Knight getting older… knight with a bit of grey coming in… knight who finds it a little harder to put on his armour and walk the castle… knight with old battle injuries and faded scars
Title: Clash of Knights in the Countryside
Artist: Eugène Delacroix (French, 1798-1863)
Date: 1824 (?)
Genre: historical painting, genre painting
Movement: Romanticism
Medium: oil on canvas
Dimensions: 81 cm (31.8 in) high x 105 cm (41.3 in) wide
Location: Louvre Museum, Paris, France
⋆˚꩜｡ pairings: Aerion Brightflame x Fem!Reader | Ser Duncan the Tall x reader (Platonic Relationship + Complicated feelings)
⋆˚꩜｡ 18+ fanfiction
⋆˚꩜｡ chapter 1/? Chapter Two (part one) - HERE Chapter Two (part two) - HERE
Chapter 3 - HERE
⋆˚꩜｡ warnings: Graphic descriptions of injury and blood, Violence and implied past violence, Murder, Death of family members, Trauma and psychological distress, References to emotional abuse and unstable family dynamics, Sexual vulnerability / non-sexual nudity context (non-explicit, but vulnerability present), Self-harm.
⋆˚꩜｡ wc: 3.6k
⋆˚꩜｡ an: haii weird awkward side note here... I'm alive!! only after being through the trenches (of course!) but alive nonetheless :D I have PLANS for this fic guys dw... but this chapter has no Aerion in it (sad clown music) But i feel as writer, it's super important for me to establish relationships and actually make some plot when it comes to an actual fic and not a short fic/smut fic yk !! ANYWAYS ENJOY + ethel cain carried this chapter (sorry about all the references LOL)
Only God knows, only God would believe.
—
"Please." Tears clung to your cheeks, your throat tight as though something were lodged within it, your lungs threatening to give out at any moment. You sat in a filthy pool of rainwater, your hands pressed into the mud, begging for your life. Begging to be saved.
There was no answer. No pity. No remorse.
Your soaked hair stuck to your bare shoulders and spine, a cold cross hanging against your chest.
You screamed as the man who looked like a knight mounted his horse and rode away, not once glancing back
When the sound of hoofbeats finally faded, you understood you were alone. A knight sworn to protect the innocent had abandoned you. An innocent.
You had spotted a small river nearby and submerged your body to wash yourself of the blood and mud that stained your skin. What else could your hands do with the blood? Pray?
After hours of shivering in the cold night, a distant glow of fire appeared between the trees. You forced yourself upright, dragging your body from the water. You were drenched through, but at least it was no longer blood or mud that clung to you.
"Help! Please, hear me!" you cried, your voice raw and breaking. You stood there for minutes, calling out until your throat ached, your body swaying as you struggled to keep yourself upright.
"Seven save us..." The man on horseback looked down at you in horror, his face drained of colour as though he had seen a ghost—and believed it. His gaze took in your tangled hair, the marks upon your skin, the state of your bare form, and the sheer terror in your expression.
He dismounted at once and threw his woollen cloak around your shoulders.
"Please... get me away from here before they return in the morning," you said, your voice trembling as you fought back tears. You clutched at his arms as you pleaded.
He averted his eyes, too flustered—or perhaps too ashamed—to look at you directly.
"Easy now," he said awkwardly. "You're hurt. Can you walk?"
"Yes... but it hurts," you replied, forcing yourself to steady your breathing as your heart raced. "Just please, get me away from here."
He nodded at once, though his manner remained stiff and uncertain.
He led you towards his horse and helped you climb into the saddle. Once you were seated and somewhat steady, he mounted behind you
You wrapped the cloak tightly around your body, while the man took hold of the reins—his arms positioned on either side of you as he guided the horse.
After at least fifteen minutes of silence, he finally spoke.
"What is your name?"
You tensed your jaw at the question—not out of anger, but because you felt so overwhelmed.
"Y/N," you said. "My name is Y/N." You paused, drawing in a steadying breath. The air felt lighter now, easier to take into your lungs. "What is yours?
"That's a... nice name." The sentence came out unnaturally to the man. You were not sure if he had a natural awkwardness or if he was simply nervous. "My name is Dunk- Ser Duncan."
Your body tensed at the title "Ser".
"Ser? You're a knight?" Your chest rose and fell slightly faster now. Dunk immediately noticed your change in demeanour.
"Yes," he nodded once. "I am a knight. Is everything alright?" He asked carefully. He assumed you had had a bad experience with a knight before.
"Y-yes everything is alright, Ser." You silently cursed yourself for the panic in your heart. This man had stopped to help you. How could you assume he would hurt you?
—
The ride to the stable was quiet and almost awkward.
He helped you down from the horse. His hand accidentally touched a piece of bare skin on your thigh and he immediately apologised.
"It's alright, it was an accident," you reassured with a tired smile.
—
You lay back against a pile of hay, the cloak still wrapped around your freezing, bare body.
When Dunk returned after tending to his horse, he sat opposite you.
"What happened to you?"
You stared at him—he could barely maintain eye contact.
You wiped your face of old dried tears before speaking, your voice quiet and tired.
"My brother. Our father died a year ago, and my brother lost his mind after that... he just went insane. He uh… he just snapped. Even I'm not sure, Ser." You paused to readjust. "He came at me with an axe. A dull one, but an axe nonetheless. He cut my back. My daddy always said 'Shoot first, run, and then don't look back.' So that's what I did. I killed my own brother. If they strike once, then you just hit 'em twice as hard."
Dunk noticed how your bottom lip quivered slightly, but he did not dare to mention it. For a moment, the dull lantern light in the stables danced across your face. He had expected raiders or an accident on the road. Not this.
At last he shifted, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to find words that fit.
"That's.." He stopped, frowned, then tried again. "That's a hard thing you've done."
He looked down at his hands.
"Killing kin. I never... I never had to do such a thing. Seven save me, I don't know what I'd do if I did." He glanced at you, quickly, as though afraid you might break if looked at too long.
"If he came at you with an axe," Dunk said slowly, "then you were right to get away. Right to live."
A pause.
"But it weren't right, what happened. Not any of it. I'm sorry for your brother."
He shifted again, clearly uneasy with the weight of the moment, then reached for something simpler—something he could actually fix.
"You should eat something. And I'll see to your wound proper in the morning. Might be we can find you safer lodging when it's light."
You were too tired to defend yourself or your actions, so you quietly thanked him before lying down.
"Thank you, but I'll eat tomorrow."
—
The morning after
Dawn came grey and quiet through the trees.
Dunk had been awake long before the sun properly rose. That was habit more than anything—hedge knights didn't sleep deep when they slept outdoors. He checked the fire first, coaxing it back to life with a few dry sticks, then gave his horse a once-over, murmuring something low to the beast as it shifted its weight.
Only then did he look toward where you laid. He didn't wake you at once. For a moment he just watched to make sure your breathing was steady. Then, carefully, he tapped you lightly.
"Morning," he said, not loud.
When you stirred, Dunk straightened a little, awkwardly polite in the way only he could manage. "How's your head?" There was a pause before he added, almost as an afterthought, "You slept some. That's good."
He moved back to the fire, giving you space to come fully awake. The morning air was cold enough that his breath showed faintly. He poked at the embers, building them into something usable again.
Your eyes fluttered open and you groaned. "My head… could be better." Your voice was groggy.
That was when he saw you shift—and the motion made you wince. The cut on your upper back had likely stiffened overnight.
Dunk noticed immediately.
"Careful," he said at once, turning his head slightly as if that alone could help. "Don't move too quickly. That wound'll've set a bit in the night."
He hesitated, then spoke more gently. "I can take a look at it again once there's proper light. Might need cleaning."
"That'd be great, thank you." You sat up—this time more carefully.
He kept his attention firmly on the fire while he spoke, as though that made the situation less strange for both of you.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. "There's something else," he said.
That earned a look from you, and Dunk finally turned—not to your face for long, but somewhere just past your shoulder, careful and respectful.
"I don't have... well. Clothes proper for you."
He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a folded shirt. It was rough wool, clearly made for a man twice as broad as most folk and still somehow fitting Dunk himself only loosely.
"This is about the best I've got," he said, holding it out to you. "It'll be too big, but it'll cover you."
You took it from him with a grateful nod.
"Thank you, Ser."
Dunk cleared his throat and immediately turned his back. "I'll give you some privacy."
You had just slipped the shirt over your head when another problem occurred to you.
"Ser Duncan?"
"Aye?" he answered, still facing the fire.
You shifted awkwardly against the stable wall. "Could you fetch me my knickers?"
Dunk froze for half a heartbeat.
"Your... what?"
"My knickers," you repeated, unable to keep the embarrassment from your voice. "I left them near the fire to dry... after being in the river..." You cringed at hearing yourself over explain something that wasn't even a big thing to begin with.
There was a short silence.
"Oh. Right."
He rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning slightly red despite himself, then bent to retrieve them from beside the hearth. He made a point of looking absolutely nowhere else as he picked them up between two fingers.
"Here."
He held them out without turning around fully, arm extended behind him.
You quickly took them from his hand.
"Thank you."
"Aye."
Dunk returned his attention to the fire at once, poking at the embers with perhaps a little more concentration than the task required while he waited for you to finish dressing.
Only when you finally said, "You can turn around now," did he glance back.
The shirt hung heavily on your frame, sleeves covering half your hands and the hem nearly reaching your knees.
Dunk frowned thoughtfully.
"That's... a bit much, isn't it."
He stepped closer and crouched slightly, studying the oversized fit with practical concern.
"We'll roll the sleeves," he decided. "Might be we can tie some of it back with cord."
He rummaged through his things again until he found a length of rough twine.
"Hold still a moment," he said.
You did as instructed while he carefully gathered some of the excess fabric at your waist. His large hands worked awkwardly but gently, looping the cord around the oversized shirt and tying it off.
"There," he said, taking a step back to inspect his work. "Not perfect, but you won't be tripping over it now."
You looked down. The shirt still hung far too large on you, but at least it no longer looked as though it might swallow you whole.
"It'll do," you said.
"It'll have to."
Dunk returned the twine to his pack and rose to his feet. Morning light was filtering through the cracks in the stable now, turning the dust golden.
You shifted your weight and frowned.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"The shirt helps, but I still haven't got any proper trousers."
Dunk scratched at his jaw.
"Aye. That's a problem."
You glanced around the stable. Near one wall sat several old sacks and a pile of forgotten odds and ends that previous travellers might have left behind.
"I'm going to have a look around," you said.
Dunk followed your gaze.
"For trousers?"
"Unless you've got a spare pair hidden somewhere."
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. "If I did, they'd be far too big."
"Then I'd best keep searching."
You crossed the stable carefully, mindful of your healing wound, and began looking through the scattered belongings. Most of it was useless—broken tack, worn blankets, old sacks.
Then, near the bottom of one sack, you spotted a bundle of clothing.
Your eyes brightened.
"Ser Duncan," you called.
"Aye?"
"I think I may have found something."
Dunk stood and made his way over, curiosity written plainly across his face.
You pulled out a pair of weathered trousers. It had clearly been a pair someone had worn to bits and tossed away.
You pulled the trousers free from the bottom of the sack and held them up.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The trousers were enormous.
Your lips pressed together as you fought to keep a straight face. Judging by the size of them, they might have fit a blacksmith twice your width—or perhaps a giant from one of Old Nan's stories.
Dunk looked from the trousers to you and then back again.
"They can't be that bad."
That only made it harder not to laugh.
You held them against yourself. The waistband looked wide enough to fit around you nearly twice.
"They're dreadful," you declared.
Dunk frowned at the garment as though it had personally offended him.
"Aye," he admitted after a moment. "They might be a bit large."
"A bit?"
Now even he seemed to realize how ridiculous that sounded.
You shook your head, unable to suppress a smile. "Well, they're better than nothing."
"That's true enough."
You examined the trousers more carefully, turning them over in your hands. The cloth itself wasn't in terrible condition. Worn, certainly, but sturdy. "I think I can make them work."
Dunk raised an eyebrow. "You can?"
You nodded.
"If I fold the waistband over and use some of that cord you've got, I can keep them up well enough."
He considered that.
"Would that actually work?"
"It won't look pretty."
"Doesn't need to."
You laughed softly. "No, I suppose not."
Dunk's expression eased slightly at that. He seemed relieved that there was a solution, however imperfect.
"Can you manage it yourself?"
"I think so."
"If you need a knife to cut the cord, I've got one."
"I'll survive, Ser."
"Aye." He shifted awkwardly before adding, "Good."
You set to work immediately, gathering the excess cloth and trying different folds until the trousers looked at least somewhat wearable. They were still far too long and far too loose, but after a few attempts you managed to secure them around your waist with a length of twine.
When you finally straightened, Dunk looked you over—not critically, merely checking that everything was secure.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"They're still too big."
You glanced down at the pooled fabric around your ankles. "Observant."
A huff of laughter escaped him. "But they'll serve."
You nodded. "They'll serve."
For travellers on the road, that was often the best anyone could hope for.
—
Sometime around noon
"Right," Dunk said, kneeling beside the fire.
"We should see to that cut before we start moving."
You sighed.
"I was hoping you'd forgotten."
"Not likely."
He fetched the waterskin and the small bundle of cloth he'd used the night before.
"Sit down."
You lowered yourself onto an overturned crate near the fire.
"The shirt'll need to come down a bit."
You hesitated for only a moment before loosening the collar and pulling the fabric carefully off one shoulder, exposing the injured part of your back.
Dunk moved behind you. For a few moments, neither of you spoke. You felt the cool touch of damp cloth against the wound and hissed.
"Sorry," Dunk muttered immediately.
"It's fine."
"It hasn't cracked open yet." He said as he examined your cut.
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Aye."
The silence returned. Then it stretched. Long enough that you began to wonder what he was thinking.
"What?"
"Hm?"
"You've gone quiet."
Dunk paused. The cloth stopped moving for a second before he resumed cleaning the cut. "Nothing."
You snorted. "That's never true."
Another pause.
"You've got a lot of scars." His voice was careful.
You looked down at your hands. "A few."
"A few," he repeated. The disbelief in his voice was impossible to miss.
There were pale marks crossing your back, shoulders, and older cuts along your arms, faded bruises in various stages of healing. Some scars looked years old. Others looked recent.
Dunk frowned.
"Some of these aren't from this week."
"No."
"Or this month."
"No."
His large hands grew still again. You could almost feel him trying to decide whether to ask.
"Who did it?"
You bit the inside of your cheeks—a habit you've had since you were just a child. Your fingers lightly tapped your knee. You wanted to say anything but the truth.
"The scars and bruises on my back are from my brother… as for the scars on my arms and shoulders," you paused for a brief moment. "they are from myself." You felt a familiar lump form in your throat as you spoke. "Shame is sharp, ser." Your hands gripped tighter around your knees without you even noticing.
Dunk didn't speak right away.
The only sound for a moment was the fire shifting in the hearth and the faint rustle of leaves beyond the stable walls.
Then, quietly, he said, "I see."
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't pitying either. Just steady—like he was setting something heavy down inside his own mind so it wouldn't spill out where it didn't belong.
He finished tying off the bandage at your back, slower now, as if he was making sure not to hurt you even by accident.
You exhaled shakily, the tension still sitting in your shoulders.
He stepped back once the cloth was secure, then hesitated like he wasn't sure what the correct next move was. That uncertainty suited him better than false confidence ever could.
Finally, he crouched down so he was level with you rather than looming behind.
"You're still here," he said.
You blinked at him. "That's your wisdom?"
"It's not wisdom," he replied, a little flustered. "It's just... true." He scratched the back of his neck.
"If it was as simple as what's been done to you, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me."
That made something tighten in your throat again, but different this time.
Dunk continued, carefully choosing his words like someone walking over uneven ground. "I don't know your father. Or your brother. And I won't pretend I do."
A pause.
"But I know this much—no one gets to decide what you are now. Not them. Not what happened."
You let out a short, unsteady breath. "That sounds nice in theory."
"Aye," he admitted at once. "It does."
Then, more firmly, "But I'm still going to treat you like you're here. Not like you're... what they did to you."
The fire popped softly. Dunk stood again, as if needing movement to settle himself.
"You'll need time for that wound," he said, shifting back into practicality. "And food. And proper rest. All of it helps more than thinking too much."
You watched carefully as Dunk busied himself with the fire again, because that was easier than waiting for your reaction.
Your mind was running with thoughts. You had never told a soul any of that before. Part of you felt as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, while a different part of you felt sick. Ashamed. Exposed.
You picked at the skin around your nails until they bled.
Dunk noticed. Of course he noticed. He seemed to notice everything and nothing all at once.
He finally looked at you properly then—not at what you were wearing, not at the fact you were wearing his clothes too big, but at your face. He noticed the way your eyes had a hint of violet in them—almost specks and dots here and there. If you didn't look carefully, you'd miss it.
The hedge knight opened his mouth as though to say something.
Then stopped.
Instead, he held out a piece of bread. You stared at it.
"What?"
"You haven't eaten."
The answer was so simple it caught you off guard.
For a moment, all you could do was blink. Then you took the bread.
"Thank you."
"Aye." That was all. No questions. No pity. No promises he couldn't keep. Just bread.
You ate in silence while Dunk busied himself with his horse and gear, pretending not to watch you and failing miserably.
The afternoon sun drifted lower beyond the stable doors. For the first time in what felt like years, you found yourself somewhere safe. The thought should have comforted you. Instead, it terrified you.
Because safe places could be lost. People left. People died. People changed. You knew that better than most.
Yet when you glanced toward Ser Duncan, watching him struggle with a stubborn buckle on his saddlebag, you found yourself hoping.
Just a little.
And hope, you had learned long ago, could be every bit as dangerous as fear.
—
tysm if u read this far :3 & I apologise for any mistakes or "lazily" written parts... I can only come alive at night but I'm also very tired at night!
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