Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

“The matriarch and her pup are dealt with. The stronghold is ours for the taking. Win this for us and you shall bear my name and a marriage worthy of it. – R.B.”

Ramsay cast his eye over the missive a second time, the dull grey light of dawn providing just enough light to read by in the gloom of his bedchamber, and he smirked to himself.

So, the plan his father had hatched with the Freys had worked — Robb Stark was dead, and his mother, Catelyn, along with him. It had been two years since the Baratheon host had departed the Dreadfort alongside the Starks for King’s Landing. King Robert had died since then and a war had broken out regarding his succession amid claims that the children he shared with Cersei Lannister were illegitimate. Ramsay cared little for the politics of the south, it didn’t interest him in the least, yet the cryptic promise within Roose’s message was too good to ignore. He would seize the seat of the North — Winterfell — for his father, and alongside it finally be granted the privilege of his house name, to be recognised as the lord he’d always known he was. To gather up the able bodied men that remained here, and rally a host to travel hundreds of miles north was a considerable effort, but for Ramsay it was worth it; not just for the stronghold itself, but rather who resided within its walls — Kyra. He would never be allowed to marry her once her held the title of Lord Bolton, of course, but the paramour of Lord of the North was nothing to be sniffed at, and he’d ensure it was a position she’d be grateful of; every beast will settle for table scraps if you starved it long enough. She would bend to his will, he’d make sure of it.

He had not seen or heard from her since she had betrayed and deserted him two years previous, despite the farewell gift he had sent her; he still remembered how stoic her father had remained right until the end, barely even wincing as Ramsay’s falchion had carved into his chest. It was almost admirable, and in that moment he became aware of where Kyra had inherited her strength of character from. Despite her absence, his sense of ownership over her had never faltered. It had crossed his mind more times than he could count to make the journey to Winterfell and simply seize her back, however, since his father had gone south he had been left in charge of the Dreadfort, and could not simply abandon his post. Now he was being given leave to pursue her, and his blood felt like it burned with the force of the pull he felt towards her. A part of him wanted to wrap his hands around her scrawny neck and make her plead of his forgiveness for her ingratitude and treachery, yet at the same time, buried deep, he knew that if she cast even the softest of glances his way he would call her to his bed without hesitation and make her repent in ways far more primal in their familiarity. He shivered at the thought, curling the parchment in his fist.

Glancing over at the sleeping form of the naked woman next to him, her dark hair spread across the pillows as she slept with her back to him, Ramsay sighed. For a moment he considered simply smothering her so as not to have to deal with the fuss she’d make at being left behind — Myranda’s fits of jealousy and neediness for his attention bored him. Her only saving grace was that she seemed to actively take enjoyment in spectating, and even participating in, his hunts of women through the woods. Her possessiveness of him was often a contributing factor in the choice of women that found themselves fleeing from the hounds. Life would be easier if he was rid of her, but then he was struck by an idea — perhaps Kyra would be easier to coax back to his side if she believed he had easily replaced her, maybe there was some small part of her that cared enough for him still to be stirred by envy. Myranda’s likeness to her had been the reason he had first invited her into his bed; she was slender, pale skinned, with long, dark hair, yet her eyes were hazel where Kyra’s were blue, her features soft and rounded where Kyra’s were chiselled and sharp. That was why he held her face down each time he fucked her — pressed into the pillows, he could imagine she was Kyra as he sank inside of her, though she didn’t really feel the same; she was too eager, too pliant, she didn’t fight back.

“Get up!” he snapped, shoving roughly at her shoulder, “We’ve a journey to prepare for.”

Kyra’s thumb pushed against the flat of the blade, curving the knife carefully, and watching as the skin came away from the potato she peeled. The pile of spuds upon the work bench was smaller than she was accustomed to preparing — there were less people to cook for now; the thought made her throat feel tight. Her gaze lifted as a dark presence filled the doorway to the scullery, and she tutted as she watched Rickon hover hesitantly with his large black direwolf, Shaggydog — almost twice his height — looming at his side.

“You know he’s not allowed in the kitchens,” she sighed, setting both the knife and half peeled potato down, and wiping her hands upon her apron, “not even Dog comes back here.”

“That was a rule that Mother made. She’s gone now,” Rickon said quietly.

Kyra felt a tight squeeze in her chest, and her expression softened instantly at the sad listlessness in the boy’s tone. He looked so much like Catelyn — all wide, blue eyes and fiery curls — his presence made it hard to believe that she had really died, for here was living proof of her. “That doesn’t mean we don’t respect her rules,” she reminded gently.

Rickon looked thoughtful for a moment, and he reached up, absentmindedly ruffling the wolf’s ear, as if the gentle gesture helped him to gather his thoughts. “Bran says Mother was killed,” he finally said, “what will happen to us?”

Kyra pressed her lips into a tight line. She would have to speak to Old Nan, let her know that Bran was to be reminded that there were certain things that Rickon was still too young to understand, and so they shouldn’t be spoken of to him until he was. But that was too late for this particular topic. She rounded the table, stepping towards the little Stark lord and his wolf, and crouched before them both.

“Nothing will happen to you so long as I’m around,” she reassured him, reaching out to take his tiny hand in hers, “and you’ve got Maester Llewyn, Hodor, and Osha, and Theon is keeping us all safe too. Okay?”

Rickon gave a small nod and Kyra found herself smiling at the sweetness of it. “There’s a good lad,” she told him, “it’s mutton stew tonight. Keep that wolf of yours out of the scullery and he can share the bones with Dog. Alright?”

Smiling back at her, Rickon patted his thigh, “come, Shaggydog!” he called as he scurried away, the direwolf at his heels.

“You spoil the lad, you’ll make him soft.”

Kyra peered over her shoulder, standing as she watched Theon enter through the back entrance to the scullery. She sighed, resuming her peeling of the potatoes for supper. “He’s just lost his mother. A firm hand won’t make that loss easier for him.”

Theon’s arms encircled her waist from behind, pulling her back flush against his chest. Kyra stiffened. They had first fallen into bed together three months into her arrival at Winterfell, but it was no more than that; they didn’t love one another — Theon laid with her because he had already had every woman who would welcome him into their bed, and Kyra was convenient. Kyra bedded Theon because he served as a distraction to how lost she felt having moved to Winterfell amidst the grief of losing her father. Over time, they just became a habit to one another. Though Kyra felt sickened to her stomach whenever Ramsay entered her thoughts — she had sobbed in the back of the cart for three days when he had sent her her father’s heart — it was impossible not to compare Theon to him, especially as Ramsay was the only other man she had ever been with. Theon was wiry and cocksure, where Ramsay was solid and intense. Theon bedded her for the pure hedonistic joy of it, showing enthusiasm in a way that was not unlike Dog chasing deer through the Wolfswood; she never felt owned, consumed, utterly possessed in the way she had when Ramsay was between her thighs. There was a part of her that hated herself for looking back at that time in her life with any semblance of fondness, but also a part of her that hated Theon for not fulfilling the raw primal need that roared to life within her whenever she was aroused.

“You know, none of this would ever have happened if Robb had just taken me south with him,” Theon complained, the stubble of his jaw grazed against Kyra’s neck as he spoke. “The Freys would have been long dead before they even thought to lay a finger upon him or Lady Catelyn. Fancies himself king in the north, but then leaves a skilled fighter of the Iron Islands behind to play nursemaid to his baby brothers.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “And what would you have had him do instead?”

Theon nipped at Kyra’s earlobe, groping her breast through the wool of her dress. “He could have sent me home, let me return with an army of Ironborn to fight for his cause.”

“And leave Winterfell defenceless?” She challenged him.

He scoffed, pulling abruptly away from her. “What would you know? You’re just a scullery maid.”

Kyra’s jaw clenched, not turning to look as she listened to Theon stomp away from her, then returned her attention to the potatoes once more.

Cold air curled around the damp hair at the nape of Ramsay’s neck, freezing it in tendrils that clung to his skin uncomfortably. He had sweated in the thick furs he had cloaked himself in when he had mounted his stallion, Blood, but had been glad of them as he and the fifty men he had gathered from the Dreadfort had journeyed north with all of the horses and hounds that remained — he had driven them hard, only allowing the briefest of rests at the roadside when both men and horses were too tired to continue. They stopped only in daylight, travelling by night, and now the walls of Winterfell were in sight. His breath puffed out in a thick cloud in front of him as his gloved hands tightened on the reins, taking in the fortress before him. Inky blackness blanketed the sky above, a sliver of silver moon visible through wisps of murky clouds. The army he had gathered would not be enough to seize the castle ordinarily, however, that was before the Starks had taken every able bodied fighter south. Robb had foolishly believed the loyalty of Northerners would keep Winterfell safe, but that same naivety was the reason he no longer drew breath. Only feeble men, women and children resided here now, he would simply march his men through the gates and claim it as his own — the entire castle would be abed, it would be effortless. Theon was Ramsay’s only true opposition, and though he knew little of the Stark’s Greyjoy ward, he knew most men were not foolish enough to not yield when half a score of swords were drawn upon them. The lack of a challenge was enough to almost bore Ramsay, but he would find ways to entertain himself, he was sure of that.

“Tonight you shall fuck me in Lord and Lady Stark’s bed,” came the soft lilt of Myranda’s voice, as she drew her mare alongside him, a smug smile upon her face.

A muscle in Ramsay’s jaw ticked in annoyance as he glanced sideways at her, ignoring her remark as he urged Blood forward, and commanded his men, “break open the gates!’

There was no one manning the watchtowers — they either believed themselves safe enough to leave them empty, or those that were stationed there had spotted Ramsay’s advance and gone to warn those inside. When the gates were broken from their hinges, he rode through, the remainder of his men at his back, and pulled to a stop in the centre of the courtyard. The air was thick with anticipation, his army awaiting their next command, but Ramsay remained silent, surveying the stronghold around him — the high towers and peaked roofs of the sprawling expanse of the castle. Yes, this would suit him just fine — he would gladly be Lord of Winterfell.

“I take Winterfell in the name of House Bolton,” he called out, loud enough — he hoped — to wake those that remained asleep, “bring me the remaining Stark boys and Theon Greyjoy!”

Swinging down from his horse, he ordered twenty of his men to enter the castle and drag out all who were inside. “It is time they met their new lord and master,” he uttered. 

Ramsay prowled like a caged beast as he waited, his fingers flexing with impatience around the hilt of the falchion at his hip as men and women, still disheveled from sleep, were marched outside. He paused as a tall, slender figure was hauled between two men before him, and dropped unceremoniously to his knees. 

Ramsay drew his blade, placing the tip of it beneath the man’s chin and lifted until his gaze met his own. He was chiseled, handsome by conventional standards, yet the fear in his large, dark eyes was unmistakable. “Theon Greyjoy, I presume?” he drawled.

Theon swallowed thickly, nodding as much as the blade pressed against his flesh would allow. “Y–yes. Winterfell is yours, we offer no resistance.”

Looking around at the varying degrees of horror, disgust and betrayal dawning upon the faces of those who had been hauled from their beds, Ramsay grinned, teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight. He had not expected the Greyjoy whelp to cede so easily to him, and apparently neither had the people left in his charge. It was a pity, he thought, he would have enjoyed breaking him down into submission, and had been robbed of the chance. He would need to find other ways to entertain himself at Theon’s expense. For now, the sense of fear and unease that hung viscous in the air was far more satisfying than any fanfare or half-hearted resistance. 

“Very good,” he smiled, sheathing his falchion as he stared down at Theon, watching him visibly sag with relief, “now, I believe you have Starklings in your care.”

“Their beds are empty,” said one of the Bolton men, “and their direwolves are gone.”

Ramsay’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly wide with sudden fury. “What?! Isn’t one of them a cripple? How far could the boy have crawled?”

His gaze swept over the inhabitants of Winterfell, freezing as it settled upon the last person to be dragged outside — Kyra. Her eyes went wide as she looked upon him, and Ramsay held her stare, mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. 

There she was. 

His attention was pulled away at the sound of a click beside him, and he turned to watch Myranda shouldering her crossbow and taking aim — straight at Kyra’s head.

“Don’t,” he commanded, grasping the tiler and tugging it from her hands.

Myranda pouted, scowling at him sulkily, but he ignored her. Instead, he took aim at an elderly, grey haired man clad in robes — his chain indicated he was the castle’s maester. He collapsed to the ground with a clipped groan as Ramsay fired a bolt into his back — straight through his heart.

Screams and cries of terror broke out among those gathered, and Ramsay raised his voice to be heard above them. “I shall flay this man and hang him from the castle walls — a warning for those of you who think to flee or disobey,” he then turned his attention back to Theon, who still knelt before him, head bowed, “and the same fate will await you if you do not track those Stark pups down and return them to me.”

Kyra had never seen the tower cells of Winterfell before, she’d never had a reason to. When she had arrived almost two years ago, she had been welcomed into the household staff and put to work in the kitchens — she’d worked hard, and always had a warm bed to sleep in. She had never imagined her first sighting of one of these cramped spaces would be when she was locked into one, but now she was, and she had lost all sense of how much time had passed.

She had been startled awake by shouts of “Bolton men at the gates!” and her heart had lurched, her blood freezing in her veins, before she recovered her senses and scrambled from her bed. She had gathered Hodor and Osha, urging them to take Bran, Rickon and their direwolves, and flee through the tunnels beneath the keep. She knew what — who — would be coming for them, and the safest place for them was as far from Winterfell as they could be taken. She had had half a mind to go with them, but she knew Ramsay’s ire would be twice as vicious if she was absent too, and so she had stayed; her running away had cost one life already, she did not want anyone else to suffer on her account. She allowed herself to be discovered once she had pushed a cabinet in front of the door through which the boys and their guardians had left, and she had been dragged outside, barefoot and shivering.

Kyra had swallowed down bile, hot and acidic, as she had locked eyes with Ramsay across the courtyard. The moonlight glinted off of the blooddrop shaped ruby that hung from his earlobe — the one she had pierced for him all those years ago. His eyes were filled with malice as he stared her down, suppressing a smile. She wanted to hate Theon for how easily he had surrendered, but in her heart she knew he had done the only sensible thing he could have — to resist would have meant certain death. The trouble was that there was no sense when it came to Ramsay Snow, Theon hadn’t saved his or anyone else’s life, he had simply delayed the inevitable, and that had been proven when Ramsay had slain Maester Llewyn without hesitation. Kyra’s knees had felt like they would buckle beneath her as she swallowed down a scream.

Theon had been sent from Winterfell with two of Ramsay’s men to seek out Bran and Rickon. Kyra prayed silently that he wouldn’t return, or if he did that it would be empty handed.

“Will you bow to your new lord?” Ramsay had murmured later, once he had her alone, twisting a lock of her dark hair around his fingers in a sickening mock gesture of affection.

“I’d rather die,” she had spat.

He’d laughed. “That can certainly be arranged.”

The cell was clean — the Starks did not make a habit of locking up prisoners, and those that were incarcerated were not made to live in filth, she was grateful for that much. She had half expected to be forgotten about, that she would be left to starve, and that the high, grey stone walls of this place would become her tomb, but she was wrong. Though it was cold and uncomfortable — she had not been allowed to change out of her nightgown since the Bolton army had invaded, and had only a scratchy wool blanket to protect herself against the icy winds that blew through the barred window, and a hard wooden bench to sleep upon — she was brought a meal each day, that Ramsay delivered personally.

He would unlock the cell door, hand her a plate, and sit with her until she was finished. These daily visits were tense and uncomfortable. Kyra longed to lunge at her captor, to tear his throat out, and she knew he suspected as much — she was never given any cutlery to eat with, having to make do with her fingers. She noticed a pattern as food was brought each day — goose, grouse, rabbit — all things that Ramsay had given her or that she had eaten with him during their time together at the Dreadfort. It was a twisted play upon nostalgia, intended to warm her feelings towards him. She would have thrown it back in his face if her stomach wasn’t growling with hunger by the time he attended to her each day, so instead she tore into the meat with enthusiasm which bordered upon feral, turning away so she did not have to watch the pleased look upon Ramsay’s face as he observed her.

“You know, I will set you free,” Ramsay said softly as she gnawed upon the greasy flesh of a rabbit leg, the meat gamey upon her tongue, barely enough to sate her hunger, “all you have to do is say you’re sorry, that you’re mine.”

Kyra ignored him, hunched over, shoulders pulled up toward her ears, and he sighed, clearly growing impatient.

“I am being very forgiving, considering your betrayal,” he continued, voice tight with restraint, “I will allow you the warmth of my bed, after you have bathed, of course — you stink. Wouldn’t you like a nice, warm bath?”

“You killed my father,” Kyra replied flatly, letting the bone clatter to the plate.

“Are you really still upset about that?” he scoffed, “He was dying anyway, it was a kindness.”

Tears of rage pricked at the corners of Kyra’s eyes and she sniffed, finally turning enough to meet Ramsay’s gaze. “Then kill me too”

Ramsay drew back slightly, brow furrowing. “And where is the fun in that? I’ve been good to you — kept you fed, kept a roof over your head, that’s all I’ve ever done for you, and you repay me with such ingratitude. You ought to consider yourself lucky.”

Lucky. 

Kyra hiccuped around a sob. She could almost have laughed at the preposterousness of his words. “Is Dog still alive?” she whispered.

“Of course he is. I gifted him to you, did I not? He is safe in the kennels with the other hounds. I would not snuff out such precious memories between you and I. Surely that alone would tempt you back to my side?”

Kyra sagged back against the wall, hair hanging limp and oily in front of her eyes, feeling a weight of hopelessness settle over her. When she said nothing, Ramsay stood, taking her plate.

“It seems you need more time to consider my generous offer. Don’t take too long, even the depths of my kindness has its limits”

Kyra closed her eyes, inhaling shakily as she listened to the key turn in the lock. She wondered when Ramsay would tire of this game, and for how much longer she would draw breath once he did.

She awoke a few hours later, the sky outside the bars of the window was pitch black. The only light cast into the cell came from the brazier burning on the wall outside. She turned her head, blinking in surprise when she noticed the woman stood on the other side, hands wrapped around the bars as she watched her intently. She recognised her — she was the woman who had stood beside Ramsay, wielding a crossbow, when he had seized Winterfell.

“What’s so special about you?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet, yet laced with bitterness.

“What?” Kyra asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“You left him, you didn’t want him, and yet still he keeps you alive. Why?!”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and it was then that Kyra realised — she was jealous. This foolish woman was in love with Ramsay, and viewed Kyra as a threat.

“He can’t love you back,” Kyra said as kindly as she could, “but that doesn’t mean he loves me either. You’d be safer if—”

“I should kill you myself!” the woman raged, cutting her off, knuckles whitening as her grip tightened around the bars.

“Then why don’t you?” Kyra challenged, holding her gaze.

She watched her pretty features twist petulantly, jaw clenched in anger. She didn’t have a key to the cell, couldn’t get at Kyra. Ramsay knew exactly what she intended if he allowed her access, and so he kept it from her. Kyra would have pitied her if she had space within her own despair for it — foolish girl, attempting to earn the affection of a wild animal and deflecting blame elsewhere each time she’s bitten. Kyra turned away from her, curling up on her side and closing her eyes once more.

When Ramsay came to her cell the following day, he was empty handed — no plate of food to offer her. He unlocked the cell and extended a hand to her, a silent invitation for her to take it. He was smiling wildly, it opened a pit in the depths of Kyra’s stomach.

“Lord Greyjoy has returned. Come and see.”

Ramsay hauled Kyra by her arm from the cell and down the winding staircase into the courtyard. Theon turned as she was dragged forth, then averted his gaze abruptly as he caught sight of her. The fleshless corpse of Maester Llewyn hung by its feet from the walls, already pecked at by crows. She’d have vomited if she had anything in her stomach to bring up. But it was not that that Ramsay wanted her to look upon.

“Behold what remains of the Stark pups!” Ramsay declared.

The two small figures being hauled up by ropes against the wall were charred and blackened beyond recognition, what little remained that wasn’t burned glistened pinkly in the dull grey afternoon light. Kyra’s breath caught, her chest feeling suddenly tight, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She wrenched away from Ramsay’s grasp, rounding on Theon, her voice a hoarse shriek.

“What did you do?! What did you do?!”

For as long as he could recall, he had sought the comfort of grass and stone and earth, never the shifting sands of the shore nor the bottomless waters beyond it. In truth, the waves frightened him in ways he could never describe, and the smells of salt and rot often made him ill. Yet here he was, standing by the railing of the Star Spray as it ploughed its way towards the Sea of Dorne, staring out into a world that was as vast as it was grey. He kept clutching his stomach, bearing his discomfort with as much silent dignity as he could muster. A knight, even one of the hedge, had his pride. And Dunk was no longer a mere hedge knight. He was a prince’s sworn man—the captain of his household guard, no less—and he held onto his pride fiercely even as he battled the urge to bring up his last meal. He had no desire to disgrace himself in the presence of others.

Until Dorne, Dunk thought miserably. I must endure this ordeal until Dorne and then back again.  

The knight was on his way to Sunspear. Once, he would have deemed such a journey impossible—the stuff those without coin amused themselves with only in dreams. Now he stood waist-high in the thick of it all, guarding the Crown Prince while the royal heir attended the wedding of a Martell cousin who was a particular favourite of both the prince and his younger brother, the Prince of Summerhall. So much of the journey was wholly new to Dunk. Ser Arlan never took him deep into the Dornish Marches—not even when their need for stars and stags was most dire—and Dorne itself seemed like a land of many fables to Dunk’s mind. But the seas along the way… they constantly churned from the hour they departed King’s Landing, and the skies always seemed determined to spit icy rain.

At least the rain had ceased tormenting them for now, which was a small mercy in itself. For more days and nights than Dunk cared to count, wind and water lashed at the ship relentlessly, making it toss and heave as it made its way from the capital to Tarth and Storm’s End and beyond. The air had taken on an uncommon chill that seemed to seep into a man’s bones. Dunk had to seek sanctuary in his chamber below decks by then, so unwilling was he to bear the wet and the cold. It had been warmer in the rooms below, and he had stayed dry. He had not wanted for company either. The other knights in the Crown Prince’s company had proved themselves more than equal to the task. They shared their meat and mead, and regaled him with their tales, fantastical as some of them sounded. And none of them thought to make light of his struggles with the ship or the journey. They never sought to make him feel inferior because of it.

“A true knight never belittles the ills of another,” Ser Arlan had once said. Dunk always held fast to those words; yet he suspected the knights on board did so more out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne than out of any knightly courtesy. Still, he returned the gesture in the same manner he received it—freely, and with an open heart. It was the only way he knew how.

“Is the sea still a heartless mistress to you, Ser Duncan?”

The voice that came from behind him was soft, measured, and patient. It brought a flush that spread from Dunk’s cheeks down to his chest.

“She certainly is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, his gaze fixed intently on the horizon. He could not let Prince Baelor see him blushing like a maiden on her wedding night. His answer, if pressed, would only humiliate and endanger them both. “But I am master of myself. I will yet prevail.”

Prince Baelor drifted to his side. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said, resting his hands on the rail. His fingers were almost close enough to brush against Dunk’s. “Pray do not give way to shame, Ser Duncan. The sea is unforgiving to many; prince and pauper alike.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Dunk returned. He mastered himself in the end, though not over the cause the prince spoke of.

For nigh on half a year, mayhap longer, Dunk had silently ached for the prince, won over by his humility and his willingness to treat Dunk with the same kindness and dignity as he would any highborn lord. That Dunk could not give voice to what he yearned for tormented him; Prince Baelor was a man long wedded and widowed, with sons already grown. He would never look upon a lowborn knight—a man, no less—with tender affection or favour. His faith and inclinations would not allow it. So Dunk bore it without counsel from others—and prayed it would not destroy him one day.

He dared to look at Prince Baelor then. The prince remained by his side, his mismatched eyes of blue and brown set firmly on Weeping Town’s unseen shores. Their ship was still hours away, but with each rise and dip of the oars, they drew ever nearer to the town. An assembly with Ser Harrin Dondarrion, brother of the woman Prince Baelor had taken to wife, was almost upon them, and it filled Dunk with dread. Even now, the man’s good brother grieved for her. He spoke of her often, and with a warmth that made Dunk’s heart ache with envy. But it was only proper for a man to grieve his departed bride and the mother of his sons. A prince should be no different.

Dunk the lunk, the knight chided himself. Slow as an aurochs and thick as a castle wall.

“Come,” Prince Baelor said, turning to face him. “I have asked the cook to prepare a broth to ease unsettled stomachs.”

With leaden feet, Dunk followed the prince, threading his way around sailors toiling at their duties.

The way down was dimly lit with brass lanterns affixed to the walls. They swung and creaked when he descended the steps to the rooms set aside for the prince and his party to use, and the sound set Dunk’s teeth on edge. More than once, he had to lower his head to avoid a low beam. In the narrow passageway beneath the deck, knights of the Kingsguard, armoured in scaled white plate, snapped to attention on either side as the prince passed them by. Ser Donnel looked at him and grinned. The knights had styled Dunk a brother-in-arms—a Kingsguard in all but name. Dunk had gladly welcomed it.

Ser Roland opened the door at the far end, stepping aside to allow them entry into a small and well-appointed room with little hatches that let in the dreary mid-afternoon light. Dunk had come to this before to break his fast or sup with the prince. On each occasion that he did so, he had discovered something new to marvel at. In this instance, it was a cedar box no bigger than a man’s fist. It had been laid on the table and its open lid revealed the contents: a ring hewn from blood-red stone polished to a smooth finish, resting on top of a cushion of black velvet.

“I had this made to your measure,” Prince Baelor murmured. He pushed the box across the waxed oaken surface toward Dunk and took his seat. “I trust it suits.”

Dunk reached into the box and took the ring into the flat of his palm. It was cool to the touch, and it looked just right for him. When he slid it down his right ring finger, it fit perfectly.

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Dunk said, taking a chair. His ears were as red as the ring; he was certain of it. “Did Egg—Prince Aegon, I mean—give you the ring I already owned?” Dunk already possessed one of gilded copper, the only gift he gave himself upon receiving his first proper wage. Egg could have only taken that.

“He did,” Prince Baelor beamed. “My nephew took much delight in spiriting it away, then returning it to its proper place after the deed was complete.” He lifted a silver bell and rang it. “You are not vexed, I hope.”

“I am not,” Dunk said quietly. He looked down at the ring. No other lord had gone to such trouble for his sake without asking recompense in return; the gesture moved him and made him love the prince even more. “I shall treasure this always.”

Prince Baelor merely smiled, yet his eyes glittered with a rare pleasure.

Not long after, the cook was shown into the room, bearing matched crimson bowls with jet ripples and swirls. He set them down before Dunk and the prince, bowed deeply, and took his leave. Dunk leaned forward to breathe in the steam. The broth was made with crushed ginger; already, he could feel his stomach settling from the scent.

“The good captain tells me we will sight land before sunset,” Prince Baelor remarked after his first spoonful. “We can soon put this damp creeping behind us.”

Dunk felt an immense surge of relief. “That would be welcome, Your Grace.” He spooned up more of the broth. The heat of it was soothing as it washed down his throat. “To feel the ground beneath my feet once more.”

“Just so,” Prince Baelor said. “Pray remain and speak with me. There is still much for you and me to talk of.”

They spent the rest of the voyage speaking of many matters, both great and trifling. For Dunk, it was more than just duty; it was a gift beyond price, for it was as close as he could hope to get to the prince and to witness aspects of the man few saw. He would never squander such a grace so rarely given to others. He did not know when it would come his way again.

Prince Baelor was as gracious within the confines of his quarters as he was without. He served Dunk wine himself, then indulged him with the delicate sweetmeats Dunk was fond of. The prince asked Dunk for one of the many stories about old Ser Arlan and the years Dunk tended him as his squire, then offered a tale of his own. Prince Baelor had lived a longer and richer life than even he—Dunk—had, and so, Dunk listened, he learnt, and he committed all that he heard to the safekeeping of memory, the way he always did.

When Prince Baelor dismissed him as the appointed hour of their arrival neared, it was with a reluctance Dunk could not fathom. Nonetheless, the knight obeyed and took to his own little room, to refresh himself and change into his raiment. His tunics and doublets were new; his armour and helm too. Dunk hefted a shirt of mail, weighing it the way he had the first day he received it. The iron was fine and castle-forged, and it gleamed in the lamp light. When he draped it over his doublet, it settled against it like a second skin. Dunk twisted this way and that. The mail moved with ease, and it was light against his frame. It would serve, he told himself as he drew on his surcoat—soft tawny linen edged in green and brown and gold. It would serve very well indeed.

By the time Dunk emerged from his chamber—his sword at his hip—the ship had dropped its anchor, and the sky had cleared, its few remaining clouds aflame from the light of the westering sun. After taking a moment to bid farewell to the ship, he stepped down into one of the landing boats with renewed vigour and greater command than he knew he had. When Prince Baelor took his place beside him, Dunk neither reddened nor struggled for words even as he discreetly admired the prince in his black tunic and mantle. He spoke as a knight should, and conducted himself as a knight ought. If Prince Baelor had perceived a change in his nature, he did not let it show.

A command from the captain was called out, and the boats were lowered into the water. “Jena was fond—more than fond—of sunsets,” Prince Baelor said wistfully. “There were days when I would discover her seated by the windows of our bedchamber come eventide, her eyes fixed on the world beyond.”

“It is quite a sight, Your Grace,” Dunk said cautiously. “The sun setting over the city.”

Prince Baelor sniffed. “Did Ser Arlan like sunsets?”

“He did,” Dunk mused. “The old man would sit under a tree, watch, and say, ‘Another day done, eh, Dunk? But there is always the morrow, and the promise a new sunrise brings with it.’”

“The promise a new sunrise brings with it.” Prince Baelor looked at him with an expression that held neither grief nor wrath, but a third strange quality Dunk could not name. “Most apt.”

They did not speak the rest of the crossing, but passed the time in companionable silence instead.

Dunk looked ahead as the rowers put their backs to the oars, brushing his hand against the salty water that sprayed against his cheek and slouching to make himself smaller in the cramped space. Not far from the boat, the harbour of Weeping Town stretched out on either side of the shore. To the far west, the Red Mountains rose, up and up, until they touched the sky and their sharp peaks bled orange and red in the dying light. The market town itself was smaller in size and people than King’s Landing, but its tiled roofs and signs of guilds and storehouses still boasted of wealth. Ships of every shape could be seen, their sails such a riot of colour that it all hurt Dunk’s eyes. Porters stooped with the weight of their loads as they carried bundles and bales to other merchants and other ships, and men of high office boarded or alighted from vessels, barking out commands and inspecting wares while their attendants fought to keep up.

Weeping Town was a favourite of Lady Jena’s, Prince Baelor finally told him. She had visited it often with her lady mother when she was a child, and she had once stood by the very pier they neared to greet him, the man who would go on to become her husband. A man waited just beyond it even now, holding a black banner blazoned with the white anchor of House Whitehead. Dunk shot a glance at Prince Baelor. The prince was a vision of the utmost composure. He rose when the men lifted their oars, and Dunk threw a rope for labourers to take, his footing sure as the boat was secured to a mooring.

The knight was the first to heave himself onto the dock. “Give me your hand, Your Grace,” he said.

Prince Baelor did not hesitate to accept Dunk’s offer, his slender hand lingering in Dunk’s meaty one longer than custom decreed, much to the knight’s surprise and confusion. Still, he helped the prince up, and when the stranger with the banner crossed to them, he took a moment to gather himself.

“Hail and well met, Your Grace,” the man said, and bowed. “I am Ser Ashter of House Whitehead. Ser Harrin bade me to welcome you in his name. He rides forth to meet you even as we speak.” He gestured to a trio of young squires who stepped away from the throng, leading horses richly caparisoned in sable and white silk. “My lord father beseeches you to make use of our steeds for as long as you remain here.”  

“Lord Braedon has my thanks for it,” Prince Baelor said.

He mounted his destrier, a blood bay Ser Ashter called ‘Swift Wind’. The stallion was as splendid as he was biddable, and took to the prince with ease. Yet when it came to Dunk’s own mount, the knight was not so fortunate. The beast Prince Baelor had invited him to take was 'Grey Mist,' a courser whose magnificent appearance was only surpassed by the fierceness of his temper.

The prettiest always did have a temper. Nevertheless, Dunk persevered even as the others left their boats and took to their horses. Grey Mist whinnied and reared, ready to give his unknown rider battle. Yet the knight averted his eyes so as not to frighten the beast or give him challenge. He kept perfectly still, grasping the animal’s reins with light hands and drawing him closer and closer.

“Be easy now,” Dunk crooned softly. “Be quiet. There is no war for you here.”

He slowly reached up and caressed Grey Mist’s neck. The horse did not shy away, but Dunk kept whispering gentle words and rubbing the stallion’s coat until he calmed long enough for the knight to take to his saddle.

“I must beg your pardon,” Ser Ashter said from atop his palfrey, abashed. “Grey Mist is not always like this.”

“No harm was done, m’lord,” Dunk said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Prince Baelor smiling. It made him smile as well. “Let us ride on.”

The Kingsguard rode out first to clear a path ahead. The rest of the company dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and followed.

Of the crowds that scrambled to get out of the way, many were startled to see a prince of the blood in a place like Weeping Town. Several called out to Prince Baelor as he rode past them, while others simply ducked into crooked alleys and beneath peaked roofs in their haste to scatter. Dunk kept a steady watch on those who pressed too close. The enmity between the Marcher Lords and the Dornishmen had only just begun to wane, and the prince was as much the blood of Dorne as he was of Old Valyria. There could have been men who meant him ill will.

Suddenly, a blare of trumpets rang out against the stout buildings and thick walls, and the sound of hooves pounding over wood and rain-softened earth soon reached their ears.

“Who goes there?” Ser Roland cried, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. “Name yourself!”

By then, the other party had reached them. “Ser Harrin Dondarrion, if it please you!” answered the rider who led the group—a lordling in a black woollen surcoat richly adorned with white stars. He reined his horse to a stop and removed his helm, exposing a dashing face and a shock of red-gold hair. “Here to greet the prince!”

“Ser Harrin!” Prince Baelor called out warmly. He urged Swiftwind forward. “It has been a long while, good brother!”

“Too long, I wager.” Ser Harrin grinned. “Come! The Broken Shield awaits us.”

The Broken Shield lay a good two miles further inland—a large stone structure with tiled roofs and shuttered windows painted a rich, leafy green. When they reached its wooden gates, the first stars had already appeared in the darkened sky, and the air had grown chill. Pot-boys ran out with torches and lit those already placed in sconces along the walls, providing the inn’s guests with brighter light. The inn’s yard was empty of other patrons; its rooms, no doubt, given over to the royal party for the night. He dismounted and gave Grey Mist over to a squire for grooming. The horse displayed a flash of his temper, snapping sharply at the lad’s face as if attempting to bite it off.

“Easy,” Dunk quickly soothed. “Do not fuss. Hmm? Go with him.” He passed the reins to the boy. “He will give you no trouble now.”

The squire looked doubtful. He still did as he was bid, and Grey Mist followed him without further trouble, though the horse gave the boy a menacing glare. Dunk watched them go, unable to grasp how the gods could fashion such an inconstant creature.

He turned and went in search of the prince, his boots squelching over slick grass and mud. Prince Baelor was standing by the doorway, speaking with Ser Harrin. They turned when Dunk cleared his throat.

“Your grace,” Dunk said, and bowed. “M’lord.”

“Good brother,” Prince Baelor began, “this is Ser Duncan the Tall, captain of my household guard.” 

“My comfort for your loss,” Dunk told Ser Harrin. “Lady Jena was a fine and gentle lady, m’lord. The realm is all the poorer in her absence.”   

“As is our family,” Ser Harrin told him. “And my own good brother here.” A spark of light cast away the shadows that had gathered in his amber eyes. “Come in and sit, pray. A meal has been prepared for us.”

Dunk nodded his acceptance, grateful he had not reopened an old wound with careless talk. He walked behind the prince as they entered the inn’s common room, an airy space that smelt faintly of peatsmoke and cooked meat. Serving men stepped forward on the Dondarrion knight’s command, with platters of fry bread and roasted capons and skewers of onions and lamb basted with honey and herbs. Dunk took his seat and tried not to shift. The chair was comfortable enough for his massive frame, but it creaked too much for his liking. He turned his sight to his meal, which he found plentiful and tasty and filling. Kitchen boys ambled from lord to lord—pressing cups into their hands—while a stout, jolly-faced woman trailed after them, halting only to pour from a tankard measures of a vintage found only in the Stormlands. Dunk ate his fill and drank half a cup for courtesy’s sake. The wine was red and fortified; too much would have addled his wits.

Ser Harrin picked up a skewer and nibbled at the tender meat. Honey and grease dripped down his chin. “The prince speaks of you with great esteem in his letters,” he mumbled between sticky mouthfuls. “But he has not told me all. Where do you come from, Ser Duncan? Who are your family?”

Dunk suddenly felt out of place. Every man seated with him was a knight or high lord hailing from families with ancient names and roots that ran deep. He was not. “I am from F-flea Bottom,” he stammered truthfully. “A-as for my kin, there are none; none that I know of.”

“A pity,” Ser Harrin said. “No matter. You serve our prince well. That is enough.” He drank deep and held his cup aloft for more.

“You shall find good contest among the men when you train,” Ser Ashter said, “and mayhap put what you learn to greater use when defending the prince from the fair ladies fighting each other for his affections.”

Though the Whitehead knight spoke in good humour, the prince remained unmoved. “I confess, I no longer seek such gentle companionship,” Prince Baelor said, though not unkindly. “I do not wish to wed again.” He looked at Dunk with that strange quality the knight saw on the boat. It made him forget his meal and ponder his words.

“I meant no insult, Your Grace,” Ser Ashter said.

“None was taken,” Prince Baelor said. He smiled. “Let us continue on to other matters.”

Ser Aster tilted his head, and the notion of Prince Baelor in the company of another noblewoman was no longer spoken of.

As the night waxed and a quarter moon ascended beyond the open windows, a squire took to his lute, filling the air with soft music. Dunk half-listened to it and the lordly speech that rose and fell around him. Prince Baelor and Ser Harrin each spoke of what the other had not witnessed, tales of King’s Landing and the Boneway most of all. That captured Dunk’s interest. He had seen the paintings, and had heard the talk, but hearing it described from the lips of a man whose very life was devoted to guarding the northern gateway of that treacherous pass was a different matter entirely. He hoped to see it someday. Perhaps he would, if his prince ever thought to call on the holdfasts along the way.

Prince Baelor then finished his meal and rose. “Forgive me,” he told Ser Harrin, “but missives to the king await. I bid you all a peaceful night.”

The prince caught Dunk’s fleeting attention. Yet it was not he who compelled Dunk to remain, but Ser Harrin instead. Prince Baelor’s good brother was studying him with a look that was shrewd but held no malice. After many of the others departed for their own beds, the knight handed his plate to a servant passing by and got to his feet.

“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, coming over to Dunk’s side. “I could not help but admire the jewel on your finger.” He sat beside him and gestured to the stone ring. “May I ask the name of the Dornishwoman who courts you?”

Dunk peered into his empty cup. “She is of no consequence.” Prince Baelor had not called for secrecy when he presented the ring, but Dunk did not name him all the same. “This is a trinket, m’lord, nothing more.”

“I am not so certain.” Ser Harrin took Dunk’s right hand into his. “This is the heartstone. It is found only in the bosom of the Red Mountains.”

“Is that so?”

Ser Harrin nodded. “They say a warrior of great renown bled upon the Dornish sands while shielding the woman he loved. He endured and lived, but when he attempted to return to her side, the gods sought to hinder him. The woman this warrior loved was lowborn, you see—too poor and inconsequential to stand beside a man held in such high favour by the divine. So they raised the Red Mountains around each drop of his blood as it hardened to stone, leaving him weak and captive to their will.”

The knight paused for a moment, then added, “Only the woman they conspired against was a determined creature. She did not fear the gods or their wrath. She braved the jagged rocks to find her champion’s life-essence, not caring for the wounds they inflicted upon her own person. What she could carry, she softened with her tears, and gave it back to him. It was enough to give him the strength he needed to free himself from the gods’ hold.” He shrugged. “It is just a myth many have left in the shadows of the past; yet there are those in Dorne who still remember and pass it on as a crib tale to their children.”

Dunk was unable to speak. The ring gifted him was more than just a token of friendship, or even admiration that a lord held toward his vassal. It spoke of feelings that spread far deeper.

“I did not know of such a tale,” he said, once he had discovered, and loosened, his tongue. He was grateful the light did not reveal much; he was certain his ears were already red.

“Now you do,” Ser Harrin said. “Pray who is the woman who bestowed such a gift?”

Dunk blurted, “I-I cannot say.” He hoped that this would be the end of such talk, but it was not to be so. Ser Harrin was as persistent as a hound with a meaty bone.

“You cannot say.” Ser Harrin leaned in, so no one else would hear. “Is this lady a Dornish princess of the blood? Is that why you truly follow the prince to Sunspear? You have no other means to see her?”

“I… I cannot give you the answers you seek,” Dunk said. “My pardons for that.”

Ser Harrin clapped him hard on the shoulder and laughed. “A good man never speaks of a woman’s secrets. Your lady is fortunate, whoever she may be.”

“Aye,” Dunk muttered. “Most fortunate.” He set aside the remnants of his meal and pushed back his chair. “My thanks for your company, m’lord. Until the morrow.”

“Until the morrow, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sought the stairs, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. The man he once believed was far beyond the likes of him was now closer to his reach. The ring—if Ser Harrin spoke true—was proof of it. He considered what he would say, and what he would do. How did one even raise such a matter with a prince he was only supposed to serve? Dunk did not know. He would have uttered a prayer to the Crone, beseeching her for wise counsel, but he knew not what to say. Ser Arlan had taught him the ways of horse and sword and lance, but never the litanies of the faithful. Perhaps the right words would present themselves at the opportune moment. Dunk hoped such would indeed be the case.

When he ascended to the upper floor, Ser Roland greeted him at the top of the steps. The knight led him to Prince Baelor’s room without further delay. Dunk was to take the first watch within, while Ser Donnel took the first watch outside it.

Ser Donnel, already standing at attention by the door, threw it open. “Ser Duncan, Your Grace,” he announced. He caught a glimpse of the ring and gave Dunk a knowing look, but the corners of his lips curled up.

Dunk slipped inside and waited until the door was closed behind him. “Your Grace,” he said. “May we speak plainly before my duties begin?”

Prince Baelor, seated at a little table by the window, put down his quill and bade Dunk take the chair opposite his. “Speak, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sat down and lowered his head. He was too flustered to begin, or even look Prince Baelor in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, struggled to form the words, and then closed it. Somewhere along the upper corridor, a knight began to sing. His clear voice drifted across the floor and filled the silence that enveloped the two men.   

“Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor said. He poured them each a cup of spiced mead. “Is aught amiss?”

“I…” Dunk said, then hesitated. He accepted his cup, drained it in three deep swallows, and finally found something that passed for courage. At length, he confessed, “’Tis the ring, Your Grace. Ser Harrin told me the tale of the stone’s making.” He lowered his voice. “Why did you give it to me?” 

Prince Baelor leaned into his seat. Light from nearby candles danced in his eyes. “Ser Harrin sees much,” he said quietly. “Too much for his own good, and ours. You said naught of me, I hope.”

“I did not, Your Grace,” Dunk admitted, his cheeks aflame. “I give you my word on that.”  

“Then let us, as you said, speak plainly,” Prince Baelor said. “After you and I crossed paths—no… I must go further back. After Jena was ripped from my embrace, I… I closed my heart to the very notion of loving another. It felt wrong—a betrayal of what my lady and I shared.” He took a deep, steadying breath and continued. “Then, at Ashford, the gods set a humble hedge knight in my path. Imagine my amazement when I took him into my service, and he pierced the armour I fashioned around myself with his unwavering honour and uncommon kindness. I denied it to myself at first—dubbed it a fickle passion that would pass in the night. But the longer this knight remained in my acquaintance, the harder it became for me to look away. This is why I gave you that ring; it is my wish for us to be more than prince and knight.”

The prince sighed. “I believed that I had enough time to speak of it with you. And I would have, had my good brother’s act not forced my hand. Know this, Ser Duncan. There will be no coercion. I will never claim what is not given to me freely. If you say nay, I shall make peace with it and we will continue as we are: lord and servant, nothing more.”

“If I say no, Your Grace, will you take back this ring?”

“No, and never. The ring is a gift. You may take it into your safekeeping for however long you wish.”

Dunk was overcome. Awe and fear ripped through him, each choosing to war with the other. Then, after they had ebbed away, the weight that had pressed down on him for six turns of the moon slowly lifted. Such a freedom made it all the easier for him to make a confession of his own.

“For half a year,” Dunk said, “I did not just seek to serve you.” He swallowed and plunged on. “I-I sought more, Your Grace—more than any knight ever should. I-I still do. I am your man,” he swore earnestly, “and I am yours—in every way you long to have me.”

The prince’s breath hitched. “As I am yours,” he said. “Then is this your word that we may begin anew?” he asked. “Not merely as a prince and his knight, but as two souls embarking on life’s great journey together?”

“It is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, and looked up. Prince Baelor’s eyes softened when he did. “But I do not know if it is wise.” He recalled Ser Donnel’s strange look. “I think… I think Ser Donnel suspects.”

“Ser Donnel knows of my secret,” Prince Baelor explained. “It was he who procured the stone in my name, and it was he who took it to the smith to have it shaped. I fear I could not carry out the deed myself; too many know of my appearance. We are perfectly safe with him; I assure you of this.”

“Oh,” Dunk said, feeling foolish. “Then I will not speak a word to anyone else. Not everyone will approve.”

Prince Baelor nodded. “They will not,” he agreed. “But let us not dwell on that. Let us give thanks to the gods for this night instead, Ser Duncan, and the promise a new sunrise will bring us.”

For as long as he could recall, he had sought the comfort of grass and stone and earth, never the shifting sands of the shore nor the bottomless waters beyond it. In truth, the waves frightened him in ways he could never describe, and the smells of salt and rot often made him ill. Yet here he was, standing by the railing of the Star Spray as it ploughed its way towards the Sea of Dorne, staring out into a world that was as vast as it was grey. He kept clutching his stomach, bearing his discomfort with as much silent dignity as he could muster. A knight, even one of the hedge, had his pride. And Dunk was no longer a mere hedge knight. He was a prince’s sworn man—the captain of his household guard, no less—and he held onto his pride fiercely even as he battled the urge to bring up his last meal. He had no desire to disgrace himself in the presence of others.

Until Dorne, Dunk thought miserably. I must endure this ordeal until Dorne and then back again.  

The knight was on his way to Sunspear. Once, he would have deemed such a journey impossible—the stuff those without coin amused themselves with only in dreams. Now he stood waist-high in the thick of it all, guarding the Crown Prince while the royal heir attended the wedding of a Martell cousin who was a particular favourite of both the prince and his younger brother, the Prince of Summerhall. So much of the journey was wholly new to Dunk. Ser Arlan never took him deep into the Dornish Marches—not even when their need for stars and stags was most dire—and Dorne itself seemed like a land of many fables to Dunk’s mind. But the seas along the way… they constantly churned from the hour they departed King’s Landing, and the skies always seemed determined to spit icy rain.

At least the rain had ceased tormenting them for now, which was a small mercy in itself. For more days and nights than Dunk cared to count, wind and water lashed at the ship relentlessly, making it toss and heave as it made its way from the capital to Tarth and Storm’s End and beyond. The air had taken on an uncommon chill that seemed to seep into a man’s bones. Dunk had to seek sanctuary in his chamber below decks by then, so unwilling was he to bear the wet and the cold. It had been warmer in the rooms below, and he had stayed dry. He had not wanted for company either. The other knights in the Crown Prince’s company had proved themselves more than equal to the task. They shared their meat and mead, and regaled him with their tales, fantastical as some of them sounded. And none of them thought to make light of his struggles with the ship or the journey. They never sought to make him feel inferior because of it.

“A true knight never belittles the ills of another,” Ser Arlan had once said. Dunk always held fast to those words; yet he suspected the knights on board did so more out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne than out of any knightly courtesy. Still, he returned the gesture in the same manner he received it—freely, and with an open heart. It was the only way he knew how.

“Is the sea still a heartless mistress to you, Ser Duncan?”

The voice that came from behind him was soft, measured, and patient. It brought a flush that spread from Dunk’s cheeks down to his chest.

“She certainly is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, his gaze fixed intently on the horizon. He could not let Prince Baelor see him blushing like a maiden on her wedding night. His answer, if pressed, would only humiliate and endanger them both. “But I am master of myself. I will yet prevail.”

Prince Baelor drifted to his side. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said, resting his hands on the rail. His fingers were almost close enough to brush against Dunk’s. “Pray do not give way to shame, Ser Duncan. The sea is unforgiving to many; prince and pauper alike.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” Dunk returned. He mastered himself in the end, though not over the cause the prince spoke of.

For nigh on half a year, mayhap longer, Dunk had silently ached for the prince, won over by his humility and his willingness to treat Dunk with the same kindness and dignity as he would any highborn lord. That Dunk could not give voice to what he yearned for tormented him; Prince Baelor was a man long wedded and widowed, with sons already grown. He would never look upon a lowborn knight—a man, no less—with tender affection or favour. His faith and inclinations would not allow it. So Dunk bore it without counsel from others—and prayed it would not destroy him one day.

He dared to look at Prince Baelor then. The prince remained by his side, his mismatched eyes of blue and brown set firmly on Weeping Town’s unseen shores. Their ship was still hours away, but with each rise and dip of the oars, they drew ever nearer to the town. An assembly with Ser Harrin Dondarrion, brother of the woman Prince Baelor had taken to wife, was almost upon them, and it filled Dunk with dread. Even now, the man’s good brother grieved for her. He spoke of her often, and with a warmth that made Dunk’s heart ache with envy. But it was only proper for a man to grieve his departed bride and the mother of his sons. A prince should be no different.

Dunk the lunk, the knight chided himself. Slow as an aurochs and thick as a castle wall.

“Come,” Prince Baelor said, turning to face him. “I have asked the cook to prepare a broth to ease unsettled stomachs.”

With leaden feet, Dunk followed the prince, threading his way around sailors toiling at their duties.

The way down was dimly lit with brass lanterns affixed to the walls. They swung and creaked when he descended the steps to the rooms set aside for the prince and his party to use, and the sound set Dunk’s teeth on edge. More than once, he had to lower his head to avoid a low beam. In the narrow passageway beneath the deck, knights of the Kingsguard, armoured in scaled white plate, snapped to attention on either side as the prince passed them by. Ser Donnel looked at him and grinned. The knights had styled Dunk a brother-in-arms—a Kingsguard in all but name. Dunk had gladly welcomed it.

Ser Roland opened the door at the far end, stepping aside to allow them entry into a small and well-appointed room with little hatches that let in the dreary mid-afternoon light. Dunk had come to this before to break his fast or sup with the prince. On each occasion that he did so, he had discovered something new to marvel at. In this instance, it was a cedar box no bigger than a man’s fist. It had been laid on the table and its open lid revealed the contents: a ring hewn from blood-red stone polished to a smooth finish, resting on top of a cushion of black velvet.

“I had this made to your measure,” Prince Baelor murmured. He pushed the box across the waxed oaken surface toward Dunk and took his seat. “I trust it suits.”

Dunk reached into the box and took the ring into the flat of his palm. It was cool to the touch, and it looked just right for him. When he slid it down his right ring finger, it fit perfectly.

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Dunk said, taking a chair. His ears were as red as the ring; he was certain of it. “Did Egg—Prince Aegon, I mean—give you the ring I already owned?” Dunk already possessed one of gilded copper, the only gift he gave himself upon receiving his first proper wage. Egg could have only taken that.

“He did,” Prince Baelor beamed. “My nephew took much delight in spiriting it away, then returning it to its proper place after the deed was complete.” He lifted a silver bell and rang it. “You are not vexed, I hope.”

“I am not,” Dunk said quietly. He looked down at the ring. No other lord had gone to such trouble for his sake without asking recompense in return; the gesture moved him and made him love the prince even more. “I shall treasure this always.”

Prince Baelor merely smiled, yet his eyes glittered with a rare pleasure.

Not long after, the cook was shown into the room, bearing matched crimson bowls with jet ripples and swirls. He set them down before Dunk and the prince, bowed deeply, and took his leave. Dunk leaned forward to breathe in the steam. The broth was made with crushed ginger; already, he could feel his stomach settling from the scent.

“The good captain tells me we will sight land before sunset,” Prince Baelor remarked after his first spoonful. “We can soon put this damp creeping behind us.”

Dunk felt an immense surge of relief. “That would be welcome, Your Grace.” He spooned up more of the broth. The heat of it was soothing as it washed down his throat. “To feel the ground beneath my feet once more.”

“Just so,” Prince Baelor said. “Pray remain and speak with me. There is still much for you and me to talk of.”

They spent the rest of the voyage speaking of many matters, both great and trifling. For Dunk, it was more than just duty; it was a gift beyond price, for it was as close as he could hope to get to the prince and to witness aspects of the man few saw. He would never squander such a grace so rarely given to others. He did not know when it would come his way again.

Prince Baelor was as gracious within the confines of his quarters as he was without. He served Dunk wine himself, then indulged him with the delicate sweetmeats Dunk was fond of. The prince asked Dunk for one of the many stories about old Ser Arlan and the years Dunk tended him as his squire, then offered a tale of his own. Prince Baelor had lived a longer and richer life than even he—Dunk—had, and so, Dunk listened, he learnt, and he committed all that he heard to the safekeeping of memory, the way he always did.

When Prince Baelor dismissed him as the appointed hour of their arrival neared, it was with a reluctance Dunk could not fathom. Nonetheless, the knight obeyed and took to his own little room, to refresh himself and change into his raiment. His tunics and doublets were new; his armour and helm too. Dunk hefted a shirt of mail, weighing it the way he had the first day he received it. The iron was fine and castle-forged, and it gleamed in the lamp light. When he draped it over his doublet, it settled against it like a second skin. Dunk twisted this way and that. The mail moved with ease, and it was light against his frame. It would serve, he told himself as he drew on his surcoat—soft tawny linen edged in green and brown and gold. It would serve very well indeed.

By the time Dunk emerged from his chamber—his sword at his hip—the ship had dropped its anchor, and the sky had cleared, its few remaining clouds aflame from the light of the westering sun. After taking a moment to bid farewell to the ship, he stepped down into one of the landing boats with renewed vigour and greater command than he knew he had. When Prince Baelor took his place beside him, Dunk neither reddened nor struggled for words even as he discreetly admired the prince in his black tunic and mantle. He spoke as a knight should, and conducted himself as a knight ought. If Prince Baelor had perceived a change in his nature, he did not let it show.

A command from the captain was called out, and the boats were lowered into the water. “Jena was fond—more than fond—of sunsets,” Prince Baelor said wistfully. “There were days when I would discover her seated by the windows of our bedchamber come eventide, her eyes fixed on the world beyond.”

“It is quite a sight, Your Grace,” Dunk said cautiously. “The sun setting over the city.”

Prince Baelor sniffed. “Did Ser Arlan like sunsets?”

“He did,” Dunk mused. “The old man would sit under a tree, watch, and say, ‘Another day done, eh, Dunk? But there is always the morrow, and the promise a new sunrise brings with it.’”

“The promise a new sunrise brings with it.” Prince Baelor looked at him with an expression that held neither grief nor wrath, but a third strange quality Dunk could not name. “Most apt.”

They did not speak the rest of the crossing, but passed the time in companionable silence instead.

Dunk looked ahead as the rowers put their backs to the oars, brushing his hand against the salty water that sprayed against his cheek and slouching to make himself smaller in the cramped space. Not far from the boat, the harbour of Weeping Town stretched out on either side of the shore. To the far west, the Red Mountains rose, up and up, until they touched the sky and their sharp peaks bled orange and red in the dying light. The market town itself was smaller in size and people than King’s Landing, but its tiled roofs and signs of guilds and storehouses still boasted of wealth. Ships of every shape could be seen, their sails such a riot of colour that it all hurt Dunk’s eyes. Porters stooped with the weight of their loads as they carried bundles and bales to other merchants and other ships, and men of high office boarded or alighted from vessels, barking out commands and inspecting wares while their attendants fought to keep up.

Weeping Town was a favourite of Lady Jena’s, Prince Baelor finally told him. She had visited it often with her lady mother when she was a child, and she had once stood by the very pier they neared to greet him, the man who would go on to become her husband. A man waited just beyond it even now, holding a black banner blazoned with the white anchor of House Whitehead. Dunk shot a glance at Prince Baelor. The prince was a vision of the utmost composure. He rose when the men lifted their oars, and Dunk threw a rope for labourers to take, his footing sure as the boat was secured to a mooring.

The knight was the first to heave himself onto the dock. “Give me your hand, Your Grace,” he said.

Prince Baelor did not hesitate to accept Dunk’s offer, his slender hand lingering in Dunk’s meaty one longer than custom decreed, much to the knight’s surprise and confusion. Still, he helped the prince up, and when the stranger with the banner crossed to them, he took a moment to gather himself.

“Hail and well met, Your Grace,” the man said, and bowed. “I am Ser Ashter of House Whitehead. Ser Harrin bade me to welcome you in his name. He rides forth to meet you even as we speak.” He gestured to a trio of young squires who stepped away from the throng, leading horses richly caparisoned in sable and white silk. “My lord father beseeches you to make use of our steeds for as long as you remain here.”  

“Lord Braedon has my thanks for it,” Prince Baelor said.

He mounted his destrier, a blood bay Ser Ashter called ‘Swift Wind’. The stallion was as splendid as he was biddable, and took to the prince with ease. Yet when it came to Dunk’s own mount, the knight was not so fortunate. The beast Prince Baelor had invited him to take was 'Grey Mist,' a courser whose magnificent appearance was only surpassed by the fierceness of his temper.

The prettiest always did have a temper. Nevertheless, Dunk persevered even as the others left their boats and took to their horses. Grey Mist whinnied and reared, ready to give his unknown rider battle. Yet the knight averted his eyes so as not to frighten the beast or give him challenge. He kept perfectly still, grasping the animal’s reins with light hands and drawing him closer and closer.

“Be easy now,” Dunk crooned softly. “Be quiet. There is no war for you here.”

He slowly reached up and caressed Grey Mist’s neck. The horse did not shy away, but Dunk kept whispering gentle words and rubbing the stallion’s coat until he calmed long enough for the knight to take to his saddle.

“I must beg your pardon,” Ser Ashter said from atop his palfrey, abashed. “Grey Mist is not always like this.”

“No harm was done, m’lord,” Dunk said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Prince Baelor smiling. It made him smile as well. “Let us ride on.”

The Kingsguard rode out first to clear a path ahead. The rest of the company dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and followed.

Of the crowds that scrambled to get out of the way, many were startled to see a prince of the blood in a place like Weeping Town. Several called out to Prince Baelor as he rode past them, while others simply ducked into crooked alleys and beneath peaked roofs in their haste to scatter. Dunk kept a steady watch on those who pressed too close. The enmity between the Marcher Lords and the Dornishmen had only just begun to wane, and the prince was as much the blood of Dorne as he was of Old Valyria. There could have been men who meant him ill will.

Suddenly, a blare of trumpets rang out against the stout buildings and thick walls, and the sound of hooves pounding over wood and rain-softened earth soon reached their ears.

“Who goes there?” Ser Roland cried, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. “Name yourself!”

By then, the other party had reached them. “Ser Harrin Dondarrion, if it please you!” answered the rider who led the group—a lordling in a black woollen surcoat richly adorned with white stars. He reined his horse to a stop and removed his helm, exposing a dashing face and a shock of red-gold hair. “Here to greet the prince!”

“Ser Harrin!” Prince Baelor called out warmly. He urged Swiftwind forward. “It has been a long while, good brother!”

“Too long, I wager.” Ser Harrin grinned. “Come! The Broken Shield awaits us.”

The Broken Shield lay a good two miles further inland—a large stone structure with tiled roofs and shuttered windows painted a rich, leafy green. When they reached its wooden gates, the first stars had already appeared in the darkened sky, and the air had grown chill. Pot-boys ran out with torches and lit those already placed in sconces along the walls, providing the inn’s guests with brighter light. The inn’s yard was empty of other patrons; its rooms, no doubt, given over to the royal party for the night. He dismounted and gave Grey Mist over to a squire for grooming. The horse displayed a flash of his temper, snapping sharply at the lad’s face as if attempting to bite it off.

“Easy,” Dunk quickly soothed. “Do not fuss. Hmm? Go with him.” He passed the reins to the boy. “He will give you no trouble now.”

The squire looked doubtful. He still did as he was bid, and Grey Mist followed him without further trouble, though the horse gave the boy a menacing glare. Dunk watched them go, unable to grasp how the gods could fashion such an inconstant creature.

He turned and went in search of the prince, his boots squelching over slick grass and mud. Prince Baelor was standing by the doorway, speaking with Ser Harrin. They turned when Dunk cleared his throat.

“Your grace,” Dunk said, and bowed. “M’lord.”

“Good brother,” Prince Baelor began, “this is Ser Duncan the Tall, captain of my household guard.” 

“My comfort for your loss,” Dunk told Ser Harrin. “Lady Jena was a fine and gentle lady, m’lord. The realm is all the poorer in her absence.”   

“As is our family,” Ser Harrin told him. “And my own good brother here.” A spark of light cast away the shadows that had gathered in his amber eyes. “Come in and sit, pray. A meal has been prepared for us.”

Dunk nodded his acceptance, grateful he had not reopened an old wound with careless talk. He walked behind the prince as they entered the inn’s common room, an airy space that smelt faintly of peatsmoke and cooked meat. Serving men stepped forward on the Dondarrion knight’s command, with platters of fry bread and roasted capons and skewers of onions and lamb basted with honey and herbs. Dunk took his seat and tried not to shift. The chair was comfortable enough for his massive frame, but it creaked too much for his liking. He turned his sight to his meal, which he found plentiful and tasty and filling. Kitchen boys ambled from lord to lord—pressing cups into their hands—while a stout, jolly-faced woman trailed after them, halting only to pour from a tankard measures of a vintage found only in the Stormlands. Dunk ate his fill and drank half a cup for courtesy’s sake. The wine was red and fortified; too much would have addled his wits.

Ser Harrin picked up a skewer and nibbled at the tender meat. Honey and grease dripped down his chin. “The prince speaks of you with great esteem in his letters,” he mumbled between sticky mouthfuls. “But he has not told me all. Where do you come from, Ser Duncan? Who are your family?”

Dunk suddenly felt out of place. Every man seated with him was a knight or high lord hailing from families with ancient names and roots that ran deep. He was not. “I am from F-flea Bottom,” he stammered truthfully. “A-as for my kin, there are none; none that I know of.”

“A pity,” Ser Harrin said. “No matter. You serve our prince well. That is enough.” He drank deep and held his cup aloft for more.

“You shall find good contest among the men when you train,” Ser Ashter said, “and mayhap put what you learn to greater use when defending the prince from the fair ladies fighting each other for his affections.”

Though the Whitehead knight spoke in good humour, the prince remained unmoved. “I confess, I no longer seek such gentle companionship,” Prince Baelor said, though not unkindly. “I do not wish to wed again.” He looked at Dunk with that strange quality the knight saw on the boat. It made him forget his meal and ponder his words.

“I meant no insult, Your Grace,” Ser Ashter said.

“None was taken,” Prince Baelor said. He smiled. “Let us continue on to other matters.”

Ser Aster tilted his head, and the notion of Prince Baelor in the company of another noblewoman was no longer spoken of.

As the night waxed and a quarter moon ascended beyond the open windows, a squire took to his lute, filling the air with soft music. Dunk half-listened to it and the lordly speech that rose and fell around him. Prince Baelor and Ser Harrin each spoke of what the other had not witnessed, tales of King’s Landing and the Boneway most of all. That captured Dunk’s interest. He had seen the paintings, and had heard the talk, but hearing it described from the lips of a man whose very life was devoted to guarding the northern gateway of that treacherous pass was a different matter entirely. He hoped to see it someday. Perhaps he would, if his prince ever thought to call on the holdfasts along the way.

Prince Baelor then finished his meal and rose. “Forgive me,” he told Ser Harrin, “but missives to the king await. I bid you all a peaceful night.”

The prince caught Dunk’s fleeting attention. Yet it was not he who compelled Dunk to remain, but Ser Harrin instead. Prince Baelor’s good brother was studying him with a look that was shrewd but held no malice. After many of the others departed for their own beds, the knight handed his plate to a servant passing by and got to his feet.

“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, coming over to Dunk’s side. “I could not help but admire the jewel on your finger.” He sat beside him and gestured to the stone ring. “May I ask the name of the Dornishwoman who courts you?”

Dunk peered into his empty cup. “She is of no consequence.” Prince Baelor had not called for secrecy when he presented the ring, but Dunk did not name him all the same. “This is a trinket, m’lord, nothing more.”

“I am not so certain.” Ser Harrin took Dunk’s right hand into his. “This is the heartstone. It is found only in the bosom of the Red Mountains.”

“Is that so?”

Ser Harrin nodded. “They say a warrior of great renown bled upon the Dornish sands while shielding the woman he loved. He endured and lived, but when he attempted to return to her side, the gods sought to hinder him. The woman this warrior loved was lowborn, you see—too poor and inconsequential to stand beside a man held in such high favour by the divine. So they raised the Red Mountains around each drop of his blood as it hardened to stone, leaving him weak and captive to their will.”

The knight paused for a moment, then added, “Only the woman they conspired against was a determined creature. She did not fear the gods or their wrath. She braved the jagged rocks to find her champion’s life-essence, not caring for the wounds they inflicted upon her own person. What she could carry, she softened with her tears, and gave it back to him. It was enough to give him the strength he needed to free himself from the gods’ hold.” He shrugged. “It is just a myth many have left in the shadows of the past; yet there are those in Dorne who still remember and pass it on as a crib tale to their children.”

Dunk was unable to speak. The ring gifted him was more than just a token of friendship, or even admiration that a lord held toward his vassal. It spoke of feelings that spread far deeper.

“I did not know of such a tale,” he said, once he had discovered, and loosened, his tongue. He was grateful the light did not reveal much; he was certain his ears were already red.

“Now you do,” Ser Harrin said. “Pray who is the woman who bestowed such a gift?”

Dunk blurted, “I-I cannot say.” He hoped that this would be the end of such talk, but it was not to be so. Ser Harrin was as persistent as a hound with a meaty bone.

“You cannot say.” Ser Harrin leaned in, so no one else would hear. “Is this lady a Dornish princess of the blood? Is that why you truly follow the prince to Sunspear? You have no other means to see her?”

“I… I cannot give you the answers you seek,” Dunk said. “My pardons for that.”

Ser Harrin clapped him hard on the shoulder and laughed. “A good man never speaks of a woman’s secrets. Your lady is fortunate, whoever she may be.”

“Aye,” Dunk muttered. “Most fortunate.” He set aside the remnants of his meal and pushed back his chair. “My thanks for your company, m’lord. Until the morrow.”

“Until the morrow, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sought the stairs, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. The man he once believed was far beyond the likes of him was now closer to his reach. The ring—if Ser Harrin spoke true—was proof of it. He considered what he would say, and what he would do. How did one even raise such a matter with a prince he was only supposed to serve? Dunk did not know. He would have uttered a prayer to the Crone, beseeching her for wise counsel, but he knew not what to say. Ser Arlan had taught him the ways of horse and sword and lance, but never the litanies of the faithful. Perhaps the right words would present themselves at the opportune moment. Dunk hoped such would indeed be the case.

When he ascended to the upper floor, Ser Roland greeted him at the top of the steps. The knight led him to Prince Baelor’s room without further delay. Dunk was to take the first watch within, while Ser Donnel took the first watch outside it.

Ser Donnel, already standing at attention by the door, threw it open. “Ser Duncan, Your Grace,” he announced. He caught a glimpse of the ring and gave Dunk a knowing look, but the corners of his lips curled up.

Dunk slipped inside and waited until the door was closed behind him. “Your Grace,” he said. “May we speak plainly before my duties begin?”

Prince Baelor, seated at a little table by the window, put down his quill and bade Dunk take the chair opposite his. “Speak, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk sat down and lowered his head. He was too flustered to begin, or even look Prince Baelor in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, struggled to form the words, and then closed it. Somewhere along the upper corridor, a knight began to sing. His clear voice drifted across the floor and filled the silence that enveloped the two men.   

“Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor said. He poured them each a cup of spiced mead. “Is aught amiss?”

“I…” Dunk said, then hesitated. He accepted his cup, drained it in three deep swallows, and finally found something that passed for courage. At length, he confessed, “’Tis the ring, Your Grace. Ser Harrin told me the tale of the stone’s making.” He lowered his voice. “Why did you give it to me?” 

Prince Baelor leaned into his seat. Light from nearby candles danced in his eyes. “Ser Harrin sees much,” he said quietly. “Too much for his own good, and ours. You said naught of me, I hope.”

“I did not, Your Grace,” Dunk admitted, his cheeks aflame. “I give you my word on that.”  

“Then let us, as you said, speak plainly,” Prince Baelor said. “After you and I crossed paths—no… I must go further back. After Jena was ripped from my embrace, I… I closed my heart to the very notion of loving another. It felt wrong—a betrayal of what my lady and I shared.” He took a deep, steadying breath and continued. “Then, at Ashford, the gods set a humble hedge knight in my path. Imagine my amazement when I took him into my service, and he pierced the armour I fashioned around myself with his unwavering honour and uncommon kindness. I denied it to myself at first—dubbed it a fickle passion that would pass in the night. But the longer this knight remained in my acquaintance, the harder it became for me to look away. This is why I gave you that ring; it is my wish for us to be more than prince and knight.”

The prince sighed. “I believed that I had enough time to speak of it with you. And I would have, had my good brother’s act not forced my hand. Know this, Ser Duncan. There will be no coercion. I will never claim what is not given to me freely. If you say nay, I shall make peace with it and we will continue as we are: lord and servant, nothing more.”

“If I say no, Your Grace, will you take back this ring?”

“No, and never. The ring is a gift. You may take it into your safekeeping for however long you wish.”

Dunk was overcome. Awe and fear ripped through him, each choosing to war with the other. Then, after they had ebbed away, the weight that had pressed down on him for six turns of the moon slowly lifted. Such a freedom made it all the easier for him to make a confession of his own.

“For half a year,” Dunk said, “I did not just seek to serve you.” He swallowed and plunged on. “I-I sought more, Your Grace—more than any knight ever should. I-I still do. I am your man,” he swore earnestly, “and I am yours—in every way you long to have me.”

The prince’s breath hitched. “As I am yours,” he said. “Then is this your word that we may begin anew?” he asked. “Not merely as a prince and his knight, but as two souls embarking on life’s great journey together?”

“It is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, and looked up. Prince Baelor’s eyes softened when he did. “But I do not know if it is wise.” He recalled Ser Donnel’s strange look. “I think… I think Ser Donnel suspects.”

“Ser Donnel knows of my secret,” Prince Baelor explained. “It was he who procured the stone in my name, and it was he who took it to the smith to have it shaped. I fear I could not carry out the deed myself; too many know of my appearance. We are perfectly safe with him; I assure you of this.”

“Oh,” Dunk said, feeling foolish. “Then I will not speak a word to anyone else. Not everyone will approve.”

Prince Baelor nodded. “They will not,” he agreed. “But let us not dwell on that. Let us give thanks to the gods for this night instead, Ser Duncan, and the promise a new sunrise will bring us.”