Then We Go Together

“Oh- Gods be good… I need a wash.”

Dunk glanced your way at your words, only for his eyes to find the garments gliding off your body, baring smooth skin to glimmer in the glow. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, breath stilled to a shallow huff in his mouth.

It wasn't the first time, far from it, yet his being froze into place as if enchanted. He knew it wasn't proper to stare, and he didn't most of the time, but glimpses of your form were enough to waver him. The sight should be desensitised to him by this point, Dunk was aware, but what could cease that pang in his soul that called out every time he saw you?

His head turned to the other side when his senses returned, looking at the foliage instead while his heart thought of you. Strong hands worked on whatever they could reach; his chest ached with the knowledge of you there, sinking into the waters as their waves echoed against the walls of the enclosing trees.

“You can look.” Your voice startled Dunk despite its gentleness. “It’s not as though you haven't seen a naked woman before.” The sound of your nonchalance made him shake his head low.

“Or have you, ser?” you asked as you led your gaze over your shoulder towards Dunk on the grass, sudden uncertainty slinking into your judgment. His silence and the harsher pull of his grasp on the packs were the only responses you got, his focus seemingly elsewhere. A merry curl stretched upon your lips.

“Perhaps not.”

“That’s enough,” he called, his tone firmer in his fluster when he accidentally glanced at you again. He saw your nude back staring back at him, the water tall enough to cover places that might have distracted him more. He forcefully set his eyes on yours and nowhere else, his mouth writhing restlessly as you smiled at him.

“It’s not the first time you have seen me,” you elaborated as if that were a reason, causing Dunk to twitch on his legs. His head shook once more, lips pursing hard and eyes trailing downwards.

But the murmur of the water pulled Dunk’s gaze up again, falling on your hands moving upon your body. He allowed himself to look, even for a brief moment, watching you smooth your arms with dampness, droplets drippling down the arch of your spine, following its path. He traced the curves of your shoulder blades, his eyes coming to touch at your waist, your hips drenched beneath the surface — Gods, you were a pretty one, he couldn't resist the thought, and his body seemed to agree by the warm bloom that poured over it.

You weren't oblivious to his attention, smiling to yourself away from him. It was only natural for a man to be curious about the woman he was travelling with so close. But what made Dunk a better man was his courtesy.

He never touched you when you didn't wish to, didn't try to; his gaze was harmless even when he looked at you like that. It was as if he didn't lust after you, even if he might, but admired the work of the Gods before him.

“Have you been with many women, ser?” you asked, words flowing from your lips all too easily. You heard him hesitate to answer, the rustling of him unfolding the bags returning as if he tried to deflect the question.

“Not many,” he replied after a longer while, preparing the camp for today.

“You’re a good lad then, Dunk,” you mused, “some men can't stop themselves from misleading girls.”

“Hm, some men are idiots.”

You laughed at that.

The water fluttered around you, accompanying the following question spilling out of your heart.

"Would you ever have me?"

Dunk's silence replied to you first, even if the answer was a painful, lasting yes. He felt it crawl at his throat, and he swallowed it down hard enough for it to hurt. He was a good knight, and good knights didn't stray because of their cocks.

The hefty exhale that left his nostrils made you look back at him, witnessing the sheer struggle in his taut frame.

"You shouldn't ask things like that," he rumbled gently, despite the dismay in the shake of his head, "it might make me less of a good man."

"To desire would make you human, ser," you replied, tone measured in your truth. "It is not an insult to me."

"It is a broken oath," he defended and met your gaze frankly, not as skittish as before you noticed. His eyes were earnest, soft even when he scolded you, and made you feel strangely timid under their honesty. Your hands came to clasp over your breast, and he was quick to look away if his stare brought you shame.

With a tight jaw, Dunk began to prepare the bonfire for the night, his tall build reaching down for branches of weight that some men might have trouble lifting. You found yourself looking, taking in each shift of his muscle beneath his modest clothes, the bulging of his forearms exposed by pushed-up sleeves, the faint grunts rolling deep within his chest. And yet, his face appeared so delicate, the carvings of his features mild in the setting sun's glow in a way that made you think of kissing his lips.

"Are you willing to dedicate your own feelings to pledges forced upon by men who don't obey them?"

"What else is there for me to do?" Dunk murmured as he let the wood fall on the grass near a tree, "I don't know anything else. That's all Ser Arlan has taught me." He crouched down, weight pressing on his strong thighs, and pulled out a handy flint and steel often present in his pocket.

"And did Ser Arlan follow those oaths?"

Dunk wavered, the flint almost aiming at his fingers. His eyes flickered towards you, trying to hide the uncertainty in his stare with more defensiveness.

"Let's not talk about that. Not disrespect the bygones."

"You're too good, Dunk."

The hiss of the fire breaking aflame filled the silence between you, a burning beam settling over the dimming ground. You watched Dunk sitting at the fire, its heat dancing on the planes of his face as a solemn expression settled in his features.

"Aren't you going to bathe, ser?" you asked meekly, fingers nibbling at the ends of your hair.

"Hm? Later," he dismissed you in goodwill, even if any other man would read your seemingly innocent question in any way he wanted to. You weren't certain if you found his obliviousness endearing or maddening.

"Duncan."

"Mhm?"

"Come join me."

He flinched as if scorched, and you saw the turmoil of conflict storming through his eyes — shock, fear, restraint, duty.

"My lady..."

"You have to wash too, don't you?" you asked, smiling in the coyness of your excuse for something so scandalous. "There's enough space for both of us."

A slightly amused breath left him in reluctant entertainment at your antics, a smile ghosting his lips in return.

"I... couldn't possibly..." but he paused when he looked at you again, saw your body soaring over the calm surface of water, standing there like an invitation. So many thoughts passed through his mind, but he couldn't focus on any of them when the aching turmoil grew within him. It's just a wash, he thought, trying to justify the fact that he stood up and began to peel off his humid shift.

Fresh waves pushed at your back when you heard Dunk stride into the pond behind. Your heartbeat skipped. You dared not look behind you just yet, but you knew he was there, just as bare as you. A moment or two passed by where you didn't move, listening to every splash of water that might be coating his skin.

Slowly, your gaze moved towards him, finding him standing at a distance that should stay respectful — strapping back, muscles piled with strength, yet tenderness of his smooth flesh, besides a few scars fading in. Dunk’s physique, though undeniably powerful, was so gentle as well, curved and bulbous enough to make you want to squeeze.

His hands spattered water on his face, and you heard him groan in a way that splattered your thoughts to wander even more than before. His hair was wet, perfect for running your fingers through or pulling at.

Without you noticing outright, Dunk peeked through his fingers in your direction, just out of curiosity, to see you looking at him so intently through the dim light of the evening sun.

Gazes met, everything stilled, breaths seemed to shrink to a tremble.

“I should go,” Dunk uttered through his haze, blinking away the lust fogging his eyes as he moved through the waters in a few steps.

“Dunk.” Your call bewitched him in place, mighty in its quietness. He waited; his heart fluttered. “Stay.”

“My lady,” he warned, and you saw the sprang of his shoulders, the twitch in his neck lines. He wanted you, and you knew you wanted him.

You were the one to move now, making the waves stir around your thighs as you approached him and nearly made the poor hedge knight flinch. Soon, he found you before him, and Dunk swore that his head got light as he looked at you there, so unapologetic for the flush of your chest, the shape of your waist. You smiled at him, kind but knowing; the glimmer in your stare was heavier than usual, he observed.

“My lady-” he spoke again, this time almost in fear when you dared to lean closer. But he didn't run away, despite the emotion spilling on his face, “I have lied…”

“Oh?” you mused through the dense heartbeat in your chest. Dunk appeared to squirm.

“I have not been with a woman before. A mere kiss as a lad is all I know…”

Dunk wasn't certain what to expect as your reaction, guessing that you might laugh like those girls who could see through his clumsiness. Yet, you didn't giggle, didn't scrunch your nose in disbelief, or overly praise his virtue. You looked at him just as you looked at him before — fondly, warmly. And he stopped being scared.

“Do you wish to change that, ser?”

“With you, yes-” he blurted out with a shaky exhale. “But… won't I be misleading you then, like all those lords and men?”

A smile pulled on your lips again.

“Not if I’d want it.”

Dunk nodded slowly with the most seriousness, and it looked awfully handsome on his face.

“And… you want it.”

“Yes.”

With that answer, hovering over the waters, Dunk’s frame relieved just a little, and he accepted the ache within him, let it guide him as he bent to you. His hands found your cheeks, stable in their quiet tremble. Holding them so carefully, the waves swirled around him as he closed the remaining distance between you, closing your bodies in a whispering cage. His warmth streamed into you, just as unpretentiously as his touch, a lingering presence that brought you protection.

The look in his eyes made you shiver, deep concentration coiling in the reflections of his gaze. His hands were naive when they began to descend over your body, little kinks of his fingers burying into your flesh, but just as honest when he caressed you. He found the path of your neck, the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your chest as he touched its curve. A small breath parted his lips, and he allowed himself to look at you without turning away, without shame eating at him.

“How did the Gods send something so beautiful my way…” You heard him utter, and those words stroked you from within.

“Dunk.” Your voice passed by as a sigh when you reached for him, hands cradling the strong contour of his face. Your eyes urged him, quietly but desperately enough for him to understand.

He kissed you, as well as he could. You tasted salt on his lips, drips of water soaking into your skin, and the softness he gave you. It was gentle, clumsy at times when his mouth didn't follow yours.

“I’m sorry, my lady…” he whispered into your mouth when his teeth accidentally grazed your lip, embarrassment creasing his face.

“Don’t be,” you cooed, feeling your skin prickle where his nose brushed yours, his forehead almost sealed against yours. “I liked it.”

Dunk’s breath hitched, his heart beat harder than before as something tensed his being and narrowed his hands upon you. You felt the wet press of his body against yours when he leaned closer, flesh tightly laced together, and the growing strength behind his lips. A small sound clogged the back of your throat at how his mouth began to work, how his form pushed into yours as if he wanted to merge into you. His hands grew braver, almost frantic, as they travelled from your waist, to your back, your nape, and burned you with heat. Your own hands moved, and he couldn't hold back the low groan he spilt into your mouth when your fingers splayed across his chest.

A brisk splash of water broke the smooth surface of the pond when his arm hooked around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, the petal of your ass cheek filling Dunk’s hand so perfectly. He squeezed, you whined and bucked into him with the strain growing in your roots. You felt him curse against your lips, grind almost instinctively against you in kind with his thickening cock. Your hand slipped down, embracing his width to draw a gasp from his mouth as his lips shattered away from yours with a backwards tilt of his head. He breathed your name out, looking down at you in a plea too sweet to ignore.

His size drowned between your thighs with a slow glide, torturous for both of you. Dunk watched closely as he faded within you, awed at the pliant nature of your slick folds. The moment he sank entirely in your warm cunt, he sighed in relief.

“I hope I'm not hurting you, my lady.”

“No.” You shook your head lazily. Locking your gaze with his, you felt yourself flutter around him. And so did he, moving his hips ever so slightly in an excuse to adjust himself. “You’re perfect.”

He met your words with a whimper, unable to deny how he twitched when buried deep in your slit. His hand squeezed your plump again, thumb smoothing across your flesh as his hips began to roll — slowly at first, cautious as the new sensation settled within him. Every thrust steeped in your sap felt overwhelming, and the little gasps you let out only overtook him more.

Dunk had tried moving harder, pushing into you with more force, as the mild tingle inside his stomach became familiar — he wanted more. With a few rigid snaps of his pelvis, your breath hitched, your cunt pulsed around him as if this was exactly what you needed all along. He had you mewling by the time he set a steady pace, observing how your body trembled, how he drove himself over and over again inside you.

Dunk’s other hand wandered between your forms, just like when he caught Ser Arlan doing to a whore once, his fingers petting over the pearl his cock couldn't reach. His breath caught as he watched you arch into his touch, your moan dropping into the water around you.

“Duncan…”

“Am I pleasing you, my lady?” he huffed through repeated jabs of his hips, his thumb beginning to circle your swollen nacre in tender rings.

“Gods, yes…”

The encouragement seemed to provoke Dunk more, and you felt his cock riding deeper into you, more persistent. Waves crashed against your tangled bodies as he went faster, short and deliberate thrusts jolting pleasure through your roots while he chased the climax with you. Your arms closed around him tightly, his face nestled in the crook of your neck as he softly chanted “my lady, my lady, my lady,” like a prayer into your skin.

A cry broke from Dunk’s throat, planted in your neck, when he spilt into you, warmth dribbling into your cavenrs in streams. Tight around his stuttering length, you couldn't open your eyes for a long moment in your heightening delight, your fingers cutting into his skin.

It was silent afterwards, your breaths echoing over the pond in union. You felt Dunk shivering against you, still sealed so close to you with his sighs melting on your flesh. The movement of his thumb lasted in the stillness, caressing you gently as if to comfort. Slowly, his head lifted, his face came to yours as your gazes caught each other in the haze. A dear blush dusted his complexion, his lips parted perfectly for you to close them with a light kiss.

"I think we should go dry," Dunk whispered into your mouth; you nodded.

Adorned in your clothes again, you sat before the dancing bonfire, watching it flare and curve with Dunk. You rested against his shoulder, just like many times before, a solace settling within you. You felt the weight of the glances he stole your way, something unspoken present in his eyes.

"Do you think... that I will ever get to do that again?" he asked, voice no louder than a rumble of the flames. A smile came to rest on your face, only for his eyes to see.

"I think you will get to do it more than once, ser."

Dunk shared a smile with you, leaning his head gently against yours, as a shade of contentment settled in his features.

Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.

But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.

It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.

When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.

He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.

He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.

“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.

You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.

“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.

“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”

“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”

“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”

“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.

“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”

“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”

“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.

That's your call.

“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”

Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.

Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.

And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that. 

His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.

Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.

“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.

“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”

“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.

“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”

The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”

“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”

“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.

You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.

The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.

“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”

Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy. 

He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”

A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.

Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.

“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”

Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”

By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”

Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.

“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”

“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.

Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.

“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”

“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”

“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”

He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.

“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”

“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”

His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.

“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”

“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”

You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.

He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.

Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

You notice eyes on you then.

Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.

“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”

You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”

He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.

Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.

His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.

“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”

You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”

You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.

“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”

You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.

You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.

Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.

His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.

You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.

“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”

Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”

“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”

“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”

He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.

“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”

He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”

He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”

Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.

“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He is truly pathetic. And you love it.

You hum softly, amused.

“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”

He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.

“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”

“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”

Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.

It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.

“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”

Your expression softens.

“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.

You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.

“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”

He blinks. “M-my lady?”

“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”

His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”

You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.

“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.

You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”

He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”

That makes you still.

Your teasing fades, just a little.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”

Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”

Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.

You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.

“I must go,” you announce softly.

Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.

“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”

There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.

“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”

“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.

You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.

“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.

“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”

“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”

“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“Good night, my lady.”

You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.

Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.

He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.