It’s a grubby little century, isn’t it?

The morning air was thick enough to chew on, a heavy, damp gray that seemed to vibrate with the coming violence. It felt like an ending, final. Despite this your mind still lingered on the memory of last night’s vision. The ghostly sensation of warm breath and large hands still prickled against your skin like a fever. It left your thoughts in a haze of conflicting emotion.

When you dressed, you didn't reach for silk or satin. Today, you wore a sturdy tunic and dark, form-fitting breeches- practical and rough-spun. A silent rebellion, returning to something less tame. Not a house pet of the Targaryens, but a woman built from something older. Stronger. 

You were declaring a clear opposition in the best way you knew how. Aerion would always sneer at your unlady-like habits. Hunting- fishing- the rare escapades to the woods surrounding Summerhall, often with Aegon in tow. The things from home you still held close to your heart that no amount of refined court life could strip away. Born from the deep wilds of marshes and mountains, finally feeling the most like yourself you had in a while.

Dunk was standing by the gathered knights outside the gates, looking like a man awaiting the headsman's axe until he saw you. His mouth actually dropped open, his eyes traveling from your boots up to the way the trousers clung to your thighs and hips. 

You and Egg were already deep in conversation with the men who had answered the call. Egg had brought Lyonel Baratheon, but you had been the one to find Ser Humfrey Hardyng. He was bandaged and pale, but the fury in his eyes when you mentioned Aerion’s name was all the confirmation you needed.

“I can’t thank you enough, m’lady,” Dunk said, stepping toward you. The dread was coming off him in waves, but seeing you seemed to act as a relief. His eyes lingered on your legs, a flush creeping up his neck. You caught the stare and arched a brow, your split lip stinging as you smirked. 

“I don’t always wear skirts, hedge knight. Is it so odd for you to see a lady as such?” Dunk stammered, looking like he wanted to swallow his tongue. 

“To be fair, m’lady... you’re not like most I’ve met. But then again, I haven't met that many.” A laugh interrupted the moment. Lyonel Baratheon clapped a heavy, gauntleted hand on Dunk’s shoulder.

“My, you Northern girls!” Lyonel grinned, his eyes twinkling as he looked you over. 

“Even in my many travels, the haunted waters of your people have yet to be sampled. When this is over dear, would you by chance give me a taste to quench my thirst?" He bit his lip with a wicked grin, ever the charmer. Dunk looked ready to slug the Lord of Storm's End, but you beat him to the punch with your tongue. You didn't shy away. Instead, you stepped into his space and smacked the front of his breastplate with a sharp clang. Voice low and sultry.

“You keep this one alive,” you gestured sharply to Dunk, “and I won’t stuff and mount your cock like a prized boar.” Lyonel groaned.

“Fucking hells, princess. It’s like you know me.” You rolled your eyes and turned back to Dunk. The humorous atmosphere was short-lived, now replaced by the stark reality of the black-armored Princes and Kingsguard awaiting him. 

“Ser Duncan?” You reached into your pocket and pulled out a simple green silk ribbon. Dunk stared at it, his voice caught in his throat. You raised a brow at his silence.

“Well, go on, man!” Lyonel snickered. “Take the lady’s favor, you big oaf!”

Dunk nodded quickly, his hands reaching out for the length of fabric. You didn't give it to him, though. Instead you stepped in close- close enough to feel the heat radiating off him and grabbed for the rough rope at his waist that served as his belt.

As you tied the silk into a firm knot against the hemp, your fingers brushed the front of his sugarcoat. You remembered that flash of heat from the vision, but kept your face calm. His cheeks were a deep, dusty crimson by the time you pulled back.

“For luck,” you whispered.

You didn't wait for a reply. Turning you began the long walk to the stands, your retreating form a dark streak against the morning mist. You had done all you could. Now you had no choice but to watch and wait.

–

You sat in the stands with Egg, hands clenched tightly in your lap. Eyes wide with focus as the world below dissolved into a chaotic symphony of screaming horses and shattering wood.

It was horrid to watch. When the lance pierced Dunk's side and his shield splintered into tiny pieces, you felt your lungs constrict. You gripped the little prince’s hand for dear life, your thumb pressing into his palm as if you could anchor both of you to the earth.

Dunk was thrown. His body hit the mud with a chilling thud that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards beneath your feet. But then, the first spark of hope- Aerion was down, too. For the first time since the trumpets sounded, you let out a deep shuddering exhale.

Below, Dunk was a force of nature. He was swaying, blood-soaked and battered, taking hits from both Aerion and a still-mounted Maekar that would have unrooted a tree. Gods, the man knew how to handle a beating. When his sword hooked into Aerion’s thigh and the Prince let out that pathetic, high-pitched screech, you felt Egg lean forward beside you. There was a cold satisfaction in the boy’s eyes you understood all too well.

But the way Dunk was swaying caused a panic to rise in your throat. Aerion was yelling, crying out for him to yield. He fell to his knees, and Egg’s hand slipped from yours to grip the wooden beam in front of the box with white-knuckled desperation. You stilled when the giant slumped over, motionless in the churned muck of the field.

“Get up. Get up, ser Duncan,” Egg called out, his voice tiny against the roar of the crowd. Aerion shifted on his feet, a manic, bloody smile splitting his face as he turned to the stands. 

“He’s dead- It’s over!”

Your heart felt like it was clawing its way out of your chest. You leaned over the railing, finally finding your voice.

“Get up, ser.” You joined the boy beside you, pleading desperately for the man to move.

“Get up!” You were shouting, angry tears streaming down your face. Egg’s screams rivaled your own.

You looked at Lord Ashford as his horn was about to sound. This couldn’t be the end. The almost ear piercing wail the boy let out shook you to your bones.

“Wait!” You turned, eyes landing on the fallen knight.

The slumped form stirred. You gasped, a smile breaking out across your face. Dunk lifted from the mud, pulling himself from the ground slowly. Aerion turned, his visibly tired limbs shaking as he faced the mountain of a man again. The fight that followed was brutal, a slow-motion slaughter as Dunk flipped the Prince. He pinned him and brought Aerion’s own shield down on his helm until the metal bent in half. Tossing it aside, Dunk pulled open the visor- bringing his fists to his face with heavy punches. 

But then he stopped, looking around him. Slowly, Dunk stood, dragging the broken man by the leg to the front of the stands.

“Tell him. Tell him!” He had the prince by the arms, pinning them against his back. Aerion shook on tired legs, face covered in blood.

“I withdraw my accusation.” His voice was a miserable, broken thing. 

Dunk let go of him, letting the prince fall to his knees. The giant swayed on his feet. You and Egg didn't wait for the horns. You ran, feet kicking up wet dirt as you tore through the crowds toward the alcove where Raymun was helping Dunk. 

Dunk was a ruin of a man. His armor was mangled, the rings driven deep into his flesh. Raymun was cursing under his breath.

“One minute I'm drunk, the next I feel like I'm dyin’.” You reached out, hand trembling as you brushed his messy sweat-soaked hair.

“Gods, you took a hell of a thrashing, sweet knight.” He grimaced at the hands examining his wounds. The larger man pulling at his chainmail said something about boiling oil, you were going to correct him until a familiar voice cut through the havoc.

“Wine not oil, oil will kill him… I’ll send for our maester. Once he’s done with my brother.” You whipped around to see Baelor. Relief flooded you so quickly you nearly fell. You rushed to him, throwing your arms around his waist.

“Thank you.. Thank you..” He stumbled back.

“Little reed..” Baelor’s voice sounded strange. It was airy, almost dreamy. He patted your back, but his movements were sluggish, causing him to sway out of your hold. Dunk fell to his knees before the Prince, his head bowed, distracting you from the thought as you pulled away.

“Your man. I am your man.” He mumbled through painful grunts. Baelor tilted forward, his hand resting loosely on Dunk’s shoulder

“I need good men… the realm.” You felt a chill in your spine, something bitter at the back of your tongue. 

A hum under your skin.

“Baelor?” you whispered, but he didn't look at you.

“Ser, my helm?” Baelor asked Raymun.The smaller man frowned, reaching for the straps. “My... visor cracked.” Raymun muttered, his brow furrowing as he looked at the helm. Baelor shifted, his hands twitching. 

“Fingers... feel like wood.” The new knight looked back and forth from the prince to you, worried. The buzz raising the hair on your arms was getting stronger. Goodman Pete, as Raymund called him, came over at the other’s request. The smith appraised the damaged armor.

“Helmets crushed.” He grumbled, working on pulling it from his head. Baelor smiled at you and Raymun, a soft, prideful look.

“M’brothers mace, most like. He’s strong.” You smiled weakly at the comment, even now he was praising his sibling’s strength in battle. But it didn’t meet your eyes. 

Then the helmet came off.

The wet, sliding sound that followed was something you would hear in your nightmares for the rest of your life.

“Gods be good...” the smith whispered.

Baelor reached back, his fingers tracing the back of his head. When he pulled them away, they were coated in a thick, rich crimson. He turned slightly, and the world stopped. The entire back of his skull was gone- a gaping, horrific wound was hidden by the steel of his helm. Egg gasped, you had almost forgotten he was there with how quiet he had been.

“No...” The word died in your throat. Your lungs seized. “No!”

Baelor collapsed. Dunk barely caught the man in his arms before he could hit the ground. His large hands cradled the Prince’s head, hovering over the wound in a useless, desperate gesture.

“Nonono. Your grace- get up ser!” You went limp. Raymun shouldered you down to your knees as the ground seemed to turn to water. Everything was numb- a high-pitched ringing drowned out the screams of Egg and the frantic pleas of the men around you.

Get up. 

Get up. 

Get up.

Your vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of gray and red. A violent, rhythmic shake took over your body. You were moved, voices calling out- unintelligible to you now. But before the darkness overtook you, a voice echoed in the cavern of your mind. It wasn't Baelor’s, or Dunk’s, or Egg’s. It was a dark whisper.

“For the song to be sung, it must be done.”

Then… nothing.

–

When you woke, you were uncomfortably warm. The air in the room was stagnant, and you struggled against the sweltering weight of the blankets piled over you. Fever was common for when visions hit like this. This one was a surprise. So often now they only ever came in the deep of sleep, rarely ever violently taking you during the waking hours. 

As you twisted in the sweaty confines of your bedding, you felt hands reaching out to pull the layers away. Your eyes were slow to adjust, the light from the single candle in the room barely doing anything. When the world finally came into focus, you saw the hands in question belonged to Daeron. 

He was sitting by your bedside. The first thing you noticed was the stitches on his face- a long, rough line of black thread that ran from the center of his cheek to the back of his ear.

“Daeron… took more than a little knock, did you?” you grunted, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. You tried to sit up, but he pressed a firm hand against your shoulder- easing you back down.

“Noticed, eh? Not so handsome now, I fear,” he said, his voice brittle. He leaned over, dipping a rag into a bowl of cool water. He wrung it out and pressed it to your forehead. The relief was so sharp you nearly cried out.

“You? Not handsome?” You managed a weak smirk. “It would take more than a wee cut to make that possible.”

He chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. A gentle hand moving the rag slowly down your face. His light blue eyes remained hollow, haunted by the same shadow that was looming over everyone. You reached out, fingers pressing gently against his chin to tilt his face to better inspect the wound. He caught your wrist, a long, ragged sigh slipping from his lips.

“Don’t. Please.” You let him place your hand back on the bed, frowning. You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off- changing the topic.

“Do you remember what happened? Baelor?” he asked, shifting the cloth to your neck.

You looked down, your eyes stinging. The memory of the wet sound as the helmet came off flashed through your mind. You nodded, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak without unleashing a flood of tears.

“Will you be ready for the funeral? It’ll be held noon on the marrow.” Again you nodded.

“And the vision- what this time?” You looked up at him, trying to remember. But for some reason when you tried- nothing came. Nothing but the sound of a voice. 

“A man. whispering. It happened when- Ah!” A dull, white-hot ache pierced your temple. Daeron frowned, leaning closer. 

“Hey, you alright?” You shook your head, the throbbing making the movement painful. 

“I… think something's wrong. It’s never hurt like this before.” You saw the worry etching deeper into his face and forced a small reassuring smile. 

“It’s probably nothing. It’ll come back to me, surely.” He didn’t seem convinced, but you placed a hand on his- squeezing. He exhaled, a worn and tired look about him.

“And you’ll tell me? No more secrets?” You nodded, shifting back into the bed.

“I’m sorry… I should have- before. Maybe if I did…” You looked back down at your lap, a tear slipping. 

“No,” he said, his thumb brushing it away. “Don’t do that. You know better. It’s not your fault. Never your fault.”

You turned to him, the tears falling freely now as Daeron pulled you into his arms. It was a familiar embrace. For years, you had been each other's sanctuary when the dreams became too much to bear. You sank against him, letting yourself feel. Eventually your sobs stopped, and he pulled back. But he didn't move away. He stayed a breath's distance from your face, his eyes searching.

When his lips pressed to yours, you were stunned. His hands tangled in your hair, his kiss coxing. You put your palms against his chest, pushing lightly. 

“Daeron- wha-” He dove back in, energy rolling off of him was near frantic. Now you shoved at him, firm. He looked up at you, breathless.

“I…” He started peppering kisses on your face, your jaw, your neck, “I love you… always have.” He murmured against your skin, your name rolling off his tongue sinfully. 

His body caged you against the pillows, lips catching yours again. The soft swipe of his tongue over the seam of your lips made you gasp, the muscle slipping in eagerly. Gods, the taste of him... You'd be lying if you said this wasn't something you’d fantasized about on sleepless nights. 

For a moment, you felt the pull of it- the years of a childish crush. It would be so easy to give in. Let yourself have what you’ve wanted since you first caught a glimpse of the prince. There was always something there, something between you two. And yet…

And yet the memory of Dunk broke through. That vision- of the smell of grass and the memory of skin…

“Stop, stop Daeron.” He stilled, his brows drawn together in confusion. 

“Why? Why do you hesitate?” His hand cradled your face, but you shook your head.

“We can’t-” He laughed, dipping his mouth to your neck.

“Yes, we can,” he insisted, an amused lilt to his voice. “If you want- I can even call a Septon right now-” You groaned at his comment.

“Don’t jest-”

“I do not.” He leaned back, your face was full of bewilderment. “You can’t be ser-”

“I am!” He raised his voice, his eyes burning with a heavy, terrifying seriousness. That caused you to take in a shaky breath.

“Daeron, you’re a prince of the blood. You have to marry-”

“Don’t you get it, I don’t want anyone else. I want you!” His hands, now holding your arms, were trembling.

“Even when I try not to want you, I seek you out.” he let out a bitter sigh.

“In every tavern... wenches with the color of your eyes. Expensive whores who have your hair- your damned smile! Fucking hells, it’s always you.” You put a hand on his cheek, heart breaking at his words.

“Oh Daeron…” The whimper that escaped him was pitiful. 

“Why?” he whispered, his voice cracking. 

You shook your head, “Because... because it’s not meant to be.”

The words were strained. Daeron’s lips pursed. He looked at you for a long, silent moment, searching for a lie and finding none. 

“You’ve seen it then...”

"Gods, Daeron- it’s not exactly clear-"

“Gods… Always with the fucking gods” He let out a laugh that was hollow and angry, letting go of your arms as if it burned him. 

"Damn them- damn any old or new that have a hand in this."

"Daeron," You said with a worried warning. The look he gave you was utter bewilderment.

"Why would I worship a god that keeps you from me?" he demanded. The sadness on his face was agonizing. You said nothing. There was no comfort you could give him that wouldn't be a lie. This anger was justified.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. When he did look back at you, the fire was gone. His face was a mask of blank exhaustion. He pressed one last, ghost of a kiss to your lips before he stood and walked out of the room.

The pillow smothered against your face did nothing to dull the ache in your heart.

-

The smoke from the funeral pyre hung low over the meadow. Baelor Breakspear was no longer a man, but a memory in the wind. You stood through the entire ceremony with your hands clamped firmly on Egg’s shoulders, feeling the boy’s silent tremors as the flames consumed the heir to the throne.

As the crowd began to thin, you felt a desperate, driving need to see the hedge knight again.

When you entered the Beesbury tents, you spotted him almost immediately. Dunk was hobbling away, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. His silhouette was vast and hunched- every step he took looked painful. Sitting nearby was Daeron, watching Dunk retreat to the other end of the pavilion. As you moved to follow the giant, a hand shot out and clamped onto your forearm.

The prince said your name, his voice sharp with a sudden, desperate surprise.

"Sorry- I’ve got to-" You didn't even look at him, your eyes pinned on the back of Dunk's head as he exited the tent. You pulled at your arm, but Daeron’s grip was like iron. He stood with a deep, weary sigh, his blue eyes tracking your urgent gaze. 

"I’ve already talked to the giant," he said, his voice laced with that familiar, stinging amusement. "Seems he’s washed his hands of Aegon completely."

"Still, I mean to speak with him all the same," you replied, your voice tight. Daeron’s brows knit together. He watched you for a long beat, noticing the way you looked at the tall man. 

"What need do you have of a hedge knight?" Your mouth opened and closed. The truth was a wild thing in your throat, and seeing Daeron’s bruised, stitched face made the guilt pulse in your chest. 

"I'm checking on him. He was badly wounded- I thought to see-"

Daeron’s jaw clenched, the muscles working under the fresh stitches. He looked at Dunk’s retreating form and then back at you, a realization dawning on him that seemed to hurt more than the skin pulling at the black threads on his face.

"It’s him. Isn’t it?" he whispered. "Why you deny me... It's the fucking oaf." Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You couldn’t will yourself to speak, but he knew all too well what your silence revealed. 

"Go on then…" he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Be with your damned hedge knight and leave me to my misery."

You took a slow, aching step back. He grabbed at his cup, throwing it back quickly. It was painful to watch but the hectic need to speak with Dunk outweighed everything else. So you turned away, running to catch up to the cause of your internal war.

–

“Ser Duncan!” He hadn't gotten far. The trial had carved a heavy toll out of his body. He turned slowly, his broad shoulders bowed. When his gaze found yours, the normally crystal blue of his eyes seemed clouded with a deep, weary darkness. Yet, seeing you, a sheepish lopsided smile broke through the gloom.

“M’lady. Are- are you doing well?” He noticed the lack of color in your face, the fever was gone but evidence of it was still there. The memory of your unconscious body being taken away had yet to leave him. In the chaos of it all, he didn’t know what happened to you. Nor did he think he’d ever see you again.

“Yes, though I probably still look like a fright. And you… how are you?” 

Dunk gave you a silly, helpless grin. A fright? By the Seven, you looked nothing of the sort. But thankfully his mouth didn’t embarrass him by letting the words slip freely. He shrugged, as best as he could with one arm.

“Lyonel’s maester says I’m dyin’ but most likely not. Terrible maester..” He chuckled, thinking of the lord chastising the poor man. You beamed, smile full of relief.

“Good! I mean- good that you’re not dying that is.” You were surprised at how nervous your voice sounded, usually you were better at masking these things. Dunk’s ears turned a dusty red, and he looked down at his boots. The silence stretched between you, filled with the distant sounds of a camp breaking down.

“I… I wanted to ask you about Egg,” you said, stepping closer. “Why won't you take him on as your squire?” Dunk sighed, shoulders slumping.

“He has all the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms to squire for. Prince Maekar knows I’m not trained like them- said he’d have me taught if I were to stay at Summerhall for the lad.”

“He doesn’t want them, Duncan. He wants you. Anyone with eyes can see why.”

“Being large doesn’t make up for skill,” Dunk grumbled. Of course that’s where his mind went.

“Gods, I do wonder,” you said, your voice growing sarcastic but firm, “whatever could a boy who’s only known the disease that festers in privilege see in a man who is earnest? A man who holds true to goodness in spite of the world? Who gives someone hope that people aren’t just cruel by nature?” That made him straighten, eyes meeting yours, taken back by your words.

“You’ve seen this family, ser. Do you truly not understand why he might want a chance for something different? Something real?” Dunk brow furrowed. 

“How are you certain? Who am I to make him a great man?” He still doubted himself, it made your heart ache.

“I'm not certain,” you whispered, stepping into his space. “But I still cling to hope… and you give me more of that than most.” Dunk’s breath hitched. 

“M’lady, I-”

“Please,” you interrupted softly. “I think we’re well past formalities, don’t you think? Duncan?”

The sound of his name on your lips seemed so natural, like it belonged. He leaned slightly on his stick, his eyes searching yours for any hint of a jest, but they were open. Showing an honesty that startled him. He would not let himself linger on what that meant.

“I hope I don't disappoint you…” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated deliciously through your body.

“You could never,” you replied.

The moment was charged with the same heat you had felt touching his cheek, and again when you had given him your favor. For the first time in your life, you felt purpose- clear and true.

–

When Dunk summoned Maekar to discuss his proposition, you were shadowed in the halls. Eavesdropping was like a second nature for you, something that you were sure had rubbed off on Egg. Still, from the sounds of it, Dunk was getting nowhere. 

You waited after the prince stormed from the room to follow. He had gone back to his temporary quarters, seemingly arranging for the last of his things before you were to depart from Ashford. Maekar stood by a desk, his back to the entrance. His shoulders a rigid line of tension. He didn't turn around when you stepped inside. He didn't have to. 

"I know you were lurking, little reed," he said, his voice a low rasp. 

"Best be on with it. I’ve had quite enough of being told I’m a horrible father for one day."

"He’s not saying that, Maekar," you said, stepping into the light of the windows. Your heart was thumping, but you kept your voice steady.

"And it’s not your fault that your boys are this way- not entirely. But please, try to understand why he’s asking this." Maekar turned then, his eyes rimmed with red, looking older- the creases on his face deepened by exhaustion.

"He wants him to live in the woods! In ditches! Where any robber or worse could take Aegon for a ransom or a trophy. I will not send my child into danger."

"You can’t protect them from the world," you countered, stepping closer, ignoring the warning flare in his nostrils. 

"And you certainly can’t protect them from themselves. You hold them too tightly, Maekar. You’re not protecting Egg- you’re suffocating him." 

"I love them!" Maekar’s voice cracked, a sudden, violent burst of emotion that made you inhale sharply…

"I know I'm not gentle. I know I’m not kind- not like Baelor… But I am doing my fucking best." The honesty of it, the raw, bleeding vulnerability nearly made you flinch. But you held your ground.

"The life of a prince... it is not a life, Maekar," you said, your voice softening but losing none of its edge. 

"I’ve seen that sweet boy. I’ve seen the light in those big eyes when he’s around him, away from all of this. Happy, truly.” Maekar shook his head, not wanting to hear any of it, but you continued despite his reluctance. 

“I’ve also seen them in the halls of the castle. They are dimming there! I cannot stand by and let him turn into his brother- not when we have a fucking option to save him." The desperation in your voice churned in his gut.

"Don't. Don't do that." Maekar whispered, turning his head away.

"I must! You don’t see-"

"I do!" he roared, turning back to you, his face a mask of agony. Only moments ago had he watched as his little boy held a knife to his back. One meant for his own brother. He closed his eyes with a painful exhale.

"I do damn well see. And I'm scared. I am alone, little reed. Completely." You felt the grief radiating off him, a physical weight. You reached out, placing a hand on his tensed forearm. 

"No, you’re not. I know I have damaged your trust. I know I lied. But you still have me. You’ll always have me." Maekar looked down at your hand, then back to your face, his expression full of sorrow. 

"And what would you have me do? Send my child off to live with a hedge knight? I will not let my boy struggle in this life for no damned reason. I can’t."

"What... what if I go? What if I join them?" you asked. The words felt right as soon as they left your lips. He froze. 

"What?" He snapped, brows raising.

"You know me. I’ve been his shadow since he could walk. I’d kill for that boy, and you know it. Maekar, please I-"

"You are a lady of a noble house, don’t be ridiculous. Your father-” 

"My father raised me as a Reed," you cut him off, your voice ringing with absolute resolve. 

"I knew how to hunt by the age of ten. My knowledge of herbalism is better than most maesters, and I can help train him! Having a cunt does not lessen my capabilities, need I remind you."

Maekar stared at you, his chest heaving, a sad chuckle rumbling from within. For a moment, you saw his anger crumble completely. He looked like he wanted to reach out and pull you into a hug, or perhaps lock you in a tower to keep you safe. 

"I can’t permit this," he whispered. "I can’t lose you both. I've lost enough already."

"You stand to lose more…" you said, your eyes fixed on his. 

The silence hung between you, heavy and final. Maekar closed his eyes, his decision firm. But yours was still forming.

-

You left Prince Maekar with the heavy weight of his choices, and beelined for Egg’s quarters. The boy was aimlessly poking at his belongings, his small frame looking lost in the grand room until you gripped his shoulder. He let out a surprised yelp, nearly jumping out of his skin.

"Egg, we’re going. Pack your things," you commanded, your voice low and urgent.

"Going? Going where?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"I’m taking you to Duncan, and you have to be quick about it. He might already be gone."

The boy didn't need a second invitation. He nodded vigorously and began rummaging through his trunk. You told him to meet you by the stables, then slipped away to your own chambers.

Traversing the halls was an exercise in practiced indifference. You kept your face calm, nodding to guards and servants as if you were merely heading for a stroll, but the moment you shut your bedroom door, your chest heaved with nervous panic.

What the hells am I doing? Your heart hammered against your ribs. You were a lady of House Reed, a ward of the Crown, and you were about to disappear into the night with a strange giant. You steeled your nerves. This was for Aegon, you knew what awaited you if you stayed. The looming knowledge that your father was looking to wed you was terrifying. The little prince would then be completely abandoned to the cold walls of his royal blood. This was the only way out, freedom. And you’d be damned to let it slip through your fingers.

You swapped your fine silks for a simple and unassuming dress. Something that wouldn’t reveal your station among the smallfolk. Pulling on mid-calf boots, your hands quickly fastened your deep green cloak, the wool a heavy comfort. You scooped your finer jewelry into a pouch- quick money for if times become desperate- and tucked away your gold and silver. You looked at your family brooch. It would be safer with Maekar, but something primal urged you to pin it to your cloak. Lastly, you packed your spare hunting clothes you often wore for occasional hunts at Summerhall. The light armored leather might prove useful on the road.

Before heading to the stables, you took a detour to Lord Ashford’s armory. You swiped a decent dagger and an even nicer bow with a quiver of arrows. You tested the bowstring, the familiar twang bringing a grin to your face.

At the stables, you peered around until a bald head emerged from behind a barrel. Egg had picked a good spot. You gave him a quick wave and a grin as you approached the stalls.

One horse caught your eye- a jet-black mare, sleek and powerful. She was already saddled and ready for the royal vanguard, but you had other plans. You brushed a hand through her mane, and she butted against your palm happily.

"Hello, darling," you whispered. "How would you like to join us on a journey?" She huffed a pleasant agreement. You scooped Egg up, seating him on the saddle, then swung up behind him. You navigated the horse out of the stall and toward the outskirts of the meadow, following Egg’s finger-pointing toward the hedge knight’s tree.

The camp was empty when you arrived. Egg scrambled down, looking around the ruined stone walls until he spotted a massive silhouette in the distance. He took off running.

"What are you doing here?" Dunk asked as the boy reached him. He still looked exhausted.

"Ser Duncan! My lord father says I am to serve you." Egg declared, beaming. Dunk stilled, his eyes warming at the declaration. 

"Serve you, ser." You cleared your throat, nudging the black mare forward from the shadow of the trees. 

"Does that also include me? I thought we’d already had this conversation." Dunk’s face contorted into utter confusion, his head whipping between you and the boy. Your name a whisper on his lips, the giant completely bewildered. You chuckled at his immediate flush of red. 

"Maekar wasn’t keen on the young prince going alone, so I’m coming. He still has much to learn outside of being a squire… Do you object, sweet knight?"

Dunk was torn. You were a high-born woman, yet you were standing there with a bow across your back, ready to join him regardless. You could practically see the gears grinding in his head.

"My lady," Egg piped up, "she is a deft archer, ser! And smart! Maester Brakker even says she’s almost as good as Aemon-"

"His High Valyrian is heaps better. Shit language, in my opinion." You cut in bitterly. It wasn't a shit language, you were just terrible at the conjugations, but the bluntness of it made Dunk actually laugh. The sound was like a fire in your chest, burning away the last of the funeral’s gloom. 

“And you are still injured. You can’t very well take care of yourself or Egg if you die, now can you?” He looked at the two of you, the tension finally slipping from his broad shoulders.

"I'm not even sure where I'm headed," Dunk admitted.

"I hear there are great puppet shows in Dorne," Egg suggested eagerly.

"Vaith is known for its frequent tourneys…" you added with a smirk. 

"Said to be great prizes. You’ll need a sharp eye and a sharp tongue to get there, Duncan." The knight smiled, giving you a slow, respectful nod. He didn't say it, but the way he looked at you told you he was glad he wasn't walking into the sunset alone.

And so, it began.

Today you had traded your simple dresses for something more elaborately appropriate for a ward of the dragons. It had been gifted to you by Daeron on your last nameday. The memory being a fond one.

Your father had come to King’s Landing. The joyful surprise, however, was quickly ruined when you noticed the joining party of bannermen following his arrival. He had written to Maekar, the feast wasn’t simply a heartwarming celebration. They were here for a different reason…

“You’re of an age for marriage, my dear. Well past it, if we’re being honest.” Beren tried to keep his voice level but he couldn't hide the frustration in his eyes. He was trying to calm you down, though the effort was wasted. The hidden purpose of your nameday party turning into a full "marry-my-daughter" auction hadn’t gone unnoticed. The great hall was crawling with the sons of highborn lords, all of them leering at you as if you were a prize stallion rather than a person.

You were currently holed up in your room, the heavy oak door a barrier between you and the men ruining your day.

“You completely ambushed me! No warning, no letter,” you snapped at your father, pacing the length of the rug. “I think I deserve some kind of notice before you throw me to the wolves.”

He sighed, the sound tired, knowing he wasn’t winning this argument. 

“Do you really think you would have let me come otherwise? You would have barred the gates of the Red Keep yourself had you known.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he raised a hand to silence you.

“You are my daughter, a lady of House Reed. You still have a duty to your people, if you haven’t forgotten.” The gravity of the situation hit you then. Sending you off had started to weigh heavily on him. Your older brother had said as much, his letters becoming melancholy as the visits grew fewer and fewer. As the years progressed, the distance had grown into a chasm. You weren’t the heir, and you were a woman- the destiny of which was almost always traded for alliances and peace. One of the reasons for your being here was to raise your perspectives. Being this closely allied with the Targaryen’s had given you status that your house lacked- something Aerion would remind you of frequently.

In moments like this, you wished the greensight would tell you more. You wanted a glimpse of a future where you were free, but it was a fickle, cruel thing. Completely out of your control. If only you had the strength of your great-grandmother. Her powers were the things of legends…

For you, the visions appeared randomly- incoherent and blurry, like looking through the surface of a disturbed pond. It felt as if it was purposefully withholding details from you. As though you might risk something if you knew too much. You were a defiant thing, maybe it was best this way…

You relaxed begrudgingly, leaning back into your chair in defeat. “No, Father. I haven’t forgotten.” He nodded, giving you a sympathetic, if somewhat pained, smile. 

“I’ll leave you to it then. Please don’t take long. The lords are getting restless.”

The room went tomb-quiet after the doors shut. The only sound was the crackling of wood burning in the fireplace, sending sparks of orange into the air. You felt like screaming- clawing at the stone walls until your fingers bled.

But a soft hesitant knock cut through the spiral of your thoughts. You whipped your head around as the door creaked open just an inch. A head of ash-blond hair poked around the frame.

Daeron.

He slipped inside quickly, glancing over his shoulder as if he were being hunted by his father’s guards. You looked up from your spot by the fire, your anger momentarily replaced by confused surprise.

“Daeron? What are you doing here? You should be in the great hall.”

He grinned, that familiar, lopsided look that usually meant trouble. He made his way over to the chair across from you, shielding something behind his back with the heavy folds of his cloak.

“Well, I don’t have long- Father is currently cornering a lord about a bridge, so I wanted to be the first to give you something,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Only boast I care about, really.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics, but your heart wasn't in it. He pulled the bundle from behind his back and handed it to you. It was a dress, folded neatly.

You stared at it for a long time before your hand reached out, tracing the fine, woven embroidery at the collar. You noticed his hands were shaking- perhaps from the lack of wine in his system. He was being uncharacteristically well-behaved for your sake. Partly because of his father breathing down his neck, and partly because of genuine care for your celebration. Your smile was blinding.

“Oh, Daeron...”

You stood from your chair, wrapping your arms around his slight frame. He chuckled softly, placing a comforting hand on your back.

“Will you wear it? Tonight?” he murmured into your hair. You laughed against his chest, nodding furiously. 

“Yes. Yes, of course.” You stepped back to pull the dress from his hands, letting the fabric fall open. It was gorgeous, but in a way that didn't scream for attention. He knew you well, and it showed in the subtle elegance of it. It was mainly the colors of your house, dominantly black with deep details of forest green. The style was a perfect marriage of your two lives: the flowing, elegant sleeves seen in the halls of Summerhall, combined with the heavy, elaborate embroidery that rivaled the winter gowns of the Starks.

But on closer inspection, you noticed the smallest, most intentional bits of red. They were hidden in the cuffs and woven into the neckline where the needlework grew dense. Tiny swamp flowers, their petals tipped in crimson, and small lizard-lions with eyes made of rubies so small they looked like pinpricks of blood. It was a dragon's touch on a marsh-flower's gown.

You were absolutely stunned. Daeron’s smile brightened at your reaction. He reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss.

“I look forward to seeing it, my lady. It suits you...”

You felt a rare surge of shyness, but you countered it with a playful punch to his arm. The joyless dread that had clouded your morning had vanished, replaced by a renewed sense of belonging.

That night wasn’t as awful as you anticipated. You spent the majority of it dancing with Egg, the boy stepping on your toes and making you laugh until your sides ached. You rarely paid attention to the lords who lined up for a turn, and for once, you didn't care. Your father was only mildly irritated- you were happy, you were friendly, and you were the most beautiful thing in the room. That was more than he could have hoped for.

–

The atmosphere in the royal box had been tense, but when Aerion took the stage it became suffocating. You watched with narrowed eyes as he began his theatrics. When he made his grand display of calling out to Valarr you felt a surge of genuine disgust. It was an arrogant gesture meant to show he feared no one, not even the direct line to the throne.

When he redirected the challenge to Ser Humfrey Hardyng, your shoulders dropped an inch. But the relief was to be short lived.

You leaned forward, the black and green fabrics of your dress rustling against the wood of the chair. You saw the way Aerion sat his horse- not with the steady hand of a knight, but with the twitchy, violent energy of a man looking to draw blood. It felt wrong.

The charge was a blur of black and white.

First round, Aerion ducked- the lance meant to strike him flying off into the mud. Both men circled back, running straight into the next round.

Instead of aiming for the shield or the breastplate, Aerion’s lance dipped at the last possible second. The sound wasn't the clean crack of wood on wood. It was the wet, horrific squelch of pierced living flesh. The lance went straight through the neck of Ser Humfrey’s horse. The poor beast let out a harrowing shriek that pierced through the cheers of the crowd, turning them into gasps of horror. The horse toppled like a felled oak, its massive weight crashing down directly onto Ser Humfrey’s leg.

The crunch of bone was audible even from the box.

“That monster!”

The outburst was out of your mouth before you could check it. You bolted upright, your hands gripping the railing so hard the wood groaned. Baelor’s heavy hand clamped onto your shoulder, his grip firm and grounding as he pulled you back toward your seat. 

“Sit, little reed,” he commanded, though his own voice was tight with a cold, simmering fury. You sat back down as the field descended into chaos. The mob began to roar with a visceral rage. Even Baelor couldn't muffle the curse that escaped his lips as he watched his blood trot away from the carnage without a backward glance.

The Ashford guards scrambled, their spears leveled to push back the smallfolk that started storming the fence. You had to turn your head when the axe came down, ending the poor beast’s suffering. Frantic horns sounded, declaring the tourney over for the day. The joyful event now turned into a slaughterhouse.

You didn't wait for a formal dismissal. As soon as the guards created a path, you slipped out of the pavilion, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The sun was overcasted by clouds, ominous. It had been too long since you had put eyes on Egg…

You dove into the sea of tents, weaving through the recovering crowds. You had to find them.

–

When you finally spotted the pair, night was creeping in. They were between vendor stalls, talking to a hooded figure. As you approached, a tingling sensation formed at the crown of your head, slowly traveling down your limbs. A static charge that made your skin prickle.

“You will be as rich as a Lannister,” the woman rasped. Dunk laughed, pointing down to Egg.

“Now do the boy.” The woman’s hand pulled back slightly as she looked at Egg, as if the mere sight of him burned her eyes. Her voice dropped into a hollow, jagged tone. 

"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 passing.” Egg’s eyes went wide, his small face pale. 

“Wha-”

You cleared your throat, cutting through the heavy air. They both turned, Dunk’s mouth falling open at the sight of you in your gown. It hugged your curves in ways that made his mouth water. He swallowed. You forced a smile, stepping up behind Egg to tug playfully on his ears.

“Well that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” You tried to sound light. Aegon was the fourth son of a fourth son. The idea of him being king was highly unlikely, and the rest was just cruel nonsense.

But the woman gasped. She pushed past the boys and grabbed your arm. The tingling sensation multiplied tenfold at the touch, it stole your breath.

“And you… my poor girl,” she whispered, her scarred mouth a grimace. 

“You will see it all before it has come to pass, a watcher to the horrors. Unable to stop it.” A slight tremble started in your hands. Egg could feel it in the palm you had resting against his cheek. Dunk’s smile vanished, replaced by a confused frown.

“Th-that’ll be all. Come along now.” Dunk’s warm hand rested at your waist, a solid and grounding weight as he pulled you and Egg away from the woman. You let out a strained chuckle, pulling your mask of indifference back into place.

“Bet she doesn’t have many return customers with that cheerful disposition.” Before Dunk could pry into why you looked so shaken, Raymun Fossoway came yelling his name. 

“Ser Duncan! Would you like to come to my tent for some cider?” Dunk’s attention was torn. He clearly wanted to ask you more, but you patted his arm reassuringly. 

“Go on, my sweet knight- I’ll take Egg over to the puppet show.” He stumbled at that, nodding as Ser Raymun clapped him on the shoulder. Once out of earshot, he elbowed the giant. 

“Hells man, how did you catch the attention of that fine woman?” He shook the knight, “Though, with that height it's hard not to.” Dunk glared at the shorter man, floundering.

“Catch the?- why you!” He put him in a head lock as they stumbled away, laughing.

-

The puppet show was a marvel. You and Egg watched, captivated, as a dragon larger than a man spat real sparks of fire. The puppeteer danced around it dressed as a knight, narrating the pretend battle. As she cornered the beast, the crowd suddenly went silent. Egg tugged at your sleeve. You followed his gaze and stilled. Aerion. 

He was stalking toward the stage, his eyes fixed on the woman with a dark, predatory focus.

The actress stabbed the dragon puppet, and paper-mache blood exploded from its neck. She whipped around to take her bow, but her smile died as she saw the Prince.

Everything happened in a blur. One moment you were watching a play, the next, Egg was running for Dunk. Aerion had Tanselle by the arm, pinning her against him as he began to methodically break her fingers. You didn't think twice- you ran at him. Throwing yourself at the prince, hands slamming against his chest, trying to shove him back.

“Stop it! Aerion, let her go!”

He didn't even look at you. He simply drew a hand back and slapped you with a backhanded strike so hard the world tilted. You hit the ground, the copper taste of blood filling your mouth, your lip split.

Then, Dunk arrived.

He charged with the force of a bull. You watched from the ground dazed as his fist connected with Aerion’s face. Two more blows followed, the Prince hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. The guards swarmed, grappling Dunk. But the giant managed one final, desperate kick to Aerion's face while he lay prone.

He slowly stood, spitting out a thick glob of blood. Dunk huffed against the multiple arms holding him, his eyes wild with fury.

“Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” Aerion sneered, wiping his mouth. “She’s scarcely worth it.” The hedge knight glanced back at the actress who was clutching her ruined hand, sobbing.

“And this one?” Aerion’s gaze slid to you. “She should know her place by now… seems the bog-witch needs reminding.”

You were frozen, your rage causing you to shake with a violent intensity. Dunk struggled, but the guards had him pinned. Aerion reached out, his hand tangling in a fistful of your hair, yanking you to your knees with a sharp jerk.

“Should you pay for spilling dragon blood? Or her?”

The rough pull had you gasping, your head forced back. Dunk roared, reaching out with a clenched fist to try and strike Aerion again, but the guards held him fast. The Prince scoffed, a dark malice in his eyes.

“It seems someone else is eager,” he whispered, leaning close to your ear so only you could hear. “I wonder if he’ll scream as much as your little handmaid did.” You pulled against his grip as the guards shoved Dunk down toward the wooden stage.

“You loosened one of my teeth,” Aerion snarled at Dunk. “So let's start by breaking out all of yours…”

They maneuvered Dunk, forcing his face down against the hard wooden edge of the stage. His mouth was slotted against the corner, the intention clear and stomach-turning. Egg came running out of the crowd.

“No! Don’t touch them!” Dunk squirmed, muffled yells coming from the wood, desperately telling Egg to be silent or else they’d hurt him too.

“No they won't,” Egg shouted. 

“If they do, they’ll have to answer to my father. Let go of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” The guards holding Dunk down hesitated, then released their grip. He looked around, dazed and confused. Aerion flared his nostrils, his eyes flickering with a mixture of annoyance and shock as he finally let go of you.

“You impudent little rat,” Aerion spat. “What’s happened to your hair?” Egg stood his ground, staring his brother down with a defiance that made your heart swell.

“I cut it off, brother. I didn’t want to look like you.”

Everyone stared in silence. You watched the realization wash over Dunk- the look of pure, pained shock as he finally understood that the boy he had been feeding and protecting wasn't just an orphan. He was the missing prince. The son of Maekar Targaryen. And the brother of the monster who had just tried to break his jaw.

–

The air in Baelor’s temporary office was thick with the scent of old parchment and the humidity of the storm beating against the walls of the castle. When you next saw Dunk, he was followed by Egg, whose expression was that of a kicked puppy- bruised, and utterly heartbroken.

“Your Grace, please,” you had been pleading, your voice strained. You had been trying to appeal to his better senses for an hour, but so far, you were getting nowhere. You quieted the moment the door open. As Dunk walked in, the guilt of your involvement- of your silence- made it impossible to meet his gaze. When you finally dared a glance, the scowl on his brow confirmed your worst fears. He felt betrayed.

Dunk, released by his guards, approached the heir to the throne and knelt with a heavy thud of his boots. Almost immediately Baelor told him to rise.

“Pour Ser Duncan a cup, Aegon. Try not to spill it on him,” Baelor commanded. His voice was soft, but it carried an edge to it. Egg’s eyes remained downcast. Dunk watched the boy sheepishly walk over to the pitcher.

“The boy won’t spill it, your Grace. He’s a good boy,” Egg paused, looking back at him, “a good squire. And he meant no harm… I know that now.” You stepped forward, your heart thumping against your ribs. 

“One need not intend harm to do it,” Baelor interrupted, giving both you and Egg a stern glance that made your words die in your throat. 

“Aegon should have come to me when he saw what his brother was doing to those puppeteers. And you...” He turned his gaze to you, disappointment etching deep lines into his face. “I don’t know where to begin.” The shame brought heat in your cheeks.

“There was no time, Uncle, I-” Egg started.

“But he came to you,” Baelor countered, looking at Dunk. “And she vouches for you. That tells me more about the state of my House than I care to admit. And Aerion-”

“I wish Ser had killed him!” Egg blurted out.

“Egg!” you hissed, scolding him.

“Aerion is your brother,” Baelor said firmly. “And the Septons say we must love our brothers.”

The look he gave him was devoid of love. It was filled with a cold, hard clarity that no child should possess. It broke your heart to see the light of this sweet boy extinguished by the reality of his blood. Baelor saw it too, he hesitated, resolve flickering for a fraction of a second.

“Aegon, leave us now.” He nodded, his face a mask of royal indifference. 

“As you will, your Grace.” Once the boy was gone, the dam burst. 

“What will happen to him?” you demanded. “Ser Duncan has been ignorant of all of this! And what Aerion was doing to that girl-”

“That was not his call to make or yours,” Baelor said, his patience thinning. “Aerion is a prince of the Blood. And with Daeron’s claims-”

“Daeron’s claims are false!” you cried. “You know this! I testified as such!” Dunk looked between the two of you, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Excuse me, but what claims?” Baelor sighed. 

“Prince Daeron has been found. When asked what happened to his brother, he stated that a large robber knight made off with Aegon…”

“He’s lying,” Dunk said flatly. “I left that inn four nights past. Prince Daeron did not pursue his brother’s captor.” Baelor nodded, obviously aware of this fact but saying nothing.

“And as I’ve stated,” you added, turning back to Baelor, “I’ve known where Egg was. I knew that he was with Duncan of his own free will!”

“And by doing so,” Baelor’s voice turned cold, “you have made yourself complicit in this.”

“It was just for the tourney!” you argued, desperation clawing at your throat. “Egg promised me he would return once it was over. Ser Duncan is a good man!”

“Maekar will deal with you later on this matter, as is his right,” Baelor said, and the mention of his brother made your stomach drop. “You would do well to remember that, little reed.”

“She’s as innocent as the boy,” Dunk spoke up suddenly, his voice steady. “I don’t hold it against her.” You looked at him, taken aback. His eyes held yours, and in their calm, ocean of blue sadness, you saw no resentment- only a quiet understanding. For a moment, the room disappeared. You wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to tell him you were sorry for the world you had dragged him into. You refrained, gripping your skirts instead.

“Innocent or not, the deed is done,” Baelor dismissed you with a sharp nod. “Now go. There is more for us to discuss... alone.”

You left the office, the heavy doors thudding shut behind you. Your heart was still racing, but you didn't have time to breathe. You had to face the one man who terrified you more than Aerion ever could.

–

The air inside Maekar’s room was cold despite the brazier burning in the corner. He didn’t turn when you entered. He stood with his back to you, hands clasped behind his spine, looking like a statue carved from dragonglass.The silence stretched until it was unbearable. Every pulse in your busted lip throbbed in time with the ticking of the clock.

“I gave you my trust,” Maekar began, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I gave you a place in my home. I treated you as a daughter of my own fucking house, a sister to my children!” He turned then, and the fury in his eyes was enough to make the breath catch in your throat.

“And how do you repay that? By conspiring with a damned hedge knight? You watched me hunt for him- you saw the panic in my eyes, heard the reports of his disappearance, and you sat there and said nothing!” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you. His words were blades, cutting deep into your heart.

“Is this the honor of House Reed? To play games with the lives of princes? You’ve made a fool of me, girl. You’ve made me a laughingstock in the eyes of my brother and the lords of the Reach. I should send you back to your father in chains for the grief you’ve caused.”

“I only wanted him to have a moment of peace!” you cried out, your voice cracking. “He was happy, Maekar! He was-"

“SILENCE!” Maekar roared the word, his voice echoing off the stone walls like a thunderclap. He took a sudden, aggressive step toward you, his hand rising in a sharp, frustrated gesture.

You didn't mean to. It was instinct. The memory of Aerion’s shadow, of the slap that had sent you spinning into the dirt hours ago. You winced, your eyes snapping shut as you recoiled, your shoulders hunching as you braced for a blow that you expected to be much heavier than the last.

The blow never came.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't angry. It was aching. You stayed there, trembling, eyes squeezed tight, until you felt a touch. Not a strike, but the calloused, surprisingly gentle rasp of a thumb against your jaw.

You opened your eyes. Maekar was standing in front of you. But he wasn't looking at you with fury anymore- instead, something broken, devastating melted into his eyes.

His hand cradled your face, his large fingers carefully avoiding the slowly darkening, mottled purple bruise that bloomed across your cheekbone. His eyes traced the fresh red line of your split lip, the mark his own son had left upon you.

“Gods,” he whispered, and the sound was more pained than his shout had been.

He looked at you not as a ward who had betrayed him, but as the girl he had watched grow up- the adopted niece who had shared meals at his table, who ran through the halls of the Red Keep- laugh that echoed like twinkling bells... Seeing you cower from him… Seeing you marked by Aerion’s cruelty- was a betrayal worse than any secret you could have kept.

“He did this,” Maekar said, his thumb trembling slightly against your skin. It wasn't a question. He knew his son. He knew the rage in Aerion even if he had spent years trying to iron it out with discipline. The anger drained out of him, leaving only a weary, gray exhaustion. He looked like a man who had realized all his battles were being fought on the wrong fronts.

“I was so angry about Aegon... about the lies,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor before returning to your eyes. “But to see you look at me with fear... to see what my own boy has done to you...” He let out a shaky breath. For a moment, he wasn't the Avil striking fear into the hearts of men. He was just a tired father holding the only piece of his family he hadn't completely ruined.

“I cannot stay mad at you, little reed,” he confessed, his voice thick. “Not when I am the one who failed to protect you from the monsters in my own home.” A tear slipped from your lashes, meeting the tips of the fingers against your skin. You knew this was far from over, but by the Old- did your heart feel lighter.

–

The air in the tent was heavy with the sweet fermented scent of Raymun’s cider, but the atmosphere inside was bitter in contrast. Dunk was pacing, wondering if Steffon would truly be able to gain the favor of those he had mentioned. His mental spiral was cut short by a familiar voice.

"Ser." The word came from the shadows of the tent flap. Egg stepped into the flickering lamplight, pulling down his hood. Dunk stopped dead in his tracks, his forehead creasing with disbelief.

"Egg? What are you doing here?" he whispered, his words rushed.

"I’m your squire, ser," Egg said matter-of-factly, "You’re going to need someone to arm you." Dunk raised his hands, gesturing wildly at the ridiculousness of the statement.

"Does your father know you’ve left the castle?"

"I hope not, I don’t think I could bear another foot-whipping tonight." a new voice drawled, weary and thick. Daeron emerged from the same flap, looking haggard. He pulled at his cloak, his ash-blond hair a mess, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. The sight of him, the man whose drunken lies had turned a simple mistake into a death sentence, snapped something inside Dunk. 

He lunged. Hand going to the knife at his belt as he slammed into the prince, the sheer momentum pinning Daeron against the heavy table. The wood groaned under the impact as Dunk pressed the edge of the blade directly against the pale skin of Daeron’s neck.

"No! Dunk!" Raymun shouted, lurching forward.

"Ser, please!" Egg’s voice rose to a panicked pitch.

But Dunk was deaf to them, his eyes locked on the man who had easily traded his life for one less lecture from his father.

"You’re a madman coming here," Dunk growled, his arm trembling with the effort of not burying the steel in Daeron’s throat. 

"I should drive this through your neck." He smiled, hands up but by no means attempted to fight against the hold. He looked at the blade with amused indifference.

"I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine." This did nothing to ease Dunk’s anger.

"Fuck your wine! You lied about me!" That got a reaction, the prince tilted his head- an expectant look on his face.

"Well, I had to say something when my father demanded to know where Egg had gotten to." Daeron replied blankly, as if it was an obvious response. Finally you stepped forward, your hand coming up to rest on Dunk’s tensed forearm. The fabric of his sleeve was rough, but the muscle beneath was like iron. 

"Please, Duncan," you whispered, your voice a soft plea. Dunk’s eyes flickered to yours, realizing you were there. You had slipped in unnoticed. But the anger in him didn't vanish, it shifted. His gaze lingered on the dark, blooming bruise on your cheek before he finally released his hold. He stepped away, the knife disappearing back into its sheath, though his shoulders remained hunched like a cornered beast.

Everyone sat down, discussing the situation at hand. With the news of who stood to join against him, his hope was dwindled. Egg straightened in his seat, determination in his little face.

“I can bring knights ser and you don't have to worry about Daeron. He said he’d fall on purpose.” You smiled at him and his dogged spirit.

"And Aerion?" Dunk asked, his voice low. "You’d see him dead?"

Egg sat at the table, small feet dangling. He shuffled, fingers tangling into the fine fabric of his shirt.

"When I was little," Egg began, his voice barely a breath, "Aerion used to come into my bedchamber at night. He’d put his knife in between my legs. He had too many brothers, he’d say. Maybe one night he’d make me his sister... then he could marry me."

The silence that followed was deafening. You felt a cold, sharp spike of ice pierce your heart. You wrapped an arm around the boy, pulling him into your side, fingers digging into his small shoulder as if you could shield him from the memory itself. Daeron watched you hold him, his eyes glazed with knowing. 

"Egg has the truth of it... Aerion can be quite the monster." Your laugh was bitter. The sound a sharp rattle in your chest.

"Monsters are the things of fable and legend," you said, your voice cutting through the gloom like a razor. 

"That thing is just a man. And all men can die." Dunk glanced at you then, a long, searching look. He saw the coldness in your expression, a glimpse of something he’d seen in many faces in Flea Bottom, pure survival. Primal but resolute. Seeing it on you… Dunk was at a loss for words. Daerion stood, pulling his cloak tight against his body.

“I must steal back to the castle. Ser Duncan, a private word? And you too.” He cast his glance over to you. Outside the tent, the night air was cool but it offered no relief. Daeron stood in the moonlight, his face pale.

"I dreamt of you," he said, looking at the hedge knight.

"Daeron..." You warned, your pulse rising. 

"You said that at the inn," Dunk countered, stepping up to the both of you.

"Did I? Well, my dreams aren't like yours, ser. Mine come true. And so do hers... or has she not told you?" Daeron’s eyes glinted with amusement. You punched his arm.

"Daeron!" It came out a hiss. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, he knew better. Nothing good ever came with people knowing about you both. But there was something in the way he looked at you that held your argument back. Relief.

"And here I was worried you’d gone soft for a hedge knight," Daeron chuckled, leaning into your space. He was a breath away, you could smell the sweat of him, bitter. He was looking your face over, something simmering behind those eyes.

"Seems you have many secrets left to share, my lady." He winked, before shifting back again. Dunk turned to you, his face a mask of confusion and a hint of something that looked like hurt. 

"Speak plainly." You took a breath, the damp air filling your lungs. 

"I… Daeron has visions. Dreams of things yet to come. As do I." You were avoiding his stare, afraid of what it might hold. Disgust? Fear? You couldn’t bear to see it from him. But when you did look up, the air in your lungs vanished. In those striking blue eyes was curiosity. Your lips parted, shocked. 

“And what do you see?” His question was directed at you, soft and open. But it was Daeron that replied.

"A fire and a dead dragon," he cut in, "A beast so large its wings cast the land in shadow. It falling from the sky, dead. And you, Ser? You are there when it lands."

Dunk was still looking at you, his voice a whisper. "And you?"

"I haven't seen the fire," you admitted, your hands clenching at your sides. "But there is a storm. Beasts in the clouds- terrible, screaming sounds. A clash, and one... falling. As he said…” you shook your head at the memory. “I scream myself awake before it meets the ground."

"Am I the one to kill it?" Dunk asked, now looking back and forth between the both of you.

"I do not know," Daeron sighed, turning to the large man.

"But in any case... it may be I've killed you with my lie. And if I have, I am sorry." You watched Daeron disappear into the sea of tents, feeling more exposed than ever. Dunk stepped closer, his presence a warm solid wall against the chilling words that hung in the air.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "I don't blame you. And… and I’d do it again, if I had to do it all over." His eyes glanced between your lips and cheek. At that moment, he wanted to touch you. The urge to pull you close, cradle your soft face, terrified him with how overwhelmingly it took him. But it was you that reached out, a sad weary smile pulling at your swollen mouth. Your fingers brushed the line of his jaw. The moment your skin met his, a jolt of lightning shot up your arm, and the world vanished.

You saw a flash: The oppressive heat of a summer noon. The smell of crushed grass and sweat. Large, calloused hands tangled in your hair, pulling you close. The sensation of warm breath against your face, and the taste of skin and laughter.

You blinked, gasping as you pulled your hand away. The vision was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving you breathless. Dunk was staring at you, his big blue eyes filled with deep concern.

"M'lady?" You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to find your voice again. You smoothed the front of your dress, a spark of hope flickering in your chest despite the looming dread of the trial.

"Take heart, my sweet knight," you said softly. "Not all is lost... not yet."

You knew before your father spoke that eventually the peace belonging to the Neck of the North would be a distant and rare comfort. That you would be trading the misty forests and marshes of the old Gods for the foreign courts of King’s Landing. Visions in the dead of night of the warm sun, strange bleached stone, smells and voices unfamiliar to you had become constant. The first time the greensight presented such dreams, you had told your father. There was something in his face you’d never forget, sombre on the edge of panic. 

Anguish.

He’d quickly pulled you into his lap, brushing your hair- more so soothing himself than you. 

It had been confusing. The dreams weren’t scary, just odd. Still a child- completely ignorant to the pain your father now feared for you. For the dreams would herald more than one soul could bear. Fates designed by powers beyond you now held you in their hands, fingers spinning you into their far-reaching web. 

And all you could do was watch and wait. 

At age ten and two, you were sent to the Red Keep and in doing so, your destiny was sealed.

-

The telltale scent of heavy clouds hung in the air. The brewing of a downpour closing in. You knew that smell better than most, having spent a childhood where the line between earth and sky was a constant blur of grey. In the Neck, a storm didn't just fall, it rose from the black water to meet the clouds. But the electric buzz skipping under your skin now felt uncomfortably ominous. This wasn't because of the weather. With the dreams that had been clawing at your sleep as of late, the humidity felt like a building drum beat. A warning for what was to come.

You forced yourself to focus. A missing princeling. Aegon Targaryen- the boy who was simultaneously the light of your life and the bane of your existence.

He was supposed to be with Daeron. But the drunken dragon lived up to his title with a tragic consistency. You had arrived to the tourney with Prince Maekar’s vanguard, expecting to find the boys settled. Instead, you found nothing and with it a father whose already thin patience was about to snap like dry kindling.

You were pacing in the stone corridor, the heels of your boots clicking a frantic rhythm. Your thumbnail was bitten down to the quick. You were so deep in your own thoughts that you didn't notice the shadow until a heavy hand settled on your shoulder.

“You’ll burn a hole in that carpet if you keep at it, little reed,” a voice rumbled.

You gasped, spinning around. Baelor stood there, eyes crinkling with a weary but kind smile. Behind him stood Maekar, looking like a statue- rigid, cold, but simmering with rage.

“I- Gods, your Grace.” You exhaled, the shot of adrenaline leaving you lightheaded. Baelor’s chuckle was smooth. He knew without asking why you were running yourself into the ground.

“Steady. The boy is a Targaryen. He has a knack for survival, even if he lacks the sense to use it.” Maekar stepped forward, his face pinched. He didn't share his brother's optimism. You looked at him, your brow furrowing. 

“Have they found a trail? Has anyone seen a boy of his description? He’s small, but he... he can be loud when he wants to be.” Maekar exhaled sharply. 

“Seven fucks knows.” He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture uncharacteristically tired. 

“Ashford is so busy kissing Baelor’s hand he hasn't noticed his own lands are swallowing my sons!” Anger, hot and sudden, pooled in your stomach.

“Now brother-“ you interrupted Baelor with a huff.

“Then why all the fucking merryment?” you snapped, eyes watering as the heat rose to your face. 

“Why in the hells haven’t they stopped the tourney? Torn down every silk tent in this gods-forsaken field? Don’t they know how serious this is!? I have half a mind to ring that pompous cunt’s neck-” Baelor cleared his throat loudly. You blanched, the heat in your face turning from rage to embarrassment. You lowered your head instantly. 

“I... I apologize. My tongue got away from me.” Maekar didn't scold you. Instead, a grim, tight-lipped ghost of a smile twitched at his mouth. He always did have a soft spot for your outbursts. 

“No,” he grunted. “You are right. Bastard should be-”

“If we make this a royal hue and cry, we put a target on their backs,” Baelor countered gently, his hand moving to pat the top of your head. The gesture felt like a warm shield. 

“We cannot have the wrong people looking for them. Go, walk the grounds. Keep your eyes sharp. You know Egg better than any of us- you know where a bored boy might hide.”

-

As you wandered the Ashford meadow, a memory of your first meeting with Maekar came to mind.

You had been a ward of only a few moons, a swamp-wildling transplanted into the sandy stone of the Red Keep by your father’s delegation. It was an arrangement born from old ties, and the knowledge that it was always destined. The sight wasn’t exactly something you could go against... 

A Northerner in lands that felt too dry, too bright, and far too strange to call home. Being away from your people and their land had only one benefit. With the distance, your dreams weren’t as strong- nor the sickness that could sometimes accompany them. But this also made them fragmented- confusing. Your purpose became cloudy.

When Maekar had summoned you one evening, you walked into his quarters with your head bowed, expecting a scolding for your slow adjustments to the southern court’s culture. Still a feral thing, struggling with the change.

“I’m told you are giving your Septas a run for their coin. They say you are quite clever- when you mind…” he’d said, not looking up from his maps. It was true, that was the one thing that would keep you from sneaking off. A natural ability your Septas loathed. But still, you loved learning above all things, and this land held vast amounts of knowledge.

“I-I enjoy the books, my lord. The Neck has many things, but libraries are not among them.” You shifted on your feet, nerves twisting in your gut.

He looked up then, and for the first time, he really looked at you. The silence stretched until you felt the nervous vibration in your chest reaching your fingertips. Then, his features softened into something almost kind.

“Gods... you really are Elissa’s mirror,” he whispered, voice dripping with strange amusement.

“You knew my mother?” You stepped forward, the nerves forgotten. She had passed when you were still a baby, no memory of her except through the tales of others. Maekar nodded, the barely there smile now dropping.

“Elissa Blackmyre. She was a hell of a woman. Could have easily mistaken her for a Targaryen… Eyes like flame if you managed to piss her off which was an easy thing to do.” He had a far-off look on his face, a ghost of a memory playing behind his eyes. 

“How could I ever forget her, standing there before a circle of her own men’s spears to protect a complete stranger.” He let out a chuckle.

Your eyes shone with enraptured attention, and Maekar smiled at your enthusiasm, leaning back in his heavy oak chair. He recounted his youth- of him and his brothers exploring the Great Houses at King Daeron’s encouragement. They had seen tourneys, weddings, and small rebellions, but nothing had prepared them for the North.

The Targaryen hold on the wild region was tense, the alliances frayed. Their father had sent them to bridge the gap, to show the dragon’s face in the mists. That was how they found themselves in the middle of a battle.

They had met your father, Beren Reed, a young man leading a desperate charge against warring factions within the Crannogmen. The insurrection was led by your mother’s people: Blackmyre. For the Princes, it was an opportunity- bring aid to the ruling House, quell the discord, and strengthen a weakening bond to the Iron Throne.

“But the Crannogmen did not fight as other men did. Armour and formation meant little in waters that swallowed horses whole. I led a charge. Young, dumb, and full of arrogance. All shining steel.” He rolled his eyes. “I learned too late how useless that was in a land of mud and water...”

The arrival of the outsiders only worsened the fever of conflict. In an ambush that was more a disappearance than a battle, Prince Maekar was knocked out. The mud swallowed him. By the time Baelor and Beren had cut through to reach the spot, the prince was gone, leaving nothing but churned water and broken rushes.

Maekar had been dragged from the bog half-drowned, his armor weighing him toward a watery grave. To him, the marsh-folk looked like creatures of myth, mud-caked and camouflaged, moving like ghosts through the tall reeds. He was brought before chief Blackmyre, your grandfather, a dragon in chains at the feet of a swamp king. The chief had weighed the life of a prince against the pride of a rebellion. His men surrounded the young man in a circle of pointed spears. But it was Elissa who had stepped into that ring of death, body shielding him defiantly. 

She hadn't used tears or soft words, but a logic sharper than any knife. She had stood before her kin, arguing that a dead prince would only bring a downpour of dragonfire and ash. Her fierce words echoed like thunder, striking her father without mercy. She knew that Maekar was more valuable as a bridge than a martyr, and would fight her own blood if it meant saving him.

Her father pulled back his men with a proud smile, and left the young dragon to his daughter without another word. 

Elissa brought him to her hut and tended to his wounds. She had saved their people from a bloodbath before it even began. By the time a parley was called, she was the one who emerged from the reeds, guiding the Blackmyre delegation to the meeting place.

“She looked at my brother, the man who would be King, and told him I was a fucking idiot for wearing plate armor in a bog,” Maekar chuckled. 

Beren Reed was a man of cold duty until he saw her standing there, looking like a warrior queen of the marsh. Your father had been utterly undone the moment they locked eyes. He was bewitched by that fierce sense of justice she carried, and the way she could stare down a King’s son without blinking. He’d come to negotiate peace for his people, but had ended up finding his own. 

Beren was asking for her hand before the ink on the treaty was even dry.

“She sounded amazing…” The words were thick, caught in the back of your throat. He nodded once, a sharp movement.

“She was,” he said, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “I have spent my life surrounded by knights who talk of bravery, but I have seen few men with the courage your mother showed then. She saved my life when she had every reason to let them take me. I was an invader, a damned fool... Yet she saw a man instead of a crown.”

He stood from his chair, the heavy legs scraping harshly against the stone floor, breaking the spell of the memory. He walked toward the window where the warm, dry winds of the keep carried the scent of jasmine and sun-baked stone.

“And if you have any ounce of her blood, any of her fire, I know you will be an asset to this house,” he said, turning his back to you to look out over the training grounds.

“That is why I want you around my children. My boys- they concern me. Daeron is... complicated. And Aerion’s temper is beginning to rival my own…   they need good companions.”

He grew quiet then, his broad shoulders tensing.

“But Aegon... he is still a babe. He still has a chance...” The words were a whisper, barely audible over the breeze, but they carried the weight of a father’s desperation.

That was the day your life shifted. You became a dutiful shadow in the Targaryen house. A sibling Egg never truly had among his own kin, and a shield against the rot that seemed to fester within the older branches of the dragon’s tree.

Your devotion to him was fueled by more than just affection. It was fueled by the stark, terrifying contrast of his siblings. And with his brothers…

Daeron was far more complicated than you could’ve imagined. With him, the bond was quieter, forged in the shared exhaustion of dreams that brought little comfort in the warmth of a bed. Though your own greensight was a rare ripple in a pond compared to his drowning ocean, you offered him as much comfort as you could. One of the only people that could truly understand his demons.

And Aerion… Aerion had left you with invisible scars. Ones that would never heal. No amount of influence on your end could repair the rot that had already taken hold in him... Looking into his cold eyes would bring you back to that night. To a darkness that still haunted your memories. A blade against your throat, of the muffled cries of your handmaid- how small she had felt in your arms as she trembled in the aftermath. 

You had learned to keep your face a mask of stone in his presence.

Lately, however, your mind had been haunted by something else. Dreams again. You saw dragons clashing in the darkness of thunder and clouds, the flashing of lightning, and the frantic chanting…

“Get up. Get up. Get up.”

You saw a dragon falling, falling…

The chanting turns to screaming, your own voice, as the ground rushes up to meet the beast. You always wake then, your heart hammering against your ribs, skin slick with cold sweat.

You hadn't told Daeron about the dragon yet. You were afraid that if you spoke it out loud, the fall would finally end.

Now, standing in the chaos of the Ashford Tourney grounds, that memory felt heavy. That dark dream kept tugging in your gut, a low-voltage hum beneath your skin that told you the storm was finally coming.

And with Aegon missing, you were really going to struggle to sleep.

The sun was high in the sky, its heat mixed with the increasing humidity making your clothes stick uncomfortable to your skin. You straightened your dress, pulling at the fabric for some relief. You knew Egg. If he was hiding, he wouldn't be near the grand pavilions where the lords boasted and Aerion preened. He would be where the mud was thick and the stories were tall.

-

You weaved between the large pavilions, eyes scanning for a familiar gait or a flash of silver hair. Hope was a waning candle, nearly extinguished by the endless sea of nameless faces you passed.

The sound of laughter stopped you- a bright, genuine sound that cut through your gloom. You followed it toward a puppet show where a young woman’s voice spun a yarn of a foolish knight and a dragon. For a few heartbeats, the tightness in your chest unraveled. The joy was contagious. When the show ended and the crowd dispersed, you turned to resume your grim task- that's when you saw him.

A bald head stood out like a beacon on a foggy coast. Those big, soulful eyes were unmistakable. Aegon.

He was standing next to a mountain of a man, looking up with a grin that rivaled the sun. Relief, hot and violent, surged through you. You didn't think, you ran at full speed. You were a blur of green fabrics. You collided with the mountain of flesh, shoving with a strength born of pure adrenaline to get to the prince.

“Egg, you stupid, stupid boy! By the Old Gods... I should be bending you over my knee, you little lizard!” You caught him in an iron grip, burying your face in his shoulder as fat, hot tears finally broke. You smelled the dirt and horses on him- like the world outside the castle walls.

Dunk stood frozen, blinking down at the person who had nearly upended his six-foot-seven frame. He was used to being the largest thing in any room, yet you had moved through his space like a gale-force wind. Egg let out a strangled wheeze, his ribs groaning under the lung-crushing hug. He flailed a hand toward the giant. 

“Help me, Ser!” he gasped. Dunk looked back and forth, his large hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice a deep, cautious rumble. 

“Excuse me, m’lady... um, but could you unhand my squire?” You looked up, only now registering the sheer scale of the man beside you. Your face shifted from fury to bewilderment as you slowly released your captive.

“Squire? But he’s-” Aegon’s eyes went wide, a silent panicked plea. He leaned in, whispering frantically into your ear. “Please, Mossy. I’ll tell you later. Just... please.”  The use of the nickname made you pause.

You looked from the boy to the knight. He was impressively large, but he held himself unlike men you’ve known before of his size. Not a brute, but gentle- folding in on himself. Someone use to hiding. It made you curious. Nodding slowly, the air left your lungs in a long sigh as you wiped away your tears.

“Ser, this is someone I knew from before,” Egg introduced you as you rose to your full height.

Dunk’s sheepish grin faltered as he took you in. To him, you were a vision of impossible contradictions. Your dress was a deep, forest green, the fabric heavy and fine, pinned by a silver brooch of a lion-lizard. It was a sigil he couldn't name, but something about it felt familiar. He tried to comb through Ser Arlan’s tales… something on the tip of his tongue.

But Dunk was distracted. Past your red rimmed eyes, your face possessed a haunting, fierce beauty that startled him. The kind that came from a lineage of old names and even older blood. The scent of expensive oils wafting from your braided hair made his head swim. Dunk was a man of the streets and the hedges. He had never stood this close to a lady, let alone one like you.

“It’s... it’s lovely to meet you, m’lady,” he stammered, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a Lannister banner. “I’m Ser Dunk- Duncan the Tall.”

“Hello, Ser Duncan,” you said, forcing your voice into the melodic, cool tone.

“Would you kindly allow me a moment with your squire? It has been some time since we’ve last spoken, and I’d be forever in your debt.”

“Of course,” Dunk said, his smile widening despite his nerves. “There be no debt here. Egg, I’ll meet you for lunch.” As soon as the giant was out of earshot, you rounded on the boy, your hands on your hips.

“What is this? And what in the Seven Hells did you do to your head?”

“It was Daeron’s idea,” Egg hissed, rubbing his sore ribs. “We were hiding in an inn when I met Ser. Please, you can’t tell Father. I’m in no danger!”

“No danger? You are a Targaryen prince playing servant to a man who probably doesn't own more than two shirts! Do you know what your father is doing? He’s tearing the Reach apart! I thought you were...” You stopped, the words catching like a thorn in your throat.

“Ser is a good knight,” Egg insisted, his voice softening. “He’s brave. Truly brave- And kind! You’d like him if you got to know him… and I’ll give it up when the tourney is done. I swear on the Starks, the Reeds, and the Dragons!” You threw your hands up at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Mossy, please.” He deflated your anger. You looked at the boy, then back at the retreating back of the massive knight.

“Your father will have both of our heads for this,” you whispered, grip on his shoulder relaxing. You smoothed the front of your dress, a spark of defiance lighting your eyes. “Fine. But if I’m to be an accomplice to this madness, I need to see what all the fuss is about with your darling hedge knight.”

-

At the tables lined with commoners and men-at-arms, Egg led you back to his master. Dunk was leaning on the wood, his attention caught by the men wrestling in the muck nearby. The moment he spotted you, the giant’s coordination deserted him. He bolted upright so fast his knees caught the table, sending his flagon of ale wobbling before it tipped, spilling a dark amber pool across the surface.

“Shit- I mean, sorry m’lady. Seven hells... wo-would you like something to eat?”

His earnestness was a physical heat you could feel from three paces away. It warmed a part of your heart.

“No, my sweet knight, but thank you for the offer,” you said, your voice softening. You glanced at the boy who was currently trying to hide a smug grin by wiping the table. “Egg was telling me you’ve been taking very good care of him?”

Dunk couldn’t contain a shy, lopsided smile. It was... cute. You’d be lying if you said this awkward, towering man didn’t pique your interest. After years of being surrounded by the silver-tongued vipers of the court and the arrogant oafs of the kingsroad, Dunk was a refreshing variation. He didn't have a double meaning in his words or a hidden cruelty in his eyes. No wonder Aegon liked him. The boy had found the only honest man in the Reach.

Aegon looked between the two of you, his eyes narrowing as the silence stretched. You and Dunk seemed to have momentarily forgotten the boy existed at all.

“Well, he can be a stubborn one,” Dunk said, finally finding his voice. “But he’s a good lad. Works hard for his keep.” You smiled and took a seat on the bench beside the gentle giant. Dunk sat back down, though he remained perched on the edge, his eyes never leaving yours. 

He was a little lightheaded with you so close. Here, away from the stink of bodies in the crowded tent, he could smell you stronger- a scent of honeyed warmth and the deep loam of dried herbs. It was an unfamiliar mix, from his Fleabottom squaller to the dirt and horses of the open road, something that rich and clean was almost overwhelmingly at odds. And yet, it tugged at him like a distant memory of a home he’d never actually had.

“I’m surprised you could get him to do anything at all,” you teased, Dunk laughed, the sound deep, but his gaze soon drifted to the black glint on your shoulder. 

“M’lady... I hope you don’t find it rude, but I’m not too sure what house you represent. I’ve seen the stags and the lions and the roses, but...” You looked down at the treasured accessory. Your father, Beren Reed, had pressed it into your palm during your last moon in the Neck, his calloused hands trembling slightly.

The brooch was forged from blackened iron, twisted into the coiled, predatory shape of a lizard-lion. The metal was jagged, the "teeth" of the beast acting as the clasp that caught the tip of its arched tail. In the sockets of its eyes sat two small, uncut emeralds that glowed like wildfire against the dark iron.

It was a piece of the North, cold and sharp. It pinned the fine fabrics of your bodice back, pulling the material taut across your chest.

Duncan, however, wasn't just looking at the craftsmanship. From his height, he had a vantage point that made his throat go dry. His eyes lingered on the curve of your collarbone and the soft slope of skin where the silk met the iron of the brooch. He realized he was staring and looked away quickly, his ears turning a bright, violent crimson, but the image remained burned into his mind.

“Lizard-lion, it is the mark of House Reed,” you said softly, unaware of his lingering gaze. “We are people of the marsh, Ser Duncan. We don't often find ourselves in such... sunny company.” 

“I can’t say I’ve ever seen that part of Westeros, bit of a mystery to me.” Dunk said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet interest.

He looked at you then, and you felt like a mystery personified. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see you- a nymph running through the ancient, weirwood-choked wilds, long hair flying like a banner in the wind. Yet, here you were, draped in silks and smelling like the heavens, carrying yourself with the poise of a princess while guarding a secret he couldn't quite grasp.

Ser Arlan had always told Dunk he was annoying as a piss gnat with his constant questions about the world. Now, Dunk found himself falling back into that role, his curiosity piqued not by lands or legends, but by the woman sitting on the bench beside him.

You enjoyed his bright eyed inquisitiveness. Egg was the only one who ever seemed interested in the stories of your homeland. The godswoods, the first men, and children of the forest- all of the magics that made your people scary and uncivilized by high society standards. You felt yourself breath easier around him. He reminded you of home.

“Oh I could tell you many things ser…” Your eyes twinkled with excitement, voice a purr. But the moment was interrupted when a salt and peppered haired lord sauntered up to your table.

“Ah, Hedge Knight!” Lyonel paused, his sharp eyes sweeping over you with a puzzled, appreciative glance before returning to Dunk. He clapped a heavy hand on the back of his neck, grinning. 

“Will you heed my call to war?” The war in question was a rowdy game of tug-o-war over a particularly treacherous patch of mud. Dunk looked back and forth between you and Lyonel, his face a mask of confusion. You let out a bright laugh and gave the giant a playful shove.

“Well? Go on my sweet knight. Let’s see what you’ve got aye?” Dunk nodded with a smile. You were harder to say no to. Egg jumped up, giddy with excitement. The stag gave you a conspiratorial wink before dragging Dunk toward the rope. 

“Dig your heels in, Duncan! Don’t pussy-foot about now!” you screamed, your voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. Your lady-like visage was quickly slipping at the heat of the battle. He looked back at you, bewildered to hear such an outburst. 

Lyonel cackled. “Oh, I like her!” Suddenly, he let go of the rope entirely, leaving Dunk to take the full weight. The Lord sauntered over to you, grabbing a flagon of ale from the table.

“What? I’m thirsty!” he shrugged in response to your indignant look. Dunk groaned, his massive shoulders bunching as he struggled to compensate for the loss of hands.

“You try it in this mud!” Dunk gasped in response to your yelling. You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. 

“Pathetic! You think this is bad? This lot wouldn’t last a day in the swamps! You’d be waist-deep in peat before you even felt the tension!” With a flourish, the Laughing Storm finished his drink and rejoined the line. With the stag’s power back in the mix, they finally surged backward, dragging the opposing team face-first into the muck.

You hollered, running up to join in the cheering. Dunk tosses Egg in the air, catching him. When you came up to him, he grabbed your waist- swinging you around in a great circle as if you weighed no more than a sack full of flour.

A squeal of pure, breathless delight escaped you. For a second, your world was nothing but the blue sky spinning above and the strong grip of Dunk’s hands on your hips. It sent a swarm of butterflies through your stomach.

Dunk suddenly realized what he’d done. He set you down instantly, his face turning a shade of scarlet that put the Targaryen sigil to shame.

“M’lady... I—I shouldn’t had done that,” he stammered, his eyes wide with panic. “I’m a fool, a thick-headed-”

“A lady could get used to that,” you blurted out. The words slipped out before you could catch them. You quickly coughed to hide the nervous giggle bubbling in your throat. 

“I mean... no harm done, Ser. All in good fun.” Egg watched the exchange with a mischievous, knowing smile that made you want to swat him. Dunk just nodded dumbly, his arms dropping to his sides. His fingers flexed as if he could still feel the warmth of your waist in his palms.

Lyonel stepped up beside you, smacking Dunk on the back with enough force to stagger a horse.

“Now, what do we have here? I didn’t see this enchanting lady with you last night in my pavilion. You holding out on me, eh, giant?”

The Stag Lord took you in, his gaze unashamed and slow. You raised a brow, but as his words processed, your blood turned to ice. You snatched Egg toward you, clapping your hands over his ears so quickly he let out a muffled "Oof!"

You turned daggers on Dunk. “Did you fucking take Egg to one of this man’s notoriously debaucherous parties!?”

Dunk’s jaw dropped. “Deba?-What? No! I-” Lyonel barked a laugh, clutching his sides.

“Oh I really like her. But not to worry, this giant had no bald boy with him.” His gaze shifted over to your sigil, brow raising. You let go of the boy, calming down.

“House Reed? My my, you’re a long way from home…” You narrowed your eyes at him, unimpressed by the flirty lilt to his voice. Lyonel either was oblivious or purposeful in his ignorance of your glare, continuing.

“I’m having another of my debaucherous parties as you so eloquently put it. Wouldn’t mind seeing you there, little blood-bloom.” The nickname, a reference to the fierce red-flowered weeds that grew in the blackest parts of the marsh, shocked you. But you remained firm in your irritation, heat in your eyes no less intense. 

“I’d rather see myself in the tent of a Fenna witch before I find myself at one of your frivolities.” You snapped. The stag lord had a shit eating grin.

“Oh how you wound me... Keep an eye on this one, my boy,” he said, giving Dunk a sharp smack on his ass before walking off. “She’ll eat you alive if you aren't careful!” You rolled your eyes with a scoff.

“You keep interesting company, Ser Duncan.” He shook his head letting out a shaky huff.

“I met him by chance, honest! But he’s- lively to be sure… I promise you, nothing untoward happened on my end m’lady. Just some terrible dancing.” He let out a nervous chuckle. You lowered your shoulders, the tension in your frame bleeding out as your eyes softened. Egg chose that moment to pull at your sleeve, drawing your attention downward. He was using his most lethal weapon- his big, soulful eyes wide, his lower lip pouting in full force. It was a look that had gotten him out of trouble more than once.

“Mossy… can I stay with Ser?” You looked at them both, Dunk sheepishly rubbing the back of his head- the boy waiting on your verdict. An amused sigh slipped from your lips. You reached out, patting Egg’s round, bald head.

“Fine… but let me have a word with your knight.” Egg nodded vigorously, scurrying back to the table to finish his barely touched meal before you could change your mind. Dunk felt a fresh wave of nerves wash over him now that he was alone with you. You didn't help matters. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, a little smirk playing on your lips that made his pulse thrum in his ears.

“Ser Duncan?” You leaned into his space, bending slightly with a purposeful swivel of your hips. Dunk’s breath hitched. From his height, the movement offered a tantalizing view of the soft curve of your cleavage peaking from your dress. He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“Yes m’lady?” You hum, reaching out and bringing your hand to the front of his rough-spun tunic. Your fingers danced up the center of his chest playfully, tracing the line of his breastbone. Dunk shivered, his eyes darting around nervously to see if anyone was watching a high-born lady fondle a hedge knight in broad daylight.

An embarrassingly girlish squeak slipped from his lips when your hand suddenly balled into a fist, gripping the front of his collar. With a strength that seemed impossible for your size, you yanked him downward. Now you were face-to-face, your noses nearly touching. Your sweet, playful demeanor dropped instantly. Something scarily intimidating replaced it. Dunk let out a shaky whimper, his eyes going wide.

“If any harm comes to that boy,” you rumbled, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl, “no place in the Seven Kingdoms could keep you safe from the torture I’ll have planned for you… Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear. Ser?” He nodded quickly, cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. His body was going through a conflict of building fear and also concerning attraction. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d either beg for mercy or say something incredibly stupid. Most likely the latter.

Satisfied with the fear in his big blue eyes, you loosened your hold. Your hand transitioned instantly back to a gentle caress, smoothing out the rumpled fabric of his shirt as if you hadn't just threatened his life.

“Good,” you said, your voice returning to its velvety sweetness. “Now- I have other places to be, but... I’ll be seeing you around?”

Again, he could only nod, his voice having failed him completely. You smiled, he really was absolutely adorable, and turned on your heel. You walked away with a rhythmic sway of your skirts, leaving behind a very red-faced, very bewildered hedge knight standing frozen in your wake.

-

The sanctuary of your quarters was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat and the heavy, cloying scent of the tourney grounds. Lord Ashford had lent his guest quarters to the royal family, as expected. You collapsed onto the bed, the silk coverlet cool against your skin as you let out a long dramatic exhale.

Your body was still tingling. You had played the part of intimidation well enough to leave Dunk trembling, but the truth was that the interaction had stirred a low, slow burn in your own gut. You stared at the canopy above, tracing the memory of those vibrant blue eyes… so honest and clear, like a summer sky over the rolling green hills of the North. And that boyish grin…

By the Old Gods, the feeling of him stayed with you. Underneath that rough-spun shirt, you had felt the solid, unyielding heat of muscle. He was built like ox, yet he had looked at you like a skittish foal- long-limbed, wild, and devastatingly gentle. There was a heady, intoxicating power in knowing that a man who could likely snap a spear with his bare hands was so easily undone by your touch.

A giddy, traitorous smile tugged at your lips. But the indulgent daydream was shattered by the sharp creak of your door swinging open. An Ashford maid hurried in, her head bowed as she skirted around your traveling trunk.

"My Lady," she murmured, her voice breathless. "I have prepared a bath for you in the adjoining room. Lord Ashford sends word that the opening spectacle is to begin shortly."

The weight of your reality came crashing back down. The joust. The princes. The dreams... You groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow, before dragging yourself upright. 

"Very well," you sighed, smoothing your hair. "If I am to sit among the dragons today, I’d prefer not to smell like a stable."

-

By the time of the first joust of highborns and knights of renown, the festivities were in full swing. The walk to the royal pavilion was a blur of noise and color. The air thick with the smell of roasting meats, trampled grass, and the metallic bite of sharpened steel. You climbed the wooden steps to the shaded dais where the high lords sat.

Maekar’s seat was empty- a cold, silent testament to his mounting desperation. You felt a twinge of guilt. He was out there hunting for sons who were currently playing squire and getting miserably drunk, and you were the only one who knew the truth. But as you caught sight of Baelor already seated, the guilt was momentarily eclipsed by his warm smile.

“You look like a queen of the marshes tonight, little reed,” Baelor said as you approached, his voice soft and grounding. He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. My brother is still playing the part of the tireless hound. I suspect he won't return until he’s personally overturned every stone in the Reach.”

“He worries because he cares, your Grace,” you said softly, taking your seat. “Even if he expresses it with anger.” Baelor’s eyes crinkled. 

“True enough. But you look troubled. Is it the heat, or still worrying over Aegon?” You opened your mouth but was cut off with the sound of the horn calling for the first match. The guilt was bubbling up again, you sparing a glance back at the empty seat. Knowing Egg was safe while his father panicked left you deeply conflicted. It’s harmless, you told yourself. Despite Maekar’s intention for you to be a good influence on the boys, in this moment, you were anything but.

Growing up alongside the princes, you had done your best to learn the ways of their courts- how to pretend to be the young lady of Reed who would honor her father. But the North was a different world. Houses in the Neck weren’t fond of the ridiculous, fanciful, and genteel lifestyles of the south. Court was as foreign to you as you were to it, a fact Maekar learned quickly as you spent more time around his sons.

At times, you thought he regretted taking you on as a ward. He felt like a strict uncle, scolding you alongside Egg and Daeron whenever you were caught in a spot of mischief. It was Baelor who would usually come to your aid. He’d remind his brother of your youth and defend your Northern ways, arguing that your presence kept the boys humble by exposing them to a more well-rounded approach to life. Baelor and Maekar spoke a language of their own in that way, and while you always tried to take the brunt of the blame for their antics, it never truly eased the disappointed disdain Maekar showed his own sons.

This felt like all the other times- nothing but harmless fun. Egg would be back soon, and Daeron was obviously hiding on purpose. Nothing nefarious. So why did that lingering dread remain? A whisper of your dreams reminded you: something was coming. But as usual, all you could do was wait. 

You squared your shoulders, determined to cool your rising stress.

Chapter Two