The Dragon you Refuse to Let Die
Chapter 3- the princes arrive
Word Count: 5.2k
Summary:
A/N: Help I'm feral for this man
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You wake first.
For one confused moment, staring up through the branches of the oak, you almost expect to see your bedroom ceiling.
Instead there is morning light filtering through green leaves and the distant clang of metal from Ashford Meadow already coming alive.
The grass is damp with dew.
Somewhere nearby, someone is laughing. Somewhere else, horses are snorting and stamping and being cursed at by sleepy squires.
You push yourself up on one elbow.
Dunk is still asleep on one side of the tree, long legs half-kicked out from under the blanket, one arm flung over his face. On your other side, Egg is curled up with his hands tucked under his cheek, breathing slow and even, looking younger asleep than he ever does awake.
For a moment, you just look at them.
The future king of Westeros and the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
Both asleep under a tree.
You almost laugh.
Instead, you reach over and nudge Egg’s shoulder.
“Wake up.”
He makes a face without opening his eyes.
“No.”
You nudge him again.
“I have bread.”
That gets one eye open.
“You’re lying.”
You lift the heel of yesterday’s loaf.
Egg sits up immediately.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he mutters.
“Try dream girl.”
“That’s worse.”
You tear the bread in half and hand it to him, then pass over a bit of cheese. He eats with single-minded seriousness, still rumpled from sleep, and for a moment he is just a boy. Not a prince. Not Aegon Targaryen. Just a child under a tree at a tourney, squinting at the morning sun with cheese in his mouth.
Dunk wakes to the sound of Egg chewing.
His arm drops from his face.
“You two are loud.”
“You were snoring,” Egg says.
“I do not snore.”
“You do.”
Dunk sits up with a groan and rubs a hand over his face. You pass him what’s left of the loaf.
He blinks at it.
“You keep feeding us, I’ll start thinking these dreams of yours are useful.”
“They are useful.”
Egg snorts. “That remains to be seen.”
Dunk tears off a piece of bread and looks toward the waking meadow beyond the tree line.
“I’ve got to try the lists again,” he says. “If I’m to ride, I need it done before the jousts begin.”
Your stomach tightens, though you know how this goes.
Or mostly know.
“Games master again?”
“Aye.”
He says it like he already expects disappointment and is trying not to. He stands, stretches, then looks down at Egg. “You’re coming with me. If you’re to squire, you can start earning it.”
Egg straightens a little at that.
Then Dunk looks at you.
“You’ll be alright?”
You nod.
“I’ll walk the market.”
“Watch your purse.”
“Yes, Ser Duncan.”
He gives you a look at the title, half suspicious and half resigned, then turns away. Egg lingers long enough to stuff the last of the bread into his mouth before hurrying after him.
You watch them go.
Then you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Baelor will remember Ser Arlan.
Baelor will get him into the lists.
He lives long enough to do that.
For now, that has to be enough.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Ashford Meadow is louder in the morning.
The market lanes are thick with people now ladies in bright gowns, hedge knights in worn mail, merchants shouting over one another, boys darting through the crowd with ribbons and cheap flowers in their arms. Somewhere a fiddler is playing too fast, and somewhere else a blacksmith is hammering a breastplate back into shape.
You make your way straight for the betting tables.
No hesitation today.
You know enough now to wager more boldly.
The man with the ink-stained fingers looks up as you approach.
“You again.”
You smile.
“Me again.”
He squints at you while you point to the names on the board.
A larger bet this time.
Then another at a different table farther down so no one notices too much.
By the time you step back into the crowd, your purse has a satisfying weight to it.
Enough to matter.
Enough to change things, carefully.
As you pass between two merchant stalls, you hear a pair of men talking just ahead of you.
“…don’t matter how big he is,” one says. “That hedge knight won’t get into the lists. Steward turned him away yesterday, and he’ll do it again.”
The other laughs.
“Aye. No one remembers the old knight. What was the name?”
You don’t slow.
You don’t turn.
But relief slips through you all the same, quiet and private.
They’re wrong.
They just don’t know it yet.
You do.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You cross the little bridge back toward the lists just as the crowd shifts.
Not loudly at first.
Just enough for people to start turning their heads.
Then the murmuring begins.
And then you see why.
The banners come first.
Black silk snapping in the wind, each emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon that seems almost to move in the morning light.
Your heart stutters.
The riders come next.
You stop dead in the middle of the bridge.
They ride like they belong to another world than the one around them calm, controlled, utterly certain of their place in it. Armor gleams. Horses toss their heads under rich caparisons. The crowd parts without being told to.
And at the center of them
There.
Your breath catches painfully in your chest.
Baelor.
You know him before your mind can even supply the name.
Broad-shouldered and composed, sitting his horse like he was born in the saddle which he was. Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. A face stronger than pretty, sharper than kind, though not unkind. The kind of presence people make room for without knowing they’re doing it.
He does not look tragic.
He does not look doomed.
He just looks alive.
Your pulse pounds so hard it makes your hands shake.
You know why.
No one else here does.
The riders pass beneath the banners and toward the pavilions, swallowed slowly by the meadow and its noise.
But for one suspended moment you can do nothing except stare after them, your entire body wound tight with something you cannot name without sounding mad.
Relief.
Dread.
Wonder.
Want.
He’s here.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You find Dunk and Egg near a row of stalls, just in time to see Dunk grab Egg by the back of his tunic.
Egg twists immediately.
“I wasn’t stealing.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I was not.”
Dunk leans down a little, trying for stern and only managing tired.
“If you steal something, I’ll hunt you down with dogs.”
Egg blinks up at him.
“What dogs?”
Dunk just stares and then barks.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Egg spots you first. sssq
“She’s smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Dunk glances at you, then at Egg, then sighs like he has been saddled with two separate problems and does not know how either of them happened.
“Well,” he says to no one in particular, “that’s my day worsened.”
“How did it go?” you ask.
He scratches the back of his neck.
“Still no place in the lists.”
Your stomach dips, though you know it is only temporary.
“But there was a knight in the Baratheon pavilion,” he adds. “Lyonel. He seemed friendly enough.”
“Friendly?” Egg repeats.
Dunk frowns. “Odd, then.”
Egg nods. “That sounds more right.”
You smile faintly.
Across the meadow the drums begin to sound, calling men and horses toward the stables and the lists, and the whole place seems to tighten with anticipation.
Dunk exhales.
“Come on, then.”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The stables are chaos.
Horses stamp and toss their heads. Stablehands dart in and out beneath swinging tack. Knights bark orders at squires already overburdened with shields and lances and helms.
You keep to the edges of it, close enough to see and far enough not to be in the way.
The princes are being announced.
First Baelor.
Then Valarr.
Then Prince Maekar and his sons.
The names move through the stable yard in a wave of lowered heads and hushed voices, but you barely hear any of it over the ringing in your own ears.
Baelor steps down from his horse and turns, speaking quietly to a man at his side.
And then he looks up.
Straight at you.
It lasts no more than a second.
Two, maybe.
But it is long enough for you to see his eyes clearly.
One dark blue.
One so deep a violet it almost looks black in the shade.
Heterochromia.
The detail hits you with startling force, absurdly intimate, as if noticing it means something.
His expression does not change much. Maybe not at all.
But his gaze lingers a fraction longer than courtesy demands.
Curious.
Assessing.
Then someone speaks to him and he looks away.
You exhale slowly.
Not realizing until then that you had stopped breathing.
A few yards off, Aerion is being cruel to Dunk, as expected, sharp-mouthed and bright with that casual kind of meanness only princes seem to perfect. Dunk stands there trying not to look as angry as he clearly is.
You remain where you are, half-hidden by the stable door, feeling stupidly aware of the fact that Baelor is somewhere just beyond the stable yard walls now, while the entire story continues moving exactly where you know it will.
Too fast.
Always too fast.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You should not follow him.
You know that.
The moment Dunk slips away toward Lord Ashford’s castle, moving with the determined awkwardness of a man about to do something he knows is ill-advised, you tell yourself very firmly that you should let him go.
You do not let him go.
Instead you wait three breaths, then follow at a distance.
“What am I doing,” you mutter under your breath as you duck behind a stone wall and then hurry after him again.
The castle is busy enough that one tall hedge knight and one strange girl can move farther than they ought to before being noticed. You trail Dunk through a side passage, your heart pounding harder with every step, until voices stop both of you cold.
Men arguing.
Royal voices.
Sharp and dangerous and too familiar from the page.
Dunk edges closer.
You edge closer behind him.
Inside the chamber beyond, Maekar and his sons are in the midst of some bitter exchange. Aerion is bright with offense; Valarr looks displeased in a quieter way; Maekar’s temper sits just under the surface like banked coals.
And Baelor
Baelor stands apart from the worst of it, calm but not detached, like a man accustomed to stepping into storms and asking them to behave.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You see Gwen before Dunk does.
She is all ribbons and purpose, stalking across the yard with the expression of someone preparing for righteous violence.
You open your mouth to warn him.
Then think better of it.
Dunk turns at the exact wrong moment.
Gwen smacks him smart across the arm.
“You’re just stupid and tall,” she declares.
Then she turns and runs.
Dunk stares after her in complete confusion.
You press your lips together, shoulders shaking.
He turns and catches you watching.
“You knew she was coming.”
“Maybe.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“I wanted to see it happen.”
“That’s cruel.”
“A little.”
You should leave.
You do not leave.
A hand closes around Dunk’s shoulder.
Another catches your wrist.
You nearly yelp.
Prince Maekar himself glares down at the both of you.
“Well,” he says flatly, “what have we here?”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Standing before them is worse than you imagined.
Somehow the chamber feels smaller with all of them in it.
Baelor. Maekar. Valarr. Aerion.
And you.
Your fingers knot together in front of you before you can stop them. You try to hold still, to keep your face neutral, to not look like someone who has loved these people in books and borrowed worlds and late-night grief for far too long.
Dunk, to his credit, recovers first.
He squares his shoulders and speaks plainly.
He tells them about Ser Arlan of Pennytree. About how he was knighted. About how no one seems to remember the man who taught him everything he knows.
There is something earnest and unguarded in the way he says it that makes the room shift.
Maekar still looks irritated.
Aerion looks bored.
Valarr watches with narrow attention.
But Baelor
Baelor listens.
Truly listens.
Then he says, “I remember Ser Arlan.”
The words strike through you like a bell.
Dunk looks almost startled by the mercy of it.
Baelor continues, voice even.
“He unhorsed me once at Maidenpool, years ago. Cleanly, if I recall.” A faint curve touches his mouth. “I did not enjoy it.”
Something in the room eases.
Not much.
But enough.
Dunk swallows. “Then… you will vouch for me, my prince?”
“I will.”
Relief crashes through you so sharply your knees nearly give.
Still alive, you think wildly.
Still here.
Still capable of changing the course of one man’s day with a few words.
Then Baelor turns his head.
And looks directly at you.
You go very still.
“And you?” he asks.
His voice is not harsh.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Why are you here?”
Every answer in your head sounds ridiculous.
Because I died and woke up in your world.
Because I know how you die.
Because I have spent days trying not to change the story too soon and failing anyway.
Instead you hear yourself say, “I travel with Ser Duncan.”
Aerion snorts.
Baelor does not look away.
“That does not answer the question.”
Your fingers tighten together.
“I have dreams,” you say, hating how thin it sounds.
Maekar’s expression shifts into immediate annoyance.
“Oh, for the love of—”
But Baelor lifts a hand without looking at him.
“What sort of dreams?”
You hesitate.
“Prophetic ones.”
That earns silence.
Not believing silence. Worse. Measuring silence.
Maekar gives his brother a look that could curdle milk.
“You cannot be entertaining this.”
“I am asking a question,” Baelor says.
“To a girl who followed a hedge knight into a private chamber.”
You force yourself not to flinch.
Baelor’s gaze never leaves your face.
“And what do these dreams show you?”
You choose your next words like stepping stones over deep water.
“Small things, mostly.”
“Only small things?”
“No,” you say softly.
That seems to interest him more than anything else yet.
Dunk shifts beside you.
“My prince, she’s strange, but harmless.”
You nearly laugh despite yourself.
Baelor’s mouth twitches, just slightly.
“Yes,” he says. “I had gathered as much.”
Then, to Dunk: “You have your answer, Ser Duncan. I will speak to the steward.”
Dunk bows awkwardly.
Relief and gratitude are written all over him. Then he glances at you, clearly reluctant to leave you standing there among princes.
Baelor notices that too.
“If she is willing,” he says, “I would ask to speak with her a moment longer.”
Dunk looks at you at once.
“You’ll be alright?”
You nod.
“Yes.”
He still hesitates.
Then, with visible effort, he bows again and backs away toward the door.
Maekar looks as if the entire world has personally offended him.
Aerion looks amused now.
Valarr merely watches.
When the door closes behind Dunk, the chamber seems to sharpen.
Baelor steps a little nearer not close enough to crowd, only enough to speak more quietly.
“You said your dreams are prophetic.”
“Yes.”
“Do they often concern tournaments?”
“Sometimes.”
“And princes?”
Your throat tightens.
“Sometimes.”
Maekar makes an incredulous sound from somewhere behind him. “Brother.”
Baelor ignores him.
“Do you put much faith in them?”
You meet his gaze because it feels more dangerous not to.
“I think,” you say carefully, “that warnings matter whether people believe them or not.”
That stills him.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The sort of stillness that means he has heard more than the words themselves.
“A warning, then,” he says.
“Is that why you are here?”
You could tell him.
You could tell him everything and watch the world split open around it.
Instead you say, “I think some men matter more than they know.”
Maekar says, flatly, “This is nonsense.”
Baelor remains maddeningly calm.
“Perhaps.”
Then, to you: “And do your dreams tell you which men those are?”
You lower your eyes for the briefest moment, not out of submission but because if you keep looking at him you might say too much.
“Sometimes.”
When you look back up, his expression has changed only slightly.
But the curiosity in it is no longer casual.
It is personal now.
Deliberate.
“I should like to hear more of these dreams another time,” he says.
The words are simple.
The effect is not.
Maekar’s stare could cut stone.
Valarr looks thoughtful.
Aerion looks entertained in the worst possible way.
You incline your head because your voice feels suddenly unreliable.
“As you wish, my prince.”
Baelor studies you one heartbeat longer.
Then he steps back.
“You may go.”
You bow too fast, too awkwardly, and nearly trip over the threshold on your way out.
Only once the door shuts behind you do you realize your hands are shaking.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You collect your bets in something of a daze.
The winnings are better than you expected—hefty enough that even the men at the tables look at you differently now, with the first edge of reluctant respect and a touch of suspicion.
You don’t linger.
The market feels brighter now, stranger somehow, as if the whole day has tilted a fraction off its axis.
You pass the puppet show just as the little stage erupts in laughter. A foolish knight is declaring himself in love, his painted wooden face fixed in tragic devotion while the crowd hoots with delight.
Dunk stands at the edge of it, watching.
Tanselle moves behind the puppets with graceful, clever hands, and for a moment you let yourself slow.
Then you keep walking.
Not yet.
At the dress merchant’s stall, the green gown is still there.
Dark as pine needles in shade, with fine stitching at the sleeves and neckline.
You buy it before you can think too hard about what you are doing.
Then you find a bathhouse, scrub the dust from your skin, wash your hair, and dress slowly in fabric that feels far too fine to belong to you.
When you step out again, the world has changed shape.
Or maybe just you have.
You buy fruit. More bread. A little meat wrapped in paper. Enough food to carry back later.
Enough to pretend you are practical.
Enough not to admit—even to yourself—that part of you dressed well because Baelor Targaryen looked at you like he wanted answers.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
You hear the shouting before you see the crowd.
By the time you push through the outer ring of people, the whole square is roaring with laughter and encouragement.
At the center of it, Lyonel Baratheon has roped half the camp into a tug-of-war.
Dunk is on one side, boots dug into the dirt, grinning despite himself. Egg is beside him with both hands on the rope and a look of murderous concentration far too fierce for his size.
You laugh before you mean to.
Lyonel bellows something triumphant from the other end.
The line jerks.
Slides.
Jerks again.
Then, all at once, Dunk’s side hauls hard enough to send three men sprawling into the mud.
The crowd erupts.
Egg is shouting victoriously.
Dunk is laughing outright now, flushed and breathless, and for one bright moment he looks younger too.
Egg spots you and tears free of the crowd at once.
“We won,” he announces, as if this might have escaped your notice.
“I saw.”
“We destroyed them.”
“That feels like an exaggeration.”
“It is not.”
He throws his arms around your waist before either of you can think better of it, and you blink in surprise before laughing and patting his head.
“There’s my terrifying champion.”
Egg immediately scowls and lets go, embarrassed by his own enthusiasm.
Dunk comes up a moment later, still catching his breath.
“You missed Lyonel fall face-first in the mud.”
“I saw enough.”
He grins.
And because everything in you feels overfull and strange and dangerously soft today, you step forward and hug him too.
Only briefly.
Only enough to make him go still in surprise before awkwardly patting your shoulder.
Egg looks between the two of you with narrowed suspicion, as if physical affection is a mystery he intends to solve and then outlaw.
You press extra food into Dunk’s hands before he can protest.
He looks down at the parcel, then at you.
“You keep turning up with coin.”
“I keep getting lucky.”
Egg mutters, “Convenient.”
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
Night falls warm and loud.
Music spills from the pavilions. Torches paint the air gold. Somewhere men are singing badly and proudly, which is to say exactly as men always do.
Dunk goes off to see to Chestnut, muttering something about tack and feed.
Egg disappears after a roasted apple vendor with all the focus of a hound on a scent.
And you
You drift.
That is what you tell yourself anyway.
You are only wandering.
Only following the lights.
Only ending up, by complete accident, near the royal pavilions where the Targaryen tent stands broad and bright among the others.
The guards do not stop you.
There are too many people moving in and out servants, lesser knights, ladies, merchants with trays, musicians. Celebration makes everything a little more porous than it ought to be.
Inside, it is all rich lamplight and low conversation and banners rippling faintly whenever the night breeze finds the tent flaps.
You take a cup of wine you do not really want and a plate of food you are too nervous to eat.
Then you sit near the edge of the gathering and try to look like someone who belongs there.
It works for almost a full minute.
Then you look up.
Baelor is already looking at you.
He is across the tent speaking to an older lord, but his attention shifts, fixes, holds.
You set your cup down too quickly.
He says something to the man beside him, rises, and crosses the space between you with the easy authority of someone who has never once doubted he may go where he pleases.
He stops at your table.
“May I?”
You nod before remembering you are supposed to speak.
“Yes, my prince.”
He sits.
Up close, he is even more composed than he was earlier. Not colder. Simply steadier. Like a blade kept in perfect condition.
“You clean up well,” he says.
It is not flirtatious.
If anything, it sounds mildly amused.
You glance down at the green dress.
“So do you.”
That earns the faintest hint of a smile.
For a moment neither of you speaks. Around you, the feast continues laughter, music, the scrape of cups on wood—but the silence at your little table is not uncomfortable.
Baelor breaks it first.
“You do not look like the sort of woman who belongs at tourneys.”
“That sounds almost insulting.”
“It was meant as observation.”
You tilt your head.
“And what sort of woman belongs at tourneys?”
“One who enjoys spectacle more than strategy.”
You think about that.
Then say, “I think the spectacle is only interesting because of what it costs.”
His eyes sharpen.
“That is not an answer most would give.”
“I doubt most people think about it.”
“No,” he says. “Most do not.”
You look down at your untouched food.
“Someone should.”
Baelor leans back slightly, studying you.
“Is that what your dreams show you? Costs?”
That could mean too many things.
You choose honesty, but only the portion of it that won’t destroy you both.
“Sometimes they show me what happens when good men are left to chance.”
He is quiet for a moment after that.
Not offended.
Not alarmed.
Considering.
Then, “And do you think chance can be beaten?”
“I think people call it chance when they would rather not admit something was preventable.”
That makes him still.
Around you the feast goes on, oblivious.
Baelor’s thumb taps once against the edge of the table.
“You speak as though you have lost arguments with fate before.”
You almost laugh at that, but there is nothing funny in it.
“Maybe I have.”
Something in his expression shifts then.
Not softness, exactly.
Recognition, maybe.
The kind that passes between people who do not know one another and yet understand, all at once, that the other carries more than they say.
“You are very strange,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And yet I find I do not mind it.”
This time the smile that touches your mouth is helpless.
“Careful, my prince. People will talk.”
“People always talk.”
“Fair.”
As the horns sound for the opening ceremony, the crowd begins moving toward the lists in a slow tide of color and noise.
Baelor pauses beside you.
“Come,” he says simply.
You hesitate only a moment before taking the arm he offers.
His escort is polite, nothing more than courtesy to guide you through the thickening crowd, but the contact is steady and warm beneath the fabric of his sleeve.
The two of you move together through the lantern-lit pathways toward the field.
Around you men shout wagers and vendors cry out the last of their food. The air smells of wine and horse sweat and trampled grass.
Baelor says nothing for a while.
Neither do you.
The silence is not uncomfortable.
It feels… observant.
Like both of you are studying the other in small, careful ways.
As the entrance to the lists comes into view, you slow slightly.
Then you lean closer.
Closer than propriety demands.
Your hand tightens just enough on his arm to bring your mouth near his ear.
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“Place a wager tomorrow,” you murmur. “House Baratheon.”
Your lips brush the edge of his ear as the words leave your mouth.
Just barely.
Then you straighten as if nothing happened.
Before he can say anything, you slip free of his arm.
The crowd swallows you almost immediately as you move down toward the field where Dunk and Egg are already standing.
Egg waves you over impatiently.
Dunk looks relieved to see you.
You slide in beside them, eyes fixed dutifully on the lists.
Only once do you glance back.
Baelor still stands where you left him.
Not moving.
Watching you.
The torchlight catches his mismatched eyes as he studies your retreating figure, expression thoughtful—
and something sharper beneath it.
Like a man who has just been handed a riddle he very much intends to solve.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The ceremony is everything it ought to be.
Loud. Violent. Splendid.
Standards wave over the field. Horses rear and plunge. Five champions on five champions ride beneath the roar of the crowd while heralds proclaim names and honors and ancient glories no one in the stands truly understands but everyone cheers for anyway.
You stand below with Dunk and Egg, shoulder to shoulder in the crush of bodies.
Dunk is watching the field with the focused, anxious stare of a man trying not to imagine himself unhorsed in front of half the realm.
Egg is practically vibrating with excitement.
You glance up.
Baelor is seated on the raised platform among the royals, lit gold by torchlight and impossible to miss.
As if feeling it, he turns his head.
Finds you instantly.
And keeps looking.
Your face warms.
You look away.
Then back again, because apparently self-preservation has left you entirely.
He has not moved.
Below, the jousts thunder on.
The crowd roars at a broken lance.
Dunk mutters something under his breath about seat and balance and the angle of impact.
Egg is shouting for blood in a way that suggests he may, in fact, be exactly as Targaryen as advertised.
But every time you dare look up, Baelor’s gaze returns to you.
Not constant.
Not crude.
Simply present.
Intentional.
Enough to make your pulse go wild all over again.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
The walk back is slower.
The meadow is thinning now, most people drifting toward drink or sleep or one last round of dice before dawn.
Dunk carries the parcel of food you bought as if he still expects it to vanish if he loosens his grip.
Egg is half-talking, half-yawning, recounting the best moments of the ceremony as though neither of you were there to witness them.
You let him.
At the edge of the tree line, you stop.
Dunk notices immediately.
“What is it?”
You adjust the bundle at your hip.
“I’m staying at an inn tonight.”
Egg blinks. “What?”
“I won enough at betting,” you say. “Enough for a bed.”
Dunk frowns at once.
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
He looks unhappy with the entire idea.
“It’s not safe.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’d very much like a bath and a door that closes.”
That earns a reluctant huff of laughter from him, but he still doesn’t look pleased.
You step closer and take the food parcel from his hands, splitting it so they keep most of it.
“For the morning,” you say.
Egg looks down at it, then back up at you.
“You’re coming back?”
“Of course I’m coming back.”
He tries very hard to look like that answer does not matter to him.
Fails.
Dunk studies your face for a moment longer, then nods once.
“Find us in the morning, then.”
“I was about to say the same thing to you.”
Egg shifts the parcel under his arm.
“You’ll probably be late.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
Dunk rolls his eyes toward the heavens as though asking the gods why he has been burdened with either of you.
You smile.
Then, because tonight has made you reckless in a dozen smaller ways already, you bend and kiss Egg on the top of his bald head.
He recoils in outrage.
“What was that for?”
“For being tolerable.”
“I’m never speaking to you again.”
“That’ll last ten minutes.”
“Five,” Dunk says.
Egg glares at both of you.
You step backward toward the lantern-lit path leading to the inns.
“Goodnight, Ser Duncan.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Egg.”
He scowls.
Then, softer, “Goodnight.”
You turn away before either of them can see your expression.
Tomorrow will bring more lists, more princes, more chances to get this wrong.
But tonight you have coin in your purse, a bed waiting somewhere ahead, and the memory of Baelor Targaryen saying he would like to hear more of your dreams.
The road to the inn glows pale beneath the moon.
Behind you, beneath the tree, Dunk and Egg settle back into the story you know.
Ahead of you, somewhere in silk and torchlight and royal shadow, waits the prince you intend to save.
𓆩⚔𓆪 ━━━━━━━ 𓆩⚔𓆪
