── Summary: A reappearing face at Ashford meadow catches your artistic heart, compelling you to capture a certain hedge knight too many times
— Fluff with glimpses of angst, mentions of the trial and death, lovely Dunk, Egg cameo
Word count: 2k
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The skill of depicting the world through your eyes might be deemed useless by some — no strength to bend steel, no mind for strategy, just a paper and a pencil. And the world, right in front of you, being an inspiration everlasting, offered such richness of life. No matter how rare it was, you could earn a fair coin by your talents.
Such was the opportunity at the Ashford tourney. People everywhere were already wasting their wealth on ale, women, and bets. Some wanted to see themselves through a different mirror.
Portraits had been your favourites, right after the flowing clouds, flowers bowing under the wind, waters glimmering in the beaming sun. You could see the nature carved into features, stars tangled in their eyes, roses blooming on their lips and cheeks. Old, young, homely or pretty, it didn't matter. If there was a soul right in front of you, it was worth admiring.
And so you drew, sitting before whoever was your model, studying them as if they were the only thing important at that moment. Those works you sold, gave away your time, and the strokes of your pencil, the marks of your fingertips. Spending your free time entertaining your private sketchbook, you'd look around, and see the proud tents of noble houses, the sellers, the storytellers, the buskers, the horses, the fashion — all perfect subjects. And faces, ah, so many faces! Wherever you glanced, one face was more interesting than the other, every expression rich and filled with honest wrinkles. Real people, not legends, forever remembered in your pages.
But you never kept one muse for too long. A commitment issue, perhaps, a craving for something new at whim, until you saw him.
Wandering through the meadow, a big thing yet hunched, and awfully skittish, he seemed to fill the place he didn't want to be in. You weren't sure what made your eyes halt on him. Dressed plainly, he led three horses behind and nothing more, certainly not an important name. His silhouette didn't charm from afar either, especially with that head hanging low, and most of his frame was drowned by a long cloak.
Perhaps it was the manner of his hands that captivated you first, peeking enough to be seen in the otherwise hidden man — well-sculpted, long fingers cradling the handle of a sword as something precious and a saving.
The first time, you let him get away. But it was hard not to notice him again, a mountain among trees.
When you came to witness him another day, he was not mingled in the crowd. He was on display, and so was his strength, as he anchored the very end of a rope in the Tug of War. You told yourself that you were merely laying down the moment on paper, lords acting like youths, full of vigour and bustle, but you had put a lot of effort into portraying his face. With every new line curving more into him, you saw something different. Power, determination, the way his body sprang with muscle. And then the unattainable joy that came with victory, the smile on his face that could match the sun, the howling, and the little jolly boy on his arm. You even found yourself smiling.
You saw him once more, and in the dark, he looked much more imposing from a distance. Yet a flutter of those great, gleaming eyes, and a funny purse of a soft mouth, were enough to disarm him all over. You watched him speak with a salesman, how gently and politely he put down a helmet he couldn't have. You watched as he parted with one of his horses, and how much his face reminded you of an overgrown child — a sweet, lost child. There was a sadness in his gaze that made you look, but also kindness which peered through small, fleeting gestures. That was the first time you drew him, from memory after he disappeared, a little more wonky than you'd like, features not sitting well enough just yet.
Your little observations continued in hush, his face returning amid others on pages, each drawing morphing into something greater than the last. You had grown familiar with the curve of his jaw, the leaning of his nose, the steady planes of his cheekbones. It was not a distinct face, but soft in daylight and exceptionally sincere — a face you remember but not the name it carries.
“Oi! You there!”
Your head shot up from your work at the sound of a sharp, hefty voice thrown in your direction. You saw him, looking straight at you for the first time, and suddenly felt cornered. With a few strides through the grass, he reached you, his tall frame swallowing you from the rock you sat on. Your breath was stuck in your chest when you saw the subtle, even if clumsy, fire in his stare, his fists resting on his hips in obvious dissatisfaction.
“What is your problem? You've been starin’ at me for far too long!”
“Is it a crime to look?”
“N- no!” he flustered, light brows pinching together, “But it is rude.”
He cleared his throat, shifting his weight on the thick stumps of his legs as he attempted to look threatening.
“What are you starin’ for, anyway?”
Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead of explaining yourself, you turned the sketchbook towards the man and watched the emotions passing over his face. He seemed startled at first, but his forehead then eased in the faintest of interest, and he blinked, reluctantly impressed with so many versions of himself.
“Those- those are good,” he admitted with an awkward gesture of his hand in the air that he tried to cover as a scratch of his nape. “But don't go around starin’ at people as if you want them dead or somethin’!”
“Yes, ser.”
“Good!” he nodded, puffing out his chest, all serious, that it appeared humorous on that cordial face. “Will you… Show me how you do that?”
You felt a slow carving of your mouth as you nodded back.
“Hells, that really does look like him!” Dunk laughed gleefully beside you, glancing between your sketch and the little mug of Egg sitting by your other side.
The boy studied your work very attentively and quietly, with full, smooth eyes deep in thought.
“Such talents shouldn't go wasted on commoners.”
“Who you callin’ a commoner?” outraged Dunk, though he was quick to forgive that insult. “How long had you been doing that?”
“For as long as I can remember,” you replied, leaving an efficient smudge as a shadow under Egg’s neck, eyeing the lad next to you in the corner of your vision.
“Is there anything you haven't drawn yet?” Egg asked curiously, being the best subject you had in a while, as he turned into a pure statue. You thought through a passing breeze, finishing your sketch in a final stroke.
“The dead.”
Ripping the paper free, you handed the portrait to his smaller, meek hands. He looked at the drawing, a soft, warm smile resting on his delicate face.
“Thank you. I shall keep it in my finest protection.”
“I’m certain you will, little one,” you responded in kind.
A mild rumble left Dunk as he peered at the drawing in Egg’s grasp.
“Maybe you should give me one sometime. Not keep ‘em hidden.”
“If that's what you wish for, ser, I’ll gladly do it.”
A nod was the only response you earned, along with a quelled grin upon his lips.
That was before tragedy unfolded, the puppetry show, the young dragon’s cruelty and Dunk’s honour questioned. The details obscured away from you, yet one thing was known — Ser Duncan the Tall was going to perish, or so help the Gods.
“I have a favour to ask of you,” he said urgently yet gravely serious when he found you in the service tent the night before the doom. “Could you… before I...” he didn't need to finish.
Soon, you found yourself seated in the looming darkness, hanging on desperately for the candlelight sitting on the table by Dunk’s side. Warmth flowed over the planes of his face that it could grasp, shadow drowning the depths and curves of his features. Charcoal was an easy medium to carve out the weight of each muscle, every angle and arch, and the very glimpse of tension in his eyes.
“Apologies. No one has looked at me for so long before. Not in this way-” he appeared bashful as his gaze escaped aside.
“You needn't be nervous,” you reassured gently when you lay a shadow underneath his cheek on the linen. Dunk huffed through his nose in response, shaking his head a tad.
“This might be the last time you do this.”
Your movements slowed.
“The last time we speak. The last time… I'm being seen.”
You looked straight at him, hoping that somehow that would come to be a joke in the matter of time.
“Last time I'm remembered.” A timid, unfortunate smile rested upon his lips, his posture slouching.
“I don't draw the dead, ser.” You reminded him, those shining eyes flickering towards you, a naive hope swirling in the pools of his stare.
“Do you think… I’ll come back?” Dunk's voice was small, as if he was afraid to give in to the small lilt in its edge. You blew the excessive dust that had settled in the dusk of the drawing.
“I expect you to. Otherwise, I’ll lose my muse.”
His breath stilled in the back of his throat as he looked at you, words dying in his mouth. It seemed as if his heart stopped beating altogether.
He roused himself when you gave him the drawing, his hands careful as they brushed against yours and the canvas you offered. Dunk was gaping back at himself, consumed in shade, rigid and frightened, but beautiful. Even he saw the fondness you displayed in every line, every streak, the gleam in his eyes, the tenderness of his mouth, and even his dirty, messy hair, somehow more endearing than sad. This sketch might grow into the only evidence of his existence lost to time, or something greater.
“You’re good,” he murmured with a hint of a smile that coloured his face again. “If that's the way I'm remembered… I'm happy to be.”
Your soul ached while you stared at him in silence. Your hand moved, planted itself on his forearm. You felt the softness he bore, his heart alive, and prayed that it wouldn’t stop beating.
He glanced at you, lips parted as if in a silent question, eyes wide, but he didn't flinch away.
“The Gods won't let you die, ser Dunk.” Your voice echoed in the hum of rainfall outside. “Not when you acted in good cause. And if they do…” You swallowed a lump swelling with unspoken words in your throat. “Well… then I won't believe the Gods exist at all.”
“You can't say that!”
“What other truth would it be?” you nearly pleaded. Dunk shook his head with a tight close of his jaw. “They would take one of their most honourable, good, lovely spirits, for a dragon to keep snarling?”
His fingers narrowed around the wooden frame of the canvas until they remembered they were holding something precious.
“I’m not honourable, I'm not good, and I'm not lovely.” Dunk rumbled lowly, his gaze pointed at his own mug in his hands.
“Yes, you are.”
His face winced as if that answer had hurt him, looking back at you as if to scold you, but your kind expression melted him all too quickly.
“And I’m sorry you can't see that.”
He didn't speak for a long time, but you could feel him as your hand remained in place, the twitches beneath his flesh, his breathing constant and stable in the stillness between you two.
“How much do I owe you?” he finally asked, his claw sneaking into his pocket.
“Nothing, Dunk.”
He met your stare through a sharp lift of his head, his frown telling you how much he thought you were crazy.
“Nothin’?”
“I want you only to return alive,” you whispered. Dunk softened.
“That’s a cost I'm not able to promise.”
“I know.”
Your heart, already filled with so much grief, would nearly break as you looked at his face, those eyes — they would stare back at you in your memory, you were sure of that.
You rose to your feet, closed in on him before you could think. Dunk gazed up at you from where he was seated, vulnerable and waiting patiently, as he watched you near. The hitch of his breath tickled your skin when your hands gently clasped his cheeks, the widening of his eyes not lost on you. Perhaps it was foolish, but you didn't know what words could possibly signify the weight of your care and fear for him.
You kissed him, tilting down to close your lips upon his in a kind press. He startled at first, and you tasted the tremor that quivered him, yet he didn't draw back. After you lingered, you respectfully resumed the gap between you, but Dunk didn't share your judgment. Leaning forward, he chased another kiss, his mouth grazing yours in a graceless, but fair tie. You smiled, unable not to. He was sweet, gentle, even if his clumsiness didn't allow it, and seemed to understand your gesture just fine. His breath heated your skin, lips overtaking yours in a furtive, added peck before splitting.
You saw his eyes closed, how near overwhelmed he appeared, and the faintest dust of a flush on his face. His throat worked while he built the courage to look at you, his regard sparkling up at you as he caught his breath. Met with your smile, a gasping laugh escaped him without realising it, something close to wonder.
"Be safe, Ser Duncan," you whispered into the warmth hovering between you two, thumbs slowly stroking the dear blush on his cheeks.
He nodded, the solemnity coming through his bewitched expression in the shift of his jaw, his brow tightening in a light crease.
was rewatching on the wings of keeradaks for some cute tech moments and i completely forgot this scene happened. why aren’t we taking about this always. this might be the most anime-esque gag in all of star wars.. all that’s missing is hunter, rex, echo and anakin doing moe chibi screaming faces. i’m obsessed
