⋆˚꩜｡ Your time with dunk is getting shorter and shorter with every fleeting moment.
Angst, mutual pining. language, jealous!reader, idiotic!dunk, oblivious!dunk, protective!dunk, slow burn, friends to lovers, grief and mourning, death, misogyny, attempted sexual assault, physical assault, fighting canon typical westeros attitudes, blood, did I mention angst, bad pacing, lots of times skips (kinda) that are marked by dividers, shitty transition sentences, please read part 2 before reading this
The day had only deepened by the time you found your way back through the pressed bodies, the roar of voices still ringing in your ears. Your knuckles ached—bruised and bloodied from the impact you had on that drunken fool's skin.
Every flex of your fingers stung. You wiped them once against your trousers before stepping back into the edge of the crowd where Duncan stood. A thick rope braced in his hands, boots digging into the dirt as he pulled, hip lunging forward.
He didn't notice you at first.
Oh but you noticed him, how could you not?
You couldn't help the way your body chured at the sight, the way a pool of heat started settling in your belly.
The line strained, men on both sides grunting and shouting, heels carving trenches into the ground. And Duncan—gods—Duncan was carrying his entire side. Muscles pulled taut beneath his worn tunic, jaw set, teeth bared in effort.
And when the opposite side finally gave, they went tumbling in a heap of curses and dust.
Duncan laughed, breathless and bright, tossing the young boy over his shoulder in celebration as Lord Lyonel clapped him hard on the back.
That's when his eyes found you. Relief flickered first, before his gaze dropped to your hands.
"...What happened?" he muttered as he walked up to you. You flex your fingers once, dismissive. "Nothin' worth talking' about."
His brows furrowed, not convinced, "Thats blood"
“A very observant knight.”
Duncan huffed softly through his nose, though concerned still lingered plainly across his face. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the bruising already beginning to bloom across your knuckles.
“Did someone do this to you?”
“No,” you answered honestly enough. “The opposite, actually”
A sigh of exhaustion escapes duncs lips, a small smile creeping up—as if he was trying not to show his pride in you.
Egg appeared beside him suddenly, eyes widening the second he saw your hands. “Gods.”
“It looks worse than it is,” you muttered.
Duncan looked unconvinced, his hands lifted slightly, almost reaching for yours before stopping halfway. The unfinished gesture lingered awkwardly in the air.
but the noise of Lord Lyonels booming voice swallowed the moment before he could press further. You only titled your head slightly, glancing past him, head pointing towards the abandoned rope.
"Nice work", you added, quieter
For a moment, something softened in Duncans expression. The grin he'd wore after winning tug-of-war hadn't entirely disappeared. Dust cling to his clothes, sweat dampened the curls at his temples, and his chest still rose heavily from exertion.
His smile widened then--small but genuine.
That smile would be the death of you
Lord Lyonel was already shouting for him again, waving a wineskin in the air like a bottle standard. The enormous lords laughter rolled across the ground loud enough to turn heads.
"DUNC!" he bellowed. "GET YOUR GREAT OX OF A SELF OVER HERE!"
Duncan winced while you tried your best to suppress a laugh.
"You should go" you said, folding your arms.
"Probably should." Yet he did not move a muscle.
Instead his gaze flickered back toward your bruised knuckles one last time. "You oughta let me clean those." The concern in his voice caught you off guard
You swollowed the lump in your throat. "They're fine."
Duncan frowned immedaitly/
"Thats what people say right before they get a infection." This only made you roll your eyes.
"I would listen to him if i were you" Egg added playfully helpfully
"Oh hush, no one asked you"
Duncan shook his head, though amusement flickered behind his eyes.
"Just...don't disappear again." The words left him before he seemed to realize hed spoke them.
Your chest tightened, because there it was again. That strange look he had been giving you lately. Like your absence bothered him more than it should, more than it had in the past.
Before either of you could dwell on it, Lord Lyonel roared his name a second time.
Duncan groaned dramatically. "I'm comin'!"
The giant knight-to-be shot you one final glance before turning away.
You watched him disappear back into the crowd. And despite everything—despite tanselle, despite your aching heart, despite the blood drying across your knuckles...
You found yourself smiling.
As the day stretched on you found yourself in the stands, banners snapping in the wind as nobels took their places above the list.
You shaded your eyes, scanning the raised platform until your gaze landed on a man seated among them—older, composed, streaked of silver cutting through dark hair.
"That's the prince...?” you mumured
Egg nodded beside you. “Prince Baelor”
You studied the man another moment before humming thoughtfully. “…Think he’s looking for a second wife?”
Your comment alone made Duncan nearly swallow his own tongue. Letting out a choked up “Excuse me!?”.
You kept your expression perfectly straight. “Well he’s handsome enough”
“And—“ Duncan struggled helplessly for words, “you can’t just say things like that!”
Egg burst into a startled laughter beside you. You only sighed dramatically.
Your lower lip comes out in a pout. “A shame, truly. I think I’d look good in silk” a spark of mischief takes over you as you turn your head to look up at the man.
Your eyebrows arched ever so slightly, fox-like amusement curling at the corners of your mouth while false innocence gleamed in your eyes.
“Don’t you think the same”
Duncan stared at you like you had grown another head.
His ears burned red almost immediately.
Because the moment the words left your mouth, his traitorous mid supplied the image before he could stop it.
Thin fabric catching sunlight…
Gold threaded across your waist and wrists instead of worn leather ties and travel-stained sleeves. Your hair loose down your back instead of hurriedly tired away from the roads. Rings glittering against your fingers. Silk brushing against your skin every time you moved—
Duncan’s throat and trousers tighten.
He looked away almost instantly, jaw clenching hard. The thought of how right it looked in his mind consumed him.
Pretty things had always suited you, though you never owned many. Even now after years on the road, Duncan still noticed the small things without meaning to—the way sunlight caught against your cheek when you laughed, the way your eyes softened near fires late at night, the way men turned to look whenever you passed by then through campgrounds and markets alike.
He noticed everything. Always has. He just…never lingered in those thoughts too long. At least he tried not to.
But now here you were, looking up at him like that, teasing and warm and far too pretty for your own good, and suddenly Duncan became painfully aware of the fact that he was staring. His gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before jerking upward so quickly it almost hurt.
“Well?” You pressed innocently, batting your lashes to him.
Egg looked between the two of you with poorly hidden delight.
Duncan scrubbed a round hand down his face. “I think,” he muttered hoarsely, “you say strange things on purpose”
This only made your grin widen.
“And you didn’t answer the question”
He groaned softly under his breath.
You would look beautiful in silk.
You’d look beautiful in anything.
That night, the air turned colder
The campfires burned low beneath the darkening sky, orange embers crackling softly while distant laughter and drunken singing carried through the grounds. Horses shuffled lazily near the trees, armor clinked somewhere far off, and above it all the stars stretched endless and pale.
You laid next to Egg, just like the night before. It's a sudden change in routine no one else in the world would have noticed.
He stood near the fire, lingering beside Thunder under the weak excuse of keeping the horse calm. Occupying his hands with Thunders tack simply so he had something to do besides stare at you.
Still, his eyes kept wandering back to you like they belonged there.
You simply tucked yourself down beside the boy, cloak pulled around your shoulders, face turned toward the dying at fire.
Something uncomfortable twisted low in Duncan’s chest.
The same feeling from the night before.
For years it always was the same—you beside him beneath shared cloaks and hard ground, muttering half asleep insults whenever he snores too loudly or stole the warmth. He was used to reaching out in the dark and feeling your shoulder bump against his.
Now there was empty space.
Duncan powered himself slowly into his bedroll across from you, trying to ignore the strange tightness settling beneath his ribs.
“You’re sleepin’ over there again?” He asked finally, voice carefully calm
Your eyes remained shut. “Mhm”
“That boy kicks in his sleep”
Egg, already half asleep, cracked one eye open before quickly deciding this conversation was none of his business.
That made your lips quirk upward slightly. “I’m sleeping”
You stared at him for a moment across the firelight, expression unreadable.
Then you rolled onto your side.
And gods help him Duncan spent half the night awake after that.
Listening to the crackle for the dying fire.
Wondering why it bothered him so much.
The next morning began with an argument, far too early for your liking. The sort of argument that started quietly and somehow became sharp before either of you realized it.
Egg had disappeared shortly after sunrise. Leaving just you and Duncan near the camp.
A dangerous thing these days.
Because every conversation seemed to circle back to the same issue.
The morning air was cool, still carrying traces of dew as the camp slowly came alive around you. Men called one another between tents. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves. Somewhere nearby, a cook cursed loudly after dropping a pot.
You focused on sweetfoot instead. Anything was easier than looking at Duncan.
Your fingers steadily through the mare's tack, tightening buckles that didn't need tightening, checking straps you had already checked twice.
Duncan watched from across the clearing. For a long moment he said nothing
Trying to convince himself to leave it alone.
Trying to convince himself he was imagining things.
Trying to convince himself that the hollow feeling sitting beneath his ribs wasn't real.
And of course, eventually he failed.
"You've been actin' strange" The words left him before he could stop the.
Your hands immediately paused, only for a second. Then they resumed working.
A sigh escaped you. Slow. Exhausted. The sort of sigh that suggested this conversation had already happened several times inside your own head.
Your expression wasn't anger—he wished it was for that would've been easier to take. Instead you just looked exhausted.
"What exactly am I doing that is so strange"
Duncan opened his mouth, but nothing came from him. Because the truth was he didnt know how to explain it. All he knew was that something had changed.
You seemed distracted whenever he spoke.
You wouldnt look at him for very long and when you did, you were teasing and cruel to the point it made Duncan feel things he hasn't felt.
Not embarrassment, nor discomfort, something warm in his chest.
And every night for the last few days—you slept somewhere else.
Except for Duncan it did.
Your eyebrows shot upward. "Wonderful explanation"
Duncan rubbed a hand across his face. "You know what I meant"
"No, duncan" you huff, frustration taking over you. "I don't"
Silence stretched between you. A horse whinned somewhere nearby.
The distant sounds of the tourney drifted through the trees.
"You haven't talked to me properly in days"
Something flickered across your face, hurt and sympathy that's gone almost immediately.
"You talk enough for the both of us"
"No", his voice came out rougher than intended. "You ain't"
That made you freeze. The frustration in his voice surprised even him. Because beneath it was something else. Something heavier. Something he couldn't name.
The thought of losing you had never crossed his mind before, not truly.
Since the days when neither of you had anything but stolen crusts of breath and each other.
Since muddy alleys and crowded streets that smelled of fish, smoke and rot.
Since nights spent curled beneath market stalls trying to keep warm while the rain hammered overhead.
Back when the three of you had been inseparable. Three half-starved children against the whole world.
Rafe with her quick fingers and quicker tongue.
You with your sharp eyes and sharper insticts.
And Duncan, all awkward limbs and impossible kindness.
Old and stubborn and rough around every edge imaginable.
The knight who took in two filthy street children when nobody else would. The knight who gave you a place to belong.
You followed behind his horse for miles. Shared his fires. Learned his habits. Learned the difference between surviving and living.
You were simply there, like a second pair of lungs breathing beside him when the world grew too heavy. Like sunlight filtering through the trees at dawn after a long, cold night. Like the familiar warmth of a fire at the end of the road. Like home—the kind a person carried with them rather than found on a map.
And now he couldn't shake the feeling that you were slipping through his fingers somehow.
Even though you were standing right in front of him.
"It feels like I'm losing you.."
Something in your heart pangs.
He could never lose you. You had followed him from Flea Bottom to the farthest roads of the realm. Through grief, hunger, cold nights, and long years
Duncan feared losing you, while you feared spending the rest of your life loving him without ever being loved the same way in return.
A soft smile spreads across your face, an attempt to heed the sadness deep within you.
"Im right here, Duncan...I'm fine."
Duncan searched your face for a long moment, as though trying to find the answer hidden somewhere behind your smile. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to argue again—but whatever he found in your expression made him stop.
"you always say that what you ain't"
The words were quiet, not accusatory anymore. Just tired.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The camp carried on around you like a world pretending not to notice what was breaking quietly between two people who didn't know how to name it.
Then Duncan exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck like he could scrub the feeling away.
"I don't like it," he muttered at last. "Whatever this is"
Gods, he looked so earnest it almost hurt.
Never realizing he was the reason your heart ached in the first place.
Finally, after a. moment of agonizing silence, Duncan let out a slow breath through his nose.
The market was already bustling by midday.
Merchants shouted over one another, banners fluttered overhead, and the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, horse manure and ale blended into one unmistakable tourney smell.
Egg walked ahead on purpose, you suspected he was secretly enjoyiing himself far more than he ever admitted.
Duncan followed close behind, one hand resting loosely near Thunder's rein while keeping an eye on both of you.
It was as peaceful as the camp grounds could be. Unfortunately that peace was destroyed when trouble started at an Egg seller's stall.
You should have known it would.
Duncan was on the search for goose eggs,
According to him, they made for a proper breakfast--one he and you had eaten a handful of times growing up whenever luck was kind and coin wasn't entirely absent.
Unfortunately, the Merchant was not skilled in the common tongue, making the language barrier cause lots of confusion on both ends.
The Merchant reached into a crate and pulled out a large goose, setting it carefully atop a flat stone. Then, without hesitation, he lifted a butcher's knife high above his head.
"No! No!" Duncan protested. "Um, uh, goose eggs." he explains once more "Just the eggs"
The man looks at him in confusion, bringing his arm back up—
"No, no, no, uh..." Duncan contemplated on how he should go about this. Dunc crouches down slightly, making a form of a squatting bird, using his elbows as wings. "Goose eggs, like"
As he poorly demonstrated, the merchant looked utterly baffled, egg immediately buried his face in his hands. You lasted perhaps three seconds before laughter escaped you.
Real laughter. The kind that bent your shoulders and stole the breath from your lungs.
Duncan shot you an offended look.
"I don't see you helpin'."
"Oh, no" you wheezed. "Please continue. I need to see how geese lay eggs"
Egg made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
A flash of familiar color moving through the crowd.
The laughter died almost immediately.
She approached with easy grace, weaving between merchants and customers alike, sunlight catching her dark curls.
The woman made her way through the crowd towards the three of you, one foot after another, each step she took made your stomach ache.
It ached even more when Duncan straightened so fast it was almost painful to watch. Duncan immediately egan fumbling over himself.
"Do you like goose eggs?" Duncan blurted out, earning him a weird look from the woman, brushing it off ever so slightly.
"Your shield, will be ready this evening, ser"
"Th-thank you" Duncan says as she walks away, closing his eyes slowly and huffing out a deep breath.
Embarrassment and shame overtaking him.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh!" Egg taunts Duncan under his breath, making you roll your eyes.
"Shut up" Duncan scoffs at Egg.
You rolled your eyes and turned away before the jealousy sitting in your chest had a chance to show on your face.
All those years on the road taught you many things.
How to mask your emotions, How to track rabbits through damp earth. How to stretch a single loaf of bread for three hungry people. And most importantly how to make a meal out of almost nothing at all.
And somewhere along the way, you'd become surprisingly good at cooking.
Not the sort of cooking noble ladies learned in castles, but the kind that kept people alive. The kind learned over campfires, with borrowed pans and whatever ingredients could be afforded that day.
This morning, the gods had been kind.
Fresh bread. Ham. Goose eggs. Enough for proper breakfast sandwiches.
The three of you sat around the fire while the smell of frying mean and toasted bread drifted through the camp. The eggs sizzled softly in the pan as you worked, stacking everything together once it was finished.
The first sandwich went straight into Duncan's hands.
The man was enormous, it was no surprise whenever he would eat more than he weighed. Yet somehow every meal still managed to suprise you.
Duncan took one look at the sandwich, nodded approvingly, then attempted to fit nearly the entire thing into his mouth at once.
You rolled your eyes as he tried fitting the entire thing into his mouth.
Egg looked equally horrified.
Duncan only shrugged as he continued to devour the sandwich in his hands.
The jousting list filled quickly as the morning wore on.
Knight after knight thundered down the field beneath snapping banners and roaring crowds. Lances shattered into splinters. Horses screamed. Men crashed into the dirt while thousands cheered at their misfortune.
Duncan watched every single pass with conplete concentration.
You were beginning to suspect he forgot the rest of the realm existed whenever a knight picked up a lance. Egg stood beside him, asking endless questions while Duncan attempted to answer each one as though he were already some seasoned tourney champion himself.
You mostly listened and watched.
Unfortunately, you werent watching the joust nearly as much as you were watching Duncan. Later, the three of you escaped quickly, finding a quiet patch of grass overlooking the whole camp.
The field rolled gently beneath the afternoon sunlight. Tourney pavilions stretched across the horizon in brilliant colors while banners fluttered lazily in the warm breeze.
For a little while it felt peaceful.
The sort of peace people spent their entire lives searching for.
Egg sat comfortably beside you, and hand placed firmly on the grass keeping him upright.
“I think I could be quite happy in a place like this” Egg says looking off to the distance at the campgrounds.
“I completely agree,” You said immediately.
“You’re in a place like this” Dunk says in confusion.
You rolled onto your side to look at him.
“He meant to stay here for a while, to have a life like this”
The conversation drifted after that. Or rather, Duncan and Egg continued talking while you stretched out beneath the sunlight and closed your eyes.
The warmth of the sun settled across your skin, soaking through your clothes and easing some of the tension that had made a home beneath your ribs these past few days.
For a little while, you listened.
The distant cheers from the list.
The rustle of grass beneath the breeze. Egg and Duncan continuing their conversation somewhere beside you.
It was strange how that word still felt unfamiliar.
Growing up in Flea Bottom, safety had never existed.
There had only ever been surviving.
Stealing bread before someone else could. Sleeping with one eyes open. Learning which streets to avoid after dark. Learning how quickly kindness could disappear when coin became involved.
You remembered your mother.
Gods, sometimes you still missed her so much it physically hurt.
You could almost hear her laughter if you closed your eyes long enough. See her grin after she'd successfully picked some rich merchant's pocket. Hear her telling you not to get greedy.
The words still followed you.
As your thoughts continued to wander from Flea Bottom to Rafe, to Ser Arlan and life on the road, Duncan would always consume your thoughts.
You could barely remember a life without him anymore.
Every meaningful memory seemed to have him standing somewhere inside it.
A tall lanky boy sharing stoel bread in flea bottom. A grieving child standing besides rafe dead body. A stubborn squire following Ser Arlan across the realm. A young man offering you a larger portion of supper even when he was starving himself.
Somehow, without you noticing, Duncan had become woven into every corner of your life.
And perhaps that was the cruelest part. You weren't sure where your story ended and his began anymore
A voice cut through your thoughts.
Causing your head to lift up from the grass, eyes squinting from the bright sunlight.
Duncan pushed himself to his feet, brushing grass from his trouser.
"Wonder what that's about"
"Probably finally realized how ugly you are" You replied, Egg couldn't hold back a small snort.
Duncan only pointed at you, "You've become mean."
Not only that but your most recent comment now makes you a liar.
"Only recently?" A smile tugged on your lips
He rolled his eyes but there was affection hiding behind the gesture. Then he turned and followed the messenger away.
Your eyes followed him until his broad form disappeared into the wooded area.
Egg waited several seconds before uttering a word.
This earned a groan from you. "Not this shit again"
"I'm serious" Egg whips his head towards you in frustration.
"So am I" You snap your neck with just as much frustration, brows furrowed together.
The boy threw his hands into the air, "You've been in love with him for years!"
You immediately looked away.
The movement alone was an answer enough.
"You look at him like he's the sun"
You barked out a humourless laugh, "And he looks at Tanselle like she's the Maiden herself"
Egg immediately shook his head, "That's different".
You folded your arms across your chest, "Egg"
"He worries about you constantly"
"He's my friend" you smile shyly, try your hardest to downplay what was obvious.
Egg scoffed. "He spent half the morning arguing because he thought you were avoiding him."
Egg's expression softened. "If you don't tell him, someone else will"
The remark struck a nerve more than you cared to admit. You looked toward the trees where Duncan had disappeared, a dull ache setting in your chest.
"Maybe that's for the best," you muttered softly.
Egg stared at you like you'd lost your mind, but for once, he didn't argue.
The silence stretched between you and Egg for a while after that.
Eventually, the sound of approaching footsteps broke it.
You looked up to find Duncan emerging from the trees, ducking beneath a low hanging branch as he made his way back toward you. His expression was thoughtful, brow furrowed in a way that told you he'd been turning something over his head for a while.
"There he is," Egg muttered.
Duncan stopped beside you both, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well?" you asked. "What did the man want"
"He wanted me to unhorse Lord Ashfords youngest in a joust."
"So he can bet on me and win money" he stops for a second "I did not give him answer, he said to think on it, I have till the morrow"
You rolled your eyes at him, "You can not be actually considering it?"
"No." He looked almost offended. "I do not want a victory that I have not earned"
Something warm settled in your chest.
The distant sound of trumpets echoes across the tourney grounds. All three of you turned toward the list as the next round of jousting began.
Making your way through the crowd of pressed bodies to get the best view.
And when Prince Aerion Targaryen rode onto the field, the entire mood of the tourney seemed to change.
You dislike him as soon as you see his smug face.
Beside you, Duncan watched carefully, arms folded across his chest. Egg stood almost hunched over the fences, lavender eyes fixed on the lists.
The first few tilts passed quickly. Lances shattered, horses thundered and the crowd cheered. The next tilt began much like the others, yet it felt much different.
You couldn't have explained why, but something felt different. Perhaps it was the tension lingering in the air after Aerions earlier behavior, or perhaps it was the look on Duncan's face. The large man had gone unusually quiet beside you, his eyes narrowed as he studied the prince across the lists.
Aerion lowered his lance, the polished tip dipping lower than it should have, Across the lits, his opponent kept his own lance steady, aimed where any honorable knight would aim. The Horses began to move, first avtrot, then a canter.
A heartbeat later they charged. The earth trembled beneath pounding hooves as the distance between them vanished.
You blinked, tearing your gaze away from the charging horses long enough to glance up at him.
Duncan's eyes never left the field. His expression had gone hard, jaw tightening as he leaned forward slightly.
You looked back toward the lists, confusion giving way to unease. At first, everything seemed normal--the thunder of hooves, the lowering of lances, the blur of brightly painted shields toward one another.
Aerion wasn't aiming for the knight.
His lance sat angled toward something else, something more vulnerable.
The impact came with a horrible sound.
It was not the crack of splintering wood.
It was the horses' scream.
Blood sprayed across the list as the animal screamed, stumbling mid-stride before its front legs buckled beneath it. The horse crashed into the dirt with all its weight, pitching forward so violently that. its rider was thrown from the saddle.
man and beast hit the ground together.
The knight disappeared beneath the falling horse, an armor crunching against the earth as the animal's full weight came down on top of him.
The scream that followed turned your stomach.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Shouts rang out from every side as men and women leapt to their feet, screaming curses toward Aerions. Some demanded his arrest for cheating, while other called for his head, their outrage echoing acorss the feild
Beside you, Duncan's arm shot out without thought, one large hand finding your waist and pulling you lightly in front of him while his other did the same to Egg. Protective and instinctive, as though he couldn't help himself.
Several men began throwing cups and scraps of food onto the field. One particularly furious old man launched an entire piece of what smelled like horse manure at the princes face.
The shout was quickly joined by dozens more. The noise became deafening as men climbed over the fences, women, screamed and children cried. The crowd surged forward like a living thing purechaos spreading through the lists. The Kingsguard emerged with haste, white cloaks flashing through the confusion as they pushed riders and spectators apart. Commands were shouted, swords remained sheathed--but barely--and for several terrifying moments it looked as though a rio might truly begin.
For wance, nobody argued.
Duncan's hand remained firmly at your waist as he guided both of you though the sea of bodies. Bodies pressed in from every side as angry voices followed behind.
The further you move from the lists, the quieter things become.
But none of you spoke much after what you'd seen, and it wasn't until hours later--after food, drink and enough distance from the field--that the mood finally began to lift.
Eventually the three of you found yourselves near one of the larger camp gatherings. Music drifted through the evening air as men sang badly, women laughed and ale flowed freely.
And in the center of it all stood Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
The enormous lord had somehow climbed onto a table and was attempting what could generously be called dance, the table graoing beneath him as the crowd cheer him on.
You found yourself laughing despite everything.
Even Duncan cracked a smile.
Lyonel nearly fell off the table twice.
Someone handsed his another drink, a terrible decision that only engouraged the spectacle as the night carried on after that.
As the laughter and music carried through the camp, the horrors of the afternoon slowly began to fade into the background, if only for a little while.
You were so involved in the good time that you didn't even notice watchful eyes.
The three of you wandered through rows of tents lit by lantern light and campfires.
Past merchants, singers and gamblers.
Until an old woman caught your eyes.
She approached the three of you slowly, half-hidden by shadows and lantern light. Her silver hair was braided with ribbons and bone, and though her face was lined with wrinkles, her eyes remained sharp and watchful. There was something unsettling about the way she looked at people, as though she saw more than she should, and it made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.
"A fortune teller." Egg said.
You immediately rolled your eyes.
"A fortune teller" Egg repeated
Duncan only shrugged, "could be both"
She studied each one of you carefully. Long enough to become uncomfrotable.
Then her gaze settled on you.
"You walk beside destiny."
The words made you regret letting this old woman walk up to you.
"You will know great love."
"But it shall bring you sorrow before it brings you peace.
Before you could respond, her attention shifted toward egg, the smile she once had vanishing as the old woman became strangely serious.
"You are not what you appear to be"
"The fortune teller continued, her gaze fixed on Egg. "You will wear a crown." Silence followed. Egg looked alarmed. "You will be tested by war," she said, leaning forward slightly. "You will lose brothers. You will lose sons." Egg's face had gone completely still.
Your protective instinct flared.
A sharp, irrational surge of anger twisted in your chest as you looked at Egg. He had gone completely still, far too still for a boy his age, and something about it made your stomach knot. Whatever game this woman thought she was playing, you suddenly wanted no part of it.
The words came out sharper than intended, leaving your mouth before you could stop them.
The woman merely looked at you. Then nodded.
Egg remained quiet, and you drifted a little closer to him, saying nothing but staying by his side until the silence finally broke when Ser Raymun Fossoway made himself known.
Pulling Duncan away from a drink, Egg decided to return to the entertainment tent to see tanseles performance once more. You set off in search of new arrowheads, leaving teh three of you to part ways for a while.
The market was quieter at night, lanterns glowing warmly above merchant stalls as voices drifted between the tents.
You moved slowly through the crowd, examining bundles of arrows laid across a wooden table.
Turning one over between your dinger, you tested its weight and balance as your thoughts drifted.
Back to the fortune teller.
Back to the strange ache that seemed permanently lodged somewhere inside your chest.
And so distracted were you that you almost missed the feeling of someone watching you.
The sensation crawled up your spide, slow and unpleasant, setting every instinct on edge.
Years in Flea Bottom had taught you to trust that feeling.
You lifted your head from the merchant's stall and slowly turned.
Three men stood several paces away.
They looked like the sort of men Flea Bottom taught you to avoid on instinct
Broad-shouldered. Unshaven. Clothes stained with old ale and dirt. One had a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. Another wore a greasy leather jerkin stretched tight across his stomach. The third stood slightly behind the others, thin and sharp-faced, his eyes never leaving you.
The sight turned your stomach.
There was nothing friendly in it. Nothing human. His bruised mouth curled slowly upward, revealing yellowed teeth slick with spit. It was the smile of a man who thought he'd already won. The smile of someone enjoying your discomfort. Someone who liked seeing fear.
Every instinct inside you recoilded
Your stomach sank so suddenly it felt like a stone had been dropped into your gut.
Recognition hit a heartbeat later.
The drunk from the ale tent.
The same man you punched a day ago.
The swelling around his nose had darkened into an ugly purple bruise, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. The sight should have satisfied you, but instead it made every instinct inside you scream.
He had not come alone, and your heart lurched with a sudden surge of dread—no, not here, not now.
You turned away immediately.
Fast, not running, beacuse running drew attening.
The noise of the tourney swallowed you as you slipped into the crowd, merchants shouting over one another while children darted between legs and knights and squires pushed through the muddy lanes between tents, and you got moving without ever looking back.
Years in Flea Bottom had taught you another lesson.
If someone is following, make them work for it.
You ducked into a cloth merchants tent, browsed for several moments, left through the opposite side, crossed two rows of stalls and entered a tent selling carved wooden trinkets.
You slipped out again, your pulse hammering as you moved from one tent to the next.
A blacksmith displaying horseshoes.
Each time you glanced behind you, you saw only strangers.
The crowd thickened around you, and you slipped deeper into it weaving between merchants, knights and festival-goers alike. You changed direction whenever possible, doubled back one, then again, and soly after several long minutes did your breathing finally begin to slow.
Eventually you found yourself near the edge of the tourney grounds.
The noise faded there, not completely, but just enough.
The roar of the crowd became a distant murmur. Merchants' cries softened into background noise. The press of bodies thinned until there was finally space to breathe.
You slipped behind a row of supply wagons parked near a cluster of trees. The noise of the fair faded slightly there, muffled by canvas, wood and distance. For the first time since the flight, you allowed yourself a shaky breath, pressing a hand against your aching ribs as you tried to gather yourself.
Or as safe as anywhere could be.
You leaned against one of the wagon wheels and forced yourself to breathe.
You were alone, with no one watching and no one knowing where you'd gone.
And for the first time all evening, you thought you were safe.
A fist smashed into your face.
Pain exploded across. The world spun spideways as you stumbled, barely catching yourself before hitting the ground. What light burst across your vision and a ringing filled your ears.
For a single disorienting heartbeat, everything blurred together into pain and confusion, and you couldn't understand what had happened or why the earth suddenly felt so unsteady beneath you.
Your hand tightened around the knife at your belt, not drawing it, just feeling it there.
The drunk grinned as he noticed your fear.
"Oh, she's frightened now. Look at her. All that fire gone out her, hasnt it?"
His friends laughed. The sound made our skin crawl.
"You should've minded your tongue earlier," one of them said.
"A pretty thing like you ought to know better"
Something hot twisted in your stomach.
You'd heard those words your entire life. In Flea Bottom, in taverns, in crowded markets, from men who thought being born male gave them ownership over the world—and over women who never belonged to them.
The drunk's gaze swept over you openly, lingering far too long as it crawled over every inch of you, slow and deliberate, as though he were inspecting something he already believed belonged to him.
Like you were something to be bought.
Something to be broken like a mare until obedient.
"Got claws on her too," he spat into the dirt. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The two instincts collided violently inside your chest.
The nearest road was blocked, the crowd had thinned, nobody was close enough, nobody was coming, and you were on your own.
The realization settled over you with terrifying clarity.
No knight was coming. Not Duncan, not Ser Arlan—nobody. It was just you.
The drunk lunged first, and though you thought you were ready for it, you quickly realized you weren't.
You twisted away from his grasp, but one of the others caught your shoulder and slammed you hard against the side of a wagon.
Pain exploded through your back, knocking the breath from your lungs and leaving you unable to breathe for a moment.
Then panic took over—raw and ugly.
A hand grabbed for your wrist while another reached for your shirt. You reacted without thinking, panic and instinct taking over as your nails raked across someone's face. A scream followed immediately. You kicked wildly, your boot connecting hard with a knee. Something popped, and the man folded with a curse.
The drunk caught you anyway, his rough fingers tangling in the sleeve of your shirt and yanking hard enough that the worn fabric tore with an ugly ripping sound that seemed far louder than it should have in that moment.
Your stomach dropped. Fear hit harder than any fist ever could—not because they could beat you, but because you knew exactly what men like this wanted. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you, quickly swallowed by something hotter. Rage followed immediately after, fierce enough to burn away the fear and leave only the desperate need to fight back.
You drove your elbow backward with every ounce of strength you had.
Something cracked, and the drunk staggered away swearing.
"You little whore!" he snarled, clutching at his face. "Think you're too good for us?"
Blood dripped from his nose as he stumbled, fury twisting his features.
"We'll teach you some manners yet."
One of the others laughed harshly.
Another man slammed a fist into your mouth while a second seized hold of you.
Your head jerked sharply to the side.
Blood filled your mouth with the taste of iron as the world blurred.
But years in Flea Bottom have taught you something important.
A fair fight was a luxury.
You grabbed the first thing you could reach before the man could capture your hands--a stick from beside the wagon wheel--and violenting jabbing it into the nearest piece of flesh you could reach.
It struck one man right in the eye socket. He dropped instantly, clutching his bleeding eye as he howled in pain. The second rushed you before you could catch your breath.
Neither of you fought like knights; there was nothing noble about it, only fists, scratching, kicking, grabbing, and pure desperation.
He landed a punch against your ribs, and you drove your knee between his legs, dropping him at once.
The drunk recovered enough to charge again, stumbling forward with a snarl of anger and humiliation, his bloodied face twisted into something ugly as he threw himself at you without a shred of caution or sense.
You didn't even think. You picked up a broken length of wood and swung. Smashing the mans face so hard that his neck twisted violently.
The crack echoed through the trees as he hit the ground hard and didn't get back up.
Your chest heaved violently, every part of you hurting at once. Your cheek throbbed, your lip was split, one eye was already beginning to swell, and your ribs felt bruised with every breath you took. But despite it all, despite the pain radiating through your body, you were still standing.
One curled in the dirt clutching his face, blood overflowing through his hands onto the now stained grass.
Another was trying unsuccessfully to crawl away.
The drunk lay beside the wagon lifeless.
You turned before your shaking legs could betray you, and every step back toward camp hurt; your ribs screamed, blood dripped from your split lip, and your hands wouldn't stop trembling, but you kept walking.
Because if Flea Bottom had taught you anything—
It was that surviving didn't always look pretty.
Sometimes it looked like blood on your knuckles.
Sometimes it looked like tears you refused to shed.
And sometimes it looked like leaving three men broken in the dirt because they thought a woman alone would be easy prey
authors note — OUUUUU....this has been in my drafts since april, i've been working on it on and off for almost 3 months (crazy). I'm so bad a writing fight scenes and time skips. I'm sorry if this is hot dog shit.
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