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The silence between you lingered heavily, broken only by the distant crackle of torches beyond the cell.

He watched you carefully, exhaustion weighing down his features, but there was something softer in his expression now. Something unguarded.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

You let out a humorless breath. “You think I care about that right now?”

For the faintest moment, it almost looked like he wanted to smile.

Almost.

“I tried speaking to them,” you admitted softly. “they wouldn’t listen.”

Duncan frowned slightly at the mention of your "family:", though confusion flickered through his eyes more than anything else.

“You argued with your family for me?” he asked, disbelief threading through his tired voice.

You looked away before he could see too much in your expression. “Someone had to.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Duncan stepped closer, “Why?”

The question caught you off guard.

Not suspicious.

Not mocking.

Just genuine.

Why did you come?

Why did you care this much?

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Because the thought of losing him made something inside you ache in a way you didn’t know how to explain.

Because seeing him hurt made you furious.

Because despite everything, you could never walk away from him.

But you couldn’t say any of that aloud.

So instead, you whispered, “I couldn’t leave you here alone.”

Duncan stared at you for a long moment after that, his expression unreadable. Then slowly, carefully, like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he moved too quickly, he reached for your hand.

His fingers brushed yours.

Cold.

Shaking slightly.

But real.

And somehow that tiny touch said more than either of you could.

“My family will not take mercy on you, that is for sure…” you said quietly, your gaze dropping briefly to the chains around his wrists. “But I know something that might help you.”

Duncan frowned slightly, confused. “What are you talking about?”

You stepped closer to the bars, lowering your voice carefully despite the empty corridor outside.

“A trial by combat.”

His expression immediately hardened. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I already know where this is going.”

You ignored him. “If you demand a trial, they cannot refuse you. Not publicly. The court would see it as denying the gods themselves.”

Even the distant dripping water seemed to stop.

Then Duncan let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s your solution?”

“Aerion is arrogant,” you said quickly. “Too arrogant. He would accept immediately because he thinks he cannot lose.”

“Aerion is one of the deadliest swordsmen in the kingdom.”

“I know.”

“And you want me to fight him?”

“No.” Your eyes met his steadily. “I want you to survive him.”

Something unreadable crossed Duncan’s face then. Not fear exactly. Frustration. Concern.

For you.

“You’re asking me to challenge a prince,” he said quietly.

“I’m asking you to give yourself a chance. Besides, you already punched him, did you not?”

Duncan looked away sharply, jaw tightening. The chains rattled softly as he moved.

“You don’t understand what happens if this goes wrong.”

“If this goes wrong, you die anyway.”

That silenced him.

The truth sat heavily between you both, cold and unavoidable.

You stepped even closer now, your voice softening.

“Aerion fights with anger. Pride. He likes making people afraid before he kills them.” Your eyes searched his carefully. “But you… you fight to survive.”

Duncan’s gaze slowly lifted back to yours.

“And if I lose?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

But you forced yourself to answer.

“Then at least you die with a sword in your hand instead of rotting in chains.”

The words hurt to say.

Because suddenly the possibility felt far too real.

Duncan watched you in silence for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the bruises on his face. Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, he asked:

“And if I win?”

You swallowed.

“Then my family will never forgive either of us.”

Duncan was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your words settling heavily between you both.

Then his expression shifted slightly, like another thought had suddenly struck him.

“About Egg—”

Your breath caught instantly.

Of course.

You had almost forgotten the one secret that mattered most.

Guilt twisted painfully in your chest as you looked away from him for the first time since entering the cell.

“I know…” you whispered softly. “I am sorry for lying to you.”

Duncan frowned, confusion flashing across his face.

“He didn’t want me to tell you.”

Silence crashed down between you both.

Duncan leaned back slightly as though the words themselves had physically struck him. A quiet, disbelieving breath escaped him before he dragged a hand down his face.

“You’re telling me I’ve been traveling with a prince this entire time?”

“He never wanted you to treat him differently.”

“That little liar,” Duncan muttered, though there was no real anger behind it.

Despite everything, despite the dungeon and the chains and the fear hanging over both of you, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly for the first time that night.

“He looked terrified every time you insulted the royal family,” you admitted quietly.

That earned a short laugh from Duncan. Tired. Disbelieving. But real.

Then the laughter faded just as quickly.

His expression softened as he looked back at you.

“You carried that secret alone?”

You shrugged weakly, though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest. “I promised him I would.”

Duncan studied you carefully for a moment before sighing.

“I can’t even be angry.”

Your brows lifted slightly in surprise.

“You can’t?”

He shook his head faintly. “Not when you’re standing in a dungeon trying to save my life.”

And somehow, hearing that hurt more than if he had shouted at you instead.

Silence settled over the dungeon again, heavy and unmoving.

The torchlight outside flickered against the bars, casting soft gold tremors across the cold stone floor. Duncan stood where he was, watching you without speaking. Waiting. Not pushing. Just there.

You lowered your gaze for a moment.

When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet—measured, almost distant.

“We will go to them,” you said. “Even if I do not want to.”

Duncan didn’t interrupt.

“And you will ask for a trial by combat,” you continued softly, as though stating something already written in stone. “It is the only way, Dunk.”

He frowned slightly. “You say that like it’s already decided.”

“It is.”

A pause stretched between you.

Your fingers interlaced loosely in front of you, not tense—just still, like you were holding yourself together with habit more than emotion.

“My family will not change their mind,” you added. “Not for mercy. Not for reason.”

Duncan studied you carefully. “And Aerion?”

At the name, something distant passed across your face. Not fear. Not anger.

Something quieter.

Like acceptance of something inevitable.

“Aerion will accept,” you said. “He will want everyone watching. He always does.”

Duncan exhaled slowly through his nose. “And me?”

Your eyes finally lifted to his.

There was no dramatics in them. No certainty dressed as bravado.

Just a calm that almost didn’t belong in a place like this.

“You will survive,” you said simply.

He blinked. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give.”

That made him fall silent.

The dungeon felt even smaller after that.

You stepped closer to the bars, not urgently—just as if your body had decided before your mind did. Your voice softened further.

“We will go before them,” you said again. “You will ask for trial by combat.”

A pause.

Then, quieter still—

“And I will stand there when you do.”

Not a promise meant to change fate.

Just something steady enough to exist beside it.

Aerion crushed another nut beneath the handle of his dagger, the crack echoing sharply through the room.

No one spoke after it.

The silence felt suffocating.

Duncan stood in the center of the room, dirt staining the edges of his clothes from travel and the dungeon floor, but otherwise untouched. Tired, silent, and somehow still standing straight before dragons.

“T...trial by combat,” Duncan said finally, his voice rough but steady. “That is my right.”

Aerion did not even look at him.

“I refuse.”

“You cannot refuse.”

Your voice cut cleanly through the room.

That finally made Aerion turn toward you.

Slowly.

The dagger stopped moving between his fingers.

“Can I not?” he asked softly.

“Not without withdrawing your accusation,” you replied quietly. “Any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand trial by combat.”

Aerion stared at you for a long moment.

Then his gaze flicked briefly toward Duncan before returning to you again, obvious disgust crossing his face.

“A knight,” he repeated softly, almost amused. “You defend this?”

“He asked for his right.”

“He struck a prince.”

“You broke Tanselle’s finger.”

Aerion blinked once.

Then tilted his head slightly.

“Who?”

The question came without hesitation. Without care.

Like the name meant nothing.

Your chest tightened slightly.

“The puppeteer,” you said quietly.

Aerion thought for a brief second before recognition flickered across his face.

“Oh.” He shrugged lightly. “Her.”

You stared at him in silence.

Aerion noticed.

Of course he did.

Then slowly, he stepped up from his chair and toward you, the dagger hanging loosely from his hand.

“You are upset with me,” he murmured softly, stopping far too close.

“You broke the finger of an innocent girl.”

“And now you defend him with the same expression.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves.

Aerion’s gaze lingered on the movement.

“He has made you emotional,” he said softly. “I do not like that.”

The silence stretched long enough that it began to feel like part of the room itself.

Aerion stood close to you still, his expression unreadable now, the earlier amusement gone. Duncan remained in the center of the hall, quiet and steady, as if waiting for stone to decide his fate.

You finally spoke again, voice controlled, cutting through the tension.

“It’s either trial by combat or withdraw his accusations.”

Aerion let out a slow breath, almost bored again, but his eyes stayed sharp on you.

Aerion let the silence settle for a moment longer, as if letting the entire court feel the weight of his decision.

Then he spoke.

“A trial of seven.”

Your brows drew together immediately.

“What?”

His expression barely changed, calm in a way that made it worse.

“That is my right,” Aerion continued smoothly. “I do believe.”

A ripple moved through the hall. Whispering. Uneasy shifting. Even the guards seemed to stiffen.

You took a step forward without thinking.

“You cannot ask that—”

“He can.”

The voice cut through everything.

Your head snapped toward your father's side of the room. He stood still, composed, eyes fixed forward.

No hesitation.

No softness.

Just authority.

You turned fully toward him.

“Father—”

He raised a hand.

A command without effort.

“You have said enough,” he said evenly. “Sit down.” The words hit harder than anything shouted.

For a moment, you did not move.

Duncan stood still in the center of the room, silent as stone, watching everything without interruption.

Aerion’s gaze drifted back to you, slow and deliberate, as if he was measuring your reaction rather than the outcome of the trial itself.

The silence after Aerion’s words did not break immediately.

It only shifted.

Heavy, uncertain, like the entire court was trying to understand what had just been changed.

Duncan finally spoke.

“What is a trial of seven?”

You exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that came before something you did not want to explain.

You did not think Aerion would have chosen it. It was old. Older than most remembered laws in the Red Keep.

“The Andals believed,” you said quietly, “that if seven champions fought, the gods would favor the side they judged worthy.”

Duncan stared at you.

“So… I must fight seven men?”

“Do not play the fool,” cut in immediately, voice flat with irritation. Duncan turned his head slightly toward him. Aerion’s expression did not change.

“It is seven against seven.”

The words landed like a stone in still water.

A ripple moved through the hall. Uneasy murmurs. Guards shifting their weight. Nobles leaning closer to each other as if proximity could explain it better.

You clenched your jaw.

This was not just difficult.

It was dangerous in a way Aerion clearly understood and did not care about.

“You must find six other knights to fight beside you,” you said quietly.

Duncan’s head snapped back to you.

“But I have no one else.”

His voice was sharp now, not angry, just certain in the way of someone stating a fact that could not be changed.

Aerion gave a faint, dismissive breath.

“If the cause is just,” he said, almost bored, “good men will fight for it. If not, it will be because you are guilty.”

The silence that followed was thicker than before.

Duncan did not look convinced.

Neither did anyone else.

Then Baelor finally spoke.

“Seek your champions, Ser Duncan.”

No warmth. No comfort. Just instruction.

The words felt like a closing door.

The guards moved then, stepping in around Duncan. Not rough, but firm enough that refusal was not an option.

He hesitated only a moment before allowing himself to be escorted out.

You watched him go.

The weight in your chest did not ease. It only grew worse with every step he took away from the chamber.

This feels wrong, you thought.

Not just unfair.

Wrong in a way you could not yet name.

You followed without thinking, footsteps quick against stone, leaving the throne room behind as the doors shut heavily at your back.

The corridor outside was quieter, but not calm. Torches burned in their brackets, casting long shadows along the walls.

Duncan was just ahead, still surrounded by guards.

You were about to speak when movement ahead stopped everything.

A figure stepped out from the side corridor.

Valarr.

No guards. No Duncan. No court behind you. Just torchlight and stone and the weight of what had just been said still hanging in the air.

Valarr stepped into your path as if he had been waiting there the entire night.

“Leave me be, cousin,” you said quietly.

He did not move.

Instead, he caught your arm, firm enough to stop you but not to hurt you.

“Just leave him,” Valarr said. “What has gotten into you?”

You tried to pull away once, then stopped when it became clear he was not letting go.

“What are you talking about?”

Valarr’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you in a way that felt too sharp.

“I was a fool for letting him go in the first place,” he said. “I knew you were hiding someone that night.”

Your chest tightened immediately.

That night.

You had not meant it to happen the way it did. It was supposed to be simple, a distraction, something to keep him from looking too closely at where you went or who you spoke to. A mistake dressed up as control.

Valarr noticed your expression shift.

His grip tightened slightly.

“I did not want to be controlling,” he continued, voice lower now, more measured. “I knew how much you value your freedom. I accepted that you were meeting someone in secret. I did not think it would be a hedge knight.”

“Enough,” you said quickly, pulling your arm again. “Whatever happened that night was nothing. It meant nothing.”

“It will mean something,” he said, “if I tell the whole court what happened”

Your heart dropped so sharply it felt like the floor beneath you had disappeared.

You went still.

“You would not dare.”

For a moment, Valarr said nothing.

He just studied you, his hand still around your arm, his expression unreadable in a way that was worse than anger.

Valarr did not loosen his grip.

He only watched you, calm in a way that made it worse, like he had already decided how this would end and was simply waiting for you to accept it.

He was serious.

You knew him well enough to understand that. Valarr did not bluff. He did not threaten without intent behind it.

“What do you want?” you asked quietly.

His expression did not change.

“For you to be married to me.”

The words landed cleanly. Final. Not emotional. Not pleading. Just stated like a condition of the world.

“Valarr—”

He cut you off with a look.

Not angry. Not raised voice. Just that steady, patient certainty that made it clear there was no room left for negotiation.

You felt it immediately.

Trapped.

Not by force. By consequence.

Valarr leaned slightly closer, still holding your arm.

“If you do not,” he said quietly, “you know what will happen.”

Your throat tightened.

You knew exactly what he meant. The meadow. The court. Duncan. All of it, laid bare in front of everyone who already waited for you to slip.

“Valarr please,” you said, softer now, almost desperate.

“No,” he replied immediately. “I have been waiting for so long.”

His grip did not tighten. It did not need to.

“Make your choice,” he said.

Silence pressed in around you both, thick and suffocating.

You looked at him, searching for any crack in his certainty, any hesitation you could reach for.

There was none.

Only patience.

Only certainty.

Only the quiet expectation that you would choose correctly, the way he believed you always should have.

And for the first time that night, you realized this was not a threat meant to scare you.

It was a decision already made, waiting for your permission to become reality.

Valarr watched you for a moment longer, as if making sure he had heard you correctly.

Then your nod came.

Once.

Small. Final.

“Fine,” you said quietly. “I will marry you… just leave Dunk be and don't tell anyone about what happened that night.”

The words seemed to settle into the air between you both.

Valarr’s expression softened slightly, not into kindness, but into satisfaction, like something carefully held had finally been placed where he wanted it.

He did not smile widely.

He did not need to.

“Good,” he said simply.

His grip on your arm loosened at last, though he did not step away immediately.

For a moment, he just studied you, as if confirming you would not change your mind the second he let go.

“You should have chosen that sooner,” he added quietly.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side.

Valarr finally released your arm.

The absence of his hand felt heavier than the pressure had.

He straightened, smoothing his sleeve as though nothing important had just happened.

“As for the knight,” he said, glancing down the corridor in the direction Duncan had been taken, “I assume this ends that distraction.”

Valarr did not wait for you to answer.

“I will be telling everyone about you accepting my proposal. We shall be married once we arrive home.”

His voice was steady, certain, as if the matter had already been sealed by saying it aloud.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It was not brief.

It started as something firm and decisive, like a statement made with no room for argument. But he did not pull away when you did not respond. Instead, he stayed there, holding the moment as if patience alone could make it undeniable.

The corridor felt too quiet around you, torchlight flickering against stone while everything else seemed to disappear into stillness.

Valarr’s hand lifted slightly, not rough, but anchoring you in place with careful control. Not forcing, but making it clear there was nowhere else for you to go in this moment.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, like he was ending something that had already been decided long before his lips ever touched yours.

He studied your face for a reaction.

You did not move.

Did not speak.

Did not resist.

Only stood there, breathing unevenly, letting the weight of it settle into something final.

Valarr’s expression softened into quiet satisfaction.

“Good,” he said gently.

As if your silence was agreement.

As if your stillness meant consent.

He released you at last and stepped back, adjusting his sleeve with calm precision, like nothing important had just shifted between you.

“You will behave properly when it is announced,” he added, voice low but certain.

Then he turned away, already treating the future as something arranged.

And you were left in the corridor, still, as if your body had forgotten how to belong to yourself.

Sorry for this chapter being short, I am trying to make my series longer(I don't want it to end yet). I hope this chapter is alright, and I apologize for being gone for so long.

The afternoon sun hung warm over the market, casting long shadows between the stalls. Voices overlapped all around you, merchants calling, people bargaining, the air thick with the smell of cooked meat and spices.

You walked beside them as Dunk and Egg ate a sausage. The smell was strong, savory, unfamiliar, and you found yourself watching it for a moment, trying to place it.

Dunk took another bite before glancing down at Egg. “Did you ever know your father?” he asked.

Egg hesitated. “No… not really.”

He answered quietly, glancing at you.

Dunk and Egg continued talking beside you, their voices fading into the background as your thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The dream lingered in your mind, clearer now in the light of day, yet somehow more unsettling. It had felt real, too real to be just a memory.

Was it truly about the night you were attacked?

You frowned slightly, eyes unfocused as you walked. Something about it had been… different. Not just a recollection, not just fear. It had felt like something was reaching for you, trying to show you more than what you already knew.

You three continued to walk when a lady in a black cloak stepped into your path, her face half-hidden, eyes covered by the shadow of her hood.

“Say your fortune?” she asked quietly. “Oh, Yeah. Go on, then,” Dunk said, amused.

She turned to him first. “You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister.”

Dunk gave a short nod, clearly unconvinced. “Thank you.”

“Do them now,” he added, gesturing.

The woman shifted her gaze to Egg. “You shall be king, and die in hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”

You turned to Egg. He looked frightened, his usual confidence gone, and you did not blame him. The woman’s voice had changed,more certain. Too certain.

Then she pointed at you.

“You.”

Her voice lowered. “You shall stand where the wind calls your name, high above all who would cage you. And in that moment, you will choose between the sky that tempts you… and the earth that still claims you.”

Her head tilted slightly. “Be wary, child. Not all falls are taken. Some are chosen.”

“What?” Egg asked, still staring after her.

Dunk let out a short laugh. “Thank you, that’s very good,” he said, tossing her a coin as if it were all a bit of harmless fun.

The woman took it without a word and slipped back into the crowd, her dark cloak disappearing among the movement of the market.

You didn’t look away.

Your gaze stayed fixed on the place she had been, her words echoing in your mind.

High above. The wind. A choice.

Your fingers curled slightly at your side. It made sense… in a way that unsettled you. Not like a story, not like a guess. It felt connected.

Like it already knew you.

“Ser Duncan!”

The voice rose above the noise of the market. You turned slightly as the man approached and recognized him at once, Raymun Fossoway.

“I saw you with this boy and lady before,” he said, peering closer. “She looks familiar!”

Your stomach tightened. You lowered your head a little more and adjusted your hood, silently praying he would not recognize your face. Dunk glanced at you when he said that, his gaze lingering for a moment before he shifted his attention back to the man and stepped slightly forward.

“Uh yeah,” he said, gesturing toward Egg. “This boy is my squire.”

They continued to talk, Raymun now more focused on Dunk, and you slowly looked around the market before beginning to wander off. Your eyes drifted across the stalls one by one, fabrics, small trinkets, food, until you noticed the puppet stage. Tanselle was there preparing things, and when she saw you she waved.

You waved back and walked over.

“There’s a puppet show soon,” she said. “Is Butter coming? I believe he would like this one.”

You held back a sigh at the name Butter. Gods, you wished your brother had chosen anything else.

“I will call him. He should be somewhere around the market,” you said, not telling her that your brother was actually in the castle.

Tanselle nodded. “Oh, and Ser Duncan’s shield is almost ready. He can pick it up after the show.”

You nodded. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” she said, pausing before stepping a little closer. “Do you want to spend some time together later?”

She glanced back toward her family, where most of them were busy with their own work. “I don’t really have any girls to spend time with,” she added, then looked back at you with a small, hopeful smile. “It would be nice to finally have someone to talk to.”

You nodded after a moment. “Yeah, sure.”

Her face brightened at once. “Then it's settled," she said.

You nodded, but before you could say another word, Dunk’s voice called out sharply.

“Where have you been?!”

“Here,” you replied, keeping your tone calm.

“I—Aye, I know that, but you can’t just wander off! It can be dangerous here!” he said, his words scolding but edged with worry.

“I’m with Tanselle,” you said evenly, shrugging.

Dunk exhaled heavily, running a hand over his face. “That’s not the point,” he muttered.

You gave a small shrug and turned, walking toward Egg, who was already busy looking at a stall.

Dunk fell into step beside you, his gaze flicking to your hooded figure as you moved through the crowded stalls. “I should go to the castle,” you said, your voice soft but carrying over the noise. “Tanselle said there will be a puppet show soon, and she said my brother would really like this one.”

He nodded, though the movement was stiff, his jaw tight. He didn’t want you to go, not into the bustling market where anything could happen. The thought of you slipping away, even for a little while, tightened something in his chest.

“She also said your shield is ready soon,” you added. “You can pick it up after the show.”

He nodded again, forcing himself to stay calm. “I’ll be going then,” he muttered, though the words felt heavier than usual. He wanted to say something else, something to keep you there a little longer, but before he could speak, a voice cut through the market chatter.

“Will you join me in my tent for a cup of cider?”

Raymun Fossoway stood there, a grin on his face, clearly expecting a reply. Dunk glanced back, but you were already gone, swallowed up by the crowd. He exhaled, frustration and relief mixing together, and finally nodded.

“You can watch the puppet show, Egg,” he said, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s eyes. “Wait for her.”

Egg gave a small, determined nod, his attention already split between Dunk and the market around them.

You made your way back to the castle, the streets quieter now with the market behind you. Earlier, you had left your cloak draped over a low branch of a tree near the castle, where no one would see it. Once you reached your brother, you called to the guard, “Can you bring my brother out? My father requested him.”

“Yes, Princess,” he replied promptly, bowing slightly before telling the servants. A few moments later, Vaeloris appeared at the top of the stairs, bouncing down eagerly. He waved as he ran toward you, excitement shining in his eyes.

“Come now, Vaeloris, our father is waiting for us,” you said gently.

Vaeloris skidded to a stop, looking confused. “But I was just with—oh!” His eyes widened as he realized. “I forgot. Father called us.”

Once you had left the castle grounds, you retraced your steps to the tree where you had left your cloak. You picked it up, draping it over your shoulders once more. “There’s a puppet show soon,” you called, smiling at him. “Tanselle said you would like it.”

Vaeloris’s face lit up. “I’m excited!”

“Me too,” you added, squeezing his hand as you continued toward the market.

Dunk and Raymun sat in the tent, the afternoon light filtering through the canvas walls. They each held a cup of cider, taking slow sips as they talked, the rich, sweet scent filling the small space.

“I heard Aerion was in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horse,” Raymun said, leaning back slightly and letting the words hang in the air.

“My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse,” said Dunk, chuckling lightly.

Raymun did not laugh. He just stared at him, sharp and unamused.

“Just hard to accept that a prince could be so dishonorable—”

Before Dunk could continue, Raymun cut him off. “Why is that hard?”

Dunk froze for a moment, caught off guard. “N-no, I—”

Raymun interrupted him again, his voice rising with controlled fury. “They are incestuous aliens, Duncan! Blood-majickers and tyrants who burnt our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs!”

Dunk’s mind went immediately to you. You were not like that. He tried to form his words, to defend what he knew of your kind, but the words tangled. “I… I don’t think they are all like that—”

Raymun scoffed, leaning back and taking another sip of his cider. “Duncan, I heard the princess of House Targaryen has many suitors, most of them her cousins!”

“What?” Dunk asked, alarmed.

“Aye! It’s disgusting. Incestuous monsters they are!” Raymun spat the words out, his face twisted in contempt. “I bet the princess likes the attention. She is a Targaryen after all!”

“Don’t say that!” Dunk’s voice snapped, sharper than he intended, making Raymun blink in surprise.

“What has gotten into you?” Raymun asked, his tone a mix of confusion and caution, clearly unsettled by the sudden intensity in Dunk’s voice.

Dunk clenched his fists, trying to calm himself, his thoughts still on you. “You… you don’t know her,” he muttered, the words barely audible, but full of conviction.

Dunk’s thoughts drifted back to you, chasing away the anger in his chest. You were not like that. You had never been like that. Every moment he’d spent with you came rushing back—the way you had cared for him, the quiet patience in your voice, the gentleness in your gestures. You were kind, endlessly kind, and the thought of anyone speaking poorly of you made his stomach tighten. You had been good to him, more than anyone else ever had, and that alone made you different from all the rest.

The square was dimly lit now, lanterns casting long, flickering shadows across the cobblestones. Darkness had fallen, and the crowd’s chatter mingled with the occasional clatter of feet and the rustle of cloaks. You sat with Vaeloris and Egg, leaning forward with anticipation as the puppet show continued. The dragon puppet loomed over the stage, larger than life, its scales gleaming dully in the lantern light. Tanselle, dressed as a knight in shining armor, moved across the stage with surprising agility, her shield raised as she faced the puppet dragon.

The dragon roared, a deep, guttural sound that made the ground vibrate beneath your feet. Flames shot from its mouth, licking the air with fierce intensity. Tanselle raised her shield just in time, the fire grazing it and sending sparks into the dark air. Gasps and cheers ran through the crowd as she dodged and struck back, the dance of fire and steel mesmerizing. Vaeloris clapped and laughed, thrilled by the spectacle, while Egg cheered excitedly beside him.

Then, across the crowd, your eyes caught a flash of white hair. You froze. The man’s gaze swept the square with a cold, calculating precision, sharp as a blade in the dim light. Your stomach tightened as recognition hit. Aerion.

A shiver ran down your spine, crawling up your back. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes left no doubt. Every instinct in you screamed that danger was close, that this was not just a casual appearance. You gripped Vaeloris’s hand tighter, feeling his warmth and innocence amidst the tension that gripped you.

The square was dimly lit now, lanterns casting long, flickering shadows across the cobblestones. Darkness had fallen, and the crowd’s chatter mingled with the occasional clatter of feet and the rustle of cloaks. You sat with Vaeloris and Egg, leaning forward with anticipation as the puppet show continued. The dragon puppet loomed over the stage, larger than life, its scales gleaming dully in the lantern light. Tanselle, dressed as a knight in shining armor, moved across the stage with surprising agility, her shield raised as she faced the puppet dragon.

The dragon roared, a deep, guttural sound that made the ground vibrate beneath your feet. Flames shot from its mouth, licking the air with fierce intensity. Tanselle raised her shield just in time, the fire grazing it and sending sparks into the dark air. Gasps and cheers ran through the crowd as she dodged and struck back, the dance of fire and steel mesmerizing. Vaeloris clapped and laughed, thrilled by the spectacle, while Egg cheered excitedly beside him.

Then, across the crowd, your eyes caught a flash of silver hair. You froze. The man’s gaze swept the square with a cold, calculating precision, sharp as a blade in the dim light. Your stomach tightened as recognition hit. Aerion.

A shiver ran down your spine, crawling up your back. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes left no doubt. Every instinct in you screamed that danger was close, that this was not just a casual appearance. You gripped Vaeloris’s hand tighter, feeling his warmth and innocence amidst the tension that gripped you.

Tanselle moved forward, thrusting her sword into the dragon puppet’s neck. Red confetti erupted from the wound, fluttering to the ground like shredded fire, but there was no cheer from the crowd. Silence fell heavy, all eyes drawn not to the stage but to the figure standing at the edge of the square.

Your stomach dropped as you saw him step closer, his movements deliberate, controlled, the tension radiating off him making your pulse spike. He saw himself in the dragon, and now it lay “dead” before him. Even a puppet, even a show—he would not take it lightly.

Vaeloris, still clapping moments before, froze. “Oh…” he muttered, excitement gone, his wide eyes fixed on Aerion.

You leaned toward Egg, whispering urgently, “Take Vaeloris and get him somewhere safe.”

Egg’s small hand found Vaeloris’s, and together they slipped quietly through the crowd, moving like shadows, careful not to draw attention.

You stayed where you were, heart hammering, as Aerion advanced. His white hair caught the lantern light, his gaze cold and unrelenting. The puppet dragon, the flames, the red confetti—it was nothing to him. He thought himself a dragon, and seeing one fall, even in play, had stirred something dangerous. Fear crawled along your spine as you realized there was no turning back.

Egg and Vaeloris ran through the crowded market, weaving past stalls and startled shoppers. “How about my sister?” Vaeloris asked urgently, his small hand gripping Egg’s. Egg didn’t answer, his focus fixed straight ahead as he pulled Vaeloris toward a large tent at the edge of the square.

“Ser Duncan!” Egg shouted, voice sharp with urgency.

Dunk’s heart jumped. “What is it?” he demanded, already sensing the danger.

“You have to come quickly! Aerion is going to hurt her!” Egg’s words hit him like a hammer. Every thought vanished except for you, and a cold, desperate fury filled him. He mounted his horse and followed Egg, moving faster than he had in years.

When he reached the tent, the scene before him made his blood run cold. Aerion loomed over Tanselle, his hand crushing her finger until it snapped. She screamed.

You were just behind her, gripped tightly by the king’s guards, thrashing violently against their arms. Your hood had fallen off, your hair spilling in disarray, tangled and messy from your struggles, framing your face as panic and fear widened your eyes. Dunk’s chest tightened, every muscle coiling as rage and protectiveness surged through him.

Without thinking, he charged at Aerion, swinging his fists with raw force. The first punch hit Aerion square in the face, staggering him back, and the second caught him off guard, sending him sprawling. Dunk managed to flip him over, only for the king’s guards to rush in and grab him, yanking him away from Aerion.

Aerion’s hand went for a dagger, drawing it swiftly, but Dunk lashed out with a powerful kick, sending it clattering across the floor. He tried to break free, reaching for you, but Aerion seized the moment, grabbing you from the guards and holding you close.

Vaeloris’s face went pale. “Stay away from her!” he yelled, throwing a desperate punch at Aerion’s leg. Aerion’s dagger slashed across Vaeloris’s arms in retaliation, drawing pained cries from the boy, but his eyes never left you. Dunk strained against the guards, his heart pounding with fear and fury, desperate to get to you before Aerion could do more.

“Vaeloris!” you screamed, your voice raw as you lunged toward him, but Aerion’s iron grip held you firmly against his chest. Your struggles were useless; every movement only tightened his hold.

“Get away from her!” Dunk shouted, straining against the king’s guards who had him pinned. His knuckles were white, his chest heaving, every fiber of his body trembling with anger. Vaeloris whimpered, clutching his wounded arm, tears brimming in his eyes. Silence pressed down on the tent, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint hiss of your frantic breathing and the dull clatter of armor.

Aerion spat a streak of blood onto the floor, a tooth clattering beside it. He stepped closer to Dunk, eyes glinting with hatred and malice. You could feel his grip tighten as you thrashed, trying to pull away, but it was useless. Panic surged through you, your chest tightening, and your hair fell into your face, damp with sweat and messily framing your pale, frightened features.

“Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” Aerion’s voice was low and venomous, each word a jagged blade. His gaze flicked to Tanselle, clutching her mangled finger in pain, “She’s scarcely worth it,” he spat, the words dripping with contempt and mockery.

Dunk’s eyes locked on yours, raw worry and fear etched into every line of his face. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice strained, almost breaking. You could only nod, chest heaving, your limbs trembling from adrenaline and terror.

Aerion’s eyes narrowed, cruel and calculating, watching the brief interaction between the two of you. His lips twisted into a sneer. “Is this who you’ve been sneaking off to all this time?” His voice rose, sharp and mocking, echoing across the tent. “Is this the man who managed to catch your attention? The attention I’ve been working for all these years?”

The words hung in the air like a blade. Every muscle in Dunk’s body coiled with tension, his anger barely restrained, while Aerion’s possessiveness radiated like heat, suffocating and threatening. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach—a cold, twisting dread—and knew that the confrontation was far from over.

“She's a traitor. The dragon ought never lose,” Aerion said, his voice low but sharp, shaking his head as if the world itself had disappointed him. His eyes flicked to Tanselle, who now fixed her gaze on you, her expression unreadable but intense. You noticed the way her eyes lingered on your hair, messy from the struggle, white strands tangled and sticking to your face. Every movement, every glint of light on the strands seemed to draw her attention, as if she were assessing something deeper.

She now knows your secret, that you are a Targaryen.

Your chest tightened, the tent feeling smaller, heavier, as Aerion’s fury pressed down on everyone. The dragon’s roar from the puppet show earlier still echoed faintly in your mind, a reminder of the chaos that had begun, and the fear that churned in your stomach only grew sharper.

“Nothing more to say?” Aerion asked, his voice cold, cutting through the tense silence of the tent. Dunk didn’t answer, his jaw tight, chest heaving. He huffed, a low, dangerous sound that made it clear he wanted nothing more than to spring at Aerion.

“You’ve loosened one of my teeth,” Aerion sneered, tilting his head slightly, his grin cruel. “So we’ll start by breaking out all of yours.”

“No! Stay away from him! He did nothing wrong!” you yelled, struggling against Aerion who held you back. Your voice was sharp, desperate, but it meant nothing to them. They forced Dunk to the ground, pressing him down with brutal strength, his face nearly scraping against the cold floor. His teeth ground against the surface, and you could see the strain in his muscles as he struggled, restrained by hands far stronger than his.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and fury, as you realized how utterly powerless you were in that moment, even as every instinct in you screamed to protect him.

“Stop struggling,” Aerion hissed, his grip tightening around you, crushing your attempts to break free. You thrashed against his arms, kicking and twisting, screaming at the top of your lungs, but it only seemed to amuse him. The sound of your voice, raw and panicked, echoed through the tent, mingling with the cries of Vaeloris and the muffled protests of Dunk beneath the guards. Your hair fell into your face, sticking to your sweat-dampened cheeks, and your heart pounded so hard you thought it might burst, every instinct screaming at you to fight back, to protect your brother and Dunk, even though your body felt powerless in Aerion’s iron hold.

“No! Don’t hurt him!” Egg yelled, eyes blazing with defiance.

“You stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you!” Dunk shouted, panic and anger fighting in his voice as he struggled against the guards.

“No, they won’t. If they do, they will answer to my father. Let go of him,” Egg said firmly, his small voice carrying authority beyond his years. The guards hesitated, then reluctantly released Dunk, who scrambled to his feet, glaring at Aerion.

“You impudent little wretch. What’s happened to your hair?” Aerion sneered, leaning closer, his expression twisted with both fury and disbelief.

“I cut it off, brother. I did not want to look like you,” Egg replied calmly, his tone biting.

Dunk’s eyes flicked to you, realization dawning in the depth of his gaze. Around the tent, murmurs spread, soft whispers of shock and awe, as everyone began to take in the defiance of the young prince. Your breathing came shallow and quick, heart hammering, as you watched the tense standoff unfold, every movement and word fraught with danger, and yet, a spark of hope lingered in Egg’s courage.

“What were you thinking? A princess should not be running around with some—some hedge knight! Do you know what the rumors will say?” your father’s voice boomed across the hall, every word sharp and accusing as all eyes turned to you.

You stepped forward, voice tense, “Father, it is not what it seems—” Your father’s scowl deepened, cutting him off. “What is it then? Explain yourself!”

Your mother watched silently, her expression heavy with disappointment, lips pressed into a thin line. You felt a pang of guilt, shrinking slightly under her gaze.

“Brother, be calm,” Baelor said, his tone low but firm, directed at your father. He remained seated, composed, yet you could see the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of irritation he tried to hide.

Your eyes darted to Valarr. He lifted his goblet, swirling the wine inside, and took a slow sip, the slightest frown tugging at his lips. There was anger there, barely contained, but unreadable beyond that.

You swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in your stomach. Your gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, thoughts racing. What will they do to Ser Duncan? The thought made your chest tighten, your hands clenching at your sides. Even in the midst of the stares, the scolding, and the tension, your mind could not stop replaying the sight of him struggling under Aerion’s guards, and your heart ached with fear.

“Did you…sleep with him?” your father demanded, his voice sharp and commanding, reverberating off the hall walls like a clap of thunder. Every noble present froze, the tension thick enough to taste.

“Father—” you began, your voice trembling under the weight of his gaze.

“Answer my fucking question!” he bellowed, leaning forward, eyes blazing with fury, nostrils flaring as if he could burn the truth out of you. Your chest tightened, your hands trembling at your sides.

“No, Father. I did not—” you whispered, your voice cracking despite your effort to stay steady.

“It better be,” he growled, lowering his voice into a dangerous rumble, each word striking like a blade. “You know what it means when a princess is impure before marriage. You know what that does—not just to yourself, but to the honor of your house, to the alliances your blood is meant to secure.”

Your gaze flicked to Valarr. He sat with his wine untouched, calm and composed, but there was a coldness in his eyes, a hard edge that made your stomach twist. You had done what you had to, slept with him to keep Ser Duncan safe, and now that choice felt heavier than ever. Seeing Valarr’s unreadable expression made your heart ache, a mix of fear and guilt tightening its grip on you.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the panic threatening to rise. The hall seemed to shrink around you, the weight of every stare, every judgment pressing down. And through it all, your thoughts went to Ser Duncan—what could have happened to him if you hadn’t made that choice—and the fear for him twisted with the shame for yourself. You clenched your fists, determined to hold your composure, even as the storm of anger, disappointment, and dread swirled around you.

“Why were you even with him?” Maekar asked, voice sharp, cutting through the tense silence of the hall.

“He’s my friend,” you replied, steady despite the racing of your heart.

“You lie to us and sneak away all the time for a friend?” Valarr’s voice was low, dangerous, a trace of anger hiding beneath his composure.

“If I didn’t lie, and if I didn’t sneak out, would you have allowed me to go?” you asked, your tone calm but pointed. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, silence swallowed the room.

Baelor sighed, looking away. “What you did was dangerous. You trusted a stranger.”

“And yet that stranger was better than you,” you said, your voice quiet but cutting, every word deliberate. Baelor froze, his eyes narrowing in shock.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice tight.

“Do you want me to prove it to you?” you asked, your gaze unwavering, holding a steel in your words that left the hall heavy with tension.

Aerion continued to chew on his walnuts, slow and deliberate, the cracks echoing in the tense hall. “This is what I have been telling you, uncle,” he said, voice calm but edged with menace, “you should have married her to me before someone else takes her.” He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking toward you, a smirk playing on his lips, as if daring you to argue. The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, stirring a low murmur among those gathered, each one sensing the threat behind them.

You stood abruptly, pushing your chair back, your cloak brushing the floor as you stormed away. Maekar rose immediately, following you, his expression a mixture of confusion and sternness.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked, his voice firm, trying to command your attention.

“I?” you shot back, disbelief and fury sharpening every word. “You are asking that of me? No—what is the matter with you! All of you!”

Your chest heaved, breaths quick and ragged, your voice rising as anger coursed through you. Words tumbled out in a heated rush, sharp and bitter, your hands clenching at your sides. You were trembling, not from fear, but from the intensity of your frustration, every nerve screaming at the injustice and cruelty of what had just happened.

Maekar shifted uneasily, clearly unsure how to handle your outburst. His brow furrowed, jaw tight, and his hands hovered at his sides. He didn’t speak immediately, merely watching, trying to find a way to temper your anger without making it worse. The tension between you crackled in the room, silent to anyone else but palpable to both of you.

You spun on him, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “You don’t get it! You have no idea what it’s like, how suffocating it is, how you think you can control me like I’m some… some thing! I—” Your voice shook with rage, and without thinking, you slammed your hand against Maekar’s chest.

He staggered back slightly but didn’t push you away. His eyes widened for a brief moment, then he simply stood there, silent, letting you vent all your fury. Your words poured out in a torrent, spilling over your frustration, anger, and disbelief, each sentence sharper than the last.

“You think because I’m a princess I have to be perfect? I’m supposed to obey, to smile, to bend to their whims, and what about me? What about what I want? What I feel? Do you even care?” You panted, hand still pressed against his chest.

Maekar’s expression softened imperceptibly, his sternness giving way to quiet patience. He didn’t speak, didn’t scold—he just let you have your words, absorbing the weight of your anger, his presence steady and unyielding as you unleashed everything that had been pent up inside.

Maekar took a slow breath once you finally paused, his chest still rising and falling under your hand. He didn’t push you away, but his jaw was tight, the restraint in him barely holding.

“Listen to me,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “You are angry, I see that. And you have every right to be. But you cannot—”

“I can’t what?” you snapped immediately, cutting him off. “Can’t speak? Can’t be angry? Can’t question any of you?”

“That is not what I said,” he replied, his tone sharpening despite his effort to stay calm. “You think I do not care about you? You think I do all of this to torment you? Everything I do is to keep you safe, to protect you—”

“Protect me?” you laughed bitterly. “You call this protection? You drag me before everyone like a criminal, you question my honor, you threaten the only person who treated me like a person and not a pawn—”

His eyes flashed. “That ‘person’ could have gotten you killed! You cannot trust everyone who smiles at you or swings a sword for you!”

“And I can trust you?” you fired back, voice trembling with rage. “You, who stand there and say nothing when they shame me? When they threaten him?”

His breath hitched, anger now simmering openly. “Do you think I enjoy any of this? Do you think I want to stand there and watch you suffer? I am trying to keep you from ruining yourself!”

You stepped closer, glaring up at him. “Or maybe you’re just angry because I won’t do exactly as you say.”

That hit. You saw it in his eyes, the flicker of something wounded beneath the anger. He straightened, voice low, controlled, but no longer gentle.

“You are a princess. Every step you take has consequences. Every word you speak carries weight. You do not get to pretend you are free of that just because you’re angry.”

“And you do not get to pretend you understand me,” you shot back. “You don’t.”

The silence between you was sharp and electric. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched, but he didn’t yell again. And you—breathing hard, fists shaking—refused to look away.

Your breath came slow but sharp, your eyes never leaving his. When you spoke again, your voice was steady, cold in a way that made the air feel thinner.

“You are angry because I am no longer that little princess,” you said quietly, each word deliberate. “The one who listened, obeyed, smiled, and did as she was told.”

Maekar’s expression tightened, but you pressed on.

“You’re angry because I cannot be controlled anymore. Because I will not bend when you command it. Because I have my own will now, and you don’t know what to do with it.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that makes even breathing feel loud. Maekar’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening, but he said nothing, as if every word you’d spoken had struck harder than any blow.

Your chest rose and fell with the effort to keep your voice steady, but the fury behind it refused to soften.

“Tell them—” your voice broke for half a second before hardening again, “tell my father to release Ser Duncan. He did nothing wrong.”

Maekar stiffened, his brows drawing together, but you didn’t stop.

“He has more honor than any of you standing in that hall,” you said, your tone like a drawn blade. “He fought for what was right, he protected people who had no one else to protect them, and now you chain him like a criminal while the real villains walk free.”

Your eyes burned into Maekar’s, unwavering.

“Unlike all of you,” you added, voice low and cold, “he did not hide behind titles or blood. He stood where it mattered.”

The words struck the air between you, and for a moment, even Maekar had no reply.

You didn’t wait for Maekar’s answer. You turned sharply and walked away, your footsteps echoing down the long corridor, anger and worry driving every step. The farther you went, the quieter the halls became. The distant noise of the court faded, replaced by the cold stillness of stone walls and torchlight flickering in iron brackets.

The air grew damp and heavy as you descended the narrow stairs to the dungeons. The smell of cold stone and stale air wrapped around you, making your chest tighten. Your heart hammered harder with each step, fear crawling beneath your skin—not for yourself, but for him.

The guards outside the cell straightened when they saw you, but they said nothing. Perhaps they saw the look on your face. Perhaps they knew better than to stand in your way. The heavy iron door groaned as it opened, and the world beyond it seemed to fall into silence.

Inside, he was there.

You crossed the room before you even realized you were moving. Your knees hit the stone floor beside him, your hands hovering, wanting to touch him but afraid of hurting him more.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite every effort to keep it steady. “I’m not leaving you.”

He didn’t answer at first. His breath came slow and uneven, but his gaze never left you. Slowly, carefully, as if even the slightest movement cost him, he leaned forward. Not enough to close the distance, not enough to touch—just enough for you to feel his presence, his trust, his silent gratitude.

Around you, the dungeon was cold, unforgiving, and merciless.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Because even here, in the darkest place beneath the castle, neither of you were alone anymore.

The air felt wrong.

Too thick. Too hot. It pressed against your skin, heavy and suffocating, as if the world itself was closing in around you. Firelight flickered wildly, stretching shadows across the walls, twisting them into shapes that did not belong to anything human.

A dagger caught the light.

Again. Again.

You couldn’t see who held it. Only the glint. The movement. Too close. Far too close.

The smell hit next. Smoke. Iron. Something sharp and wrong that made your stomach twist. Your breath came quicker, shallow, uneven, as if the air itself refused to fill your lungs properly.

Voices began to rise.

Not words. Not yet.

Crying. Then louder. Then breaking into screams.

Your hands trembled. You tried to move, but your feet would not obey. It was as if the ground had swallowed you whole, holding you in place, forcing you to watch.

Fire surged somewhere behind you, heat licking at your back. The shadows moved with it, stretching and snapping, and for a moment you thought they were reaching. Reaching for you.

Hands.

You felt them before you saw them.

Grabbing at your arms. Your sleeves. Your wrists. Desperate, shaking, pulling. You gasped, trying to tear away, but they clung tighter, dragging, pleading without words. Their grip was cold and frantic, as if you were the only thing keeping them from falling into something far worse.

The dagger flashed again.

A sharp motion.

A cry cut through the air, raw and broken, silenced too quickly. The sound echoed in your head, over and over, refusing to fade.

More voices followed. Overlapping. Begging. Screaming. Some calling out names you couldn’t quite hear, couldn’t quite understand. The fire roared louder, swallowing the edges of everything, the heat growing unbearable.

You tried to see.

Tried to understand.

But everything blurred. Faces half-formed. Movements too fast. The dagger rising, falling, rising again. The hands still clutching you, shaking, dragging, as if trying to pull you into it with them.

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Was this about you?

About him?

About someone else entirely?

You couldn’t tell.

The screams built, louder and louder, until they pressed in from every side, filling your ears, your head, your chest—

And then—

Silence.

Sudden. Absolute.

The fire was gone. The voices gone. The hands gone.

Nothing.

You jolted awake.

Your breath came fast, uneven, your chest rising and falling as if you had been running. Your hands clenched tightly in the sheets, fingers trembling as you tried to steady yourself.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

You looked around, eyes adjusting, searching for something—anything—that might still be there. But there was nothing. No fire. No voices. No hands.

Just you.

Your heart still raced, the echo of the screams lingering faintly in your ears. You swallowed, sitting up slowly, one hand pressing against your chest as if to keep it from breaking apart.

What was that?

Your brows furrowed, confusion settling in as the images slipped further away the more you tried to grasp them. The dagger. The fire. The hands.

The silence didn’t feel quiet.

It rang, pressing into your ears, sharp and endless, like something had been torn away and left behind an echo that wouldn’t stop. Your breathing came too fast, uneven, your chest rising and falling as if the air itself wasn’t enough.

Your hands flew to your head, fingers tangling into your hair, gripping hard, but it wasn’t enough to stop it.

The images slipped through your mind. The dagger, the fire, the hands. Gone, but not really gone. Still there, somewhere just beyond reach.

Your thoughts chased them frantically, circling, trying to grasp something solid, but every time you got close it blurred and vanished again. Your nails pressed harder into your scalp, as if you could force it back, drag it out, make it stay.

Your heart pounded louder, filling your ears, mixing with something else, something that almost sounded like echoes of those screams, faint and distant, like they were still there, buried under everything else.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

It felt real. Too real. Not like a dream, not something imagined. It felt remembered, and that made it worse.

Your thoughts spiraled faster.

Was it you? Was it him? Or someone else, someone you did not even know?

You did not understand.

And it was the not knowing, the not understanding, that clawed at you the most.

Your grip loosened suddenly, your hands trembling as they fell slightly, hovering near your face, unsure, unsteady. Your chest ached, tight and hollow at the same time, like something was missing, like something had already happened and you were the only one who did not understand it.

Tears slipped down silently, one after another, but you barely noticed.

Your thoughts would not stop.

What if it was going to happen?

The idea settled deep inside you, cold and heavy.

Your breathing stuttered again, your body curling in slightly without you realizing it, as if trying to protect yourself from something you could not see.

The silence pressed closer, louder in its own way.

And your thoughts kept going, faster and faster, with no end.

It was terrifying. You did not know what was happening, and that made it worse. Why would your own mind show you something like this, only to tear it apart before you could understand it?

Why show you anything at all if it would not make itself clear?

The thought circled endlessly, tightening in your chest. It felt cruel, like something was being hidden from you on purpose, like the truth was just within reach but kept slipping away every time you tried to grasp it.

You glanced down at your arms.

Faint scratches marked your skin, old and uneven, their edges softened with time. Your fingers hovered over them before lightly tracing one, feeling the slight rise of it beneath your skin.

It reminded you of it.

Of the fire. The pressure. The feeling of something slipping away just as you tried to understand it.

But this felt different.

These marks were old. From before. From something you had already lived through, something real, something you could not fully forget even if you tried.

Your breath slowed, but not in relief. If anything, it made your chest feel heavier.

The dream had not been the same.

And that was what unsettled you.

It was close enough to remind you, close enough to stir that same unease, but different enough to feel like something new. Something unfamiliar. Something that did not belong to the past.

Your fingers stilled against your arm.

If it was not from before…

Then what was it trying to show you now?

You tried to piece it together, to force meaning into it, but it refused to settle into anything clear. It felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, something important just out of reach no matter how hard you thought.

The dagger… something close. Personal. Not a battlefield, not something distant. Something intimate.

The fire… destruction, or anger, or something burning out of control.

The blood… not just injury, but consequence. Something already done. Something that could not be taken back.

And the screaming… fear. Pain. Loss.

Your thoughts slowed, unease creeping deeper into your chest.

It did not feel random.

It felt like a warning.

Or a memory.

But of what?

Of you? Of him? Of someone you had yet to meet?

Your fingers curled slightly, your gaze unfocused as the questions circled again, tighter this time.

If it was a warning… then for what?

And if it was a memory…

Why could you not remember it?

Your thoughts drifted, sharp and heavy.

Dunk.

Did they… find out?

The question pressed against your chest like a weight you could not shake. Your mind replayed everything—the way he had looked at you, the way your hands had moved, the way your heart had thumped when he was near. Could someone have seen it? Could someone have understood?

The fear twisted inside you. Not for yourself, but for him. If they had seen, if they had known… would he be in danger? Would he think differently of you?

Your hands tightened into fists, nails pressing into your palms, grounding yourself against the storm inside your head. The thought of him, vulnerable or exposed because of you, made your chest ache.

You could not tell if the unease came from the dream or from reality, but it was impossible to separate the two now.

And in that moment, all you could do was wonder, heart racing, mind spinning: had anyone else found out about him—or about what you felt?

You did not want them to get to him.

He was so good to you, steady and patient, a true man in every sense. He never treated you like some prize or possession, never measured you against expectation or duty. With him, you could breathe, you could be yourself.

And the thought of anyone harming that… of anyone using him or seeing him differently because of you… it made your chest tighten unbearably.

You realized, with a sharp pang, that you loved him. You felt it deep in your bones, in the way your heart leapt when he was near, in the way your chest ached when he wasn’t.

You had tried to ignore it, to call it fleeting admiration or gratitude, but now there was no denying it. You loved him.

And the thought alone, fragile and terrifying, made the weight in your chest almost too heavy to bear.

You grabbed the hairpin beside you, your fingers curling tightly around it as if holding onto something physical could steady the storm inside.

It was cold and smooth against your palm, a small thing, but it anchored you in the present, in the moment, when everything in your mind threatened to spin out of control.

Your thumb brushed over its edge, tracing it absentmindedly, your thoughts still tangled with Dunk—his kindness, his patience, the quiet strength in the way he carried himself.

The warmth of the memory, the ache of your feelings, and the fear of losing him all collided in your chest, and you closed your eyes for a moment, gripping the hairpin like it could somehow hold you together.

You thought about yesterday, the moment Aerion had asked for your favor, the way he had smirked as he held your bracelet. Your stomach twisted.

Dunk had been there. He had seen it.

You could feel it, that quiet weight of his gaze, the way he looked at you now replaying in your mind. What did he think? Did he understand what it meant, what you had done? Had he noticed your hesitation, your silent conflict?

Your hands tightened around the hairpin, fingernails pressing into the metal as if the pain could keep your thoughts from spinning further.

The fear of misunderstanding, of being misjudged by someone you trusted so completely, gnawed at you. He had always been so steady, so gentle, and now… now you worried that the smallest misstep, the smallest hint, could shatter that.

Your chest ached, and a shiver ran down your spine as you whispered to yourself, though no one could hear, I just… I don’t want them to get to him.

But then the thought struck you like ice. What if… what if he was only kind to you because he knew you were a princess?

Dunk didn’t know about Egg, about your bloodline hidden beneath all else, but he knew you. He knew who you were, and maybe all of this—his patience, his gentleness, the way he looked at you—wasn’t about you at all.

Your chest tightened at the thought, and your hands gripped the hairpin harder, knuckles white.

Did he feel what you felt for him? Could he? Or was it only duty, respect, a kindness meant for royalty and not for the heart of a person?

The doubt clawed at you, bitter and relentless. You had loved him, or at least you thought you had, and now the question twisted everything you had felt into something fragile and uncertain.

You pressed the hairpin to your lips, trying to steady the storm in your chest, but the fear and longing and confusion mingled until you weren’t sure which way was up.

And in that moment, all you could do was sit there, trapped between hope and despair, wondering if the man you loved even knew what it meant to be loved in return.

You stood up, your cloak falling silently around your shoulders as you walked toward the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you, silver hair slightly messy, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and thought. Your hands grazed your cheeks, tracing the faint lines of tension that had nothing to do with age, everything to do with the weight of what you felt.

You studied yourself, taking in the way your chest rose and fell, the subtle tremor in your fingers as they rested against the glass, the small scar on your wrist that reminded you of other storms, other fears.

But then the thought came like a cold wind. Did Dunk see that? Did he see the worry, the fear, the longing, the love you tried so hard to hide? Did he see the weight of your heart pressing behind your calm exterior, or did he only see the princess he had always known, the duty and the title and nothing more?

You didn’t answer. You could feel your pulse quicken, each beat echoing with the question that wouldn’t leave you: if he had seen, if he had known, what would he have thought?

Your reflection looked back, calm, composed, almost unreadable, and you wondered if Dunk had seen the same. And that uncertainty gnawed at you, twisting in your chest, making the silence around you feel impossibly loud.

Or was he the same as them?

Your reflection stared back, unflinching, but the question clawed at your chest like a living thing. All this time you had trusted him, counted on his kindness, believed in the way he treated you as a person, not a possession, not a title.

But what if it had all been like the others? What if behind that calm, steady gaze, he had only seen a princess? Only seen a duty, a responsibility, a thing to respect rather than a person to care for?

The thought made your stomach twist, a bitter churn of fear and disbelief. You pressed your fingers against the glass, as if the touch could anchor you, could keep the world from spinning too far into doubt.

He had been different. You had believed that. You had to believe that.

But the question lingered, sharp and unwelcome: what if you had been wrong?

You let out a shuddering sigh, sniffing as you wiped at your tears, your hands trembling slightly. The thought of running away with Dunk flitted through your mind—how it would feel to leave the palace behind, to escape the weight of expectations, to breathe freely for just a while.

But deep down, you knew you could never truly run. You could not leave the gaze of them, the watchful eyes of those who would judge, control, or use you. The thought made your chest tighten with anger and frustration. You hated them.

The longing for freedom and the sting of your reality twisted together in a bitter knot, and you pressed your palms to your face, holding back a cry that threatened to spill out. For a fleeting moment, the world felt unbearable, as though the walls around you had grown taller, the shadows longer, and the weight of your own heart far too heavy to carry.

And yet, beneath it all, a small, stubborn flame of resolve lingered. You would not let them take everything from you. Not your life. Not your feelings. Not him.

You grabbed your cloak, the fabric cool and rough beneath your fingers, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Your heart raced, each beat echoing in your chest as if urging you onward. You had to find Dunk. You had to tell him, before it was too late.

Every step toward the door felt heavy with urgency, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, but you pushed it aside. Fear, doubt, worry—they all melted into a single, burning purpose. You could not let another moment slip away.

With one last glance around your chamber, you tightened your grip on the cloak and stepped into the hall, moving quickly, silently, your mind set on him. You would reach him, and you would speak the truth, no matter the cost.

You glanced around, every shadow and corner of the hall, checking for servants, guards, or anyone who might catch you. It was late at night, the corridors quiet except for the soft scrape of your footsteps against the stone, but caution burned in your chest regardless.

You rubbed your hands nervously, trying to steady yourself as you moved, each step deliberate, careful. The castle felt endless, twisting, filled with unseen eyes that might be watching.

Just as you were almost at the doorway, a hand shot out, firm and unyielding, gripping your wrist.

Aerion.

His presence was sudden, startling, and your stomach twisted. The smirk on his face was infuriating, knowing, as though he had been waiting for this moment all along.

You froze, your heart hammering, caught between fear, anger, and the desperate need to get to Dunk.

“Cousin,” he said, his gaze shifting between your face and down to your hands. “Where are you going?”

You froze, caught off guard, your mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn’t betray your purpose.

“I… I wanted some air,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“So you are leaving the castle?” he pressed, his smirk sharpening slightly, reading more in your hesitation than you wanted him to.

“I wanted a walk,” you said finally, trying to keep your tone calm, though your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“Dressed like that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as his gaze flicked over your nightgown.

“It was only meant to be a brief walk,” you replied, your tone careful, measured, just enough to hold the hint of propriety that came naturally with your station.

His smile dropped, the warmth vanishing, and his hand tightened around your wrist.

“You expect me to believe that?” he asked, his voice sharp and probing.

You let out a slow sigh, trying to steady yourself. “Aerion, what do you want?” you asked, your tone edged with both frustration and caution.

“Are you leaving to meet a man?” he pressed, leaning slightly closer, his gaze unwavering.

“No, I’m not,” you said firmly, trying to keep your composure.

“I doubt it,” he replied, his voice low and heavy, making your stomach twist.

“You don’t have any proof,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your chest.

“I don’t need proof,” he said, his eyes narrowing, intense. “I can feel it. We are connected—the same blood. I know when you lie.”

“Your replies become shorter when you lie,” he continued, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “I noticed it when we were younger.”

Your breath hitched, panic rising in your chest. Please, stop this. You did not want this, did not want to answer, did not want the words to leave your lips.

“Tell me, cousin,” he pressed, his voice low and dangerous, “did this man touch you?”

“What—” you started, but he cut you off, eyes dark and unrelenting.

“Did he fuck you?” His words were sharp, cruel, and they twisted something raw and vulnerable inside you. "Did he touch your body before I did?"

“Aerion, stop it,” you said, your voice trembling, tight with fear and fury, trying to force yourself to be heard over the storm inside. Your chest heaved, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“No,” he shot back, venom dripping from every word, his eyes burning with a cruel fire. “I have waited. I was loyal, and here you are, whoring around.”

The words hit you like a blow, twisting in your stomach, igniting a heat you could not control. Your hands shook, not from fear, but from the raw, unfiltered anger rising within you. Everything he said, every accusation, every sharp glance, stung like poison, and it burned too deep to bear.

Without thinking, without hesitation, your hand swung. The slap landed with a sharp crack against his cheek, echoing through the silent hall. Your palm stung, a fiery reminder of your own defiance, but it did nothing to calm the raging storm in your chest.

Aerion froze, just for a moment, and the intensity in his eyes faltered, as if the shock of your boldness reached him. But then his lips tightened, his jaw set, and the danger in his gaze returned, darker, heavier, more suffocating.

Your heart raced, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, and you pressed your back against the wall instinctively, the urge to run, to escape, warring with the need to stand your ground. You had dared to strike him, dared to defy him, and now the silence that followed felt like it would crush you.

Everything in you screamed to leave, to flee into the night and never look back, yet part of you stayed, frozen in the weight of the moment, wondering if this defiance would cost you more than you could bear.

“You don’t get to treat me like that,” you said, voice shaking but fierce, every word cutting through the tension like a blade.

Aerion’s gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, and for the first time, he seemed to register what you had done. The slap. The defiance. Something flickered in his expression, an unsettling trace of satisfaction hidden behind the surprise, as if part of him had expected it—or even welcomed it.

“Stay away from me! Do you hear me? Stay away from me!” you shouted, stepping back, your hands trembling but raised slightly as if to shield yourself from his reaction. Your chest heaved, your pulse thundered in your ears, and your eyes burned with the fury and fear you had been holding in for far too long.

The words hung between you, heavy and raw, echoing in the empty hall. Aerion said nothing, only stared, and the silence that followed was suffocating, thick with anger, tension, and something unspoken you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, equal parts fear and adrenaline, knowing you had crossed a line but also knowing that you could not let him intimidate you, could not let him touch what was yours—your heart, your body, your choices.

“Touch me again,” you spat, your voice low, deadly, every syllable vibrating with fury, “and I won’t hesitate. I’ll burn you with my dragon, and maggots shall feast upon your ashes. That is what you deserve.”

Your hands trembled, not with fear, but with the raw, unyielding anger that had been building inside you for so long. Your eyes, wide and blazing, locked on his, daring him to challenge you, daring him to doubt the words that came from the deepest, fiercest part of yourself.

Aerion’s gaze faltered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face, as if he hadn’t expected such fire, such venom. The hall seemed to hold its breath with you, the tension stretching taut like a drawn bow, and for a moment, the only sound was the thundering of your heart in your ears.

You pressed your stance, hands clenched, every inch of you radiating the warning you had promised. You would not be toyed with, not now, not ever.

You spun on your heel, the cloak swirling around your shoulders as you moved, and without another word, you stormed out of the hall. Every step was sharp, deliberate, fueled by the fire still roaring in your chest.

Aerion watched you go, his eyes following your retreating figure, dark and calculating. There was no sound but the echo of your footsteps fading into the stone corridors, leaving only the heavy, tense silence of what had just transpired.

For a moment, he remained frozen, as if trying to process the defiance, the anger, the words you had thrown at him. Then, slowly, his gaze lingered where you had disappeared, unblinking, unyielding, and somehow heavier for the mark you had left behind.

You walked through the meadow, the soft grass brushing against your cloak as the night air wrapped around you. The stars above shimmered faintly, indifferent to the turmoil in your chest. Each step carried the weight of your resolve and the lingering tremor of the confrontation with Aerion.

You had to find Duncan. You had to tell him, to unburden yourself, before whatever had been stirring in your dreams, whatever it meant, could spill into reality. You did not know when that would happen, or if it would come at all, and the uncertainty gnawed at you, sharp and insistent.

The meadow was quiet, the only sound the whisper of the wind through the grass and the soft rustle of your cloak. You pressed on, not daring to linger, not daring to think too long, because each heartbeat carried the reminder that you could not risk it—not for yourself, not for him.

You were close to Ser Duncan’s spot when a rough hand yanked you from behind, slamming you against the rough bark of a tree. Pain shot through your shoulder and your head jerked painfully, your cloak slipping off and your hair spilling across your face. Your stomach twisted with fear.

“Look what we’ve got here…” a slurred voice growled. Another man laughed from the shadows, the glint of a knife catching the dim moonlight. “A Targaryen, eh? Lucky night for us.”

“What are you doing out here, little lady?” the first man demanded, his grip tightening around your arm.

“Le-let me go…” you whispered, your voice shaking as panic clawed its way up your throat.

“That’s not what I asked,” he sneered, looming over you, his eyes dark and wild.

You thrashed against him, kicking and twisting, heart hammering. Adrenaline made your limbs heavy and desperate. The tree’s bark scratched your skin, but it wasn’t enough to free you. Every instinct screamed to get away.

Is this how you were supposed to die? Is this what the dreams were showing you?

Your eyes snapped open when you saw the man unbuckling his breeches, heart hammering in your chest, and a cold, sickening realization clawed its way through your mind. Every instinct screamed at you as the truth hit like a dagger—what they truly intended, the danger you had barely escaped, the malicious plan you had been blind to until this very moment. Fear and rage collided in your chest, making it hard to breathe, as your body stiffened and every nerve screamed in alarm.

"No...No, stop this!"

You screamed, but they did not listen. "Shut the fuck up!" He hissed, covering your mouth with his hands. You bit it. "Fuck!" He yells, before punching you.

You were getting dizzy, you cried.

Stop this.

Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would burst from your chest. You clawed at your arms, at your chest—anything to make the fear stop—but nothing helped. Tears ran down your cheeks, hot and bitter, blurring your vision. Your breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale sharp and burning, each exhale a shuddering sob.

You twisted and thrashed against them, but their grip was iron. Your knees buckled, and your body slammed against the tree as you cried harder, the sobs catching in your throat. You didn’t even know what you were screaming anymore—fear, panic, frustration, despair. Your body felt small and powerless, trapped under their shadow, like the weight of the night itself was pressing down on you.

“I… I don’t want this… please…” you whispered through your tears, your voice breaking, shaking. “Please… just stop… leave me… alone…”

Your chest heaved violently, your body trembling as every horrifying image from your dreams—the dagger, the fire, the blood, the hands reaching—flashed in your mind. You thought you were going to die, that this was it. The terror threatened to swallow you whole.

And then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

A powerful crash of movement tore through the night. A massive arm collided with the first man’s chest, sending him sprawling backward into the mud. Another figure appeared from the shadows, moving with controlled, lethal force, striking the second man with such strength that he staggered and nearly fell.

The world tilted. Your head throbbed, your vision blurred from tears and panic, but through it all, you recognized him—Ser Duncan.

He was a storm unleashed, fists and boots striking with precision, each movement throwing the attackers off balance. They cursed and stumbled over roots and rocks, but he didn’t relent. Every strike was measured, brutal, but controlled, protecting you without letting himself be distracted.

You stumbled back from the attackers, your knees trembling as the adrenaline faded and left raw, ragged terror in its wake. Your chest tightened suddenly, sharp and unrelenting, as if it were trying to crush you from the inside. Your breaths came in short, frantic gasps, your hands clawing at your chest as panic gripped you like iron.

Everything swirled—the forest shadows, the echo of violence, the fear that had built inside you for weeks. You couldn’t think. Your mind raced, images flashing too quickly for sense or reason. Tears spilled down your cheeks as your body shook uncontrollably. “I… I can’t… I can’t…” you whispered to yourself, chest heaving, your words breaking into ragged sobs.

Duncan’s strong arms were suddenly around you, steady and firm, pulling you to him. “Hey! Hey, breathe!” His voice was low and commanding, trying to cut through the chaos inside you. “You’re safe. You’re with me. No one is touching you.”

You pressed against him, your tears soaking his shirt, your body trembling as though it might collapse entirely. “I… I don’t… I don’t know… I just…” you gasped, voice choked, “I… I feel… everything is wrong!”

“Shh,” he murmured, keeping you close, his hand brushing your hair from your face. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ll keep you safe. That’s all that matters. Just breathe.”

You shook violently, burying your face in his chest, unable to stop sobbing, unable to make sense of the panic, the fear, the racing heart that refused to calm. You couldn’t tell him why, couldn’t tell him that your mind was haunted by something that might not even be real yet.

Duncan held you, steady and unyielding, letting you tremble into him, murmuring quiet words you couldn’t even hear, as if by holding you, he could keep the world from breaking you completely. Slowly, very slowly, the tightness in your chest eased just enough for you to inhale and exhale, one ragged breath at a time, though the terror had not fully left.

Duncan’s strong arms scooped you up without hesitation, lifting you off the ground. The world spun as he carried you, your tears soaking his tunic, your sobs shaking your chest. You couldn’t stop crying, your body trembling violently, and every ragged breath felt like it might tear you apart from the inside.

“You’re okay… you’re safe now,” Duncan whispered, his voice low and steady, brushing against your ear as he moved. “I’ve got you. No one can touch you. It’s over… it’s over.”

You buried your face against his shoulder, letting the sobs wrack through you uncontrollably. Every muscle in your body ached from fear and panic, but his presence grounded you, like a lifeline in the chaos. Your mind raced, remembering flashes of the dream, the terror of the forest, the men, the fear of death—but slowly, his words and the steady beat of his chest beneath your face began to anchor you to the present.

“You’re okay… I’ve got you,” he repeated, rocking you slightly as he carried you toward his camp. “Nothing’s going to hurt you, not now, not ever while I’m here.”

Your tears didn’t stop immediately, but the panic slowly began to ebb, replaced by a shaky, sobbing relief. You clung to him, feeling small and fragile, but safe, and for the first time since the attack, you let yourself just… breathe.

Duncan lowered you gently onto a blanket in his camp, keeping you close as you curled up against him. Your body was trembling, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps, but the immediate danger was gone. The night around you was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the fire.

“It’s alright… you’re safe,” Duncan whispered, brushing a hand lightly across your back. “Just breathe. In… and out… slowly. That’s it.”

You hiccupped through another wave of sobs, shaking your head, unable to form words. Everything inside you felt frayed and raw, like the panic had hollowed you out and left only trembling pieces behind. Memories of the men, the fear, the flashes from your dreams—they all pressed down, relentless.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, your voice barely audible through the tears, shaking with guilt and shame. “I… I didn’t mean… I just—”

Duncan tightened his hold gently, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Hey… hey, none of that matters right now. You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your sobs rattled through your chest as you buried your face closer into his neck, trembling against him. “I… I should have… I shouldn’t have…” you gasped, words breaking apart with every breath. “I… I can’t stop thinking… about everything…”

He rubbed slow, reassuring circles on your back. “Shh… it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here. That’s all that matters.

You felt your panic slowly giving way to exhaustion, the weight of your fear pressing down on you as your tears soaked his tunic. Yet even in the trembling, the shaking, the relentless sobs, there was a flicker of comfort, a fragile warmth that only Duncan could provide.

“I’m here,” he murmured, voice steady and unwavering. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Not tonight.”

You stayed pressed against him, unable to speak, only letting your sorrow and terror spill out. Even as your chest heaved and your mind raced, you clung to that reassurance, letting it anchor you to the present, away from the shadows that had haunted you for so long.

Duncan’s jaw tightened, his hands still steady on your shoulders as his eyes darkened with quiet fury. He wasn’t mad at you, never at you. The anger in him was reserved for those men—their cruelty, their violence, their audacity. How dare they touch you, scare you, threaten you—you had done no wrong, yet they tried to take that from you.

“They have no right,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous, each word heavy with controlled rage. “No right at all. Not to touch you, not to frighten you. You didn’t deserve a thing they tried to do.”

You shivered, still pressed against him, letting the sobs continue in little hiccups. His presence was solid, unyielding, and the quiet fury radiating off him made you feel both protected and fragile at the same time.

Moments later, your breathing had slowed, though it was still uneven, and your chest rose and fell in shaky waves. Duncan’s hands moved in slow, steady circles across your back, firm and comforting, grounding you as the tremors of panic began to fade.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, brushing against your hair. “Just breathe. In… and out… that’s it. You’re safe now.”

You pressed closer to him, still trembling slightly, letting the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his touch anchor you. The night around you was quiet, the forest shadows soft and still, and for the first time since the attack, you felt the raw edges of your terror begin to dull.

Duncan didn’t rush you or force words from you. He just stayed there, rubbing your back, letting you find a fragile sense of safety in his presence. You clung to that, closing your eyes for a moment, letting your sobs quiet into small, shaky sighs.

“You’re okay,” he repeated, more softly now, almost a whisper. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing.”

And slowly, the panic ebbed, replaced by a trembling, fragile relief, the weight of fear finally starting to lift just enough for you to breathe without it clawing at your chest.

“My dreams…” you whispered, your voice trembling as the words escaped. Duncan leaned closer, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Your dreams?” he asked softly, steady and calm, trying to anchor you.

You shook your head slightly, tears still lingering in your eyes. “They… they’re not like yours. Mine… mine come true.”

Duncan’s hands paused on your back, stilling for a moment as he processed your words. His eyes softened, though the worry never left them. “Whatever they show you… Whatever you’ve seen… it doesn’t mean it’s happening now. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You swallowed, the fear still clawing at the edges of your mind, the memory of the men and the lingering dread from your dreams pressing down, but his presence grounded you. You let out a shaky breath, resting your head against his chest.

“I don’t… I don’t want to see them again,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, trembling from the lingering panic. “I don’t want to…”

Duncan rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It helped, it helped a lot.

“Why were you even out in the first place, my lady?” Duncan asked, his voice firm but gentle, concern etched in every line of his face.

You hesitated, your chest still trembling from the panic, your tears drying but leaving streaks on your cheeks. “I… I wanted to see you,” you admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me?” he asked, surprise flickering across his features.

You nodded slowly, biting your lip, unsure if you should say more. The words felt heavy on your tongue, fragile and vulnerable, and yet leaving them unspoken felt like a weight pressing down your chest even harder.

Duncan’s eyes softened, and he leaned slightly closer, his hand still on your shoulder. “You wanted to see me,” he repeated gently, almost like testing the truth of it, “even knowing the risks? Even knowing it could be dangerous?”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “I… I didn’t want to risk… anything… but I had to… I had to tell you. Before…” Your voice faltered, the memory of your dreams and the men flooding back, making your chest tighten again.

“Tell me what?” he asked, his voice calm but curious, and for a moment your courage faltered. Was this the right moment? Should you say what you truly felt, or risk changing everything between you?

You shook your head slightly, biting your lip. “I… I wanted to thank you… for your kindness,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Duncan raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face. “You came all the way here… to thank me? My lady, I appreciate it, but why in the middle of the night?”

You hesitated, unsure if your words sounded foolish, unsure if they even mattered. “I… I just… felt like it,” you murmured, barely meeting his gaze.

Duncan’s expression softened, and he gave a slow nod. “I understand,” he said quietly, though there was warmth in his tone. 

“My lady, I… um…” he began, his voice faltering slightly, like he was trying to find the right words but couldn’t.

“You are… uh…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to yours, uncertain.

“You are really kind,” he finally said, his voice low but steady, avoiding the full truth of what he felt.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. His words were simple, almost shy, yet they carried a weight that made your chest ache. There was something unsaid lingering between you, a truth too large for him to voice yet unmistakable in his gaze.

You swallowed, a mix of relief and frustration tightening in your chest. “Th-thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. It wasn’t what you had hoped to hear, but it was enough to feel the warmth of his attention, the protection, the care that had carried you through the night.

Duncan’s hand brushed lightly against your arm, an unspoken promise in the touch. “I… I just want you to be safe, that’s all,” he said softly, as if that explained everything he couldn’t yet say.

You let yourself sink slightly into that, the chaos of the night fading slowly, leaving only the fragile thread of connection between you.

You two sat there in the quiet of the night, the soft glow of the fire casting flickering shadows across the camp. Egg was curled up nearby, asleep, his gentle snores mixing with the crackle of the flames. The warmth from the fire seeped into your bones, grounding you after the terror of earlier.

Duncan sat close, his presence steady and reassuring, though he said nothing, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, the quiet strength in him, and for the first time in hours, your racing thoughts began to ease.

The night felt like it belonged to you alone, a fragile pocket of safety away from the chaos of the castle, away from dreams that threatened to tear you apart, away from the cruelty of the world outside. You let yourself lean back slightly, shoulders relaxing, eyelids growing heavy, just listening to the fire, Egg’s soft snores, and the steady, calming presence of Duncan beside you.

“If you come with me… then I would let you choose where we go next,” he said, his voice steady, low, almost tentative.

You turned to him, a small spark of surprise in your eyes. “Really?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I trust your choice.”

You couldn’t help but giggle softly at his words, a fragile sound that felt almost foreign after the chaos of the night.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked, leaning slightly closer, eyes searching yours for a hint of your thoughts.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker, mesmerized. The warmth of it, the steady glow, and the closeness of him beside you made your chest feel lighter, even if your mind was still full of questions and shadows.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled, Egg’s soft snores filled the silence, and in that quiet, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you—safe, fragile, and full of possibilities yet unspoken.

It was strange. Duncan had never felt like this before.

His fingers traced the stitches along your cloak as you slept beside him, slow and absentminded. The steady rise and fall of your breathing grounded him, a quiet reassurance that you were there, within reach. It eased something in him he did not quite understand.

When you were not around, his thoughts wandered too much. He would catch himself wondering where you were, what you were doing, if you were safe. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit. It would be easier if you simply stayed by his side.

He let out a quiet breath, glancing down at you. He was glad you enjoyed his company. That much, at least, felt real.

But you were a princess.

That truth sat heavy in his chest. You had duties, expectations, a life bound to walls and names and people like him could not compete with that. You could not just leave it behind, no matter how much he might want you to. No matter how often the thought crossed his mind.

He had imagined it more than once. Leaving. Taking the road with you, far from the castle, far from all of it. Just the two of you, traveling wherever you pleased. He would make sure you were safe, that you were warm, that you never had to worry about anything again.

His hand stilled slightly against the fabric.

It was a foolish thought. He knew that.

Still, as he looked at you, resting so peacefully beside him, he could not quite bring himself to let it go.

His thoughts drifted further than they should.

He found himself imagining a small cabin somewhere far from the noise of court, tucked between trees where the air was quiet and clean. A place where no one would watch you, no one would expect anything from you. Just a fire, a roof, and enough space to breathe.

You would be there. Egg too, restless as ever, filling the silence with complaints one moment and laughter the next.

And then, without meaning to, his mind wandered further. A child. Small, warm, held carefully in your arms. He could picture it too easily. The way you would look at them, the same softness he had seen before, the same quiet patience. It stayed with him longer than it should have.

He shifted slightly, his hand resting against your cloak again, grounding himself.

It was a simple life. A foolish one, maybe.

But as he looked at you, sleeping so peacefully beside him, it felt like it would come true.

But the thought did not sit right with him for long.

His jaw tightened slightly as reality crept back in. You were a princess. You were meant for silk, for warm halls, for a life where nothing was lacking. Not rough roads, not cold nights, not a life where every meal had to be earned.

He looked down at his hands, rough and worn, then back at you. You deserved more than what he could give. More than a cabin hidden in the woods, more than a wandering life with no certainty.

And yet…

The castle was no kindness either. He had seen enough, heard enough, to know that gold did not mean safety. That walls could trap just as easily as they could protect.

His chest tightened at the thought.

If not the road, and not the castle… then what?

He did not have an answer.

Duncan let out a quiet breath, his hand still resting lightly against your cloak, as if reassuring himself you were real. He wanted to give you everything you deserved. Comfort. Safety. Freedom.

But he was only one man.

And for the first time, that did not feel like enough.

He wanted you to have freedom, yes.

But the thought twisted into something sharper before he could stop it. He wanted that freedom to be with him. Not somewhere far from him. Not with someone else.

His jaw tightened slightly.

The idea of you beside another man, laughing the way you did with him, looking at someone else with that same softness, made something in his chest turn. It was an unfamiliar feeling, heavy and restless, settling deep in his stomach.

He shifted where he sat, trying to shake it off, but it lingered.

It was not his place to think like that. He knew it. You were not his to keep, not his to claim.

Still, his gaze fell back to you, quiet and steady.

If you were to have freedom, he wanted to be part of it. To stand beside you, not behind, not left wondering where you were or who you were with.

His hand stilled against your cloak again, the fabric warm beneath his fingers.

He exhaled slowly.

He did not like what that feeling meant.

But he could not deny it was there.

The morrow came sooner than he expected, though he had not slept much at all. His thoughts had been restless, circling back to you again and again through the night.

It was only hours ago that he noticed what you were wearing. Just your nightgown and cloak. Too light for the cold.

He frowned slightly at the memory.

Without thinking much of it, he had taken off his own cloak and draped it over you, careful not to wake you. It was not much, worn and rough at the edges, but it was warmer than what you had. That was enough.

Now, in the pale light of morning, he glanced at you again. The cloak still rested over your shoulders, rising and falling gently with your breathing.

Duncan let out a quiet breath, something soft settling in his chest.

It would do.

He counted the coins in his hand, turning them over with his thumb. Not much. He wasn’t sure it would be enough for a dress.

Still, he closed his hand around them and pushed himself to his feet, moving quietly so he would not wake you. Egg stirred slightly but did not rise.

Duncan glanced back once more. You were still asleep, wrapped in his cloak, unaware.

He stepped away from the camp and started toward the market, the morning air sharp against his skin.

It was cold. Too cold for what you had been wearing. The thought of you lying there through the night like that made his chest tighten.

He adjusted his pace, walking a little faster.

He would find something.

He had to.

The market was loud and crowded, people brushing past him as he moved from stall to stall, his hand tight around the few coins he had.

The first dress he stopped at was a deep green. It looked soft, well-made, something that would suit you. For a moment, he thought maybe he could manage it.

“How much?” he asked.

“Fifty.”

The answer came too quickly.

He nodded once and set it back down, already knowing it was out of reach.

He kept walking. Slower now. Still looking.

Another stall caught his eye, a lighter dress this time, pale and delicate. It looked even finer than the first. He hesitated, then asked anyway.

“Seventy.”

The merchant barely spared him a glance.

He stepped away without a word. The noise around him felt sharper now, heavier.

For a moment, he stopped moving. He looked down at the coins in his hand, turning them slightly, counting them again even though he already knew. It was not enough. Not for anything like that.

His jaw tightened.

He could not go back with nothing.

So he kept walking.

Then, half-hidden between two larger stalls, something caught his eye. A blue dress. Not bright, not expensive-looking, but soft. Worn, in a way that made it feel real.

He paused.

Something about it held his attention longer than the others. It reminded him of your dragon. Quiet. Steady. He could picture you in it without even trying.

He reached out, brushing the fabric between his fingers.

Then he looked up.

“How much?”

The woman looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly as she took him in. “For your wife?” she asked.

He straightened a little. “No. I… It’s for a woman, but she’s not my wife.” Though he wished you were.

She let out a short laugh, snorting under her breath. “Aye, whatever you say, lad.”

His grip tightened slightly on the fabric, unsure what to say to that.

“The dress is forty,” she went on, then paused, studying him a bit longer, her expression shifting. “But… you seem like a decent sort.”

He looked up at that.

She waved a hand, almost dismissive. “Keep your coin. Take it.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I… what?”

“Free,” she said simply. “Something in me says you’re trying to impress someone. No need to empty your pockets for it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he heard her right. Then his brows pulled together slightly.

“I can’t just take it,” he said.

She shrugged. “You can. And you will.”

He hesitated, then slowly nodded, holding the dress a little more carefully now.

“…Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

She waved him off again like it was nothing.

“Go on then. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Dunk nodded, thanking her once again as he walks away. He approached slowly, the morning light catching the edges of the cloak still draped over your shoulders. Egg stirred, blinking lazily at him, but you were awake, sitting quietly by the fire. The way you looked up at him, the faint crease in your brow, made something tighten in his chest.

He held out the dress carefully, almost like it might crumble if he was too rough. It was soft, a pale blue that reminded him of the sky before dawn, the kind of color that made everything feel calmer, safer. The fabric was light but warm enough to offer more than what you had been wearing. He ran his fingers over it again, feeling the tiny, careful embroidery along the hem—delicate patterns of twisting vines and small flowers, stitched with a steady hand. It was simple, but there was a quiet beauty in it, a softness that seemed made for you.

He pictured it on you. The way it would fall along your shoulders, the way the sleeves would catch the light when you moved. He imagined how it would feel against your skin, soft and comforting, and how the color would make your eyes stand out just a little more. He saw you turning slightly, the embroidery glinting in the sun, hair falling around your face, a small smile tugging at your lips, and his chest tightened at the thought.

“I… found something,” he said, his voice careful, almost hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile image in his mind.

“It’s simple,” he continued, holding the dress a little closer to himself, “but it’s clean, and it’ll keep you warmer than you were before.” He hesitated, unsure if he should add more, then let the words slip quietly, “I thought… you might like the color.”

For a moment, the world felt still. He watched you, waiting, wondering if the dress would even matter, if it would make any difference at all.

“Ser… you did not have to,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the fabric, careful not to crease it.

“Aye,” he replied, his voice steady, though there was a weight beneath it, “I had to.”

You looked up at him, and for a moment, there was only the quiet crackle of the fire between you. He met your gaze, something unspoken lingering there, a mix of care and stubborn determination.

He shifted slightly, holding the dress out toward you, letting the morning sun catch the embroidery. “It’s not much,” he said, “but it’ll do. Better than what you had, at least.”

You ran your hand over the soft blue again, the stitching delicate beneath your fingers. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered, and he felt a small relief stir in his chest.

“You’ll wear it?” he asked, the words almost a question to himself.

You nodded, a faint smile touching your lips, and he let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

It was just a simple dress, but in that moment, it felt like everything.

Dunk smiled softly, watching you as you held the dress in your hands, the pale blue fabric falling gently over your fingers. He let his gaze linger for a moment, taking in the way the morning light touched your face.

“Can I change now, Ser?” you asked, your voice light, teasing.

He jumped slightly, a deep flush rising across his cheeks. “Oh—aye, of course! Sorry, I was just… uh… I forgot,” he stammered, fumbling for words.

He quickly turned his back to you, trying to hide how flustered he was.

You giggled quietly, clutching the dress closer, and made your way toward the trees a few steps away, the soft ground muffling your movements. Behind the cover of the leaves, you began to change, the rustle of fabric the only sound between the two of you.

Dunk stood there for a moment, pretending to busy himself with straightening his cloak, though his thoughts were entirely on you. The pale blue dress in your hands, the way you moved with quiet grace, it all made him smile softly again.

“I’m done now, Ser,” you called softly, stepping out from behind the trees.

He turned around, and the moment his eyes fell on you, his breath caught slightly. The dress fit you perfectly, the pale blue soft against your skin, the delicate embroidery catching the morning light. It moved with you as you stepped forward, flowing around you gently, simple yet somehow more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. He just stared, a small, awed smile tugging at his lips.

“You… it suits you,” he finally said, his voice quiet, almost unsteady.

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and for a moment, the world felt still, the fire crackling softly between you, and nothing else seemed to matter.

“Can I help with breakfast?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, the morning sunlight catching your hair.

“You don’t need to, my lady,” he replied, glancing at you with a small, fond smile.

“But I want to,” you insisted, stepping closer.

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair, then nodded. “Alright… if you insist.”

You chuckled softly, moving toward the small fire where he had started gathering supplies. The smell of embers and the crisp morning air mixed together, and for a moment, it felt simple, quiet, and right—just the two of you, working side by side, the small comfort of shared routine settling around you.

After you, Egg, and Duncan finished breakfast, the three of you sat around the fire, talking quietly.

“You’re telling me,” Duncan said, raising an eyebrow, “you’ve ridden a dragon but never been on a horse?”

You giggled, a soft, warm sound. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No! No, it’s just… surprising, that’s all,” he said, shaking his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You nodded, hesitating for a moment, then asked, “Could you… teach me?”

“Teach you… to ride a horse?” he asked, leaning back slightly.

You nodded.

He grinned, scratching the back of his neck. “Alright then… we’ll see if you can keep up with me.”

You laughed softly, excitement bubbling up in your chest.

It felt simple, safe, and yet thrilling, the thought of learning something new with him by your side.

The three of you walked toward the horses, the morning air crisp and fresh, the animals shifting under their hooves. Duncan stopped beside a sturdy brown mare and turned to you.

“First thing,” he said, “is getting on. You need to be steady before you do anything else.”

You nodded.

He stepped forward and lifted you with ease, guiding you onto the horse. His hand pressed at your waist, keeping you upright as the horse shifted beneath you.

“Hold the reins lightly,” he said, his voice calm, “not too tight, just enough to guide. Feet in the stirrups, heels down, back straight, shoulders relaxed. I’ll stay here, steady you until you feel confident.”

His hand lingered at your waist, warm and firm, moving with you as the horse shifted. You thought it was just to keep you steady, unaware that he was holding you deliberately, wanting to feel you close under the pretense of teaching.

“Good,” he said, watching you carefully. “When you want it to move, give a gentle squeeze with your legs and say ‘walk.’ Don’t tense. Horses feel everything—fear, excitement, nerves. Relax, and it will follow.”

The horse stepped forward slowly, Duncan’s hand still at your waist. You adjusted your balance, trusting it was for your safety, and a quiet warmth spread through you, grounding you as the rhythm of the horse beneath you carried on.

“Balance comes first,” he said finally. “Once you’re steady, we’ll try turns and small trots. Nothing fast yet. Calm riders make confident horses.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the horse beneath you, and the lingering touch at your waist. It felt… right.

It did not take long before you found your rhythm.

At first, your movements were careful, a little stiff, but with each step of the horse, you grew more confident. Your grip loosened, your posture steadied, and soon enough, you were guiding the mare instead of simply holding on.

“That’s it,” he called from below, watching closely. “Easy now, keep your hands steady.”

You nodded, a small smile forming as the horse obeyed your movements, slow but sure.

Then you turned slightly, testing it, and the horse followed.

A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it.

“I’m doing it!”

“Aye, you are,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

You guided the horse in a small circle, then another, growing bolder with each pass. The air felt lighter, the world wider from where you sat.

Behind you, Egg darted forward suddenly, stick in hand. “Faster!” he shouted, running after the horse.

“Egg!” Duncan snapped. “Leave off! You’ll scare her!”

But Egg only laughed, chasing after you anyway, waving the stick wildly.

You laughed too, unable to help it, urging the horse forward just a little more. The mare picked up speed, still controlled, but enough to make your heart race.

“Careful!” he called, already moving after you, though he kept his distance.

After a few more turns, you slowed the horse, breath a little uneven, but smiling.

You turned to him. “Race me.”

He blinked. “Race you?”

You nodded, eyes bright.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not a good idea. You’ve only just learned. It can be dangerous.”

But you were already turning the horse.

“Wait—”

You squeezed your legs, and the horse moved forward, faster this time, breaking into a run.

“My lady!” he shouted, panic flashing across his face.

He did not hesitate. He rushed to his own horse, mounting quickly, barely settling before urging it forward.

“Slow down!” he called, chasing after you, his voice carrying urgency now.

The wind rushed past as you rode, laughter slipping from you, the thrill of it all too strong to resist.

Behind you, he pushed his horse faster, closing the distance, his focus entirely on you.

Not the race.

Your safety.

Egg’s laughter rang out behind you as he ran after both of you, waving his stick wildly, completely caught up in the chaos.

“Go! Go!” he shouted, giggling, his small footsteps quick against the dirt.

You laughed, the sound carried away by the wind as your horse picked up speed beneath you, the rhythm faster now, your heart racing along with it.

“My lady, slow down!” Duncan called after you, his voice sharp with worry as he urged his own horse forward.

But you only leaned forward slightly, gripping the reins, urging the mare on just a little faster. The rush of it filled you, the wind, the movement, the freedom.

“I’ve got it!” you called back, laughing again.

“That’s not the point!” he shouted, closing the distance between you, his horse gaining steadily. “You don’t know the ground yet, it’s uneven—slow down!”

You glanced back at him, still smiling, but your horse surged forward again, hooves pounding harder now.

Behind you, Egg was still chasing, though falling behind, his laughter echoing faintly.

Duncan pushed his horse harder, his focus locked entirely on you, tension tight in his chest as he watched every movement, every shift of the horse beneath you.

“My lady!” he called again, closer now, his voice low and urgent. “Reins—pull them back, gently! Don’t let her run!”

The distance between you shrank, his horse drawing alongside yours, ready to reach for you if he had to.

After a while, the land began to change, the grass thinning as you rode farther out than before, the air quieter, heavier in a way that made your horse uneasy.

Its pace slowed, ears flicking back and forth, muscles tensing beneath you.

You frowned slightly, not understanding at first.

Then it hit you.

Dalaxrys.

This was where he rested.

But the realization came too late.

The horse caught the scent of the lingering presence, and panic surged through it. It let out a sharp, frightened sound, rearing suddenly onto its hind legs.

“Wait—!”

You lost your balance instantly.

The reins slipped from your hands as the world tilted, your body thrown sideways, and then—

You hit the ground hard.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, pain shooting through you as you landed with a harsh thud, the world spinning for a moment as dirt and grass scraped against your skin.

“My lady!”

Duncan reached you in seconds, already off his horse, dropping beside you.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was tight, urgent, his hands hovering before carefully reaching toward you. “Can you move?”

Your chest rose sharply as you struggled to breathe, the shock still settling in, your body slow to respond.

Behind him, your horse had bolted a few steps away, still restless, still shaken.

And just beyond the clearing…

The place where your dragon rested remained still, heavy with its presence, enough to frighten any horse that came too close.

For a moment, all you could do was lay there, the shock still ringing through your body, your breath uneven from the impact.

Duncan leaned closer, worry written all over his face. “Are you hurt? Can you—”

And then you started laughing.

It came out suddenly, breathless at first, then fuller, despite the dull ache in your side.

His words cut off. He just stared at you.

“…My lady?”

You pushed yourself up slightly, still laughing, brushing dirt from your hands. “I’m fine,” you managed between breaths. “I just—” you shook your head, a smile breaking through, “I fell.”

Duncan blinked, clearly not sharing the humor. “Aye. I saw that.”

You laughed again, softer this time, though you winced slightly as you moved.

His expression didn’t ease much. He exhaled, running a hand over his face before looking back at you. “You shouldn’t be laughing,” he muttered. “You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

But seeing you sitting up, alive, laughing…

Some of the tension left his shoulders.

Still, he shook his head, a small, disbelieving breath escaping him. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Dalaxrys let out a low, rumbling sound, the ground almost seeming to vibrate beneath you as he stepped closer, his massive head lowering toward you. Warm breath washed over you as he sniffed, then nudged you gently, almost carefully, as if afraid you might break.

You reached up instinctively, your hand resting against his scales. “I’m alright… I’m alright,” you murmured.

But then his head shifted.

His gaze snapped toward the horse.

The animal was already uneasy, ears pinned back, hooves shifting nervously against the dirt. Dalaxrys’ body tensed, a deeper growl building in his chest, something sharp and possessive in it.

Before you could react, he reared his head slightly, jaws parting just enough for heat to gather—

“No! No, Dalaxrys, no!”

You pushed yourself up quickly, ignoring the lingering ache as you grabbed at his snout, trying to turn his head away. He resisted for a second, stubborn, a low sound still rumbling in his throat.

The horse panicked fully now, pulling against its reins.

“Dalaxrys,” you said more firmly, pressing your forehead lightly against his scales, your voice softer now, steady. “Stop.”

There was a pause.

Then, slowly, the tension left him. The heat faded. His head lowered again, nudging your shoulder instead, almost sulking.

You let out a breath, relief washing over you before you turned back toward Duncan.

“Sorry, Ser…” you said, a little embarrassed, brushing dirt from your dress.

Duncan was already at your side before you could steady yourself, his hands hovering for a moment before settling carefully on your arms, as if checking for injury without wanting to startle you.

“My lady, are you hurt?” he asked, voice tight, eyes searching your face, then your shoulders, then lower, making sure nothing was wrong.

“I’m fine,” you said, though a small laugh slipped out again, breathless from the fall. “Truly.”

He did not look convinced.

His hand moved to your elbow, then your waist, helping you fully to your feet. This time he did not pull away quickly. His grip lingered, firm, grounding, like he needed to be certain you were really standing.

“That was no small fall,” he muttered. “You could’ve broken something.”

Behind him, Egg snorted. “She looked like a sack of potatoes.”

Duncan shot him a look. “Best mind your tongue.”

You smiled faintly, brushing off the rest of the dirt from your dress. The fabric Duncan had chosen caught the light, the faint blue threading glinting softly. For a moment, his gaze dropped to it, then back to you, and something in his expression eased.

Then he noticed the horse.

It was still restless, sides heaving, eyes wide as it kept its distance from Dalaxrys, who now stood looming behind you like a shadow that breathed.

Duncan exhaled slowly, running a hand over his head. “I reckon I should’ve asked if there was a dragon nearby before letting you ride off.”

You looked back at Dalaxrys, who huffed again, almost offended.

“I forgot he rested here,” you admitted.

“Aye,” Duncan said, dry. “Hard thing to forget, that.”

For a moment, there was quiet. Just the wind, the shifting of hooves, and the low presence of the dragon behind you.

Then Duncan’s hand tightened slightly at your waist before he seemed to realize it, clearing his throat and stepping back, though not far.

“No more racing,” he said firmly. “Not near… him.”

Egg perked up. “So we can race somewhere else?”

Duncan sighed.

You looked between them, a small smile returning despite everything.

The tent was alive with the smells of roasted meat and spiced wine, but you had only come for the food, sitting quietly with Duncan and Egg.

Then a voice cut through the noise, loud, clear, and impossible to ignore.

“There she is! Finally found you!”

You looked up, heart skipping. Lyonel strode through the crowd, head held high, boots thudding on the wooden floor. His grin was wide, teasing, but there was frustration buried in the edges.

“You! I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said, eyes sparkling as he leaned toward your table, voice carrying. “First at the dance, then during the tug-of-war with your brother… and each time, just like that, gone!” He threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “Do you know how hard it is to track you down?”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed immediately, body tensing. He shifted slightly, almost instinctively moving a little closer to you.

Lyonel’s grin only widened, catching the tension but laughing as though it amused him. “Ah, I see… the fierce protector is still here, keeping watch. Very noble. Very loyal.”

Duncan’s hand brushed yours beneath the table, firm, protective, warning clear. “She’s fine,” he said, his tone low, edged.

“Oh, I know she’s fine,” Lyonel replied, tilting his head, voice teasing but his gaze sharp. “But where were you going, hmm? Sneaking away like that. Leaving me to chase you around!”

Your cheeks flushed. Lyonel leaned closer, his presence commanding and loud, almost challenging, but still playful on the surface. Deep down, though, you could feel the edge—jealousy, maybe even a little anger, wrapped tightly under his charm.

“You keep her close, do you?” he said, glancing at Duncan. “Don’t wander too far, my friend, or I might just have to take matters into my own hands.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened, his protective instinct flaring, eyes dark as they met Lyonel’s.

You sat there, caught between the two, a mix of amusement and exasperation bubbling in your chest, while Lyonel’s eyes never left you, still loud, still teasing, but now unmistakably possessive in his own way.

Egg, oblivious, continued gnawing on a drumstick, completely unaware of the storm brewing just a few feet away.

Lyonel’s grin returned, wider and sharper now. “No running off this time, alright? I’ve waited long enough.”

Duncan’s hands tightened slightly, still at your sides. “Just… don’t make trouble,” he muttered, voice low.

“Trouble?” Lyonel echoed, mock innocence in his tone, though the sharp glint in his eye betrayed him. “No… only fun.”

The tent felt smaller suddenly, the air charged, as Lyonel planted himself near you, loud, teasing, and unrelenting, determined not to let you slip away again.

Lyonel chuckled, a low, teasing sound that carried across the table. “Ah, so the mysterious lady hides beneath her hood. I like that… makes finding you all the more fun.”

You frowned slightly, pulling the hood a little lower over your face. “Yes, well… I like my privacy. Best not to draw attention.”

He leaned closer, grin widening, eyes glinting with amusement. “And here I thought I’d finally caught up to you, only to find you hiding like a secret. Clever, I’ll give you that.”

Duncan’s gaze flicked between you and Lyonel, sharp and protective, hands tightening slightly near your side.

“I suggest you mind your words,” you said softly, your voice firm beneath the calm exterior, “or my companion here may find you less amusing than I do.”

Lyonel’s grin only grew, though there was a flicker of respect in his eyes. “Ah, a protector and a princess… dangerous combination. Very well, I’ll keep my voice in check… for now.”

Egg, still munching quietly, looked between the three of you, blissfully unaware of the tension that had just shifted in the air.

Lyonel leaned back beside you, smirking. “Are you married?”

“No,” you replied.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Betrothed?”

You glanced at Dunk for a moment before answering. “No.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened beside you, his gaze fixed on Lyonel, silent but unmistakably protective.

Lyonel’s smirk lingered as he leaned back, eyes sharp. “And what would your father be looking for in a betrothal, then?”

You shrugged lightly, unconcerned. “Anything that gives a benefit to House Targaryen, I suppose.”

His gaze flicked toward you, a hint of something deeper in his expression, but his voice stayed casual. “Of course. Practical… alliances, strengthening ties.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then added lightly, “House Baratheon has had ties with yours for some time. It’s… convenient.”

There was a weight to the way he said it, though he didn’t elaborate. His smirk never wavered, but you caught the subtle undertone—the way he lingered on you when he mentioned Baratheon, though he didn’t say it outright.

Duncan’s eyes narrowed slightly beside you, tension coiling in his posture as he watched Lyonel, though he said nothing, letting the conversation continue while keeping a careful, protective watch.

You fixed him with a steady gaze. “So?”

Lyonel leaned closer, smirk never fading. “I’m asking you to be my wife.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and sudden, and for a moment, the music and chatter of the party seemed to still.

Before you could respond, Duncan’s hand shot out, pushing Lyonel back with measured force. “That is enough,” he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority.

Heads turned toward you, whispers rippling through the tent. The nobles and guests fell silent, the tension thick, as if the air itself had been drawn taut.

Duncan stood slightly in front of you, his posture rigid, eyes flashing. “No one speaks to her in such a manner without regard for her will,” he said, each word deliberate and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Lyonel staggered slightly, smirk twisting into a crooked grin. “Careful, Ser… I see you fancy yourself a protector. Or is it jealousy? Afraid I might take what’s… not yours?” His tone dripped with mockery.

Duncan’s jaw clenched, eyes darkening. “Step aside. This does not concern you,” he said, voice steady but sharp, each word commanding attention.

Lyonel laughed, a dangerous, low sound that made the court murmur. “Oh, I think it concerns me quite a bit. After all, a man who thinks he can guard a princess like a lapdog… amusing, don’t you think?”

Gasps rippled through the tent as Duncan’s hand twitched at his side. He took a step forward, towering, imposing, every inch a knight ready to defend honor and duty. “That is enough,” Duncan repeated, voice cold, final.

Lyonel’s smirk didn’t fully vanish, but there was an edge now—anger and challenge lurking beneath it. He knew Duncan was dangerous, but he couldn’t let the moment go without stirring the tension further.

You stayed silent, heart pounding, caught between the audacity of Lyonel and the unwavering, protective presence of Duncan, the eyes of nobles and guests all upon the three of you.

“Ser, let’s go,” you said, voice firm but calm.

He didn’t move.

“Ser Duncan,” you said again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

“Dunk,” you said, sharper, catching his attention. His eyes flicked toward you, blinking as if coming out of a daze.

You grabbed his arm gently but firmly, tugging him toward the tent flap. “Come on.”

He finally followed, his protective gaze sweeping the crowd one last time, tension still lingering in his posture. Egg scrambled after you, laughing, eager to be part of the escape, and soon the three of you were outside, the noise of the party fading behind you.

The air hit your face, and for a moment, you all just stood there, catching your breath. Duncan’s hand brushed briefly against yours as he adjusted his stance, eyes still alert, scanning the shadows, while Egg bounced around, oblivious to the lingering tension, but happy to be outside with both of you.

You took a deep breath, letting the tension ease in the bright morning air. “It’s alright, Dunk,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault. He was… irritating, that’s all.”

Duncan exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing slightly as he sank onto a nearby log. “Aye… you’re right. I… I let my temper show. I should not have let him get under my skin.”

You crouched beside him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine. Really. You were just protecting me.”

He looked at you, eyes softening, and gave a small, sheepish nod. “I’m sorry… for the shouting, for the pushing. I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

Egg bounced excitedly nearby. “Can we get some food now? I’m starving!”

You laughed, crouching to pat him on the back. “Of course, Egg. Let’s find something to eat.”

Duncan glanced at you, then stood, adjusting his cloak. “Aye. Let’s see what we can find before the day drags on.”

The three of you set off together, the crisp morning air on your faces, the memory of the party already fading. The simple comfort of being together, moving toward something as ordinary as food, felt enough for the moment.

I hope you liked this chapter. Comment down your thoughts!

You departed from Valarr’s chamber well before the hour grew late, scarcely sparing a glance behind you, as though the very walls might cling to you if you lingered a moment longer. Each step along the corridor felt labored, your breath unsteady, your thoughts a tangled storm you could neither quiet nor escape. A deep disgust coiled within you, sharp, unrelenting, turned not outward, but inward, gnawing at your own heart.

You did not stop until you reached the bath, where heated water awaited, its surface trembling faintly in the dim light. Without ceremony, you sank into it, the warmth wrapping about you like an unwelcome embrace. Yet it brought no comfort.

Your hands moved at once, urgent and unyielding, scrubbing at your skin as though you might rid yourself of all that had passed. Again and again you pressed harder, as if force alone could cleanse what could not be seen. The water rippled with each motion, disturbed by your unrest, while your breath came uneven, caught between anger and something far heavier.

Still, you did not stop.

You scrubbed as though time itself might be turned back, as though the memory might fade beneath your touch. But no matter how fiercely you tried, the feeling lingered, etched deeper than skin, beyond the reach of water and will alike.

You did not care that your skin had begun to feel raw beneath your hands, nor did you heed the sting that followed each harsh motion. The pain mattered little to you, for it was a lesser thing compared to the turmoil that churned within. You scrubbed without pause, driven by a desperate need to rid yourself of what clung unseen, to reclaim some fragment of the purity you felt had been lost.

All you wanted was to feel clean again, if only for a fleeting moment. To stand without that weight pressing upon you, without the memory that seemed to linger no matter how fiercely you fought against it.

Yet deep within, you knew the truth you dared not speak aloud. No matter how much you tried, no matter how hard you scrubbed or how long you remained beneath the water, you would never feel as you once had again.

“Gods…” you whispered, the word breaking upon your lips as though it could scarcely bear its own weight.

Your strength faltered at last, and you drew your knees close to your chest, folding into yourself as if to make your presence smaller, as if that might somehow ease the turmoil within. Your arms wrapped tightly around your legs, fingers clutching as though they alone could keep you from coming undone.

The tears you had fought so hard to restrain slipped free, trailing warm against your skin as quiet sobs followed in their wake. Your breath hitched unevenly, each inhale sharp, each exhale trembling, and you found yourself sniffling despite every attempt to steady yourself.

Alone in the dim hush, with only the faint sound of water shifting around you, there was no strength left to hold it back.

Valarr had left his mark upon you, and the knowledge of it settled like a weight in your stomach, heavy and unyielding. A deep sense of revulsion stirred within you, impossible to ignore, no matter how you tried to push it aside. You turned your face away, as though even the thought of it might cling if you lingered too long.

The realization came slowly, yet with dreadful certainty. You would have to seek out Maester Yormwell before the day was done. The thought alone made your chest tighten, but there was no other course to take. The moon tea would be needed, bitter though it was, and the act of asking for it no easier.

You closed your eyes, steadying your breath as best you could. One trial had passed, and another yet awaited you.

Your thoughts turned, unbidden, to Duncan—his easy, earnest smile, and the quiet gentleness he bore despite his great size. There had always been a steadiness in him, something honest and unguarded, so unlike the careful games of court. The memory of it made your chest tighten, for it felt a world away from where you now sat.

Fear crept in soon after. Valarr was no fool; he was sharp of mind and subtle in speech, twisting words until truth slipped free before it could be held back. You had not meant to yield anything of worth, yet somehow he had drawn it from you all the same, leaving you with the bitter taste of it.

In the end, you had done the only thing you could think to do. You had turned his attention, led it elsewhere, if only to make him cease. The choice had not felt like one at all in that moment, only necessity.

Now, in the quiet that followed, you did not know what to feel. Whether regret should weigh heavier upon you, or relief. Dunk was safe, at least for now, beyond Valarr’s reach, and that truth stood firm amidst the turmoil.

Yet the cost of it lingered, and you could not tell whether it had been too dear, or the only price that could have been paid.

At last, you forced yourself to rise from the bath, though the water seemed reluctant to release you, clinging to your skin as you stepped free. The air beyond felt cool in contrast, brushing against you and drawing a faint shiver despite the lingering heat.

You reached for a robe with unsteady hands, gathering it about yourself and fastening it close, as though it might serve as some small shield between you and the world beyond. The fabric was soft, yet even its touch did little to soothe you.

A dull soreness settled deep within your body, heavy and persistent, making each movement feel slower, more deliberate. You paused for a moment, steadying yourself, your grip tightening at the robe as you drew it closer still, as if it alone could hold you together.

You turned to the servant, your expression composed despite the strain that lingered beneath it. Your voice, when it came, was low and steady, leaving little room for question.

“Summon Maester Yormwell,” you said, drawing the robe closer about yourself, your gaze fixed and unwavering. “And see that no word of this reaches another soul.”

The servant hesitated only a fraction before bowing their head in assent, understanding the weight of such a command, and the silence it demanded.

You waited in silence, the moments stretching thin and uneasy, your thoughts refusing to settle. Your hands moved almost without thought, drawing the robe tighter about your body, clutching at the fabric as though it might hold you together, as though it could somehow press down the turmoil within.

For a fleeting instant, you wondered if it might help, if the weight of it might smother the disgust that clung so stubbornly to you. Yet it lingered still, unmoved by such small comforts, seated far deeper than cloth could ever reach.

So you stood there, wrapped tightly in borrowed warmth, waiting—not for relief, but for what must come next.

A short while passed before the door opened once more, and Maester Yormwell entered with measured steps, bowing his head in quiet respect.

“Good morrow, Princess.”

The words scarcely reached you. You did not answer, nor did you lift your gaze for long. Whatever care once guided such courtesies felt distant now, dulled beneath the weight pressing down upon you.

“Can you make it?” you asked, your voice low, lacking strength, as though even speaking required more effort than you could spare.

He hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Make what, Princess—”

You closed your eyes briefly, a weary breath slipping past your lips before you spoke again, quieter still.

“The tea,” you murmured, your fingers tightening faintly against the robe wrapped around you. “The moon tea.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, you simply stood there, feeling as though something within you had already gone still.

He nodded, his expression grave, eyes flicking to yours with a hint of unease.

“Yes, Princess.”

You gave a slow, deliberate nod, your movements heavy and taut with exhaustion, but there was something darker beneath the weariness. “Make it, please,” you said, your voice low, almost a growl, carrying a weight that pressed against the walls of the room.

Then you leaned slightly closer, your eyes hardening, and your tone dropped to a chilling whisper. “Don’t tell this to anyone… especially my father. If you do, I will hunt you with my dragon, and I will let him consume you alive.”

The words fell like a blade through the still air, final and merciless. Even the shadows seemed to recoil, and you pressed the robe tighter about yourself, as if it could hold back not just your shame, but the storm of wrath you had just unleashed.

A flicker of surprise crossed you at the sharpness of your own words; you had never spoken so, never carried such menace in your voice before. The realization made your chest tighten, and for a moment, the weight of it pressed down harder than all the shame and disgust you had carried.

“Yes, Princess, as you wish,” the maester said, his tone careful, measured, bowing deeply before turning and leaving.

The door closed behind him with a muted thud, and silence reclaimed the chamber. You stood alone, the echo of your own warning lingering in your mind, cold and unyielding, as though it had taken on a life of its own.

You sank into a chair, the wood hard beneath you, and let your gaze fall to your own thighs—the same thighs Valarr had gripped so tightly just hours before. A shiver ran through you, equal parts disgust and lingering shock, and your fingers flexed against the fabric of your robe, almost as if to check it was still yours.

Hopefully, he was not awake yet. The thought alone made your chest tighten, for you did not wish to face him, not now, not ever again. The memory of last night pressed down on you like a shadow, and the very idea of encountering him stirred a wave of dread that made you curl slightly further into yourself.

A few moments later, a soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts, and a moment later, Maester Yormwell stepped inside, carrying a small tray. On it rested a modest cup of steaming moon tea, the faint aroma rising in gentle curls.

He inclined his head in a careful bow, setting the tray down before you. “Here is the tea, Princess,” he said, his voice low, measured, betraying nothing of the knowledge he bore. “Take it slowly. It will help.”

You nodded wordlessly, your eyes fixed on the cup as though it held some fragile hope. The steam swirled between you, warm and fleeting, and for a moment, you allowed yourself a quiet breath, knowing the momentary reprieve would not last long.

You lifted the cup with trembling hands, pressing it gently to your lips. As the warm liquid slid down your throat, you instinctively curled your arms around your stomach, feeling the heat settle low within you.

A strange comfort accompanied the warmth, dulling the ache that had taken residence there, if only slightly. You closed your eyes, letting the sensation spread through you, fragile and fleeting, as if for a moment the weight pressing on your chest and stomach had loosened just enough for you to breathe.

The warmth of the tea lingered in you, a small comfort against the storm of thoughts that still churned relentlessly. You set the empty cup down on the tray, fingers brushing its rim with a lingering tremor.

You lifted your gaze slowly, fixing Maester Yormwell with a quiet, unyielding stare. Your voice was low, firm, carrying the weight of command, though it trembled slightly with the residue of your unrest.

“Leave,” you said.

The maester’s eyes flicked to you, reading the exhaustion and tension that lay beneath your words. He inclined his head once more, carefully stepping back, and without another word, he withdrew, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the chamber.

Silence settled once more, heavy and complete, pressing in from every corner as you sank back slightly, letting the solitude wrap around you like the robe you clutched so tightly.

Once the door closed, the fragile restraint you had clung to shattered.

Tears welled unbidden in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. You let your shoulders slump, your hands gripping the robe tighter as sobs shook your body quietly at first, then with more force, filling the chamber with the soft, uneven sound of your grief.

You pressed your face into your knees, wishing for it all to vanish—the shame, the disgust, the memory—but it clung stubbornly, unyielding. The tears came anyway, hot and relentless, and for the first time in hours, you allowed yourself to simply cry, unguarded and alone.

You remained there for long moments, curled in your chair, letting the tears fall freely, each one carrying a fraction of the weight that had settled deep within you. The bathwater, the tea, even your robe—all of it had been small attempts at cleansing yourself, at washing away what you could not undo, but now there was nothing left to do but feel.

Gradually, your sobs slowed, your body trembling with the aftermath, and a hollow quiet settled over you. It was not relief, nor was it peace, but it was something, an emptiness that at least allowed you to breathe again, however shallowly.

You drew a shaky breath, pressed your palms to your face, and tried to straighten your spine. Outside, the castle went about its morning, indifferent to the storm that had raged within your chamber. But here, in the quiet, you were still youeping, yes, but surviving.

And for now, that fragile endurance was enough.

You found yourself in the wild, the grass bending beneath your feet and the soft murmur of a distant stream filling the quiet around you. Dalaxrys stood nearby, immense and still, his dark scales blending with the shadows of the trees and rocks around you.

You approached him slowly, your fingers brushing along the ridges of his neck, feeling the subtle heat that radiated from him. He shifted slightly at your touch, letting out a low, rumbling breath that seemed to hum through the earth itself.

You lowered yourself to sit beside him, pressing a hand against his head. Here in the open calm of nature, the weight that had pressed upon you so heavily in the castle began to loosen, if only slightly. The memory of Valarr, the shame, the disgust all felt distant, softened by the steady presence of your dragon.

For a long while, you simply stayed there, the wind in your hair and the quiet strength of Dalaxrys at your side grounding you. The day stretched before you, uncertain but alive, and for the first time in hours, you could let yourself breathe again.

You traced your fingers absently along Dalaxrys’s scales, the weight of the morning still heavy on your shoulders. Your voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the gentle rustle of the trees around you.

“I’m sorry, I… I don’t feel like riding now,” you said, your words faltering slightly as you looked down at him.

Dalaxrys remained still, his presence steady and patient, as if he understood without need for explanation. You exhaled slowly, leaning back against his side, feeling the solid, unshakable weight of him beneath your hand, and for a moment, allowed yourself the reprieve of simply being, without expectation, without movement, and without demands.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the soft earth, letting your body sink into the grass. The damp soil pressed cool against your back, and the weight of your limbs seemed to release a fraction of the tension you had carried all morning.

Dalaxrys shifted slightly beside you, the rumble of his breath a quiet, steady presence that comforted you more than words ever could. You stretched your arms loosely above your head, feeling the gentle pull of the wind against your skin, and closed your eyes.

Here, lying on the ground, the memories of Valarr and the lingering shame felt distant, softened by the stillness around you. For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to simply exist, letting the quiet of nature and the unwavering presence of your dragon cradle you in a fragile peace.

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of the familiar voice, heart tightening in surprise.

“I knew you’d be here!”

You turned your head and saw Duncan standing a short distance away, his expression a mix of relief and concern. The sight of him made your chest ache with a strange, heavy warmth, and for a moment, you simply stared, unsteady, unsure whether to rise or stay where you were on the soft grass beside Dalaxrys.

Dalaxrys shifted slightly at your movement, his presence steady beside you, as if giving you the courage to meet Duncan without words, letting the moment speak for itself.

Duncan stepped closer, his voice gentle, carrying the faintest hint of concern.

“Egg is still sleeping,” he said, nodding toward the resting dragon. “I’m going to make breakfast. Do you want some?”

You stared down at the grass, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the dirt, and your chest tightened. The words felt distant, like they belonged to another world you could not reach. “I… I don’t think I can,” you murmured, your voice barely above the whisper of the wind.

Duncan’s brow furrowed slightly. You stayed there, lying on the cool earth beside Dalaxrys, letting the quiet press in around you, feeling too heavy, too raw to care about breakfast or sunlight or anything at all.

Duncan gave a small, hesitant smile, trying to lighten the weight in the air.

“It’s salted beef. I’ve practiced, and it’s… tasty. Well, for me—”

You cut him off sharply, the edge in your voice harsher than you intended.

“I said I don’t want to eat,” you replied, your words flat and hollow, echoing slightly against the quiet of the forest around you.

He froze for a moment, taken aback, but did not press further. You lowered your gaze, tracing patterns in the grass, letting the silence settle like a heavy blanket, heavier than any hunger or need.

“Oh,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to the ground.

The words hit you harder than you expected, and a sharp pang of guilt twisted in your chest. Gods, you felt terrible.

“I… I apologize,” you said, your voice barely steady, the weight of shame pressing down on you. “I did not know what came over me.”

Duncan looked up briefly, his expression gentle but cautious, giving you a quiet space to breathe. You sat there, the ache in your chest mingling with the lingering sadness, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke, the forest around you holding its own quiet vigil.

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped a little closer, his brow furrowed with concern. His voice was soft, careful, carrying a weight that made your chest tighten even more.

“Are you… alright?” he asked, the words gentle, almost fragile.

You swallowed, unsure how to answer, the knot in your stomach refusing to loosen. The ache from yesterday still lingered, raw and stubborn, and even with Duncan standing so near, you felt too heavy, too fragile to lie. You shifted slightly on the grass beside Dalaxrys, eyes fixed somewhere far away, wishing the world could simply pause and let you breathe.

You hesitated, your throat tight and your hands fidgeting with the hem of your cloak. The words trembled on the edge of your lips, but you could not bring yourself to speak them.

You did not want to tell him, afraid that if you did, he would look at you with disgust, or worse, disappointment. The memory of last night, the shame, the lingering bitterness in your chest, all pressed down heavier at the thought of confessing.

Instead, you kept your gaze lowered, hiding behind your hair and the quiet weight of your own sorrow. You nodded ever so slightly, giving no real answer, your silence a fragile shield against the fear that anything you said might drive him away.

He softened slightly, taking a careful step closer, his voice gentle and steady.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” he said, giving you a small, reassuring smile. “Everyone has hard days.”

The words wrapped around you like a quiet warmth, and for a moment, the tight knot in your chest loosened, though only slightly. You remained still, not ready to speak, but the weight of his understanding pressed gently against the ache inside, reminding you that perhaps not all eyes would see you with judgment.

Duncan shifted slightly, glancing toward Dalaxrys with a soft, careful smile.

“I-I have extra beef here,” he said, his voice gentle, “if your dragon wants.”

The dragon let out a low rumble, shifting closer as if to acknowledge the offer. You watched the interaction quietly, the small act of care stirring a fragile warmth in your chest, though the weight of your own thoughts and lingering shame remained.

Duncan pulled the beef from his bag, holding it carefully, then stepped back a little, glancing toward Dalaxrys. The dragon shifted closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffed the air, eyes fixed on the offering.

“Do I, uh… throw it to him?” Duncan asked, hesitating, unsure.

“You can,” you said quietly, “or he can eat it from your hand.”

Duncan froze, blinking at you with a mixture of doubt and concern. “Are you sure he will eat the beef from my hand… and not my hand?”

You gave a small, reassuring nod, your voice calm despite the tension still lingering in the air. “He knows what he’s allowed to touch. He won’t harm you.”

Duncan swallowed, taking a deep breath, and extended the beef toward Dalaxrys, who lowered his massive head slowly, the rumble of his breath vibrating through the ground as he carefully took the food from Duncan’s hand.

Duncan let out a shaky sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “He is… nice,” he murmured, reaching out cautiously to stroke Dalaxrys’s scaled neck.

The dragon’s head jerked slightly, and with a sudden snap, Dalaxrys bared his teeth and let out a low, warning growl. Duncan recoiled instantly, eyes wide with surprise, his hand pulled back as if stung.

You couldn’t help a small, tense exhale, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at your lips despite the tension. “He’s not used to strangers touching him like that,” you said quietly, your voice calm but carrying a note of warning. “He’s careful who he trusts.”

Duncan nodded, still wide-eyed, the taste of caution settling over him as he kept his distance, eyes flicking between you and Dalaxrys.

Duncan stepped back slightly, still watching Dalaxrys with a mix of awe and caution. His voice was low, curious, yet tinged with disbelief.

“Where… where did you find him?” he asked, eyes wide as he took in the massive form of the dragon beside you.

You hesitated, memories of that day stirring faintly in your mind, and spoke softly. “I was there when he hatched from an egg. My father keeps dragon eggs in an artifact room, to preserve Targaryen history.”

Duncan blinked, taking a step closer again, though still careful. “You were there… from the beginning?” His tone carried a note of wonder, as if trying to imagine a life so entwined with dragons that most could scarcely dream of.

You nodded, your hand brushing lightly along Dalaxrys’s wing. “Yes. I’ve always known him. From the very start.”

Duncan’s eyes lingered on Dalaxrys, taking in the massive, coiled form of your dragon. His brow furrowed with curiosity and awe.

“How old is he?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to startle him.

“He’s seven,” you replied, keeping your tone steady, though a faint weight tugged at your chest.

Duncan blinked, stepping a little closer, voice filled with wonder and disbelief. “Is it normal for a dragon to be this big at just seven?”

You shook your head slowly, your fingers brushing along Dalaxrys’s shoulder. “I don’t think so,” you said quietly. “He’s… unusual. Stronger, bigger than most at his age.”

Duncan looked between you and the dragon, eyes wide, the mixture of amazement and apprehension clear on his face.

Duncan nodded thoughtfully, still watching Dalaxrys as the dragon shifted slightly, his gaze following the movement of the trees and the gentle sway of the grass.

“I will buy more beef for him when I have the coin to pay,” Duncan said, a small, earnest frown on his face.

You shook your head gently, a faint, tired smile tugging at your lips. “No need, Ser. He can hunt… he just needs to find.”

Duncan glanced at you, surprised by your calm certainty, then back at Dalaxrys, who rumbled low and shifted again, as if confirming your words. For a moment, the world felt simple, the worries of coin and provision softened by the quiet, steady presence of the dragon at your side.

You glanced at Duncan, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness that still lingered inside you.

“Thank you for the hairpin,” you said softly.

“W-what?” he stammered, blinking at you in surprise.

“The hairpin you gave me last night. I like it,” you explained, your voice quiet but sincere.

He gave a small, hesitant nod, relief and awkward pride mixing on his face. “Really? I… it was cheap, but it was the most expensive in the stall. I’ll buy you something better if I have more—”

You shook your head gently, cutting him off with a quiet firmness. “Ser, it’s alright. It’s the thought that matters,” you said, and for a brief moment, the weight of yesterday felt a little less heavy, softened by the quiet kindness in the exchange.

Duncan’s eyes lingered on you, a mixture of awe and something softer, something careful, as if he were trying to understand the depth behind your words without pressing further.

Duncan continued to stand there, quiet now, his gaze fixed on you with a careful intensity. He watched the way your hair caught the light, the subtle movement of your eyes as they followed Dalaxrys, and the way your hands moved gently over the dragon’s wings, tracing the ridges and folds with care.

There was a softness in his stare, a quiet fascination, as if he were trying to memorize the small, fleeting details of you without disturbing the fragile calm you had found. You felt the weight of his eyes, warm and steady, and though it made your chest tighten slightly, it was not harsh or demanding—it was simply attention, quiet and unbroken, that lingered like a shadow around you.

Dalaxrys shifted beside you, low rumbling vibrating through the ground, but your hands never left him. For a moment, the three of you existed in that silence, the world narrowed to the feel of scales beneath your fingers, the wind in your hair, and Duncan’s unwavering, watchful presence.

You lifted your gaze from Dalaxrys, turning toward Duncan with a quiet, tired curiosity.

“Are you going to make breakfast now?” you asked, your voice soft, carrying just enough weight to prompt a response.

“Huh—what?” he replied, blinking at you in surprise, as if the question had caught him off guard.

“Breakfast,” you repeated gently, “you said you would make it.”

Duncan’s eyes widened slightly, realization dawning as he shifted his weight awkwardly. “Oh… right. I… I suppose I should, then,” he murmured, scratching the back of his neck, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

Duncan shifted, glancing toward the path leading back to the castle. “I guess I should get going then, to make breakfast,” he said, motioning vaguely in that direction, though he lingered, unsure whether to move.

You hesitated, then spoke softly, “Do you want me to come, or…”

“Yes— I mean, if you want, my lady,” he stammered, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks. His eyes met yours briefly, searching, uncertain, but hopeful.

You gave a small nod, the tension in your chest easing just a little at the ordinary simplicity of the offer. For now, the shadows of yesterday were held at bay, replaced by the quiet warmth of companionship, however tentative it might be.

You stood slowly, brushing your dress lightly to remove the clinging bits of grass and dirt. “I’ll be back,” you said to Dalaxrys, who let out a low, rumbling sound in response, shifting slightly as if acknowledging your words.

You turned and walked toward Duncan, who remained frozen where he stood, eyes fixed on you. You stopped a few paces in front of him, noticing how long he just stared, uncertain, as if he were trying to memorize the sight of you. The air felt thick with quiet, your own thoughts heavy, while he remained rooted, watching every small movement, every tilt of your head, the way your fingers smoothed the folds of your dress.

“Are you going to lead the way?” you asked softly after a moment, the calm edge in your voice carrying the weight of waiting.

“I—yes! I was just thinking,” he stammered, snapping out of his trance, though his eyes never left yours.

“Thinking about what?” you pressed gently, raising an eyebrow.

“Um… breakfast?” he said, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

You nodded slowly, not fully believing him but choosing not to question it. You lingered there a heartbeat longer, letting the quiet stretch between you, before finally stepping aside and letting him move ahead. Dalaxrys’s low rumble echoed softly in the distance, a silent witness to the pause that had stretched longer than either of you expected.

You followed Duncan through the forest, the morning air crisp and alive with the scent of earth and leaves. Up ahead, Egg was running alongside Duncan’s black horse, tiny feet pounding against the dirt as he struggled to keep pace with the powerful animal.

“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, spinning in small circles as he urged the horse forward, his excitement bubbling over in a wild, unstoppable energy. His head gleamed in the sunlight, and his voice rang through the forest, full of joy and determination.

Duncan’s eyes widened, and he called out sharply, “Egg! Steady! What are you doing?!” He reached out, grabbing Egg just in time to steady him, though the boy barely slowed, still laughing and pulling at the reins, caught up in the thrill of the run.

You lingered a few paces behind, watching quietly. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips despite the heaviness pressing at your chest. Egg’s fearless energy was infectious, and even in the midst of his recklessness, you couldn’t help but admire his stubborn spirit and boundless determination.

The horse snorted, egg’s eyes sparkled with delight, and for a fleeting moment, the forest seemed alive with nothing but laughter, pounding hooves, and the small, joyful chaos of youth.

Duncan let out a long, tired sigh, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the small clearing. “I suppose I should make breakfast,” he said, his voice low, walking away to cook breakfast.

Seizing the opportunity, you knelt beside Egg, lowering your voice so it would not carry to Duncan. “Egg,” you began gently, your eyes scanning his small, bald head and determined expression, “you do realize your father is worried for you. Why are you here with Ser Duncan instead of staying under his care?”

Egg’s tiny frame stiffened, and he crossed his arms, jaw set stubbornly. “Daeron is a shit knight,” he said bluntly. “While we were traveling, he led us to an inn and said we would wait there until the tourney was over. I did not want that. I want to be a squire!”

You blinked, taking in his bald head and resolute expression. “Oh… so your hair was shaved?” you asked softly.

Egg looked down, fiddling with the hem of his tunic. “Daeron did,” he replied simply, his voice flat but firm, as though accepting the injustice without complaint.

You inclined your head slowly, letting your lips press into a faint, contemplative line. “I see… very well, then,” you murmured, the weight of his words settling in your chest.

Egg hesitated, leaning closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You must not tell Ser Duncan about this. He cannot know,” he warned, eyes earnest and imploring.

You felt the gravity of his words press against your chest, but you nodded solemnly. “I will not,” you promised, your voice quiet but resolute. You let your gaze linger on him for a moment, aware of the fragile trust he had placed in you, even as Duncan continued to move about the clearing, oblivious to the secret quietly shared between you and your young cousin.

You slowed your pace, letting Egg catch his breath after running alongside Duncan’s horse. The boy bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, still flushed with excitement, and looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

“How is our family?” he asked suddenly, his voice small but direct, as if expecting an honest answer.

“Shitty,” you replied bluntly, without hesitation.

Egg’s eyes went wide, and a small laugh escaped him. “That’s the first time I ever heard you say a swear word!” he exclaimed, astonished and delighted.

You raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “I know. Are you proud of me?” you asked, teasing lightly.

Egg giggled, the sound bright and infectious, bouncing on the spot as he shook his head. “Yeah… I guess I am,” he admitted, still grinning.

For a moment, the world around you softened, the weight pressing at your chest easing slightly in the warmth of his laughter and the rare, small comfort of shared honesty.

As you and Egg laughed, his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. “You look different,” he said, his voice small but curious, “like… like you’re tired.”

You frowned, the words slicing through the brief comfort of your laughter. Memories of the night with Valarr pressed unbidden to the surface, and your chest tightened at the recollection. The warmth from Egg’s presence felt distant now, replaced by the ache of shame and disgust that still lingered in your mind.

You forced your features into something neutral, trying to hide the weight pressing on you. “I… I’m fine,” you said softly, though your voice lacked conviction, betraying the storm of feelings you refused to share.

Egg’s brow furrowed slightly, sensing something unspoken, but he did not press, letting the silence hang between you, awkward yet protective, as you both tried to carry on with the fragile normalcy of the morning.

You and Egg stood there, quiet for a moment. Your silver hair fell around your face, a bit messy, not properly brushed or styled, giving you a tired, unpolished look. Your shoulders slumped slightly, and your eyes carried a weight that Egg immediately noticed.

He tilted his head, studying you carefully. “Your hair looks different,” he said, his small hands fidgeting at his sides. “And your eyes… they look tired. Are you holding something inside?”

You frowned at him, feeling exposed under his honest gaze, but you said nothing.

You swallowed and nodded faintly. “Maybe,” you admitted softly. The memory of last night pressed on your chest, but Egg’s observation, innocent as it was, made you feel both seen and oddly comforted.

He studied you a moment longer, his gaze earnest and curious, before shifting slightly closer, as if wanting to protect you in his small, boyish way. Even so, the heaviness you carried remained, softened just a little by the care in his attention.

Before Egg could ask a question, a gruff voice cut through the quiet. “You steal that horse?”

You turned to see an old man approaching, moving slowly but with a steady, deliberate gait. His face was lined with age, and a dark eye patch covered one eye, giving him a rough, intimidating presence. He walked toward the both of you, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Egg froze, his small frame stiffening, and you instinctively stepped a little closer to him, shielding him with your presence. The black horse shifted its weight nervously, sensing the tension in the air.

You met the old man’s gaze, trying to keep your expression neutral, while Egg’s wide eyes darted between you and the stranger, silently pleading for a way out of the sudden confrontation.

“Tell the truth, we’ll be fair,” the old man said, his one good eye narrowing as it swept over the two of you. Every line of his weathered face, every scar and wrinkle, seemed to carry the weight of countless battles.

You glanced at Egg. The boy’s small frame trembled slightly, and he fidgeted with his hands, his fingers twisting nervously. “It’s not stealing if you mean to put it back,” he said in a small voice, trying to sound braver than he felt.

The old man’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and calculating, before he suddenly lunged toward Thunder. The black horse stamped and let out a loud, startled neigh. Egg’s eyes widened in panic, but he moved quickly, whispering softly to calm Thunder, his small hands patting the horse’s neck with surprising skill. You raised your eyebrows, impressed at how steady he was, even as the fear lingered in his posture.

The old man’s eye shifted to Egg’s bald head. “What’s wrong with your hair?” he asked, his voice rough like gravel but edged with curiosity.

You interjected sharply, your tone protective. “What’s wrong with your eye?”

The man’s expression darkened instantly. He leaned forward, the shadow of his presence looming over you. “Don’t question me, girl. Ask me again and I might carve out your tongue,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

You held his gaze without flinching. “Are you sure you don’t want to carve out my eye? You look like you need it.”

Egg swallowed hard, his small body stiffening, but a nervous giggle slipped out despite his unease. The knight’s one eye flickered, almost imperceptibly, as though your boldness had caught him off guard.

“Ah… Targaryen, eh?” he muttered, finally looking you over with something between suspicion and recognition. “What are you doing here?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” you replied evenly, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

Egg’s eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. His nervous energy shifted into awe. “You’re Ser Robyn Rhysling,” he whispered, voice trembling slightly. “You’re the maddest knight in the Seven Kingdoms!”

Ser Robyn’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it never reached his piercing eye. “We are a vessel for the warrior,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, heavy with weight. “When it is madness bid, it is madness delivered.”

Egg shifted nervously from foot to foot, his hands fidgeting, glancing between you and the knight as though the air itself had grown heavier. You kept your posture steady, your silver hair falling slightly messy around your face, feeling the intense, almost suffocating gravity in Ser Robyn’s presence. The boy’s anxious energy made the tension all the more tangible, but the faint courage in your chest held firm, a silent shield between Egg and the fearsome knight.

“You’re small for a squire,” the old man said, his patched eye narrowing as he studied Egg.

“I serve Ser Duncan the Tall,” Egg replied quickly, trying to sound confident though his hands fidgeted at his sides.

“He’s large enough for us,” he added, his voice firmer, a spark of stubbornness cutting through his nervousness.

The old man’s brow furrowed. “We’ve not heard of him,” he said, skeptical, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Egg lifted his chin slightly, eyes bright with determination despite the tremor in his voice. “You will,” he said firmly, standing a little straighter, trying to show courage he did not entirely feel.

The old man’s eye narrowed one last time. “We shall see,” he muttered, turning on his heel. His boots crunched against the dirt as he walked away slowly, his shadow stretching long across the ground. The tension in the air eased slightly once he was gone, leaving only the quiet rustle of the morning.

You exhaled and glanced down at Egg. His small shoulders were still tense, and his wide eyes flicked nervously toward the path the man had taken. Without a word, you reached out and gently took his hand.

“Come on,” you said softly, “let’s go find Ser Duncan.”

The fire crackled softly, its warm glow illuminating the small clearing, but Ser Duncan was not cooking. He sat cross-legged on the ground, needle and thread in hand, sewing a patch. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, giving him a stern, almost irritated look.

“Where have you two been?” he asked, his voice low and firm.

“Training,” Egg replied quickly, trying to sound casual, though his hands fidgeted nervously.

Duncan’s gaze shifted to you, sharp and assessing. “Don’t wander off without telling me,” he said, his voice carrying weight that made Egg straighten instinctively.

Egg glanced at you, then back at Duncan. “What are you doing, Ser?” he asked, curiosity overtaking his nervousness.

“Sewing a patch,” Duncan answered shortly, not looking up.

“Is that not my job?” Egg asked, a small frown on his face.

Duncan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know how?” he asked.

Egg looked down, fidgeting with his hands, and said nothing. Duncan returned to his sewing, stitching with steady, precise movements.

“Then quit jawing and get the brushes. Thunder looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge,” Duncan commanded.

Egg opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the brushes, muttering nothing, his small frame tense but obedient.

Duncan finally looked up, his eyes catching yours. The disapproving look on your face did not go unnoticed. He straightened slightly, the sternness in his expression softening, and called out loudly enough for Egg to hear, “Never mind that.”

Egg paused by the brushes, glancing nervously at you and Duncan. He fidgeted with his fingers for a moment, uncertainty written across his small face, before slowly taking a step toward the horse. You and Duncan exchanged a quiet look, the tension of the morning easing just slightly as the two of you watched him, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant crackle of the fire filling the air around you.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that,” Duncan said to Egg, his voice gentle. “Keep it close to the edge as possible, and that’s your whipstitch.”

You watched Duncan patiently guiding Egg’s small hands as he learned to sew a patch. The sight made your chest feel warm, a soft comfort settling over you.

“How’d you get yours so even?” Egg asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Duncan shrugged lightly. “Just… practice. Just try again,” he said, encouragingly.

Egg nodded, taking a deep breath, and tried once more. You noticed how tightly he gripped the needle, how focused he was, and it made you smile quietly.

“There,” Egg said, finally finishing the stitch.

“Yes!” Duncan exclaimed, eyes bright.

You clapped your hands softly, smiling. “Good job, Egg,” you said, the warmth of the moment lingering as the two of them shared the quiet satisfaction of accomplishment.

Egg leaned forward eagerly, holding his patch closer for you to see. “Look! Do you like it?” he asked, his small face beaming with pride.

You crouched slightly to get a better view, examining the tiny, careful stitches. “It’s very good, Egg,” you said softly, smiling at his accomplishment.

Duncan watched the exchange quietly, his two eyes following you, noting the warmth in your expression as you praised the boy. There was a subtle softness in his gaze, the kind that only appeared when he saw care and pride reflected between others. Egg’s hands trembled slightly as he held the patch, but the encouragement in both your voices seemed to steady him.

The three of you stayed like that for a moment, the quiet crackle of the fire nearby filling the space, a gentle calm settling over the morning.

Duncan sighed, setting the patch aside. “It’s time. Fetch my armor,” he said to Egg.

“Now?” Egg asked, glancing nervously between you and Duncan.

“Aye, now,” Duncan replied, standing and stretching briefly.

“Why?” Egg asked, curiosity and hesitation mixing in his tone.

“Because I mean to enter the lists,” Duncan said, a spark of determination in his eyes.

“You don’t have your shield,” you said, frowning slightly.

“I… yeah, we’ll gather it along the way,” Duncan answered, distracted but steady.

You looked at Egg, voice calm but firm. “Also, the right of the first challenge goes to high birth and renown.”

“W-wait… so it means I can’t enter the lists today?” Duncan asked, blinking in mild surprise.

“Not today, Ser, no. Only knights of high birth and renown,” Egg replied quietly, and you nodded.

Duncan looked at Egg, stunned, then let out a low groan. “Then why have I been vomiting all morning?”

“It’s a mystery,” you said, your tone soft but teasing, the tension of the morning finally giving way to a hint of lightness.

Egg shifted nervously, unsure whether to laugh or remain serious, while Duncan shook his head with a faint, rueful smile.

The market was alive with the scents of fresh bread, roasting meat, and the tang of livestock, the shouts of vendors mingling with the chatter of people moving about. You crouched beside a stall with your hood on your head, your fingers brushing against the soft, warm feathers of birds. They chirped and nudged your hands, and you laughed quietly, the sound almost swallowed by the surrounding noise.

Egg wandered nearby, eyes wide as he took in the colorful fabrics, glinting trinkets, and the chaos of the crowded market.

Duncan stood a few paces away, his face tight with concentration and growing frustration as he tried to communicate with a vendor.

“No, no!” he said, waving his hands frantically, eyes wide.

“Uh… um… goose eggs,” he stammered, trying to make his hands look like an egg.

“Just the eggs,” he added, trying again, his tone pleading as though negotiating with a beast rather than a man.

The vendor’s eyes narrowed, and for a tense moment, he raised his butcher’s knife as if demanding explanation. Duncan recoiled slightly, then bent his elbows, flapping his arms wildly in a flustered, almost comical imitation, pointing toward his rear and then downward.

“No, no, no! Uh… shit, um, goose eggs, like—” he continued, his face flushed with embarrassment, words tumbling out in a rush.

You turned to show Duncan, expecting a small smile, maybe even a laugh. But you froze. He was busy with the vendor, finally managing to secure the goose eggs, his posture awkward and flustered as he held them carefully.

You just stared at him, holding the bird close, your face soft with amusement and awe at the tiny creature in your arms.

Duncan noticed your gaze out of the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, cheeks faintly pink, and adjusted the eggs in his hands as if trying to look composed. His eyes flicked toward you for a brief moment, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips, silently acknowledging that he’d been caught off guard by your distraction.

The birds nudged your hands again, chirping softly, and you couldn’t help but grin, the warmth of the moment settling around you despite Duncan’s awkward presence.

“D-Do you like goose eggs?” Duncan asked, his voice hesitant, eyes flicking toward you as he balanced the small bundle in his hands.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yes,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the bird tucked against your chest.

Duncan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave a faint, awkward smile, clearly relieved that you had understood him. The moment hung lightly between you, the chaos of the market fading just enough to leave the two of you in quiet understanding.

“Is that a bird?” Duncan asked, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced at the tiny creature wriggling in your arms.

“Yes, I bought him,” you said softly, cradling it closer. “He looked sad.”

“I’m going to set him free,” you said to Duncan, gently lifting the small bird into your hands. Its tiny wings fluttered nervously, the soft down of its feathers warm beneath your fingers.

Duncan watched quietly, his two eyes calm and steady, curious about what you intended to do.

With a careful motion, you opened your hands, and the bird flapped upward into the sky, wings catching the sunlight as it soared. “Farewell, little bird,” you murmured, watching it disappear among the rooftops and market stalls, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“How about the other birds?” Duncan asked, tilting his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“I bought the whole lot and set them all free,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips as you watched the little bird disappear into the sky. “That one was just shy.”

Duncan let out a low chuckle, his gaze softening as he looked at you, the chaos of the market around you fading into the background. “You always have a way of making even the smallest things feel… important,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You shrugged lightly, still smiling, feeling the warmth of the moment settle around you like a quiet, gentle sunbeam. The bird’s distant chirp floated back from above, a tiny reminder of freedom and the simple joys you seemed to notice that others often overlooked.

ou and Egg stood side by side, watching Duncan carefully cook the beef in the heavy iron pan. The sizzling meat hissed as it hit the hot surface, the rich, savory smell curling into the air and making your stomach rumble. Duncan tilted the pan slightly, letting the juices collect and then sliding the pieces from side to side with precise, practiced motions.

Egg held the egg above the pan, cracking it carefully, and the bright yolk tumbled in with a satisfying splash. Duncan stirred it gently, folding it into the beef until it was fully cooked, the aroma growing even more tempting.

“Here,” Duncan said, handing you the warm bread filled with beef and egg first, his hands steady and careful.

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking it and feeling the comforting weight of the food in your hands, the steam rising and carrying the rich scent of breakfast.

You watched as Egg eagerly bit into his portion, eyes lighting up at the taste. The small crunch of bread and the soft, savory filling made his cheeks puff slightly, and a satisfied hum escaped him. Duncan’s eyes flicked between the two of you, a faint, quiet smile tugging at his lips as he finally took his own, the simple moment feeling warm and calm despite the chaos of the morning.

“This is better than the food in the palace,” you said, taking another bite, savoring the warm, savory flavors.

“How? It’s just egg, beef, and bread,” Duncan asked, raising an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips as you chewed. “It just tastes better… maybe because you made it.”

Duncan’s eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment, and you caught the faintest warmth in his gaze. Egg looked between the two of you, cheeks stuffed with his portion, and let out a muffled, happy hum, clearly enjoying the breakfast as much as you did.

The three of you sat there in quiet contentment, the simple meal carrying a comfort that the palace could never provide, and for a moment, the world outside the small firelit space felt far away.

“The tourney is about to start, let’s eat quickly!” Duncan said, glancing at the sky as he moved a piece of bread aside.

You frowned slightly, setting your half-eaten portion down. “Oh… I have to go back then,” you said, a hint of hesitation in your voice.

“What—why?” Duncan asked, tilting his head, eyes curious.

You chewed the last bite, swallowing carefully before answering. “Well… since I missed the last tourney, I need to be there now,” you said softly, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from your face.

Duncan’s eyes softened, and he leaned just slightly closer. “You don’t have to rush,” he said gently, voice low. “Stay a little longer… we can finish breakfast together, enjoy a few more moments.”

You hesitated, looking at him, the warmth in his gaze unexpectedly making your heart tug. Egg shifted nervously nearby, sensing the quiet intensity, while the fire crackled softly between the three of you.

“I’m sorry, I need to go,” you said, standing up and brushing your dress lightly. “Thank you for breakfast… it was tasty.”

You waved at Egg as you stepped away, his small smile and muffled wave following you.

Duncan watched you leave, his hands loosening at his sides, and let out a quiet sigh. The fire crackled softly behind him, and for a moment, the warmth of the morning felt tinged with something bittersweet, the empty space where you had been lingering in his mind long after you’d gone.

You ran through the winding streets toward the castle, the morning sun glinting off the stone walls. Guards patrolled as usual, but you moved quickly and lightly, slipping past them unnoticed, your silver hair brushing your shoulders as you ducked into shadows when needed.

Once inside, you made your way to your chamber, the familiar scent of polished wood and linens comforting despite the rush. You shut the door quietly behind you and hurried to change, shedding your casual clothes for the proper attire needed for the tourney.

Your hands moved quickly, tying laces and adjusting straps, heart beating fast with a mix of anticipation and the lingering warmth from breakfast with Duncan and Egg. Each movement was precise, but there was a nervous flutter in your chest—you were almost ready, almost prepared to step back into the arena you had missed before.

The maids arrived right on time, bustling into your chamber with their usual efficiency, unaware that you had slipped in unnoticed from the castle gates.

“Good morning, Princess,” one of them said softly.

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing as they moved to help you. Hands gentle and practiced, they worked on your dress, straightening the folds and smoothing the fabric until it fell perfectly. Another maid began braiding portions of your silver hair, weaving small sections carefully while leaving the rest slightly messy but graceful, giving you an elegant, natural look.

Finally, one of the maids placed a small, delicate headpiece atop your hair. It was simple, yet refined, resting just above your forehead and catching the light subtly, framing your face without drawing too much attention. You stood patiently, feeling the familiar comfort of routine, though your mind buzzed with the morning’s events—the market, the baby bird, Duncan, and Egg. Each braid and the placement of the headpiece made you feel a little more yourself, ready to face the tourney with quiet determination.

“I have a question,” you said, turning toward the maids as they adjusted your dress.

“Yes, Princess?” one asked, tilting her head with a gentle smile.

“What does… love feel like?” you asked, voice quiet and curious.

The maids exchanged glances, trying to suppress small giggles. “Did someone catch your interest, my lady?” one asked, teasing but soft.

You hesitated, cheeks warming slightly. “Mayhaps,” you admitted, brushing a stray strand of silver hair behind your ear.

“Well,” the maid began, smiling warmly, “love feels like a warmth in your chest that you cannot hide, even if you try. It makes your heart beat faster when they are near, and the smallest smile or word from them can make your whole day brighter. It is worry, too—when you hope they are safe, when you wish to be near them, and even a simple glance can mean the world.”

You listened carefully, eyes softening, letting her words sink in. It was strange to hear it described, yet somehow familiar in feeling. Your fingers twitched over your braid, your thoughts drifting to Duncan and the quiet moments that had stayed in your mind since the morning.

The maid gave a little smile. “It is beautiful, and it can be frightening all at once. But most of all… it is worth every fleeting moment.”

You nodded slowly, a quiet flutter in your chest, understanding a little more of the feeling you had tried to name.

Did you love Duncan? The thought came unbidden, twisting quietly in your chest.

You had protected him from Valarr, felt the sharp rush of fear and relief when he was safe. He made you laugh in small, unexpected ways. He made your chest flutter when he looked at you, steady and calm, even in moments of chaos. He was patient, gentle, and there were times when just being near him felt… right.

Do you love him? The question lingered, heavy and bright all at once. You weren’t sure you could answer it yet, not fully. But the thought refused to leave, echoing softly in your mind as you finished adjusting the small headpiece in your hair.

Your gaze fell to the mirror, eyes meeting your own reflection. There was a warmth there, a quiet pull toward someone who had become more than just a knight, more than just a companion.

Yes… Maybe you did.

The maids moved gracefully around you, setting down small boxes and trays filled with delicate jewelry. One lifted a thin silver chain, fastening it carefully around your neck so it rested lightly against your collarbone. Another adjusted a pair of simple earrings, letting them dangle just enough to catch the light without being flashy.

They worked in quiet harmony, braiding a few more strands of your silver hair to frame your face while slipping tiny jeweled pins into the braids. Each piece felt weightless yet purposeful, enhancing the elegance of your attire without drawing too much attention.

You stood patiently, watching their hands move with practiced ease, feeling the warmth of their attention and care. Even as your thoughts drifted to Duncan and the flutter in your chest, the simple act of being dressed and adorned grounded you, giving a quiet confidence as you prepared to face the tourney.

Finally, they stepped back, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “You are ready, Princess,” one said softly, her voice tinged with pride.

You nodded, taking a deep breath, feeling both anticipation and the faint thrill of the morning’s gentle preparations settling around you like a cloak.

You took a final glance in the mirror, the small headpiece and jewelry catching the morning light, your silver hair braided in soft sections but still carrying a hint of messiness that made it feel like you. You straightened your shoulders, taking a deep breath as the quiet excitement and nervous flutter in your chest mingled.

Stepping out of your chamber, the castle corridors stretched before you, sunlight streaming through the high windows. The sounds of preparation for the tourney echoed faintly—shouts, clanging of armor, the distant neighing of horses—but for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just you and the path ahead.

You moved swiftly, yet quietly, passing guards who barely glanced at you, your silver hair and calm composure carrying an air of understated command. Each step brought you closer to the courtyard where the lists were set, where the banners of high-born knights fluttered in the wind.

As you approached, your heart beat a little faster—not from exertion, but from anticipation, the weight of your preparation, and the quiet, undeniable thought of Duncan waiting somewhere nearby.

You settled into the royal box, the chair slightly stiff beneath you but offering a clear view of the lists below. The morning sun glinted off the banners fluttering in the courtyard, the colors bright and alive.

Baelor and Maekar were already there, their expressions calm yet expectant, watching the assembled knights and squires prepare for the tourney. You noted the way Maekar’s fingers drummed lightly on the armrest, a subtle sign of anticipation, while Baelor’s eyes scanned the lists with quiet precision.

Prince Arvrys, however, was absent—likely still searching for Egg and Daeron, lost somewhere among the crowds or in the stables. The thought brought a small, private smile to your lips, imagining him fussing over his charges while you waited in the cool shade of the box.

You adjusted slightly in your seat, your silver hair brushing over your shoulders, the small headpiece glinting faintly in the sunlight. Your fingers flexed over the edge of the chair, a mix of nerves and excitement building quietly in your chest.

The murmur of the crowd rose faintly from below, the distant neighing of horses and clatter of armor blending into a symphony of anticipation. You took a deep breath, your gaze sweeping across the lists, thinking of Duncan somewhere down there, and the flutter in your chest grew just a little stronger.

Baelor’s gaze landed on you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful, niece,” he said warmly.

You did not reply, eyes drifting over the crowd below the royal box. You scanned the faces of knights, squires, and spectators alike, searching for Duncan among them.

There he was, standing slightly apart, observing the tourney quietly. His dark cloak caught the light, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of him. He didn’t notice you at first, absorbed in the scene, but the sight of him made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

Baelor noticed your intent stare but said nothing, letting you watch, the excitement and nerves of the tourney below mingling with the flutter of your thoughts above.

Maekar glanced at you, his brow slightly furrowed. “Where were you last night?” he asked, voice calm but curious.

You turned your gaze away from Duncan, keeping your expression neutral. “I was not feeling well,” you said, unbothered, letting your eyes sweep the crowd below once more.

That’s when you noticed him—Duncan. His dark cloak stood out among the spectators, and his eyes had found yours. A soft, almost shy wave reached up toward you.

You returned it with a small nod and a gentle smile, your chest tightening just a little at the quiet acknowledgment. Even from afar, that simple gesture made the morning feel warmer, the anticipation of the tourney below fading for a moment as your thoughts lingered on him.

The trumpet blared, echoing through the courtyard and drawing every eye to the lists below.

“Son of Arvrys, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame!” the announcer’s voice rang out.

You looked down and saw your cousin, mounted on his horse, armor gleaming in the sunlight. He sat tall and proud in the saddle, the movements of the horse smooth and commanding beneath him.

You frowned, a mix of irritation and unease tightening in your chest. The crowd cheered enthusiastically, clapping and shouting, their excitement filling the air. Your gaze flicked toward Duncan, who stood quietly in the crowd, watching intently, his expression calm yet alert.

Aerion spurred his horse forward, bringing it to a proud halt directly in front of the royal box, just below where you sat. He lifted his helm, letting the sunlight glint off the polished metal, and smirked at you.

“Cousin, I was hoping to ask for your favor,” he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard. The crowd murmured and leaned forward, watching intently.

You cast a quick glance at your father seated beside you. His stern gaze met yours, and you felt the weight of expectation settle on your shoulders. You sighed softly, realizing he would not approve of any delay or hesitation.

Your eyes swept the royal box, searching for something suitable. They landed on the silver bracelet around your wrist. With a careful movement, you removed it, holding it out toward him.

“Here you are, Aerion,” you said, your voice steady despite the tension.

He reached up, taking the bracelet with a flourish, his smirk widening. The crowd’s attention seemed to grow, some whispering, some nodding in approval at the exchange. You returned your gaze to him, a quiet unease mixed with resignation stirring in your chest as the moment passed.

Aerion smirked as he tucked the bracelet into a pocket of his gleaming armor, the metal catching the sunlight.

“Hyah!” he shouted, dropping his helm back into place. The horse beneath him reared slightly before galloping forward, hooves pounding the courtyard stones with a rhythmic clatter.

You watched, heart tightening, as he rode with confident, practiced ease, weaving through the lists with a display meant to impress both the crowd and the nobles watching from above. The sunlight glinted off his armor with every turn and charge, and your fingers twitched slightly, still recalling the weight of the bracelet in your hand.

Aerion rode swiftly toward Valarr, who immediately stood, his armor glinting in the sunlight. His eyes found yours for a brief moment, and you remembered the events of the night before. Your gaze fell to your hands, twisting them together as guilt and unease clawed at your chest.

Aerion lifted his helm, letting the sun catch the edges of his features. “Cousin,” he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard.

The crowd went silent, all eyes drawn to him, waiting. Aerion’s smirk widened. “Not to worry,” he said, teasing yet confident, “I won’t embarrass you today.”

He guided his horse toward the tent beside Valarr. “Come out, come out, little knight!” he shouted. Then, his voice rang clear and commanding: “It’s time you face the dragon!”

With that, he leaned forward, putting his helm back in place, and thrust his hips to urge the horse into motion. The crowd erupted in cheers as hooves thundered across the stones, the tension of the moment gripping everyone present.

Aerion guided his horse back to his side of the lists, the animal’s hooves striking firmly against the ground as it came to a controlled halt. He adjusted his grip on the reins, sitting tall in the saddle, every movement precise and confident.

Across from him, the opposing knight rode to the other end, taking his place. The distance between them stretched long and tense, the barrier dividing the lists standing like a silent line between challenge and consequence.

For a brief moment, everything stilled. The crowd quieted, the earlier cheers fading into a heavy anticipation. Even the banners seemed to pause in their movement, caught in the breath before action.

Your fingers tightened slightly against the armrest as you watched, your gaze flicking between the two riders.

The opposing knight spurred his horse forward, lance leveled, charging straight at Aerion. Aerion met him head-on, sitting tall in the saddle, his own lance aimed with deadly precision. The crowd held its breath as the two collided across the lists, hooves pounding the stone, dust kicking up around them.

As they neared, Aerion shifted his body with almost casual grace, dodging the knight’s strike. Murmurs ran through the crowd, some turning into boos. You exhaled sharply, confusion knotting your stomach. What was he doing? What was he planning?

They charged again, faster this time, the wind whipping past your face as hooves thundered closer. Aerion lowered his lance deliberately, his movements calculated. You raised an eyebrow, unease prickling your skin, a sinking feeling in your gut.

Then it hit you.

With shocking precision, Aerion jabbed his lance into the horse’s neck. The animal cried out in a high, raw wail, stumbling and collapsing to the stones. The knight was thrown violently to the ground and a sickening snap echoed as his leg broke under the fall.

You froze, your stomach twisting. The horse struggled, whimpering and shivering as it hit the ground, pain radiating in every movement. Aerion lifted his helm slowly, the sunlight glinting off the polished metal, and smirked, eyes locking on yours.

Disgust and disbelief churned inside you. You shook your head, turning away, unwilling to witness his expression, unwilling to meet his eyes. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of shouts. Some were horrified. Some cheered the shocking cruelty. All the noise barely registered. All you could feel was the sharp knot of revulsion and dread pressing against your chest.

You sighed, the sound quiet but heavy, and pushed yourself up from your chair. The polished wood felt cold under your fingers as you stood, every eye in the royal box seeming to press on you for a moment.

Without another glance at the lists or the cheering crowd, you turned and made your way toward the exit. Your steps were measured, but your heart raced, the tight knot of disgust and unease still coiling in your chest. The sunlight from the open windows caught the edges of your silver hair, now slightly tousled, giving it a soft glow as you passed.

The noise of the crowd faded behind you with each step, leaving only the echo of hooves and shouting in your mind. You reached the doorway and slipped out of the royal box, seeking space to breathe and distance from the sight that had left your stomach turning.

Once you were out of the royal box, you leaned against the cool stone wall of the corridor, closing your eyes. Your hands trembled slightly as you pressed them to your chest, trying to slow your racing heartbeat. You drew in a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus on the steady rhythm of it, letting the echoes of hooves and cheers fade into the background.

You thought of the morning with Duncan, the calm way he had cooked breakfast, the small moments of warmth and care. You pictured his steady gaze in the crowd, the soft wave he had given you. A quiet tension eased slightly in your chest as you clung to that image, willing yourself to let the anger and disgust melt just enough to breathe again.

Your fingers unconsciously smoothed over your silver hair, trying to tame the slight mess from earlier.

The noise of the lists continued far below, but here in the corridor, it felt distant, almost unreal. You allowed yourself one more slow breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly. For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet stone walls and the steady rise and fall of your own chest.

When you finally opened your eyes, you straightened your shoulders, forcing calm onto your features. The knot of disgust and unease was still there, but it had loosened enough for you to take a step forward, ready to return to the palace proper and leave the chaos of the lists behind.

The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and empty, offering you a brief sanctuary. You let yourself move forward, one careful step at a time, the distant shouts of the crowd fading into a dull murmur. For now, you were alone with your thoughts, and that was enough.

I had to cut this chapter short because if I continued it this series would probably be until 14-19 chapters...

I hope you liked this chapter. Comment down your thoughts!