lili @tothosewholisten - Tumblr Blog

wild at heart: chapter 3 - three of a kind

ser duncan the tall x secret targ fem! reader

summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.

authors note: so sorry this took so long, i've been so busy, lmk if your still here! love this chapter. I have a question for the more lore knowledgeable people, do we know when dyanna dayne died? also is jena still alive in this time period? we didnt hear about baelor's wife at all.. warnings: violence, language, blood, made up knowledge of constellations. ooc dunk, maybe? slight hints to incest (it’s the targs, it’s gonna be there) not proof read

word count: 14k+

Masterlist

...

It was cold, since the fire had long died down, Dunk and Egg were asleep, all that was left was you and the pit feeling in your stomach that kept you awake. As you sat up from your bed roll, you tried to pay attention to the earth around you. The woods breathed softly around the camp and leaves whispered together whenever the wind passed through. Somewhere far off, an owl called, low and hollow. Everyone was prepared to rest, wary from the day's misfortune, except for you.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the chill in your chest had little to do with the air.

“Can’t sleep?” Dunk’s warm voice called out to you.

You turned to him with a shudder, not having realized he was awake. His large body shifted beside you, propped up on one elbow.

“You should be sleeping.” The words came out with little emotion.

The man next to you fully sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before looking your way again. “So should you,” he says gently, scooting closer across the ground until he was close enough for you to feel his breathing. “What’s wrong?”

Your hands grip your hair slightly, in a stroking motion, and you think about whether you should share your feelings. Since they were only a small preview of the ideas in the darkest corners of your mind. Dunk watched you quietly while you thought. He never rushed you, not once. Even now, he simply waited.

“You can tell me, m’lady. There is no judgment here.” Yes, there is. You wanted to scream out. That if you knew who I was, there would be nothing but judgment.

“I just have a bad feeling..” you whisper.

Dunk’s eyes soften, the crease between his brows deepening as he studies you. “About what?”

You hesitate, staring out into the trees again. “Anything could happen,” you say quietly. “Something bad. Something we can't stop.” You swallow. “Then what would happen to… us?” Your words trailed off, scared to say what you were assuming.

“Nothing bad is going to happen.” He concludes.

You shake your head. “You don't know that.”

“And how do you know?” he asks softly, not challenging, only curious.

“I just… I know.” That’s all, you knew.

For a moment, Dunk doesn’t answer. He scratches the back of his neck in a thinking matter, the way he always did when something weighed on his mind. “In that case,” he says at last, mind steady again, “even if something bad were to happen, it wouldn't go unpunished. I’d do something to cease it.”

You smile slightly, playing with the hem of his cloak. The thick material bunched between your fingers as you twisted the fabric absentmindedly. “Sweet knight..” He was truly sweet, no rotten bone in his body. It made you frown to think that the world’s cruel ways would corrupt him sooner than later.

Dunk falters at your touch, clearly unsure what to do now. He looks down at your hands briefly before clearing his throat. “You need to sleep somehow, m’lady.” An idea washes away his embarrassment as he tilts his head up to the sky. “Look up,” he says.

Your eyebrows furrow as you follow his gaze. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The stars,” he replies. “You can lose yourself in them instead of your thoughts.” He shifts slightly closer. “I’ve spent tons of nights on the road myself just staring up at the stars. Even when Ser Arlan told me to quit it.”

“Why?”

Dunk lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the faintest laugh in it.

“Because, despite the worries of future days ahead, the night sky always stays the same. No matter where you are.” He stops and turns his head to you. “Or who you're with.”

He could have sworn the purple sky illuminated you, that the stars shone down onto your frame. The silver light caught in the loose strands of your hair and traced the curve of your cheek. He could've stared at you for the rest of his life.

“So just look,” he finished.

Once you did, you could not turn away. A sight you had taken for granted every day of your life, stars you could barely see out of your tower at Summerhall. All shining for you like they were greeting you for the first time.

“So the stars all look this beautiful?” you beamed.

Dunk grinned at that. “Some more than others.” He pointed with his hand at a certain line of light stretched across the sky.

“That one there is the Crone’s Lantern,” he explains. “Ser Arlan used to say if you follow that one long enough, it’ll guide you through the darkest woods.” His finger moved again. “And those there, see the little cluster? Looks like a crown if you squint hard enough.”

You leaned slightly closer, squinting exactly as instructed.

“I do see it,” you murmured. “Though it may be a crooked crown.” You chuckled softly. “Most crowns are.”

He explained to you for what felt like a fortnight. Some stories he knew were likely wrong, half-remembered from Ser Arlan’s mutterings during long rides, but he told them anyway. About wandering stars, about sailors who used them to find their way home, about knights who once swore oaths beneath certain constellations. The two of you went back and forth in each other's company. He still lent his ear to hear your troubles even though he had no obligation.

“You're so.. knowledgeable, my knight,” you smiled.

Dunk shook his head immediately. “That is too high praise, m’lady. I just try my best.”

“You remember quite a lot for someone who claims not to know much.”

“Well,” he mutters sheepishly, “when you spend enough nights sleeping in the dirt, you start memorizing the sky whether you mean to or not.”

Your mind spoke before you did. “Your best is more than any woman could wish for.”

His breath hitches in his throat. Dunk suddenly lies back down with little grace, as if trying to bury himself in the ground. So the two of you moved from sitting up to sitting flat on the ground. Still watching the stars.

After a while, you let out a soft yawn, bringing your hand to your mouth. “And it seems you have tired me out.”

Dunk smiles. “Then my mission is complete,” he says quietly. “Now I hope you dream well, m’lady.” Then he closed his eyes. Dunk’s body once again began to grow tired, until he noticed you. Still awake, and looking up.

Your voice came softer this time, almost lost to the quiet of the forest. “I have seen and accomplished more with you than in my years on this planet. What does that say about me?”

“It says,” he says slowly, “there is far more left to see.”

You return to him then, slowly moving yourself until you're practically lying on top of him.

He gasps, trying to stay as still as possible. “M’lady!” he exclaims under his breath.

“I’m going to be selfish tonight,” you murmur, already settling against him. “As you are mine. So I will lay as such.”

You settle comfortably on him; he was as warm as a fire with triple the body mass. Despite training, despite living on the road, he was soft as a kitten. Your cheek pressed against his chest, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart thumping beneath his ribs. Dunk freezes for a moment, unsure what to do with arms that suddenly have somewhere to go.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asks awkwardly after a moment.

“Very.”

“That’s… good,” he says. Without protest, he allowed you to continue. Slowly, carefully, he shifts one arm around you, more to keep you from sliding off than anything else. His chin rests on top of your head. He looked at the stars and then at you while continuing to tell facts about the night sky.

His voice grew softer as he spoke. “And that one there… Ser Arlan always said it meant fair weather,” he murmurs.

You were asleep only minutes later. He hadn't known you before to snore, but tonight you did softly. Dunk smiles faintly at the sound, until slowly he fell asleep to the smell of your hair. It was almost walnut-ish

Egg found you two curled up on the marrow in the early day light; the two of you looked entirely unaware of the world. He stopped for a moment, hands on his hips, squinting thoughtfully at the sight. “Hm,” he muttered to himself. Then he quietly gathered his boots and slipped away without waking either of you.

He had a mission himself.

You only awoke when he accidentally made a large boom. Hands running to your dagger without a second thought, the Valyrian steel almost slicing your own palm in the process.

“Egg!” You called out.

The boy froze, turning slowly as if he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Good marrow, my lady..”

You took in his look, the way his hands slid to Dunk’s sword, and how he had already gotten the man’s horse ready to leave. “Where are you going with Thunder?”

“We are going to train for the tourney,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“I applaud your efforts, don’t misunderstand, but don’t you think you should tell Duncan you’re taking his horse?” You gestured to the sleeping man you were still next to.

Egg pouted slightly. “We’ll only be gone a little while, promise.” You had no reason not to believe him; his heart was always in the right place, if a bit misguided. And after yesterday, he seemed eager to prove himself even more.

The boy gave you a look only the cruelist of sister’s could resist.

You sighed and glanced at Dunk as if seeking his counsel. “I’ll let him know when he wakes, go ahead.” The boy did not waste a second before seizing the man’s sword and scuttling off deeper into the woods.

Your hands pressed timidly against his chest. “Dunk…” you whispered. No response.

You chose to let him sleep. After the strain and nerves that came with entering the lists, it felt like the least you could do. So instead, you got up and spun around. What to do? You were hungry to say the least. But your stomach twisted at the thought of salt beef. If you were a better person, maybe you would know how to make something. Alas, you had no idea.

But you slowly came up with another idea.

Your skills that left much to be desired would not stop you from spending a bit of your coin on Dunk. No matter how much he might grumble about it later. And if you purchased food, it would give everyone the chance to break their fast properly, to begin the day with full bellies.

You found comfort in the thought as you set off.

The market square was quiet at that early hour, the kind of stillness that came before the day truly began. Most of the vendors were only just setting up their stalls, arranging baskets, and hanging cloth awnings while rubbing sleep from their eyes. Despite the calm, the air felt heavier than it should have been. Something unseen pressed down between the rows of stands as it refused to lift.

It was the vendors, all gossiping. Low whispers slipped through the square that drew your attention, no matter how hard you tried to ignore them. As you passed by, the snatches of conversation reached your ears, but they were never complete enough to make sense of.

From what you heard, it started with a couple of lords fighting. Then a royal scandal. You could only roll your eyes as you thought of who in your family created the next big news. Each rumor shifted as quickly as it appeared, reshaped by every mouth that carried it onward. Whatever truth they started from no longer mattered. You stopped near a stall of restless geese, their loud honks masking your presence as you continued listening to the next scandal.

“Aye, it’s true,” an old woman in blue said, her voice tight with worry.

“Do you think she was taken?” a younger woman asked, eyes darting toward the stalls.

“Who knows? The prince can’t keep track of his two missing sons. How’s he meant to watch a princess?”

You sucked in a sharp gasp. Surely they weren’t speaking of you. Only when leaning in closer did you catch the whole truth of it.

“But I don’t believe it,” a man muttered, lips pursed. “She was all the way in Summerhall. How did no one see her?”

“Wasn’t she meant to come here? With her family?” the young woman pressed.

“That’s what I heard. Seems not,”

“The eldest daughter of the Anvil,” another man said, shaking his head, “the king’s favorite grandchild, yet she’s barely seen at court. Why would this time be any different?”

Your heart dropped.

They never spoke of you like this; usually, they never lingered beyond titles and half-remembered facts, but truly, how would you know what they would say? Every careless word felt loose enough to travel, to find its way back to people you had fled from. Had the castle attendants only just come to terms with your leaving and begun letting it slip into quiet conversation?

“I hope she’s all right,” the young woman whispered, brow furrowed.

“She’s just another sack of blood for those vipers to intimidate us with,” a snotty woman snapped.

No one seemed to disagree.

“Miss?” The goose seller’s voice startled you, his face drawn in mild concern.

You swallowed and forced your expression into something pleasant. “Three eggs, please,” you said, praying your voice sounded steady.

After an awkward encounter over eggs, you steadied yourself once again and headed to a baker’s stall for loaves of bread. But the whispers were louder and misguided there.

“Father,” a girl asked, tugging at the baker’s sleeve. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. “Is the princess a spinster?”

“No, no,” he replied loudly, handing over the loaf. “She’s still young. Just… unlucky in the marriage department.”

The girl frowned, studying the subject far too closely. “But five marriage prospects, all ending before the wedding? That’s more than bad luck,” the girl said, almost smug. “Will I end up like her?”

“Not if you do as you’re told,” he added firmly. Your fingers tightened around the bread. For a moment, you nearly dropped it. The two of them turned to you in annoyance as if they weren't just speaking proudly about business that had nothing to do with them. You gave them a tight smile as you walked away.

The sound of people talking still trailed after you.

“What if she were here right now? For the tourney?” another woman asked her friend, alarmed.

“A princess,” the other woman hissed, lips tight, “walking among us like… as she belongs, don’t be daft.”

The first nodded back. “Just the thought of it feels wrong. The blood of kings… among market folk. A Targaryen should not be out here, should not touch our streets. It unsettles me. What if she brings trouble?”

“All I know is, I would not want her near my stall,” the second replied, voice slightly shaking.

They had the strength to say that, yet smiled at you when you walked past.

You did not stop walking until the sounds of the market dulled behind you. Only then did you slow, fingers tightening around the bread until the crust cracked softly beneath your grip. The truth settled in with an unpleasant clarity: they had always spoken of you like that. These strangers carried your name more easily than those who truly knew you ever had.

“My lady!” A woman's voice called out; it was Tanselle. She rushed over to you with haste, her blue coverup swishing in the wind with every step. “You were with the knight? Ser Dunk?”

“Yes?” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your stomach twisted.

Her eyes flicked to your face, and she paused mid-step. “Are you… all right? You look troubled.”

You hesitated, then found yourself blurting out the question that had been nagging at you since the whispers in the market. “Have you… have you heard about the princess? How she could be here among us?”

Tanselle raised an eyebrow; she was more confused than anything else. “Yes, word spreads fast, but if I may, why are you asking about the princess?”

“Everyone… everyone either hates her or is scared of her.” You look down while saying that.

Tanselle’s gaze softened as she crouched slightly to meet your eyes. “I think we all have our flaws and things we’re afraid of,” she said gently. “The royals, especially the princess, are no different than anyone else. We all bleed the same blood, no matter our skin or our station. That goes for you, too, my lady.”

Your shoulders that had been tense for so long loosened slightly, and a shaky exhale escaped your lips. You blinked once, twice, feeling some of the tight knot in your stomach unwind, just enough to make the fear less suffocating. For a fleeting moment, the weight of being… other, of being judged, seemed to lift.

“Could you tell him his shield will be done before eveningfall?” Tanselle asked, gesturing toward Dunk’s camp.

“Of course.” You tried to let your smile hold. “I’ll let him know.”

Tanselle’s smile bloomed; it was warm enough to make the wind seem lighter. “Thank you.”

And just like that, she was gone, hurrying back into the bustle of the market, leaving you with a momentary sense of calm and a reminder that kindness could still exist even here.

But it only lasted near her. Then your mind started to drift back to the words of others.

Spinster.

Unlucky.

Ideas that you would only bring hurt.

That wasn't you, that was the title of a princess. Five betrothals, five almost endings. But these people didn't even understand half of it; you never chose those men. Even your own father did not understand that your hatred of marriage only stemmed from not being able to pick for love.

But you couldn’t bring these feelings back with you; instead, you had to push them down and hope you didn’t explode.

“Where were you?” The startling voice of Dunk made you jump. He was awake, but he did not look good; he was pale, as if he had been throwing up.

“Are you okay, ser?” You asked, trying to ignore the topic of the market.

He frowned at your words. “I asked you a question.”

You sighed. “I went to get some things to break our fast, just bread and eggs.” You tried your best to sound ecstatic, but now eating was the last thing on your mind.

He raised an eyebrow. “What were you planning on doing with eggs and bread?”

“I am not sure...” you trailed off. You didn't want to say out loud the fact that you have no idea how to make anything, fearing that if that news broke out, it would just be another royal stereotype waiting to be thrown at you.

“Don’t go off by yourself next time, wake me.” His voice is firm, but concern threads it.

You force a short, humorless chuckle. His words press on you, heavier than they should. Just like every other voice that ever measured you by title, by size, by actions. “Why?”

“It’s dangerous on your own,” he says, as if stating a fact you already know.

Like he was portraying you as... as a princess.

You set the eggs and bread beside the fire pit without replying. Then the words slip out meaner than you intend: “I am fine on my own. No need to worry.”

“But I do. You’re vulnerable, and you look shaken,” he insists. “What happened at the market?”

You stiffen, heat rising. Whatever he means, he won’t understand. “I am not vulnerable. Whatever I feel or do, it’s nothing of your concern.”

“Really? You’re here under my watch, and it’s none of my concern?” His tone intensifies, voice rising higher.

“No one assigned you that task, Ser.” You hang your satchel on your horse, creating distance where words cannot.

Dunk’s hand pauses over his stitching. He rises slowly to close the horrid space between you. “I’m not asking because I was assigned. I care if something happens to you. Especially after what you said last night.”

Care and judgment blur together in your mind as the feeling of defending rather than listening takes over. You bite out, “If caring means watching me like a liability, then don’t dress it up as kindness. I have survived worse than a morning market.”

“Really?” He looked astonished. “How?”

“What are you trying to say?” You raised your voice slightly.

“You say you’re fine on your own,” Dunk grits, “but from the looks of it, you don't know how to cook. You had no idea how to make a proper fire. You would get rattled around your horse, and you still seem to have no concept of spending. And that’s just what I’ve seen.”

Every word lands like a weight pressed against your skull. You meet his eyes at last. “You think that was a choice? I wasn’t raised to take care of myself, and I was never meant to beg for scraps like a hedge knight.”

Dunk goes still. You go still. The words settle between you, impossible to take back.

Something inside you folded inward when your shoulders drew in, and your gaze slipped away from him, as if you had no fight left. Dunk remembered this look from when the two of you just met, a runaway and a knight with no purpose.

You retreat elsewhere, a place he thought he could not follow. He opened his mouth, then stopped. He did not know what to do. Pride told him not to chase. Instinct told him to fix it, without knowing how.

That was when the sound of hooves and hurried footsteps broke the silence. Egg stepped into the clearing with Thunder’s reins looped loosely in his hand. He slowed when he saw your faces, his expression shifting from cheerful to uneasy.

“Where were you?” Dunk asked, his voice had no steam left.

“Training,” Egg stated. “I told her to tell you.”

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Really? So everyone is just leaving by themselves now?”

“I didn’t even get the chance to tell you yet, before you decided to come at me!” you exclaimed, frustration flaring as you gestured to your chest.

Dunk paused, clearly at a loss, then he turned back to Egg. “Go brush Thunder, he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge.”

But that did not resolve anything. Neither you nor Dunk softened as you parted ways; the argument still simmered unbroken. Egg shifted uneasily beside Thunder, wishing for an invisible escape hatch.

Dunk watched with a frown as he saw you pick up your things. “Where are you going now?” He called out as he saw you start toward the woods.

“To go do something,” you replied over your shoulder. “Washing my clothes can’t be too hard a task for vulnerable people like me, right?” Then you walked off.

Dunk cursed under his breath and went back to sit under the tree. Fingers attaching themself to his sewing equipment. That was the only thing left he could do without losing his mind.

Egg noticed, of course, as he brushed down Thunder. He looked up at Dunk. “What are you doing? Is that not my job?”

“Do you know how?” Dunk grumbled. When Egg shook his head, Dunk let out a long, frustrated sigh. The two of you could still not equal one person with skills on the road.

He still beckoned the boy closer. “Come on, I’ll show you.” Because he was not a man of blame, especially when he could teach, he was just frustrated, that's all. But now he was scared you would never speak to him again…

The two of them fell into a steady quiet rhythm, stitching back and forth, while you wandered down to the small man-made lake nearby.

You sank to the ground at the edge of the lake with your knees drawn close. Your fingers pressed into the damp grass when a shiver ran up your spine.

“What happened?” Egg asked, breaking the silence.

Dunk’s voice was low and still rough around the edges. “I do not even know.”

“But you know how you feel?” The boy led on.

“All I know is… I care. Seeing you two not whole, not calm, and not close to me, it’s not something I can accept.” Dunk’s words faltered, heavy with a truth he couldn’t name.

Egg tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “That may be the case, but your leaving a part out. You care for her in a deeper sense than you do for me.” He let the pause hang, letting the truth settle between them.

Dunk wheezed, caught off guard. “What?”

“Oh, please,” Egg said, cutting him off. “Look at yourself. You would move heaven and earth for her. You stay close to her, flinch whenever she speaks, and get flustered at the smallest thing. You do not feel that way for just anyone.”

Egg’s eyes softened. “You need to show her how much you care. She is blind to her own feelings and yours.”

For a long moment, Dunk simply stared, the usual glow in his eyes tempered by uncertainty. Then the corners of his mouth lifted into a tentative, almost sheepish grin. “How did a boy like you get so wise?”

Egg shrugged, still focused on his patchwork. “It does not take a maester to see it. You two are very obvious.”

The cold bit at your fingers as you scrubbed at the fabric, working dirt and sweat from the seams of your blue dress and cloak. When you leaned closer, the water caught your face. At first, you barely registered it; it was just a pale blur. Until the light shifted, then your breath caught. Your hair color was fading rapidly. The cursed rain and bathing in the lake worked just like you predicted days ago.

Closer to snow than earth.

You should scream. Just as word spread about your arrival, your disguise was unraveling. The gods truly picked you for their amusement. The last permanent mark that will always haunt you, no matter if you wear plain dresses and venture on the roads. You pulled back from the water, your fingers curled into the damp fabric of the brown dress you wore as if it might anchor you.

Your silver hair was the only thing that lasted; everything else was temporary. Every day that you spend here is borrowed from the fire. As you return to your washing, you try to push it into the back of your mind once again. Your hands moved more quietly now with movements more careful. That was when you felt him before you heard him.

Dunk stopped a few steps behind you. He did not speak right away. He just stood there, awkward and uncertain, as if afraid the wrong word might undo what little peace was left.

“M’lady,” he said finally, softly. “I’m sorry.”

You stilled but did not turn.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued. “I didn’t say it because I think less of you. I said it because I can see you’re struggling, and I didn’t know how else to help without overstepping.”

You looked at him then. He seemed smaller somehow, shoulders rounded, gaze earnest and worried. The apology sat plainly on his face, without pride or excuse. When you don't respond, he takes it as a sign to sit down and level with you.

“It is all right,” you said after a moment. “ I took it too far.”

He shook his head gently. “Do not blame yourself for what you were never taught to do. Your family seems… daft.”

A breath of a smile escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes. Yes, they are.” Then, more quietly, “But I do not need them. I have you.”

“Aye, as I have you.” He replied.

The words surprised you as much as him. But neither of you took them back. Then once again you stared at each other.

You hesitated, then asked, “Do you have something I could borrow while this dries?” Your brown dress was soaked through, heavy, and clinging uncomfortably to your skin since you had to bend over a lake.

He flushed faintly and nodded. “I suppose my shirt will do.”

He turned away as he pulled it over his head, revealing pale skin and a spectacular physique from moons of being a Knight. You physically had to stop yourself from looking as you moved to hide by a tree, trying to make a bit of privacy to change.

Your fingers brushing fabric that smelled like smoke and leather and him. When you stepped out again, the shirt nearly swallowed you. It draped to your ankles, sleeves covering your hands, ridiculous and unmistakably his.

Dunk looked up, then immediately looked away.

The sight struck him harder than he expected. The way the shirt hung on you. The way you moved in it as though it were nothing at all, as though you belonged in his things. He busied himself with the fire, with anything, but his eyes betrayed him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet was thick, not uncomfortable, just full.

Then Egg appeared, squinting at you. “My lady, it looks like you are wearing a potato sack.”

Dunk turned sharply. “Do you want a clout in the ear?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Egg. I meant it.”

As your clothes dried on a tree branch that Dunk had reached for to hang for you, you listened to Eggs' excitement about the new food. Then the three of you sat around the fire as Dunk taught you how to cook eggs.

“Like this,” he demonstrated, cracking an egg against the rim of the iron pan. The shell gave way easily, and the yolk slid free before settling onto the heated metal with a quiet, almost satisfying sound. You tried to conceal how taken you were by something so simple. Dunk noticed anyway.

“Now you try.”

You grabbed one of the huge goose eggs with a fear of breaking it. Placing it on the other side of the rim of the pan. With two giant knocks, the egg split open, and you felt yourself close to letting out a sigh of relief.

Dunk smiled, “Perfect. Now you, Egg, try cracking the third one.”

The boy wrapped his small hands around the final egg, nearly dropping it, before mimicking your motions and letting the yolk fall into the pan.

“Yours could use some work.” The man teased. Egg sat there with furrowed brows and a mouth agape at his words.

Still, the two royal siblings had learned the small but satisfying skill of cracking an egg.

Both of you watched as Dunk stirred the pan with his knife, blending the yolks and whites to create a creamy dandelion color. Then slowly, the liquid hardened into something edible. That's when Dunk cut open your loaves with ease and scooped portions of egg between two halves of the bread. Creating giant sandwiches filled with fluffy eggs for the three of you to eat. By comparison, each egg sandwich was almost the size of Egg’s head.

Returning to the tourney grounds felt like slipping past unseen hands, like you were evading capture by sheer luck alone. You chose not to tell Egg what you had learned. The boy already carried more than enough on his narrow shoulders, and adding to it would have helped no one. You had already slipped by letting the early morning vendors see you. It would not happen again.

Dunk did not question why you were so thoroughly covered. It was a cold day in his mind. Your hood sat low and awkward on your head, completely covering your hair and forehead. The fabric chafed as you moved, increasing your level of annoyance.

Instead, Dunk fell into easy conversation with Egg about how he would not be able to put his name on the list that day. He was not a knight of great renown, nor of noble birth, and the realization stung more than he wanted to admit. At first, disappointment gnawed at him, quickly giving way to restless eagerness. The desire to prove himself to everyone, to you, ached in his soul. Eventually, he made peace with it, deciding that taking you both to see the opening joust would be enough for now.

The joust itself dragged on far longer than you expected. Had Dunk not kept a steady grip on you, you might have dozed off where you stood. It was the roar of the crowd, waves of cheers crashing again and again, and the constant movement and chatter of the men packed in close beside you that kept your eyes open. Forcing you to stay present as lances splintered and horses thundered past.

When it was finally over, the three of you placed yourselves on the grassy hilltop overlooking the grounds. You lay on your back listening to Dunk and Egg converse. Only then did you allow your hood to come off. You caught only bits and pieces of their conversation as sleep slowly claimed you.

Egg sat with his knees pulled to his chest. “I return a war hero,” he said dreamily, “and he gives me land of my own. And the hand of his most beautiful daughter.”

Dunk lay on his side, pride swelling in his chest at the boy’s words. The childlike certainty in Egg’s voice soothed him, and there was something comforting in how easily the boy shaped his future into a fairytale.

“But he would not forget about you, Ser,” Egg added.

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And whose hand would I get?”

“The most beautiful person you know,” Egg said simply.

Dunk sighed. It was only a fantasy. He was a hedge knight, and he had to hammer that truth into his skull no matter how tempting the dream.

Egg looked at him as though he wanted to say more, but a voice called up from the base of the hill, beckoning Dunk away. When the man rose and left, Egg was left alone with his thoughts and you resting quietly at his side.

When Dunk finally returned, there was a distant look in his eyes, gears clearly turning from whatever the man below the hill had told him. He barely spoke before it was time for the next tilt.

This time, you felt more awake, more alert. Your attention sharpened as you waited to hear which knight would be announced next, eyes scanning the grounds with quiet anticipation. That sense of readiness vanished the moment you reached the front of the fence.

Your smile fell as soon as the herald raised his voice.

“Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

Brightflame. The name alone made your jaw tighten. A useless nickname, one your elder brother had forced into use through sheer insistence. It was ridiculous, but then again, so was he. An excuse for a man.

You watched with hardened eyes as Aerion rode into the lists. His armor caught your attention immediately, impossible to ignore. It was as obnoxious as its wearer, fashioned to resemble black dragon scales, complete with a dragon-shaped helm that gleamed in the light. You could not help but wonder how much begging and pestering it had taken for your father to allow such a commission.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but you offered only the barest claps as Aerion paraded across the court. He reveled in the attention, even bringing a drummer to announce his presence, as if steel and skill alone were not enough to make him appear fearsome. At last, he turned his gaze toward the royal box, clearly seeking your father’s approval for the spectacle he had crafted.

The seat was empty. To miss his son’s own tilt could only mean one thing. He was out there somewhere, searching for Egg, searching for you.

Aerion tried to shake it off, forcing himself to focus on picking his opponent, but you could see it lingering in his mind as it gnawed at him. He never knew how to handle it when things did not go his way, and this was no different.

There were three major opponents he could have chosen. The first was his cousin, Valarr. But he was not foolish enough to challenge his own blood, not when the boy’s father held the title of Hand of the King. No matter what he might have thought of their shared brown locks and mismatched eyes, the risk of family politics and wrath from his father was too great.

Instead, your brother shrugged and called it not embarrassing his cousin before moving on to the next choice. Finally, he named Humfrey Hardyng, a knight of growing renown due to his feats in the lists so far.

The three of you exchanged glances at his selection, but Dunk did not know your brother’s temper as you and Egg did. This match was going to be dangerous, possibly dirty. You stepped back slightly as everyone started clapping, a show of courtesy as the men positioned themselves on opposite ends of the arena.

Then it began. Both men surged forward, horses pounding, lances leveled. You tried not to suck in your breath as they closed the distance, inch by inch, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Egg shouted suddenly, and you and Dunk turned to him, startled. He was not far off, but his excitement needed tempering. Shouting for someone to kill a prince was not a good omen for anyone. You placed a gentle hand on his back, soothing him, reminding him that caution mattered more than fury.

As the lances neared, Aerion cowered at the last moment, and the crowd gasped in frustrated anticipation. Ser Humphrey nearly toppled from his mount, caught off guard by the prince’s sudden withdrawal. Murmurs of disapproval rose at first, and soon the crowd began to boo. This was the kind of arena where even the royal family could not shield its members from honest opinion.

Ser Humphrey, however, did not falter. He turned his horse around, demanding another lance, and readied himself again. You gripped the fence with wide eyes, trying to anticipate what Aerion would do next.

Dunk saw it before anyone else. “He’s… he’s too low,” he said.

The truth hit you at the same time. Aerion’s lance was aimed not at the knight, but at the horse. He drove it deep into the animal’s neck, the steel piercing through with a sickening squelch, blood pulsing as the horse screamed in terror and pain. You stumbled back, hands covering your mouth, horrified. The crowd around you reacted in shock and disgust, some gasping, others frozen in disbelief.

The horse spun wildly and thrashed, unable to remove the lance lodged in its neck. It finally collapsed onto its side, throwing Ser Humphrey violently against the ground. Not only was his leg crushed under the weight of the animal, but the impact left him dazed and bleeding.

Dunk looked down, his expression grim. Egg could not look away, transfixed by the violence, and you hovered somewhere between horror and disbelief. Even Baelor, seated in the royal box, had grimaced, unable to watch the brutal scene unfold.

Aerion was not done flaunting. He rode over on his horse, blissfully ignorant of the man and horse screaming in such pain. Instead, he lifted his helm and broke into the closest thing to a smile he could muster. The crowd grew restless, their cheers replaced with shouts of anger and disbelief. They shook the fence violently, threatening to tear it down under their weight.

“Another bastard acting Targaryen!” an old woman called, her voice sharp and accusatory.

A man climbed on the shaky fence, took a huge rock, and chucked it at the prince’s head. It landed with such precision, you were sure Aerion would find the man later and kill him. It struck his helm with a clang, forcing him to flinch. The mob took it as their sign to surge forward, men and women alike vaulting over the deteriorating fence, pushing past any knight or guard who tried to stop them.

Someone behind you shoved you to the ground, trying to join the fray, but Dunk was quick, lifting you into his arms. The shouts of nobles and royals filled the air, voices rising over the chaos, demanding control over what had quickly become a near bloodbath. There were not enough knights to contain the mob without reinforcements, but eventually, more Kingsguard arrived, forming a fragile barrier to keep the crowd at bay.

Even the barrier could not prevent every blow. Fists flew, blood splattered, and curses rained down on Aerion, who remained seemingly unfazed.

Dunk had seen enough. He let you stand on your own and urged Egg forward, though you could not tear your eyes from the scene entirely. You saw the final act, a man delivering a fatal strike to Ser Humphrey’s horse, piercing its heart, making the pitiful sounds of the animal finally stop. It was a merciful but gruesome end to its suffering.

That sight finally propelled you into motion. You stumbled forward a few steps on your own, the mud sucking at your boots, the rain plastering your hood to your forehead. Dunk and Egg had moved ahead, but in the press of chaos and the noise of the storm, you found yourself entirely alone. A hollow panic gnawed at you.

You called out, your voice cracking, “Dunk!” but the rain swallowed it instantly, scattering it across the empty air. There was no answer, no echo, only the relentless patter of water and the distant, fading screams of the crowd.

Even if no one knew who you were, you felt their eyes. Faces blurred by rain and motion, strangers pressing past you or stepping aside, yet you could feel the weight of them, sharp and cold, staring. They whispered in fragments, murmurs you could not piece together, and you imagined their fear or hatred aimed at you. They stared, they recoiled, and you could feel their judgment pressing in from every side.

Your family, your own blood, answered back in ways that made it worse. Their presence, their poised approval of the chaos, the way they leaned into power and cruelty, made it clear that any compassion or mercy had been deliberately abandoned. You were not protected, you were a spectacle, and everyone around you knew it.

Your chest tightened. You were lost, not just in the storm of people and mud, but in yourself. Everything you thought you knew about who you were, your place in your family, your place in this court, even your own sense of strength, felt unmoored. The walls of the lists, the royal banners, the shouting lords and spectators, pressed down on you in a way that made the world feel impossibly large and alien.

You were Y/n, and yet you felt like no one knew you, like the name you carried had no meaning here, like you were nothing but a shadow running through mud and rain.

Every direction looked the same, gray and wet and endless. You wanted to collapse, to let the world swallow you, to vanish from everything, to escape the weight of your family’s hold.

The wind tugged at your wet cloak, the rain stinging your eyes, blurring the ground ahead. You called Dunk’s name again, a desperate whisper this time. Maybe he could hear you, maybe not. It did not matter. The sound vanished into the storm. You were alone, drenched, and more than physically lost. You were untethered, untangled from the life you had known, and the court that had always seemed so grand now felt like a cage you did not belong in.

Dunk was losing it. He had a young boy next to him, a boy who had seen far too much today, horrors that would stay with him long after the day ended. Dunk’s chest tightened as he tried to steady himself, but the rain did little to hide the trembling in his hands or the panic clawing at his stomach.

And then there was you. Dunk had no idea where you were, and the thought gnawed at him. You were alone, scared, soaked to the bone, with no clear direction and no anchor in the chaos. Every second without seeing you made his stomach twist. He shouted your name again and again, voice cracking each time, only for the rain to swallow it. He was supposed to be keeping Egg safe. He could not leave the boy, and yet he could not reach you. He was failing, failing at being a friend, failing at being a knight, failing at keeping anyone safe in this storm.

As he saw you, a dark figure in the gray blur of rain and mud, moving unsteadily but still moving forward, his eyes widened in alarm and relief. Egg tugged at Dunk’s sleeve, voice urgent, nearly lost to the wind. “There, she’s there!”

Dunk’s heart lurched. You were just a figure at first, but as he focused, he saw your face. It mirrored his own.

You called out, your voice cracking with exhausted relief, “Dunk!” You forced yourself forward, following the shapes of familiar figures in the storm. Egg’s small, steady presence at Dunk’s side, Dunk’s broad shoulders tense with worry, every muscle taut with fear for you.

When you finally reached them, Dunk grasped your arms, pulling you into a careful, grounding hold. Egg’s small hand landed on your soaked cloak, steadying you without a word. The storm still raged, the screams and chaos echoing in the distance, but in that moment, a fragile relief settled over the three of a kind. You were not alone, not entirely. Not yet.

The three of you hid under a vendor’s stall, and when the weather began to clear slightly, you kept walking.

“That… that was a terrible sight,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “And it was no mishap.”

Dunk paused at your words, trying to piece together what you were saying. “Why would a pr—”

“Because he is evil. Because he can!” Egg shouted over the rumble of thunder, his small body trembling and eyes filling to the brim with tears.

Dunk put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, voice low and firm. “The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come.” He led you both toward somewhere warm, somewhere that might feel safe, Lord Baratheon’s tent.

Once inside, the warmth hit you like a small relief, but it did little to lift the weight of what you had just seen. As Dunk had predicted, there was another party underway, but you were nowhere near in the mood for celebration. The three of you sat at one of the tables, trying to exist in a space of calm, even for a single moment.

The tent offered little solace. Lyonel and the other lords danced and chanted a song about a girl named Alice, the noise and frivolity a harsh contrast to the chaos you had just escaped. Egg pressed against your side, burying his head into your damp clothes, seeking comfort and warmth. You sat rigid, eyes forward, letting more water run down your face. Each droplet washed away a little of your disguise and a little of your composure.

You ended up leaving once you were dry enough to keep going. By then, the mood of the grounds had lifted, but yours remained a steady, dull ache. Every corner and shadow seemed to hold the threat of something about to spring out at you, keeping you tense and alert.

Dunk continued next to you, clearly unsure how to soothe your restless mood. “Did you ever know your parents?” Dunk asked. His question was not directed at either of you specifically; he was simply trying to fill the silence, to open some small bridge between the three of you.

When Egg stiffened at the question, you responded. “My father more than my mother,” you said quietly.

“Most likely I saw mine hanged,” Dunk replied, voice low. “There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom. I used to sell them rats and carts and pigeons for brown. The cook there always said my father was some thief. If he had been as big as me, he would not have made a very good one.”

His words drew your attention, pulling you both out of your own headspaces for a moment. The stories were grim but familiar, reminders of how strange and heavy the world could be.

That was until Dunk froze mid-step, his eyes locking on the same man who had called him over earlier. The man sat near Lord Ashford on a bench, and Dunk gave him only a glance before continuing down the path.

“Is everything okay, Ser?” Egg asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, yeah. It is nothing,” Dunk said quickly, though his voice did not carry conviction. The man’s presence seemed to hold weight, some quiet authority, but Dunk chose not to speak further, his mind returning to keeping you both safe rather than explaining the unease he felt.

Before you could even startle, a woman appeared in front of the three of you. It was the same woman in all her purple mystic from the fortune teller tent of days past. This time, she appeared in a similar sense as you, her hood hung so low you could barely tell if her eyes were even open. She looked scary. You wondered if you appeared like that too.

“Say your fortune?” she asked Dunk, voice low and cryptic.

Dunk looked at her like he would look at anyone else, with a sense of wonder and respect. “Oh yeah. Go on, then.”

It did not even take her a second to prepare what she was going to say to him. “You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister.”

Dunk did not look too impressed. “Thank you. Now do the boy.” He nodded before answering.

The old woman set her sights on Egg. The boy was hopeful for a good reading, and he even smiled.

“You shall be king, and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”

The boy’s mouth hung open, fear imminent in his eyes. “What!”

You tensed. This was just a coincidence, right?

Dunk paused for a second before breaking out into laughing fits. “Oh my! Thank you, that is very good. And for the girl?”

“I already read her fortune. Fortunately, nothing has changed.”

He stopped laughing, turning to look at your pale face. The woman was gone before Dunk looked back. “And what did she tell you?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. “She… she said that I was going to end up in ruin,” you said quietly.

The man looked at your somber expression as well as Egg’s. “Oh, come on, you two should know better than to listen to her. It is all falsehood.”

You did not know better.

After all, that was the Targaryen way.

The three of you ran into Raymun, who had that same easy, infectious smile plastered across his face, just like everyone else, forgetting as quickly as the hardships around them.

“Ser Duncan! M’lady! And the squire!” he said as he ran over, a bit out of breath but smiling all the same. “How do you do?”

Egg gave a curt nod, already drifting past Raymun’s shoulder, eyes glued to something beyond him. “Good day.”

You smiled quickly at the apple man, then turned toward where he was looking. The puppet tent was filling once again, the hum of anticipation rising as people slipped inside in small groups. Laughter rang out here and there, as if the horrors of the morning had never happened at all. You knew the boy was itching for an escape, for something bright and simple to focus on instead of broken horses and screaming crowds.

“Will you three join me in my tent for a cup of cider? And some treats if you’d like,” Raymun offered eagerly, almost bouncing on his heels.

“Egg,” you called out, drawing his wandering attention back for just a moment. “Perhaps you could wait by the puppet show, and get Duncan’s shield from Tanselle when the show is over.” You addressed everyone, but your eyes lingered on the boy.

Dunk looked hesitant, the crease between his brows deepening. He clearly did not want to let the boy out of his sight, not after everything that had happened today.

Raymun let out an excited shrug. “We make it ourselves,” he said, as if that alone should settle the matter.

Egg looked between you and Dunk, hopeful but careful not to push his luck.

Dunk exhaled slowly. “Very well, run along, Egg,” he said at last. He trusted your judgment, especially after you said you would check on him later.

In a split second, Egg gave you a thankful glance before rushing toward the puppet tent, weaving between people with surprising speed. The boy nearly disappeared into the crowd, clearly hoping to secure a front-row seat.

You followed the very thrilled Raymun to his tent. It was a spacious room, filled with red cloth and candles that flickered softly in the dim light. The strong smell of warm apples filled the air so heavily it almost made your head spin, but it also made you relax just a bit. It felt warm in here, safe in a way the tourney grounds no longer did.

“Have you chosen an opponent yet?” Raymun asked Dunk as he poured you a mug of cider, the steam curling gently into the air.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Dunk replied, taking off his cloak and setting it aside. “Who does your cousin mean to challenge?”

“If anyone’s wounded on the morrow, I’m sure Steffon will be quick to knock on his shield.” Raymun rolled his eyes as he said it, the disdain he held for his cousin and his antics making you think back to Aerion immediately. “He’s about as chivalrous as a starved weasel.”

A man who relied on those same nasty tricks to get through life. It made your skin crawl that wherever he was right now, he was probably riding off the high of his “win,” grinning somewhere, moving on to cause chaos as if what he did today was nothing at all.

“M’lady, can I interest you in a red apple cookie or a green apple tart?” Raymun asked brightly.

It snapped you out of your thoughts.

“The apple tart. I’ve always preferred green apples,” you answered quietly. The response resonated with Raymun for a split second. You noticed it got easier for him to speak to you after that, like the simple preference had made you more real to him somehow. You bit into the tart, losing count of how many you had had since the tourney started. The sweetness spread across your tongue while you listened to Dunk’s words.

“I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite equally matched,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Raymun laughed. “Ah! A local favorite. You mean to play the villain.”

“I heard Aerion were in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horses,” he continued, lifting his cider.

“Serves him right,” you chime in, wiping crumbs off your face.

“Yeah, little comfort that will be to Ser Humphrey,” Dunk added quietly. “It looked as if he was going to carry the day.”

Raymun took a sip of cider before answering. “Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”

Dunk let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “M’lady and my squire believe Aerion meant to kill the horse.”

That made Raymun go quiet.

For a moment the tent felt smaller.

“He’s a monster. He’s done way worse. He will continue to do worse.” You chugged the rest of your drink, the cider suddenly tasting far too sweet.

“Just hard to accept that a knight… might be so dishonorable. Let alone a prince!” Dunk continued, shaking his head slightly.

Raymun shrugged. “Why is that hard?”

“It’s just—”

“They're incestuous aliens, Duncan!” Raymun raised his voice suddenly.

The words almost made you spit back up your drink.

“Blood-magicakers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs.” His voice grew sharper with each word, bitterness spilling out faster and faster. “Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us is madder than the last, gods knows how.”

Your face dropped with every overpronounced word he threw into the air.

“The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits.” He said harshly. “So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”

The chair scraped softly behind you. You stood up without realizing it.

Dunk called out your name, asking if everything was well but you did not hear him.

You curled your hands into fists as you stared down at Raymun, breathing harder than you meant to.

What are you doing?

Why are you reacting like this?

You held no sympathy for the life you left behind, yet here you were standing with anger burning in your chest.

“I’m… going to check on Egg,” you said quietly.

“M’lady! I did not mean to be so vulgar,” Raymun blurted out quickly, assuming that must be the reason.

Dunk tried to reach you, but you were already pushing out of the tent. He turned back to Raymun for a moment.

“I heard that part about the tits from Steffon,” Raymun said awkwardly. “I didn't mean it truly.” He sounded almost sad about making you leave.

When you fled back into the outside world, everything around you blurred just like it did in the rain earlier. The noise of the crowd felt distant and strange, like you were walking through water.

You moved slowly toward the puppet tent, slipping inside without causing a disturbance. The show had already started. Egg sat near the front, completely absorbed in the performance. Finally reaching him made your shoulders sag. The weight of everything pressed down all at once. You wanted to hunch over. To disappear. To slip out of consciousness entirely. It was too much. All too much.

“Look!” Egg pointed happily at the scene. It was Tanselle, dressed like a knight, even with a sword and shield. She circled a fire-breathing dragon, and you paused at its lifelike appearance. This scene would almost remind you of centuries past, in a world where your house used to be strong and mighty.

You could feel the shouts of the crowd as they yelled at her to kill the dragon. Your sign. Everyone hated you. You now understood. And it was not without its reasoning, just today your own brother making it seem like you were truly all mad. How do you even combat that? Were you mad? Is that why your life was going to end in ruin? Is that why you dreamt of everything coming to an end?

But instead of racing more, you thought back to Tanselle’s kind words from earlier. Even dressed in dark shades, she shone as a light in dark times. When she said that the royals were like everyone else, it made you feel less like your life was a sentence and more like an opportunity.

You were finally able to watch the play with your full attention.

Back in the tent, even though Raymun and Dunk laughed together, Dunk could not shake you leaving. But he knew you were just at the play, and that it would be okay to speak later.

“Aerion is all smiles and cheers as long as his father is watching,” Raymun said, leaning back comfortably where he sat.

Dunk sat across from him, elbows on his knees, turning his own mug slowly between his palms. “I saw Prince Maekar’s chair was empty,” he added after a moment. “In the royal box.”

“Aye,” Raymun nodded. “He left Ashford this morning.”

Dunk looked up at that. “Left?”

“To search for the rest of his misbegats.”

Dunk blinked, the unfamiliar word catching him off guard. “Misbegats?” he repeated slowly. “W-Which are those?”

Raymun took a casual sip of cider, completely relaxed as he explained. “His heir, Daeron, and the youngest boy. They departed Summerhall together a few days ago, but never reached Ashford.”

Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Never reached?”

Raymun shrugged like it was hardly worth worrying about. “Rumors are going around that the boys are dead.” He said it plainly, though there was a faint grin on his face, the way people sometimes smiled when sharing a scandal. “Though most likely Daeron, he’s probably just drunk again.”

Dunk let out a small, uncertain chuckle, though it did not carry much humor. The idea of princes wandering drunk across the countryside felt strange, even if he knew better than to think nobles were always noble.

Raymun leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on a table. “As for the girl,” he continued, “his eldest daughter is no longer at the castle.”

Dunk lifted his head.

“She was supposed to be riding in with her brothers and father here,” Raymun went on, speaking easily as if recounting common gossip. “But they had a big blow-up fight right before. Loud enough that even servants were whispering about it.”

He grabbed a tart, chewing thoughtfully.

“And then she was gone the next day.”

Dunk’s eyes widened.

“What?”

Raymun nodded as though confirming it again in his own mind. “Her bedchambers were empty. No note or anything. Just gone.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Probably ran away since her father was going to wed her to the beast Aerion.”

Dunk sat back a little in his chair, clearly trying to sort through that. Did he truly know the prince had an elder daughter? He had heard plenty about the sons. Daeron the drunken heir. Aerion with his temper. Even the youngest boy sometimes. But a daughter? His thoughts turned over uselessly.

“I heard she looks like a pig.”

Dunk blinked hard. “What?” he asked again, certain he must have misheard.

Raymun shrugged, completely serious. “Why else have I never seen her?” he said, as if the logic spoke for itself. “Targaryen’s do not hide. They do not cower. They flaunt.”

He leaned back again, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion he had reached.

“Therefore,” he finished simply, “she must look like a pig.”

Dunk just stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.

Raymun’s logic was plagued by the fact that he might not have been that smart. But as long as he believed his words, that was all that mattered.

“What? There have been ugly Targaryens before.” He tried to reason. “Little wonder Maekar has been walking around like someone pissed in his swan pie.”

“He is probably just worried about his children.” Dunk tried to make sense.

“Seven only know why!” Raymun looked disgusted. “Daeron is a sot. Aerion is vain and cruel and about to marry his little sister. The girl is so forgettable, I do not even know her name. The third boy is probably going to the Citadel to become a maester. The other two girls are probably still attached to wet nurses. And the youngest boy—”

“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come quickly.” Egg ran into the tent, pure terror evident in his eyes as he begged Dunk to follow him. “Aerion is hurting her!”

Dunk stood up with swiftness only a knight would have. “Hurting who?”

Dunk’s blood ran hot, and his body moved before his mind even caught up. One letter of your name was enough. He dropped the mug, sending cider sloshing onto the floor, and bolted out of the tent. The crowd around him became a blur of shouting and motion as he shoved past anyone in his way, knocking aside nobles, merchants, and spectators alike, heedless of the indignation and curses raining down on him.

Guards stepped in, trying to block him, but he ignored them, forcing his way through with the strength of sheer resolve and raw fear. Each second counted, and the thought of you in danger sharpened his movements into something almost animalistic.

When he finally reached the spot, the scene that met his eyes struck him dumb for a heartbeat, a mixture of shock and horror so intense it sent a tremor through his entire body.

You watched as the dragon performed the fire tricks Tanselle had shown you before, filling the room with a blaze so hot that you had to shrug off your cloak. The darkness and crowd made it easy to blend in, or so you tried to convince yourself.

The heat from the braziers licked across the low canvas roof, making the air waver like water. Shadows swayed across the tent walls as the puppets danced. Every cheer from the crowd seemed to roll through the packed bodies like a wave, carrying the smell of sweat, smoke, and cheap ale.

Egg cheered beside you, completely taken by the spectacle, his voice rising above the rest without shame. The little dragon twisted and leapt through rings of flame, the puppeteer’s strings almost invisible in the dim light. Its painted wings beat frantically as it dove and rolled, snapping at imaginary foes.

For a moment, the crowd laughed and clapped as if the world were simple again. As if kings, princes, and wars did not exist beyond the canvas walls. As if the world could truly be nothing more than firelight and painted wood.

Then the dragon died.

Tanselle’s hero struck it down in a dramatic flourish. The puppet knight raised his sword high before bringing it crashing down upon the beast. The dragon collapsed to the ground, its painted body spilling red confetti meant to look like blood. The bright scraps fluttered across the stage like falling petals.

The audience gasped, then laughed, delighted by the spectacle.

But instead of bowing, Tanselle froze. Her false sword slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the wooden boards. The movement was small, but in the sudden hush it sounded louder than it should have.

Very slowly, she turned toward the edge of the stage.

Toward him.

The shift rippled through the crowd before you even saw why. Bodies leaned aside. Heads turned. Someone near the front shouted, voice cracking with excitement and dread all at once.

“Prince!”

Aerion stood with his arms folded, his pale hair catching the firelight like silver thread. The shifting darkness of the room casted strange shadows across his sharp face, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the cold brightness of his eyes.

He had not laughed. He had not smiled. He had simply watched.

The murmuring of the crowd began to fade as he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Each footfall seemed heavier than the last, pressing down on the fragile cheer that had filled the tent only moments ago. The air thickened with something sour and expectant.

Egg’s cheer died in his throat.

If anyone in the audience had hoped for a spectacle, Aerion looked more than willing to give them one.

“So…” he said at last, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You wish to conquer the dragon?”

Tanselle’s hands trembled so badly the stage began to shake. “M-My prince…”

Aerion tilted his head, studying her as one might examine a curious insect trapped beneath glass. “What makes you think a dull creature like yourself could ever succeed?”

No one laughed. No one moved.

“The dragon never dies,” he whispered.

For a heartbeat his eyes seemed strange in the firelight, cold, reptilian, almost inhuman. The flames reflected in them like twin sparks trapped in ice.

Then he lunged.

The motion was sudden and violent. One moment he stood before the stage, the next he had vaulted onto it. His hand shot out, seizing Tanselle by the wrist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

“Please—my prince—!” She cried out as she struggled.

His other hand closed around her fingers. And began to bend one backward.

The crack was quick. Her scream was not. It tore through the tent like a blade. High and sharp and full of pain. The sound seemed to bounce off the canvas walls, amplified by the sudden silence of the crowd. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Not a breath, not a step, as if the whole tent had forgotten how.

You froze, only for half a second. The anger came quickly, burning hotter than the pretend flames. It surged up through your chest so fiercely that it made your hands shake.

This was Tanselle. Kind, harmless Tanselle. A woman who made children laugh with painted wood and scraps of cloth. And Aerion had twisted it into something ugly just to feel powerful.

You couldn’t allow it.

Egg grabbed your sleeve suddenly, his fingers small but desperate. “Wait—!” But you tore free before he could say anything else. His voice followed you for a step, then was swallowed by the crowd.

Your heart pounded so loudly you could hear it in your ears as you stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively, people shrinking away as if they feared being caught between you and the prince. Every step was a fatal mistake you could not take back.

Would your brother even recognize you? Would he care? It didn’t matter.

You were done being afraid of him.

“Put her down!” Your voice rang through the tent like a struck bell.

Aerion’s head snapped toward you. His eyes blinked once. Twice. Slowly, as if adjusting to the sight before him. Then he smiled.

“Well now,” he said softly. “I suppose the rumors are true.”

His gaze traveled over you slowly, taking in the plain dress, the dust on your boots, the cloak you had cast aside. “You traded your rubies for copper.” He chuckled under his breath. “I almost didn’t recognize you, little sister.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd as understanding dawned. Princess. Prince. The words passed between them like ghosts. Aerion released Tanselle with careless indifference. She dropped heavily to the stage boards, her body crumpling where it fell. She did not scream again, but her breathing came in ragged, frightened bursts.

“Quit now, Aerion,” you warned, stepping closer. Your hands curled slightly. Only the tremor in your chest betrayed how hard your heart was beating. “Before you do something else you regret.”

He laughed, it was low and cruel. “I don’t regret anything.” His eyes gleamed as he gestured vaguely toward the stage. “Why would I? This thing disrespected our house with… this excuse for amusement.”

“It was just a play!” you shot back. “You know it. Must the only pleasure you find come from hurting others?”

“The dragon will never lose, it's an insult to the crown itself.” he murmured again.

“No dragon exists here,” you said firmly. “You’re nothing more than a man pretending to be greater than you are.”

Someone in the crowd laughed. It was a foolish sound, nervous and far too loud. Aerion’s head whipped toward it instantly. His expression sharpened like a drawn blade and the laughter died at once, the man who had made it shrank back into the press of bodies as if hoping the canvas itself might swallow him.

Then Aerion turned back to you.

“Where is your respect, girl?” he asked harshly. “Perhaps your time among the unfortunate has changed you.”

“I see you for what you truly are,” you said, your voice low and cold. “A wannabe. Leave now, with your pretend tail between your legs.”

He stepped closer. “Or what?” His presence filled the tent like a gathering storm.

“Or… do you want a repeat of last time?” you whispered with false confidence. The words left your mouth before you could take them back, hanging between you like something fragile and dangerous.

For the briefest moment something flickered behind his eyes. Memory. Then his smile returned, sharper than before. “Tell me,” he said lightly, “what else have you given these people?”

His gaze slid slowly over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “Do you remain pure for our wedding? Father says it could be any day now.”

A murmur of shock passed through the crowd. “I would rather die than marry a filthy cheater,” you spat.

“That can be arranged,” he shrugged.

And just like that, his attention returned to Tanselle. He lunged again. This time his sword flashed from its sheath in one smooth motion. You moved before thinking, throwing yourself in front of her. Luckily he stopped before the blade could tear you apart but the steel hovered inches from your chest. Aerion’s eyes snapped back to you, fury blazing. He shoved you hard. The force sent you stumbling backward, the world tilting for a moment as the stage lurched beneath your feet.

“Do you think you can lecture me?” he snarled. “Do you dare stand in my way?” His fist came suddenly. Pain exploded across your face as the blow sent you crashing to the ground. The impact rattled your teeth and filled your mouth with the taste of copper.

The crowd erupted, surging toward the exit in panic. Shouts, screams, and the crash of overturned benches echoed off the canvas walls. Mothers clutched children, men shoved past one another, and cloaks and belongings tumbled in the chaos. The noise spilled into the tourney grounds, drawing every nearby head toward the tent.

But you pushed yourself up again. Your breath came uneven, sharp, but your body moved anyway, like it knew what to do before you did. The way someone does who has been hit before. Your fingers slipped inside your bodice and found the dagger hidden there. The familiar weight steadied you.

The sight even made Aerion pause as his gaze dropped to the blade in your hand. For a long moment he said nothing then he laughed. “A pathetic blade? Did you steal that from father?” he murmured.

Aerion stepped closer. Slowly. “Do you intend to kill me with that?”

You tightened your grip, though your hand trembled.

No one had moved.

No one had stepped forward.

Not for Tanselle.

Not for you.

It was all left to you. You just hoped that Egg wasn't there to see it.

Aerion leaned in slightly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Go on then,” he said. “Strike.”

Your heart thundered. This was a knight. A warrior trained since boyhood. You were just a girl with a dagger and shaking hands. Still, you raised the blade. But hesitated on how to strike, without warning he deemed your reaction too slow and decided to attack you instead.

“You will not interfere!” he roared as he swung his sword toward you.

This was it, you failed. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping whatever came would end quickly. Your grip tightened uselessly around the dagger, your arm refusing to move in time.

But the blow never landed.

Dunk surged forward with a force that seemed to make the very ground quake beneath him, eyes blazing with a storm. Every step was driven by raw desperation, the kind of fear that comes when a man is about to lose everything he holds dear. He grabbed Aerion’s arm mid-swing and twisted it with unyielding strength, then let his fist crash into the prince’s jaw. Once. Then twice. Then three times, each strike a brutal punctuation, until Aerion finally toppled, skidding across the ground like a ragdoll.

The sound of each hit echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the chaos.

Your thoughts were a haze of panic, yet instinct drew you toward Tanselle. You reached her in time to see the damage, the delicate bones of her finger crushed under the weight of Aerion’s aggression, blood seeping from every angle, painting the floor a deep, terrifying red.

“Princess…” she rasped, voice thin with pain.

“I’m so sorry," you cried, knees nearly buckling under the surge of guilt and fury. Why had it come to this? Why had the darkness in your brother’s heart spilled into your world?

A sound tore through the chaos behind you, the grunt of struggle and the snap of flesh meeting force. Dunk was grappling with a guard who tried to drag him off.

“Stop it!” you screamed, voice cracking with disbelief and command. “Can’t you see he’s not the aggressor?” Your words grew sharper, edged with authority. “Do you hear me? I order you to stop!”

But no one moved. These were men you had known all your life, yet in that moment, they acted as if you were invisible, as if your very presence could be dismissed. Their indifference cut deeper than any blade.

Dunk broke free with a roar that rattled the tent’s canvas. Aerion scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword, a pale glimmer in his bloodied hand. But Dunk’s reflexes were brutal and unrelenting when he kicked Aerion back into submission, sending him sprawling across the floor, spitting blood and gasping for breath.

He didn’t stop fighting, even when it was clear he couldn’t win like this.

Even then, it took five men to truly restrain Dunk. Their combined strength could hold him only so far; he strained, twisting, his muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes burning with fury. Aerion rose again, staggering, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the side of his face marred with red and dirt. He tried to muster a mask of bravery, but it was hollow, brittle, the kind of performance that disgusted anyone who had eyes to see it.

Dunk’s fists itched to strike again, to tear into Aerion for the vile insinuation, for the insult against you. But a part of him froze, then his eyes flicked toward you. You were crumpled on the floor, the panic and horror on your bruised face clawed at Dunk’s chest, but then a thought struck him with the force of a blow to the face. Did he… did Aerion just call you his sister?

The word hung there, heavy, suffocating. The fight in him stuttered, just for a moment, enough for the thought to take hold as his mind raced. Your bloodied dress, your solemn eyes, your pale hair… all those moments you shared that had seemed impossible to reconcile now snapped into terrible clarity. His heart hammered. You’re a princess. Not just anyone. A Targaryen.

Aerion’s lips curled, sharp and cruel. “She’s a traitor. I told father to ship her off years ago, and look what finally happened.” He turned toward you, eyes glinting with malice. “I hope you’re happy, girl. You’ve just condemned a man to die.”

You pressed closer to Tanselle, trying to shield her, to shield yourself, to make the world stop spinning. “Aerion, please, not him!” Your voice cracked, pleading, raw.

Your brother’s sneer deepened, twisting into disgust. “Don’t tell me you care for this man? Truly?” He chuckled, a sound without warmth, without restraint. “Father will love hearing of this.”

And then his gaze snapped back to Dunk, sharp, predatory. “Nothing to say? Fine.” He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “You’ve loosened one of my teeth, so we’ll start by breaking all of yours.”

“No!” you screamed, your voice tearing through the tent. “Stop it! You can’t!”

“Watch, sister,” Aerion said softly, mockingly, as though every syllable was a nail driven into your chest. “This is what happens when you disobey.” He signaled to the guards.

The men moved with deliberate slowness, pushing Dunk down, forcing his face to the stage. Mouth first, positioned cruelly beside you so that every movement, every sound would be unavoidable. Time seemed to stretch thin, each second dragging as you realized what they were about to do. You screamed until you could no longer, you sounded like a dying dragon more than a woman.

Your feet slammed against the ground as you tried to stand up and push your way towards him, but two more guards arrived to restrain you from reaching him. Forcing you to stay in place and watch as Dunk’s hands tried to push against the wood, but the weight of men and the rigid orders pinned him. He looked at you, his eyes wide, and for a moment the world narrowed to just that gaze, steady and unyielding, yet desperate.

Dunk, your Dunk, had thrown himself into the storm for you without hesitation , into the shouting, the crush of bodies, the kind of chaos that swallowed men whole. He didn’t hesitate because he was brave or foolish. He didn’t fight for glory. He fought because he chose you , you, out of everything else he could have walked away toward. And you realized with a sinking weight that pulled low in your stomach, cold and heavy, that it was your fault. You had cursed him not with your family name but with your own existence, with the path that led you to ruin , a path that dragged others down with it whether you meant it or not. If you had never been here, none of this would have happened.

You whispered his name, a sound half-prayer, half-confession , your throat tight, the word catching like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Dunk… I’m so-”

“No! Don’t touch him!” A small voice popped out from the background, sharp against the noise. It was Egg.

Dunk yelped out in desperation, hoping that the boy would just get out and leave before the same fate could reach him, before his choice could spread any further. “You stupid boy. Hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you.”

“No, they won’t.”

Raymun stood behind him, eyes budging at Dunk and your forms, taking in the blood, the disarray, the way neither of you looked straight.

“If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of my sister! Get off of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” Egg commanded the room just like your grandfather himself, his voice cutting clean through the tension, leaving no room for refusal. And to your surprise, they actually listened to him. Yet they had no care what you had to say, not your voice, not your struggle, not your place in any of this. You could almost scoff when the men let you go, pushing them away in rebellion, even as your arms ached from where they had held you.

Aerion gaped at the boy. “You impudent little rat, What’s happened to your hair?”

Dunk’s head was spinning, not only from the pounding in his head that throbbed behind his eyes, but also the confusion that came crashing in all at once. Egg was a Targaryen. You were a Targaryen. He had been harboring two of the royal blood, two people he trusted, two people who had said nothing.

Egg narrowed his eyebrows at the grown Targaryen, “I cut it off, brother. I didn't want to look like you.”

Aerion hummed, looking back at your disgruntled form, his gaze slow, deliberate, lingering where it shouldn’t. “Now you're confusing the youth, tricking him into your harlot ways.” He looked at you like you should be ashamed, like he expected you to be.

But everyone else in the room looked at you and Egg in awe, like you became something distant and untouchable, no longer just people, but something set apart.

Another guard broke through the crowd of onlookers and walked towards you. “Your Grace’s. I have a message from Prince Maekar. He seeks the Princess and Princes, and the capture of the hedge knight. Effective immediately.”

“No!” you shouted.

Before your eyes, they dragged Dunk away. His weight resisted for only a moment before it gave under their grip, his boots scraping against the ground as they pulled him back. He turned, even then, even now, his gaze finding you through the crowd.

You felt it, even from here.

That pull. That choice.

For a second, it felt like the rest of the room fell away, like it was only the two of you left in it. But you couldn’t tell what was in his eyes. Not from this distance. Not through the bodies between you. Whatever might have been there was swallowed by it all, leaving only the fact that he was looking at you at all.

And that was worse.

Because it could have been anything.

You couldn’t look back at him. You couldn’t meet those bright blue eyes, couldn’t risk seeing what might be there, or what might not be. Not after all of this.

Not when this was your doing.