spoke of you like this; usually, they never lingered beyond titles and half-remembered facts, but truly, how would you know what they would say? Every careless word felt loose enough to travel, to find its way back to people you had fled from. Had the castle attendants only just come to terms with your leaving and begun letting it slip into quiet conversation?
“I hope she’s all right,” the young woman whispered, brow furrowed.
“She’s just another sack of blood for those vipers to intimidate us with,” a snotty woman snapped.
No one seemed to disagree.
“Miss?” The goose seller’s voice startled you, his face drawn in mild concern.
You swallowed and forced your expression into something pleasant. “Three eggs, please,” you said, praying your voice sounded steady.
After an awkward encounter over eggs, you steadied yourself once again and headed to a baker’s stall for loaves of bread. But the whispers were louder and misguided there.
“Father,” a girl asked, tugging at the baker’s sleeve. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. “Is the princess a spinster?”
“No, no,” he replied loudly, handing over the loaf. “She’s still young. Just… unlucky in the marriage department.”
The girl frowned, studying the subject far too closely. “But five marriage prospects, all ending before the wedding? That’s more than bad luck,” the girl said, almost smug. “Will I end up like her?”
“Not if you do as you’re told,” he added firmly. Your fingers tightened around the bread. For a moment, you nearly dropped it. The two of them turned to you in annoyance as if they weren't just speaking proudly about business that had nothing to do with them. You gave them a tight smile as you walked away.
The sound of people talking still trailed after you.
“What if she were here right now? For the tourney?” another woman asked her friend, alarmed.
“A princess,” the other woman hissed, lips tight, “walking among us like… as she belongs, don’t be daft.”
The first nodded back. “Just the thought of it feels wrong. The blood of kings… among market folk. A Targaryen should not be out here, should not touch our streets. It unsettles me. What if she brings trouble?”
“All I know is, I would not want her near my stall,” the second replied, voice slightly shaking.
They had the strength to say that, yet smiled at you when you walked past.
You did not stop walking until the sounds of the market dulled behind you. Only then did you slow, fingers tightening around the bread until the crust cracked softly beneath your grip. The truth settled in with an unpleasant clarity: they had always spoken of you like that. These strangers carried your name more easily than those who truly knew you ever had.
“My lady!” A woman's voice called out; it was Tanselle. She rushed over to you with haste, her blue coverup swishing in the wind with every step. “You were with the knight? Ser Dunk?”
“Yes?” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your stomach twisted.
Her eyes flicked to your face, and she paused mid-step. “Are you… all right? You look troubled.”
You hesitated, then found yourself blurting out the question that had been nagging at you since the whispers in the market. “Have you… have you heard about the princess? How she could be here among us?”
Tanselle raised an eyebrow; she was more confused than anything else. “Yes, word spreads fast, but if I may, why are you asking about the princess?”
“Everyone… everyone either hates her or is scared of her.” You look down while saying that.
Tanselle’s gaze softened as she crouched slightly to meet your eyes. “I think we all have our flaws and things we’re afraid of,” she said gently. “The royals, especially the princess, are no different than anyone else. We all bleed the same blood, no matter our skin or our station. That goes for you, too, my lady.”
Your shoulders that had been tense for so long loosened slightly, and a shaky exhale escaped your lips. You blinked once, twice, feeling some of the tight knot in your stomach unwind, just enough to make the fear less suffocating. For a fleeting moment, the weight of being… other, of being judged, seemed to lift.
“Could you tell him his shield will be done before eveningfall?” Tanselle asked, gesturing toward Dunk’s camp.
“Of course.” You tried to let your smile hold. “I’ll let him know.”
Tanselle’s smile bloomed; it was warm enough to make the wind seem lighter. “Thank you.”
And just like that, she was gone, hurrying back into the bustle of the market, leaving you with a momentary sense of calm and a reminder that kindness could still exist even here.
But it only lasted near her. Then your mind started to drift back to the words of others.
Spinster.
Unlucky.
Ideas that you would only bring hurt.
That wasn't you, that was the title of a princess. Five betrothals, five almost endings. But these people didn't even understand half of it; you never chose those men. Even your own father did not understand that your hatred of marriage only stemmed from not being able to pick for love.
But you couldn’t bring these feelings back with you; instead, you had to push them down and hope you didn’t explode.
“Where were you?” The startling voice of Dunk made you jump. He was awake, but he did not look good; he was pale, as if he had been throwing up.
“Are you okay, ser?” You asked, trying to ignore the topic of the market.
He frowned at your words. “I asked you a question.”
You sighed. “I went to get some things to break our fast, just bread and eggs.” You tried your best to sound ecstatic, but now eating was the last thing on your mind.
He raised an eyebrow. “What were you planning on doing with eggs and bread?”
“I am not sure...” you trailed off. You didn't want to say out loud the fact that you have no idea how to make anything, fearing that if that news broke out, it would just be another royal stereotype waiting to be thrown at you.
“Don’t go off by yourself next time, wake me.” His voice is firm, but concern threads it.
You force a short, humorless chuckle. His words press on you, heavier than they should. Just like every other voice that ever measured you by title, by size, by actions. “Why?”
“It’s dangerous on your own,” he says, as if stating a fact you already know.
Like he was portraying you as... as a princess.
You set the eggs and bread beside the fire pit without replying. Then the words slip out meaner than you intend: “I am fine on my own. No need to worry.”
“But I do. You’re vulnerable, and you look shaken,” he insists. “What happened at the market?”
You stiffen, heat rising. Whatever he means, he won’t understand. “I am not vulnerable. Whatever I feel or do, it’s nothing of your concern.”
“Really? You’re here under my watch, and it’s none of my concern?” His tone intensifies, voice rising higher.
“No one assigned you that task, Ser.” You hang your satchel on your horse, creating distance where words cannot.
Dunk’s hand pauses over his stitching. He rises slowly to close the horrid space between you. “I’m not asking because I was assigned. I care if something happens to you. Especially after what you said last night.”
Care and judgment blur together in your mind as the feeling of defending rather than listening takes over. You bite out, “If caring means watching me like a liability, then don’t dress it up as kindness. I have survived worse than a morning market.”
“Really?” He looked astonished. “How?”
“What are you trying to say?” You raised your voice slightly.
“You say you’re fine on your own,” Dunk grits, “but from the looks of it, you don't know how to cook. You had no idea how to make a proper fire. You would get rattled around your horse, and you still seem to have no concept of spending. And that’s just what I’ve seen.”
Every word lands like a weight pressed against your skull. You meet his eyes at last. “You think that was a choice? I wasn’t raised to take care of myself, and I was never meant to beg for scraps like a hedge knight.”
Dunk goes still. You go still. The words settle between you, impossible to take back.
Something inside you folded inward when your shoulders drew in, and your gaze slipped away from him, as if you had no fight left. Dunk remembered this look from when the two of you just met, a runaway and a knight with no purpose.
You retreat elsewhere, a place he thought he could not follow. He opened his mouth, then stopped. He did not know what to do. Pride told him not to chase. Instinct told him to fix it, without knowing how.
That was when the sound of hooves and hurried footsteps broke the silence. Egg stepped into the clearing with Thunder’s reins looped loosely in his hand. He slowed when he saw your faces, his expression shifting from cheerful to uneasy.
“Where were you?” Dunk asked, his voice had no steam left.
“Training,” Egg stated. “I told her to tell you.”
Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Really? So everyone is just leaving by themselves now?”
“I didn’t even get the chance to tell you yet, before you decided to come at me!” you exclaimed, frustration flaring as you gestured to your chest.
Dunk paused, clearly at a loss, then he turned back to Egg. “Go brush Thunder, he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge.”
But that did not resolve anything. Neither you nor Dunk softened as you parted ways; the argument still simmered unbroken. Egg shifted uneasily beside Thunder, wishing for an invisible escape hatch.
Dunk watched with a frown as he saw you pick up your things. “Where are you going now?” He called out as he saw you start toward the woods.
“To go do something,” you replied over your shoulder. “Washing my clothes can’t be too hard a task for vulnerable people like me, right?” Then you walked off.
Dunk cursed under his breath and went back to sit under the tree. Fingers attaching themself to his sewing equipment. That was the only thing left he could do without losing his mind.
Egg noticed, of course, as he brushed down Thunder. He looked up at Dunk. “What are you doing? Is that not my job?”
“Do you know how?” Dunk grumbled. When Egg shook his head, Dunk let out a long, frustrated sigh. The two of you could still not equal one person with skills on the road.
He still beckoned the boy closer. “Come on, I’ll show you.” Because he was not a man of blame, especially when he could teach, he was just frustrated, that's all. But now he was scared you would never speak to him again…
The two of them fell into a steady quiet rhythm, stitching back and forth, while you wandered down to the small man-made lake nearby.
You sank to the ground at the edge of the lake with your knees drawn close. Your fingers pressed into the damp grass when a shiver ran up your spine.
“What happened?” Egg asked, breaking the silence.
Dunk’s voice was low and still rough around the edges. “I do not even know.”
“But you know how you feel?” The boy led on.
“All I know is… I care. Seeing you two not whole, not calm, and not close to me, it’s not something I can accept.” Dunk’s words faltered, heavy with a truth he couldn’t name.
Egg tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “That may be the case, but your leaving a part out. You care for her in a deeper sense than you do for me.” He let the pause hang, letting the truth settle between them.
Dunk wheezed, caught off guard. “What?”
“Oh, please,” Egg said, cutting him off. “Look at yourself. You would move heaven and earth for her. You stay close to her, flinch whenever she speaks, and get flustered at the smallest thing. You do not feel that way for just anyone.”
Egg’s eyes softened. “You need to show her how much you care. She is blind to her own feelings and yours.”
For a long moment, Dunk simply stared, the usual glow in his eyes tempered by uncertainty. Then the corners of his mouth lifted into a tentative, almost sheepish grin. “How did a boy like you get so wise?”
Egg shrugged, still focused on his patchwork. “It does not take a maester to see it. You two are very obvious.”
The cold bit at your fingers as you scrubbed at the fabric, working dirt and sweat from the seams of your blue dress and cloak. When you leaned closer, the water caught your face. At first, you barely registered it; it was just a pale blur. Until the light shifted, then your breath caught. Your hair color was fading rapidly. The cursed rain and bathing in the lake worked just like you predicted days ago.
Closer to snow than earth.
You should scream. Just as word spread about your arrival, your disguise was unraveling. The gods truly picked you for their amusement. The last permanent mark that will always haunt you, no matter if you wear plain dresses and venture on the roads. You pulled back from the water, your fingers curled into the damp fabric of the brown dress you wore as if it might anchor you.
Your silver hair was the only thing that lasted; everything else was temporary. Every day that you spend here is borrowed from the fire. As you return to your washing, you try to push it into the back of your mind once again. Your hands moved more quietly now with movements more careful. That was when you felt him before you heard him.
Dunk stopped a few steps behind you. He did not speak right away. He just stood there, awkward and uncertain, as if afraid the wrong word might undo what little peace was left.
“M’lady,” he said finally, softly. “I’m sorry.”
You stilled but did not turn.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued. “I didn’t say it because I think less of you. I said it because I can see you’re struggling, and I didn’t know how else to help without overstepping.”
You looked at him then. He seemed smaller somehow, shoulders rounded, gaze earnest and worried. The apology sat plainly on his face, without pride or excuse. When you don't respond, he takes it as a sign to sit down and level with you.
“It is all right,” you said after a moment. “ I took it too far.”
He shook his head gently. “Do not blame yourself for what you were never taught to do. Your family seems… daft.”
A breath of a smile escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes. Yes, they are.” Then, more quietly, “But I do not need them. I have you.”
“Aye, as I have you.” He replied.
The words surprised you as much as him. But neither of you took them back. Then once again you stared at each other.
You hesitated, then asked, “Do you have something I could borrow while this dries?” Your brown dress was soaked through, heavy, and clinging uncomfortably to your skin since you had to bend over a lake.
He flushed faintly and nodded. “I suppose my shirt will do.”
He turned away as he pulled it over his head, revealing pale skin and a spectacular physique from moons of being a Knight. You physically had to stop yourself from looking as you moved to hide by a tree, trying to make a bit of privacy to change.
Your fingers brushing fabric that smelled like smoke and leather and him. When you stepped out again, the shirt nearly swallowed you. It draped to your ankles, sleeves covering your hands, ridiculous and unmistakably his.
Dunk looked up, then immediately looked away.
The sight struck him harder than he expected. The way the shirt hung on you. The way you moved in it as though it were nothing at all, as though you belonged in his things. He busied himself with the fire, with anything, but his eyes betrayed him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet was thick, not uncomfortable, just full.
Then Egg appeared, squinting at you. “My lady, it looks like you are wearing a potato sack.”
Dunk turned sharply. “Do you want a clout in the ear?”
You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Egg. I meant it.”
As your clothes dried on a tree branch that Dunk had reached for to hang for you, you listened to Eggs' excitement about the new food. Then the three of you sat around the fire as Dunk taught you how to cook eggs.
“Like this,” he demonstrated, cracking an egg against the rim of the iron pan. The shell gave way easily, and the yolk slid free before settling onto the heated metal with a quiet, almost satisfying sound. You tried to conceal how taken you were by something so simple. Dunk noticed anyway.
“Now you try.”
You grabbed one of the huge goose eggs with a fear of breaking it. Placing it on the other side of the rim of the pan. With two giant knocks, the egg split open, and you felt yourself close to letting out a sigh of relief.
Dunk smiled, “Perfect. Now you, Egg, try cracking the third one.”
The boy wrapped his small hands around the final egg, nearly dropping it, before mimicking your motions and letting the yolk fall into the pan.
“Yours could use some work.” The man teased. Egg sat there with furrowed brows and a mouth agape at his words.
Still, the two royal siblings had learned the small but satisfying skill of cracking an egg.
Both of you watched as Dunk stirred the pan with his knife, blending the yolks and whites to create a creamy dandelion color. Then slowly, the liquid hardened into something edible. That's when Dunk cut open your loaves with ease and scooped portions of egg between two halves of the bread. Creating giant sandwiches filled with fluffy eggs for the three of you to eat. By comparison, each egg sandwich was almost the size of Egg’s head.
Returning to the tourney grounds felt like slipping past unseen hands, like you were evading capture by sheer luck alone. You chose not to tell Egg what you had learned. The boy already carried more than enough on his narrow shoulders, and adding to it would have helped no one. You had already slipped by letting the early morning vendors see you. It would not happen again.
Dunk did not question why you were so thoroughly covered. It was a cold day in his mind. Your hood sat low and awkward on your head, completely covering your hair and forehead. The fabric chafed as you moved, increasing your level of annoyance.
Instead, Dunk fell into easy conversation with Egg about how he would not be able to put his name on the list that day. He was not a knight of great renown, nor of noble birth, and the realization stung more than he wanted to admit. At first, disappointment gnawed at him, quickly giving way to restless eagerness. The desire to prove himself to everyone, to you, ached in his soul. Eventually, he made peace with it, deciding that taking you both to see the opening joust would be enough for now.
The joust itself dragged on far longer than you expected. Had Dunk not kept a steady grip on you, you might have dozed off where you stood. It was the roar of the crowd, waves of cheers crashing again and again, and the constant movement and chatter of the men packed in close beside you that kept your eyes open. Forcing you to stay present as lances splintered and horses thundered past.
When it was finally over, the three of you placed yourselves on the grassy hilltop overlooking the grounds. You lay on your back listening to Dunk and Egg converse. Only then did you allow your hood to come off. You caught only bits and pieces of their conversation as sleep slowly claimed you.
Egg sat with his knees pulled to his chest. “I return a war hero,” he said dreamily, “and he gives me land of my own. And the hand of his most beautiful daughter.”
Dunk lay on his side, pride swelling in his chest at the boy’s words. The childlike certainty in Egg’s voice soothed him, and there was something comforting in how easily the boy shaped his future into a fairytale.
“But he would not forget about you, Ser,” Egg added.
Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And whose hand would I get?”
“The most beautiful person you know,” Egg said simply.
Dunk sighed. It was only a fantasy. He was a hedge knight, and he had to hammer that truth into his skull no matter how tempting the dream.
Egg looked at him as though he wanted to say more, but a voice called up from the base of the hill, beckoning Dunk away. When the man rose and left, Egg was left alone with his thoughts and you resting quietly at his side.
When Dunk finally returned, there was a distant look in his eyes, gears clearly turning from whatever the man below the hill had told him. He barely spoke before it was time for the next tilt.
This time, you felt more awake, more alert. Your attention sharpened as you waited to hear which knight would be announced next, eyes scanning the grounds with quiet anticipation. That sense of readiness vanished the moment you reached the front of the fence.
Your smile fell as soon as the herald raised his voice.
“Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame.”
Brightflame. The name alone made your jaw tighten. A useless nickname, one your elder brother had forced into use through sheer insistence. It was ridiculous, but then again, so was he. An excuse for a man.
You watched with hardened eyes as Aerion rode into the lists. His armor caught your attention immediately, impossible to ignore. It was as obnoxious as its wearer, fashioned to resemble black dragon scales, complete with a dragon-shaped helm that gleamed in the light. You could not help but wonder how much begging and pestering it had taken for your father to allow such a commission.
The crowd erupted in cheers, but you offered only the barest claps as Aerion paraded across the court. He reveled in the attention, even bringing a drummer to announce his presence, as if steel and skill alone were not enough to make him appear fearsome. At last, he turned his gaze toward the royal box, clearly seeking your father’s approval for the spectacle he had crafted.
The seat was empty. To miss his son’s own tilt could only mean one thing. He was out there somewhere, searching for Egg, searching for you.
Aerion tried to shake it off, forcing himself to focus on picking his opponent, but you could see it lingering in his mind as it gnawed at him. He never knew how to handle it when things did not go his way, and this was no different.
There were three major opponents he could have chosen. The first was his cousin, Valarr. But he was not foolish enough to challenge his own blood, not when the boy’s father held the title of Hand of the King. No matter what he might have thought of their shared brown locks and mismatched eyes, the risk of family politics and wrath from his father was too great.
Instead, your brother shrugged and called it not embarrassing his cousin before moving on to the next choice. Finally, he named Humfrey Hardyng, a knight of growing renown due to his feats in the lists so far.
The three of you exchanged glances at his selection, but Dunk did not know your brother’s temper as you and Egg did. This match was going to be dangerous, possibly dirty. You stepped back slightly as everyone started clapping, a show of courtesy as the men positioned themselves on opposite ends of the arena.
Then it began. Both men surged forward, horses pounding, lances leveled. You tried not to suck in your breath as they closed the distance, inch by inch, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
“Kill him! Kill him!” Egg shouted suddenly, and you and Dunk turned to him, startled. He was not far off, but his excitement needed tempering. Shouting for someone to kill a prince was not a good omen for anyone. You placed a gentle hand on his back, soothing him, reminding him that caution mattered more than fury.
As the lances neared, Aerion cowered at the last moment, and the crowd gasped in frustrated anticipation. Ser Humphrey nearly toppled from his mount, caught off guard by the prince’s sudden withdrawal. Murmurs of disapproval rose at first, and soon the crowd began to boo. This was the kind of arena where even the royal family could not shield its members from honest opinion.
Ser Humphrey, however, did not falter. He turned his horse around, demanding another lance, and readied himself again. You gripped the fence with wide eyes, trying to anticipate what Aerion would do next.
Dunk saw it before anyone else. “He’s… he’s too low,” he said.
The truth hit you at the same time. Aerion’s lance was aimed not at the knight, but at the horse. He drove it deep into the animal’s neck, the steel piercing through with a sickening squelch, blood pulsing as the horse screamed in terror and pain. You stumbled back, hands covering your mouth, horrified. The crowd around you reacted in shock and disgust, some gasping, others frozen in disbelief.
The horse spun wildly and thrashed, unable to remove the lance lodged in its neck. It finally collapsed onto its side, throwing Ser Humphrey violently against the ground. Not only was his leg crushed under the weight of the animal, but the impact left him dazed and bleeding.
Dunk looked down, his expression grim. Egg could not look away, transfixed by the violence, and you hovered somewhere between horror and disbelief. Even Baelor, seated in the royal box, had grimaced, unable to watch the brutal scene unfold.
Aerion was not done flaunting. He rode over on his horse, blissfully ignorant of the man and horse screaming in such pain. Instead, he lifted his helm and broke into the closest thing to a smile he could muster. The crowd grew restless, their cheers replaced with shouts of anger and disbelief. They shook the fence violently, threatening to tear it down under their weight.
“Another bastard acting Targaryen!” an old woman called, her voice sharp and accusatory.
A man climbed on the shaky fence, took a huge rock, and chucked it at the prince’s head. It landed with such precision, you were sure Aerion would find the man later and kill him. It struck his helm with a clang, forcing him to flinch. The mob took it as their sign to surge forward, men and women alike vaulting over the deteriorating fence, pushing past any knight or guard who tried to stop them.
Someone behind you shoved you to the ground, trying to join the fray, but Dunk was quick, lifting you into his arms. The shouts of nobles and royals filled the air, voices rising over the chaos, demanding control over what had quickly become a near bloodbath. There were not enough knights to contain the mob without reinforcements, but eventually, more Kingsguard arrived, forming a fragile barrier to keep the crowd at bay.
Even the barrier could not prevent every blow. Fists flew, blood splattered, and curses rained down on Aerion, who remained seemingly unfazed.
Dunk had seen enough. He let you stand on your own and urged Egg forward, though you could not tear your eyes from the scene entirely. You saw the final act, a man delivering a fatal strike to Ser Humphrey’s horse, piercing its heart, making the pitiful sounds of the animal finally stop. It was a merciful but gruesome end to its suffering.
That sight finally propelled you into motion. You stumbled forward a few steps on your own, the mud sucking at your boots, the rain plastering your hood to your forehead. Dunk and Egg had moved ahead, but in the press of chaos and the noise of the storm, you found yourself entirely alone. A hollow panic gnawed at you.
You called out, your voice cracking, “Dunk!” but the rain swallowed it instantly, scattering it across the empty air. There was no answer, no echo, only the relentless patter of water and the distant, fading screams of the crowd.
Even if no one knew who you were, you felt their eyes. Faces blurred by rain and motion, strangers pressing past you or stepping aside, yet you could feel the weight of them, sharp and cold, staring. They whispered in fragments, murmurs you could not piece together, and you imagined their fear or hatred aimed at you. They stared, they recoiled, and you could feel their judgment pressing in from every side.
Your family, your own blood, answered back in ways that made it worse. Their presence, their poised approval of the chaos, the way they leaned into power and cruelty, made it clear that any compassion or mercy had been deliberately abandoned. You were not protected, you were a spectacle, and everyone around you knew it.
Your chest tightened. You were lost, not just in the storm of people and mud, but in yourself. Everything you thought you knew about who you were, your place in your family, your place in this court, even your own sense of strength, felt unmoored. The walls of the lists, the royal banners, the shouting lords and spectators, pressed down on you in a way that made the world feel impossibly large and alien.
You were Y/n, and yet you felt like no one knew you, like the name you carried had no meaning here, like you were nothing but a shadow running through mud and rain.
Every direction looked the same, gray and wet and endless. You wanted to collapse, to let the world swallow you, to vanish from everything, to escape the weight of your family’s hold.
The wind tugged at your wet cloak, the rain stinging your eyes, blurring the ground ahead. You called Dunk’s name again, a desperate whisper this time. Maybe he could hear you, maybe not. It did not matter. The sound vanished into the storm. You were alone, drenched, and more than physically lost. You were untethered, untangled from the life you had known, and the court that had always seemed so grand now felt like a cage you did not belong in.
Dunk was losing it. He had a young boy next to him, a boy who had seen far too much today, horrors that would stay with him long after the day ended. Dunk’s chest tightened as he tried to steady himself, but the rain did little to hide the trembling in his hands or the panic clawing at his stomach.
And then there was you. Dunk had no idea where you were, and the thought gnawed at him. You were alone, scared, soaked to the bone, with no clear direction and no anchor in the chaos. Every second without seeing you made his stomach twist. He shouted your name again and again, voice cracking each time, only for the rain to swallow it. He was supposed to be keeping Egg safe. He could not leave the boy, and yet he could not reach you. He was failing, failing at being a friend, failing at being a knight, failing at keeping anyone safe in this storm.
As he saw you, a dark figure in the gray blur of rain and mud, moving unsteadily but still moving forward, his eyes widened in alarm and relief. Egg tugged at Dunk’s sleeve, voice urgent, nearly lost to the wind. “There, she’s there!”
Dunk’s heart lurched. You were just a figure at first, but as he focused, he saw your face. It mirrored his own.
You called out, your voice cracking with exhausted relief, “Dunk!” You forced yourself forward, following the shapes of familiar figures in the storm. Egg’s small, steady presence at Dunk’s side, Dunk’s broad shoulders tense with worry, every muscle taut with fear for you.
When you finally reached them, Dunk grasped your arms, pulling you into a careful, grounding hold. Egg’s small hand landed on your soaked cloak, steadying you without a word. The storm still raged, the screams and chaos echoing in the distance, but in that moment, a fragile relief settled over the three of a kind. You were not alone, not entirely. Not yet.
The three of you hid under a vendor’s stall, and when the weather began to clear slightly, you kept walking.
“That… that was a terrible sight,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “And it was no mishap.”
Dunk paused at your words, trying to piece together what you were saying. “Why would a pr—”
“Because he is evil. Because he can!” Egg shouted over the rumble of thunder, his small body trembling and eyes filling to the brim with tears.
Dunk put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, voice low and firm. “The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come.” He led you both toward somewhere warm, somewhere that might feel safe, Lord Baratheon’s tent.
Once inside, the warmth hit you like a small relief, but it did little to lift the weight of what you had just seen. As Dunk had predicted, there was another party underway, but you were nowhere near in the mood for celebration. The three of you sat at one of the tables, trying to exist in a space of calm, even for a single moment.
The tent offered little solace. Lyonel and the other lords danced and chanted a song about a girl named Alice, the noise and frivolity a harsh contrast to the chaos you had just escaped. Egg pressed against your side, burying his head into your damp clothes, seeking comfort and warmth. You sat rigid, eyes forward, letting more water run down your face. Each droplet washed away a little of your disguise and a little of your composure.
You ended up leaving once you were dry enough to keep going. By then, the mood of the grounds had lifted, but yours remained a steady, dull ache. Every corner and shadow seemed to hold the threat of something about to spring out at you, keeping you tense and alert.
Dunk continued next to you, clearly unsure how to soothe your restless mood. “Did you ever know your parents?” Dunk asked. His question was not directed at either of you specifically; he was simply trying to fill the silence, to open some small bridge between the three of you.
When Egg stiffened at the question, you responded. “My father more than my mother,” you said quietly.
“Most likely I saw mine hanged,” Dunk replied, voice low. “There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom. I used to sell them rats and carts and pigeons for brown. The cook there always said my father was some thief. If he had been as big as me, he would not have made a very good one.”
His words drew your attention, pulling you both out of your own headspaces for a moment. The stories were grim but familiar, reminders of how strange and heavy the world could be.
That was until Dunk froze mid-step, his eyes locking on the same man who had called him over earlier. The man sat near Lord Ashford on a bench, and Dunk gave him only a glance before continuing down the path.
“Is everything okay, Ser?” Egg asked, glancing up at him.
“Yeah, yeah. It is nothing,” Dunk said quickly, though his voice did not carry conviction. The man’s presence seemed to hold weight, some quiet authority, but Dunk chose not to speak further, his mind returning to keeping you both safe rather than explaining the unease he felt.
Before you could even startle, a woman appeared in front of the three of you. It was the same woman in all her purple mystic from the fortune teller tent of days past. This time, she appeared in a similar sense as you, her hood hung so low you could barely tell if her eyes were even open. She looked scary. You wondered if you appeared like that too.
“Say your fortune?” she asked Dunk, voice low and cryptic.
Dunk looked at her like he would look at anyone else, with a sense of wonder and respect. “Oh yeah. Go on, then.”
It did not even take her a second to prepare what she was going to say to him. “You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister.”
Dunk did not look too impressed. “Thank you. Now do the boy.” He nodded before answering.
The old woman set her sights on Egg. The boy was hopeful for a good reading, and he even smiled.
“You shall be king, and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”
The boy’s mouth hung open, fear imminent in his eyes. “What!”
You tensed. This was just a coincidence, right?
Dunk paused for a second before breaking out into laughing fits. “Oh my! Thank you, that is very good. And for the girl?”
“I already read her fortune. Fortunately, nothing has changed.”
He stopped laughing, turning to look at your pale face. The woman was gone before Dunk looked back. “And what did she tell you?” he asked.
You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. “She… she said that I was going to end up in ruin,” you said quietly.
The man looked at your somber expression as well as Egg’s. “Oh, come on, you two should know better than to listen to her. It is all falsehood.”
You did not know better.
After all, that was the Targaryen way.
The three of you ran into Raymun, who had that same easy, infectious smile plastered across his face, just like everyone else, forgetting as quickly as the hardships around them.
“Ser Duncan! M’lady! And the squire!” he said as he ran over, a bit out of breath but smiling all the same. “How do you do?”
Egg gave a curt nod, already drifting past Raymun’s shoulder, eyes glued to something beyond him. “Good day.”
You smiled quickly at the apple man, then turned toward where he was looking. The puppet tent was filling once again, the hum of anticipation rising as people slipped inside in small groups. Laughter rang out here and there, as if the horrors of the morning had never happened at all. You knew the boy was itching for an escape, for something bright and simple to focus on instead of broken horses and screaming crowds.
“Will you three join me in my tent for a cup of cider? And some treats if you’d like,” Raymun offered eagerly, almost bouncing on his heels.
“Egg,” you called out, drawing his wandering attention back for just a moment. “Perhaps you could wait by the puppet show, and get Duncan’s shield from Tanselle when the show is over.” You addressed everyone, but your eyes lingered on the boy.
Dunk looked hesitant, the crease between his brows deepening. He clearly did not want to let the boy out of his sight, not after everything that had happened today.
Raymun let out an excited shrug. “We make it ourselves,” he said, as if that alone should settle the matter.
Egg looked between you and Dunk, hopeful but careful not to push his luck.
Dunk exhaled slowly. “Very well, run along, Egg,” he said at last. He trusted your judgment, especially after you said you would check on him later.
In a split second, Egg gave you a thankful glance before rushing toward the puppet tent, weaving between people with surprising speed. The boy nearly disappeared into the crowd, clearly hoping to secure a front-row seat.
You followed the very thrilled Raymun to his tent. It was a spacious room, filled with red cloth and candles that flickered softly in the dim light. The strong smell of warm apples filled the air so heavily it almost made your head spin, but it also made you relax just a bit. It felt warm in here, safe in a way the tourney grounds no longer did.
“Have you chosen an opponent yet?” Raymun asked Dunk as he poured you a mug of cider, the steam curling gently into the air.
“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Dunk replied, taking off his cloak and setting it aside. “Who does your cousin mean to challenge?”
“If anyone’s wounded on the morrow, I’m sure Steffon will be quick to knock on his shield.” Raymun rolled his eyes as he said it, the disdain he held for his cousin and his antics making you think back to Aerion immediately. “He’s about as chivalrous as a starved weasel.”
A man who relied on those same nasty tricks to get through life. It made your skin crawl that wherever he was right now, he was probably riding off the high of his “win,” grinning somewhere, moving on to cause chaos as if what he did today was nothing at all.
“M’lady, can I interest you in a red apple cookie or a green apple tart?” Raymun asked brightly.
It snapped you out of your thoughts.
“The apple tart. I’ve always preferred green apples,” you answered quietly. The response resonated with Raymun for a split second. You noticed it got easier for him to speak to you after that, like the simple preference had made you more real to him somehow. You bit into the tart, losing count of how many you had had since the tourney started. The sweetness spread across your tongue while you listened to Dunk’s words.
“I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite equally matched,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Raymun laughed. “Ah! A local favorite. You mean to play the villain.”
“I heard Aerion were in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horses,” he continued, lifting his cider.
“Serves him right,” you chime in, wiping crumbs off your face.
“Yeah, little comfort that will be to Ser Humphrey,” Dunk added quietly. “It looked as if he was going to carry the day.”
Raymun took a sip of cider before answering. “Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”
Dunk let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “M’lady and my squire believe Aerion meant to kill the horse.”
That made Raymun go quiet.
For a moment the tent felt smaller.
“He’s a monster. He’s done way worse. He will continue to do worse.” You chugged the rest of your drink, the cider suddenly tasting far too sweet.
“Just hard to accept that a knight… might be so dishonorable. Let alone a prince!” Dunk continued, shaking his head slightly.
Raymun shrugged. “Why is that hard?”
“It’s just—”
“They're incestuous aliens, Duncan!” Raymun raised his voice suddenly.
The words almost made you spit back up your drink.
“Blood-magicakers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs.” His voice grew sharper with each word, bitterness spilling out faster and faster. “Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us is madder than the last, gods knows how.”
Your face dropped with every overpronounced word he threw into the air.
“The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits.” He said harshly. “So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”
The chair scraped softly behind you. You stood up without realizing it.
Dunk called out your name, asking if everything was well but you did not hear him.
You curled your hands into fists as you stared down at Raymun, breathing harder than you meant to.
What are you doing?
Why are you reacting like this?
You held no sympathy for the life you left behind, yet here you were standing with anger burning in your chest.
“I’m… going to check on Egg,” you said quietly.
“M’lady! I did not mean to be so vulgar,” Raymun blurted out quickly, assuming that must be the reason.
Dunk tried to reach you, but you were already pushing out of the tent. He turned back to Raymun for a moment.
“I heard that part about the tits from Steffon,” Raymun said awkwardly. “I didn't mean it truly.” He sounded almost sad about making you leave.
When you fled back into the outside world, everything around you blurred just like it did in the rain earlier. The noise of the crowd felt distant and strange, like you were walking through water.
You moved slowly toward the puppet tent, slipping inside without causing a disturbance. The show had already started. Egg sat near the front, completely absorbed in the performance. Finally reaching him made your shoulders sag. The weight of everything pressed down all at once. You wanted to hunch over. To disappear. To slip out of consciousness entirely. It was too much. All too much.
“Look!” Egg pointed happily at the scene. It was Tanselle, dressed like a knight, even with a sword and shield. She circled a fire-breathing dragon, and you paused at its lifelike appearance. This scene would almost remind you of centuries past, in a world where your house used to be strong and mighty.
You could feel the shouts of the crowd as they yelled at her to kill the dragon. Your sign. Everyone hated you. You now understood. And it was not without its reasoning, just today your own brother making it seem like you were truly all mad. How do you even combat that? Were you mad? Is that why your life was going to end in ruin? Is that why you dreamt of everything coming to an end?
But instead of racing more, you thought back to Tanselle’s kind words from earlier. Even dressed in dark shades, she shone as a light in dark times. When she said that the royals were like everyone else, it made you feel less like your life was a sentence and more like an opportunity.
You were finally able to watch the play with your full attention.
Back in the tent, even though Raymun and Dunk laughed together, Dunk could not shake you leaving. But he knew you were just at the play, and that it would be okay to speak later.
“Aerion is all smiles and cheers as long as his father is watching,” Raymun said, leaning back comfortably where he sat.
Dunk sat across from him, elbows on his knees, turning his own mug slowly between his palms. “I saw Prince Maekar’s chair was empty,” he added after a moment. “In the royal box.”
“Aye,” Raymun nodded. “He left Ashford this morning.”
Dunk looked up at that. “Left?”
“To search for the rest of his misbegats.”
Dunk blinked, the unfamiliar word catching him off guard. “Misbegats?” he repeated slowly. “W-Which are those?”
Raymun took a casual sip of cider, completely relaxed as he explained. “His heir, Daeron, and the youngest boy. They departed Summerhall together a few days ago, but never reached Ashford.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Never reached?”
Raymun shrugged like it was hardly worth worrying about. “Rumors are going around that the boys are dead.” He said it plainly, though there was a faint grin on his face, the way people sometimes smiled when sharing a scandal. “Though most likely Daeron, he’s probably just drunk again.”
Dunk let out a small, uncertain chuckle, though it did not carry much humor. The idea of princes wandering drunk across the countryside felt strange, even if he knew better than to think nobles were always noble.
Raymun leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on a table. “As for the girl,” he continued, “his eldest daughter is no longer at the castle.”
Dunk lifted his head.
“She was supposed to be riding in with her brothers and father here,” Raymun went on, speaking easily as if recounting common gossip. “But they had a big blow-up fight right before. Loud enough that even servants were whispering about it.”
He grabbed a tart, chewing thoughtfully.
“And then she was gone the next day.”
Dunk’s eyes widened.
“What?”
Raymun nodded as though confirming it again in his own mind. “Her bedchambers were empty. No note or anything. Just gone.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Probably ran away since her father was going to wed her to the beast Aerion.”
Dunk sat back a little in his chair, clearly trying to sort through that. Did he truly know the prince had an elder daughter? He had heard plenty about the sons. Daeron the drunken heir. Aerion with his temper. Even the youngest boy sometimes. But a daughter? His thoughts turned over uselessly.
“I heard she looks like a pig.”
Dunk blinked hard. “What?” he asked again, certain he must have misheard.
Raymun shrugged, completely serious. “Why else have I never seen her?” he said, as if the logic spoke for itself. “Targaryen’s do not hide. They do not cower. They flaunt.”
He leaned back again, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion he had reached.
“Therefore,” he finished simply, “she must look like a pig.”
Dunk just stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.
Raymun’s logic was plagued by the fact that he might not have been that smart. But as long as he believed his words, that was all that mattered.
“What? There have been ugly Targaryens before.” He tried to reason. “Little wonder Maekar has been walking around like someone pissed in his swan pie.”
“He is probably just worried about his children.” Dunk tried to make sense.
“Seven only know why!” Raymun looked disgusted. “Daeron is a sot. Aerion is vain and cruel and about to marry his little sister. The girl is so forgettable, I do not even know her name. The third boy is probably going to the Citadel to become a maester. The other two girls are probably still attached to wet nurses. And the youngest boy—”
“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come quickly.” Egg ran into the tent, pure terror evident in his eyes as he begged Dunk to follow him. “Aerion is hurting her!”
Dunk stood up with swiftness only a knight would have. “Hurting who?”
Dunk’s blood ran hot, and his body moved before his mind even caught up. One letter of your name was enough. He dropped the mug, sending cider sloshing onto the floor, and bolted out of the tent. The crowd around him became a blur of shouting and motion as he shoved past anyone in his way, knocking aside nobles, merchants, and spectators alike, heedless of the indignation and curses raining down on him.
Guards stepped in, trying to block him, but he ignored them, forcing his way through with the strength of sheer resolve and raw fear. Each second counted, and the thought of you in danger sharpened his movements into something almost animalistic.
When he finally reached the spot, the scene that met his eyes struck him dumb for a heartbeat, a mixture of shock and horror so intense it sent a tremor through his entire body.
You watched as the dragon performed the fire tricks Tanselle had shown you before, filling the room with a blaze so hot that you had to shrug off your cloak. The darkness and crowd made it easy to blend in, or so you tried to convince yourself.
The heat from the braziers licked across the low canvas roof, making the air waver like water. Shadows swayed across the tent walls as the puppets danced. Every cheer from the crowd seemed to roll through the packed bodies like a wave, carrying the smell of sweat, smoke, and cheap ale.
Egg cheered beside you, completely taken by the spectacle, his voice rising above the rest without shame. The little dragon twisted and leapt through rings of flame, the puppeteer’s strings almost invisible in the dim light. Its painted wings beat frantically as it dove and rolled, snapping at imaginary foes.
For a moment, the crowd laughed and clapped as if the world were simple again. As if kings, princes, and wars did not exist beyond the canvas walls. As if the world could truly be nothing more than firelight and painted wood.
Then the dragon died.
Tanselle’s hero struck it down in a dramatic flourish. The puppet knight raised his sword high before bringing it crashing down upon the beast. The dragon collapsed to the ground, its painted body spilling red confetti meant to look like blood. The bright scraps fluttered across the stage like falling petals.
The audience gasped, then laughed, delighted by the spectacle.
But instead of bowing, Tanselle froze. Her false sword slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the wooden boards. The movement was small, but in the sudden hush it sounded louder than it should have.
Very slowly, she turned toward the edge of the stage.
Toward him.
The shift rippled through the crowd before you even saw why. Bodies leaned aside. Heads turned. Someone near the front shouted, voice cracking with excitement and dread all at once.
“Prince!”
Aerion stood with his arms folded, his pale hair catching the firelight like silver thread. The shifting darkness of the room casted strange shadows across his sharp face, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the cold brightness of his eyes.
He had not laughed. He had not smiled. He had simply watched.
The murmuring of the crowd began to fade as he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Each footfall seemed heavier than the last, pressing down on the fragile cheer that had filled the tent only moments ago. The air thickened with something sour and expectant.
Egg’s cheer died in his throat.
If anyone in the audience had hoped for a spectacle, Aerion looked more than willing to give them one.
“So…” he said at last, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You wish to conquer the dragon?”
Tanselle’s hands trembled so badly the stage began to shake. “M-My prince…”
Aerion tilted his head, studying her as one might examine a curious insect trapped beneath glass. “What makes you think a dull creature like yourself could ever succeed?”
No one laughed. No one moved.
“The dragon never dies,” he whispered.
For a heartbeat his eyes seemed strange in the firelight, cold, reptilian, almost inhuman. The flames reflected in them like twin sparks trapped in ice.
Then he lunged.
The motion was sudden and violent. One moment he stood before the stage, the next he had vaulted onto it. His hand shot out, seizing Tanselle by the wrist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
“Please—my prince—!” She cried out as she struggled.
His other hand closed around her fingers. And began to bend one backward.
The crack was quick. Her scream was not. It tore through the tent like a blade. High and sharp and full of pain. The sound seemed to bounce off the canvas walls, amplified by the sudden silence of the crowd. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Not a breath, not a step, as if the whole tent had forgotten how.
You froze, only for half a second. The anger came quickly, burning hotter than the pretend flames. It surged up through your chest so fiercely that it made your hands shake.
This was Tanselle. Kind, harmless Tanselle. A woman who made children laugh with painted wood and scraps of cloth. And Aerion had twisted it into something ugly just to feel powerful.
You couldn’t allow it.
Egg grabbed your sleeve suddenly, his fingers small but desperate. “Wait—!” But you tore free before he could say anything else. His voice followed you for a step, then was swallowed by the crowd.
Your heart pounded so loudly you could hear it in your ears as you stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively, people shrinking away as if they feared being caught between you and the prince. Every step was a fatal mistake you could not take back.
Would your brother even recognize you? Would he care? It didn’t matter.
You were done being afraid of him.
“Put her down!” Your voice rang through the tent like a struck bell.
Aerion’s head snapped toward you. His eyes blinked once. Twice. Slowly, as if adjusting to the sight before him. Then he smiled.
“Well now,” he said softly. “I suppose the rumors are true.”
His gaze traveled over you slowly, taking in the plain dress, the dust on your boots, the cloak you had cast aside. “You traded your rubies for copper.” He chuckled under his breath. “I almost didn’t recognize you, little sister.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd as understanding dawned. Princess. Prince. The words passed between them like ghosts. Aerion released Tanselle with careless indifference. She dropped heavily to the stage boards, her body crumpling where it fell. She did not scream again, but her breathing came in ragged, frightened bursts.
“Quit now, Aerion,” you warned, stepping closer. Your hands curled slightly. Only the tremor in your chest betrayed how hard your heart was beating. “Before you do something else you regret.”
He laughed, it was low and cruel. “I don’t regret anything.” His eyes gleamed as he gestured vaguely toward the stage. “Why would I? This thing disrespected our house with… this excuse for amusement.”
“It was just a play!” you shot back. “You know it. Must the only pleasure you find come from hurting others?”
“The dragon will never lose, it's an insult to the crown itself.” he murmured again.
“No dragon exists here,” you said firmly. “You’re nothing more than a man pretending to be greater than you are.”
Someone in the crowd laughed. It was a foolish sound, nervous and far too loud. Aerion’s head whipped toward it instantly. His expression sharpened like a drawn blade and the laughter died at once, the man who had made it shrank back into the press of bodies as if hoping the canvas itself might swallow him.
Then Aerion turned back to you.
“Where is your respect, girl?” he asked harshly. “Perhaps your time among the unfortunate has changed you.”
“I see you for what you truly are,” you said, your voice low and cold. “A wannabe. Leave now, with your pretend tail between your legs.”
He stepped closer. “Or what?” His presence filled the tent like a gathering storm.
“Or… do you want a repeat of last time?” you whispered with false confidence. The words left your mouth before you could take them back, hanging between you like something fragile and dangerous.
For the briefest moment something flickered behind his eyes. Memory. Then his smile returned, sharper than before. “Tell me,” he said lightly, “what else have you given these people?”
His gaze slid slowly over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “Do you remain pure for our wedding? Father says it could be any day now.”
A murmur of shock passed through the crowd. “I would rather die than marry a filthy cheater,” you spat.
“That can be arranged,” he shrugged.
And just like that, his attention returned to Tanselle. He lunged again. This time his sword flashed from its sheath in one smooth motion. You moved before thinking, throwing yourself in front of her. Luckily he stopped before the blade could tear you apart but the steel hovered inches from your chest. Aerion’s eyes snapped back to you, fury blazing. He shoved you hard. The force sent you stumbling backward, the world tilting for a moment as the stage lurched beneath your feet.
“Do you think you can lecture me?” he snarled. “Do you dare stand in my way?”
His fist came suddenly. Pain exploded across your face as the blow sent you crashing to the ground. The impact rattled your teeth and filled your mouth with the taste of copper.
The crowd erupted, surging toward the exit in panic. Shouts, screams, and the crash of overturned benches echoed off the canvas walls. Mothers clutched children, men shoved past one another, and cloaks and belongings tumbled in the chaos. The noise spilled into the tourney grounds, drawing every nearby head toward the tent.
But you pushed yourself up again. Your breath came uneven, sharp, but your body moved anyway, like it knew what to do before you did. The way someone does who has been hit before. Your fingers slipped inside your bodice and found the dagger hidden there. The familiar weight steadied you.
The sight even made Aerion pause as his gaze dropped to the blade in your hand. For a long moment he said nothing then he laughed. “A pathetic blade? Did you steal that from father?” he murmured.
Aerion stepped closer. Slowly. “Do you intend to kill me with that?”
You tightened your grip, though your hand trembled.
No one had moved.
No one had stepped forward.
Not for Tanselle.
Not for you.
It was all left to you. You just hoped that Egg wasn't there to see it.
Aerion leaned in slightly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Go on then,” he said. “Strike.”
Your heart thundered. This was a knight. A warrior trained since boyhood. You were just a girl with a dagger and shaking hands. Still, you raised the blade. But hesitated on how to strike, without warning he deemed your reaction too slow and decided to attack you instead.
“You will not interfere!” he roared as he swung his sword toward you.
This was it, you failed. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping whatever came would end quickly. Your grip tightened uselessly around the dagger, your arm refusing to move in time.
But the blow never landed.
Dunk surged forward with a force that seemed to make the very ground quake beneath him, eyes blazing with a storm. Every step was driven by raw desperation, the kind of fear that comes when a man is about to lose everything he holds dear. He grabbed Aerion’s arm mid-swing and twisted it with unyielding strength, then let his fist crash into the prince’s jaw. Once. Then twice. Then three times, each strike a brutal punctuation, until Aerion finally toppled, skidding across the ground like a ragdoll.
The sound of each hit echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the chaos.
Your thoughts were a haze of panic, yet instinct drew you toward Tanselle. You reached her in time to see the damage, the delicate bones of her finger crushed under the weight of Aerion’s aggression, blood seeping from every angle, painting the floor a deep, terrifying red.
“Princess…” she rasped, voice thin with pain.
“I’m so sorry," you cried, knees nearly buckling under the surge of guilt and fury. Why had it come to this? Why had the darkness in your brother’s heart spilled into your world?
A sound tore through the chaos behind you, the grunt of struggle and the snap of flesh meeting force. Dunk was grappling with a guard who tried to drag him off.
“Stop it!” you screamed, voice cracking with disbelief and command. “Can’t you see he’s not the aggressor?” Your words grew sharper, edged with authority. “Do you hear me? I order you to stop!”
But no one moved. These were men you had known all your life, yet in that moment, they acted as if you were invisible, as if your very presence could be dismissed. Their indifference cut deeper than any blade.
Dunk broke free with a roar that rattled the tent’s canvas. Aerion scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword, a pale glimmer in his bloodied hand. But Dunk’s reflexes were brutal and unrelenting when he kicked Aerion back into submission, sending him sprawling across the floor, spitting blood and gasping for breath.
He didn’t stop fighting, even when it was clear he couldn’t win like this.
Even then, it took five men to truly restrain Dunk. Their combined strength could hold him only so far; he strained, twisting, his muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes burning with fury. Aerion rose again, staggering, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the side of his face marred with red and dirt. He tried to muster a mask of bravery, but it was hollow, brittle, the kind of performance that disgusted anyone who had eyes to see it.
Dunk’s fists itched to strike again, to tear into Aerion for the vile insinuation, for the insult against you. But a part of him froze, then his eyes flicked toward you. You were crumpled on the floor, the panic and horror on your bruised face clawed at Dunk’s chest, but then a thought struck him with the force of a blow to the face. Did he… did Aerion just call you his sister?
The word hung there, heavy, suffocating. The fight in him stuttered, just for a moment, enough for the thought to take hold as his mind raced. Your bloodied dress, your solemn eyes, your pale hair… all those moments you shared that had seemed impossible to reconcile now snapped into terrible clarity. His heart hammered. You’re a princess. Not just anyone. A Targaryen.
Aerion’s lips curled, sharp and cruel. “She’s a traitor. I told father to ship her off years ago, and look what finally happened.” He turned toward you, eyes glinting with malice. “I hope you’re happy, girl. You’ve just condemned a man to die.”
You pressed closer to Tanselle, trying to shield her, to shield yourself, to make the world stop spinning. “Aerion, please, not him!” Your voice cracked, pleading, raw.
Your brother’s sneer deepened, twisting into disgust. “Don’t tell me you care for this man? Truly?” He chuckled, a sound without warmth, without restraint. “Father will love hearing of this.”
And then his gaze snapped back to Dunk, sharp, predatory. “Nothing to say? Fine.” He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “You’ve loosened one of my teeth, so we’ll start by breaking all of yours.”
“No!” you screamed, your voice tearing through the tent. “Stop it! You can’t!”
“Watch, sister,” Aerion said softly, mockingly, as though every syllable was a nail driven into your chest. “This is what happens when you disobey.” He signaled to the guards.
The men moved with deliberate slowness, pushing Dunk down, forcing his face to the stage. Mouth first, positioned cruelly beside you so that every movement, every sound would be unavoidable. Time seemed to stretch thin, each second dragging as you realized what they were about to do. You screamed until you could no longer, you sounded like a dying dragon more than a woman.
Your feet slammed against the ground as you tried to stand up and push your way towards him, but two more guards arrived to restrain you from reaching him. Forcing you to stay in place and watch as Dunk’s hands tried to push against the wood, but the weight of men and the rigid orders pinned him. He looked at you, his eyes wide, and for a moment the world narrowed to just that gaze, steady and unyielding, yet desperate.
Dunk, your Dunk, had thrown himself into the storm for you without hesitation , into the shouting, the crush of bodies, the kind of chaos that swallowed men whole. He didn’t hesitate because he was brave or foolish. He didn’t fight for glory. He fought because he chose you , you, out of everything else he could have walked away toward. And you realized with a sinking weight that pulled low in your stomach, cold and heavy, that it was your fault. You had cursed him not with your family name but with your own existence, with the path that led you to ruin , a path that dragged others down with it whether you meant it or not. If you had never been here, none of this would have happened.
You whispered his name, a sound half-prayer, half-confession , your throat tight, the word catching like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Dunk… I’m so-”
“No! Don’t touch him!” A small voice popped out from the background, sharp against the noise. It was Egg.
Dunk yelped out in desperation, hoping that the boy would just get out and leave before the same fate could reach him, before his choice could spread any further. “You stupid boy. Hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you.”
“No, they won’t.”
Raymun stood behind him, eyes budging at Dunk and your forms, taking in the blood, the disarray, the way neither of you looked straight.
“If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of my sister! Get off of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” Egg commanded the room just like your grandfather himself, his voice cutting clean through the tension, leaving no room for refusal. And to your surprise, they actually listened to him. Yet they had no care what you had to say, not your voice, not your struggle, not your place in any of this. You could almost scoff when the men let you go, pushing them away in rebellion, even as your arms ached from where they had held you.
Aerion gaped at the boy. “You impudent little rat, What’s happened to your hair?”
Dunk’s head was spinning, not only from the pounding in his head that throbbed behind his eyes, but also the confusion that came crashing in all at once. Egg was a Targaryen. You were a Targaryen. He had been harboring two of the royal blood, two people he trusted, two people who had said nothing.
Egg narrowed his eyebrows at the grown Targaryen, “I cut it off, brother. I didn't want to look like you.”
Aerion hummed, looking back at your disgruntled form, his gaze slow, deliberate, lingering where it shouldn’t. “Now you're confusing the youth, tricking him into your harlot ways.” He looked at you like you should be ashamed, like he expected you to be.
But everyone else in the room looked at you and Egg in awe, like you became something distant and untouchable, no longer just people, but something set apart.
Another guard broke through the crowd of onlookers and walked towards you. “Your Grace’s. I have a message from Prince Maekar. He seeks the Princess and Princes, and the capture of the hedge knight. Effective immediately.”
“No!” you shouted.
Before your eyes, they dragged Dunk away. His weight resisted for only a moment before it gave under their grip, his boots scraping against the ground as they pulled him back. He turned, even then, even now, his gaze finding you through the crowd.
You felt it, even from here.
That pull. That choice.
For a second, it felt like the rest of the room fell away, like it was only the two of you left in it. But you couldn’t tell what was in his eyes. Not from this distance. Not through the bodies between you. Whatever might have been there was swallowed by it all, leaving only the fact that he was looking at you at all.
And that was worse.
Because it could have been anything.
You couldn’t look back at him. You couldn’t meet those bright blue eyes, couldn’t risk seeing what might be there, or what might not be. Not after all of this.
Not when this was your doing.
…
If I forgot you pls restate in this comment section, also if ur @ isn’t working tumblr isn’t letting me tag you.
Warnings: descriptions of nightmares, blood, child in distress, let me know if I missed any!
Word Count: 962
Series Masterlist
Masterlist
The night creeps on as the fire simmers lightly. Embers a low glare as the three of you calmly lay on the blankets you'd set out for the night. Then the dreams come.
A dragon covered in fire and ash, bleeding terribly from its wounds as it cries. The royal family, his siblings melting into fire as he is helpless to save them. The whimpers start lowly as Dunk wakes, now half-awake. He's always been a light sleeper to be on the lookout for danger.
He cracks an eye open to see Egg trembling lightly, his blanket is down by his legs from where he'd kicked them off as the night continued.
Egg tosses and turns on his pack as Dunk just tries to drown out his tossing and turning in favor of his own sleep. When Dunk leans up a bit he can see that your eyebrows are furrowed, no doubt having your own sleep disturbed by the young boy's tossing and turning.
Egg only lets out small whimpers at his dreams. Blood, fire, and ash are alight in his mind. He wakes with a startled gasp as you lightly shake his shoulder.
You'd woken as soon as he had first trembled, brows furrowed as you cracked an eye open and saw that Dunk had been looking at you from over the young boys body.
'He must be having a nightmare.'
You wave at Dunk to stay where he is as the man just watches you jostle Egg lightly.
“Egg, Egg, wake up, honey, you’re having a nightmare,” you lowly speak to not scare him further.
His eyes open as they quickly take in his surroundings. The same elm tree is over him, the fire that he’d lit still simmers lightly, Dunk is to his left, snoring and mouth slightly open. Everything is fine, there is no danger coming for him and both you and Dunk are safe from any fire that lingers in his mind.
He sits up as tears fall down his cheeks, breathing heavy as he tries to bring himself back down from the anxiety of the images plaguing his mind.
The boy wipes his eyes as if to rid them of his nightmares and tears as you rub his shoulder. You open your blanket and gesture for him to join you so that he’s not alone.
“I’m not a young boy,” he fights weakly as he shuffles into your hold.
“Of course not, you’re just getting warmer.”
“Exactly.”
You run his head, fingers lightly tracing faint veins. You can still feel Egg shaking from whatever images his mind had conjured as you start to hum lightly to take his mind off of them.
Dunk opens both eyes and sits up fully to see Egg huddled next to you, he gives you a questioning look as you just mouth, “nightmare,” he blinks before moving himself to lay where Egg had and turning on his side to face you both. Using his back as a makeshift shield for you both and closing his eyes, attempting to go back to sleep. His head lays not far from where your fingers can extend.
Egg still shakes a little even with your humming as you trail your fingers lightly down his back.
'I can't sing for shit but might as well try.'
"I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream," you start lowly.
"I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam," you can feel Egg's shoulders slowly begin to lower as he still shudders a bit, breathing still quick.
"And I know it's true, that visions are seldom what they seem," Dunk cracks his eyes open again as he watches you sing, "but if I know you, I know what you'll do, you'll love me at once the way you did once upon a dream."
You hum the next few music notes that you can remember as Eggs breathing starts to slow down, you're looking out at the woods that are around you, still stroking his back. You pull the blanket a little higher, up to his chin as his head dips into your shoulder and neck junction.
"But if I know you, I know what you do, you love me at once the way you did once upon a dream."
You continue to hum the music that you can hear in your head as Dunk watches you with an unreadable look in his eye. It's almost fond, he notices that you care greatly for the young boy. He is just a boy. One that has terrible nightmares, filled with fire and ash and dragons. Dream that plague him and his brothers, not that Dunk knows.
Dunk keeps watch for you two as he listens to you calmly sing so that Egg may get a good night's rest.
"I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream."
The man's own eyes are falling to the tune you hum, shoulders relaxing and sleep creeping at the edges of his mind.
"I know you, that gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam," you wipe the tears that fall from Eggs closed eyes and push his face back into your neck.
"And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem, but if I know you, I know what you'll do."
As sleep finally takes over Dunks mind, he can see you look down at Egg with an almost motherly look in your eye as you look back out to the woods.
"You'll love me at once the way you did once upon a dream."
He thinks he enjoys having you here with him, whatever feeling that blooms in his chest is something he'll have to deal with in the morning.
