♡

Dex couldn't find the words to describe how perfect you were. You embodied everything he had ever wished he could be as a ‘normal’ human being. Kind, gentle, caring, and unbearably innocent, even in a world that seemed determined to take and take from people.

Dex spent a good major of his life seeing the ugly in others— the selfishness they dressed up as generosity, the jealousy they passed off as concern, the manipulation buried so deep they'd stopped noticing it themselves.

And then there was you.

No angle— just good. Genuinely, quietly, inconveniently good, in a way he couldn’t explain.

He'd first seen you on a Tuesday.You'd been crouched down on the sidewalk — actually crouched, bag sliding off your shoulder, completely unbothered by the foot traffic splitting around you like a current — talking to a man settled against the building wall with the particular stillness of someone who'd stopped expecting much from people.

You'd had food with you. A drink. And you'd been writing something on the back of a receipt, pressing it flat against your knee, explaining the location of a soup kitchen two blocks east

You’re so kind that it hurts.

After that, he started seeing you everywhere. He told himself it was coincidence for about four days before he stopped bothering with the lie. The park became a regular rotation — he kept his distance, three to four paces back minimum, far enough that you wouldn't register him as a presence, close enough that he could hear you if you were on the phone.

He'd learned quickly that you startled easy, that sudden movement in your peripheral made you pull your bag closer, so he was careful. He was always careful with you.

The first time you smiled at him, he forgot how to function properly.

It wasn't something he could fully account for — a blinding, unguarded thing aimed directly at him, and his chest had done something embarrassing and involuntary in response. To be seen by you— acknowledged.

It had left him standing there, utterly speechless. You smiled at him, and instead of smiling back like any normal person would have, he froze. Completely. By the time his brain remembered how to function, the moment had already passed. You'd moved on, bag shifting back up your shoulder, earbuds in, gone — and he'd stood there on the sidewalk

Now he thinks about it constantly.

Every day, every night, his mind replays those few seconds on an endless loop. He should have smiled back. He should have said hello. He should have said something. He should have done anything other than stand there with his face blank and his hands at his sides like a man who'd never once in his life encountered another person.

And the worst part is what you must think of him now—awkward. It gnaws at him relentlessly, your probably think of him poorly now. That he was strange. Off. Someone who can’t even make a proper conversation.

You'd smiled at him and he'd given you nothing back.

He needs to fix it— needs to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

The problem, of course, was that everyone felt something when you smiled at them.

You collected people without trying — coworkers, friends, strangers who'd exchanged thirty seconds with you and somehow left looking lighter. You moved through the world leaving small warmths behind you and you didn't even notice, which meant you were never alone, which meant there was always someone.

Like Shane.

He'd clocked the name two weeks ago. Shane. He was sitting across from you now at the window table of the restaurant, and Dex was parked in the alley across the street with the engine off and the telescope balanced against the steering wheel.

He was just keeping an eye on you. That was all.

New York was full of dangerous men, the streets were unpredictable, and you walked through them carelessly.

And Shane —

Dex adjusted the telescope, bringing him into sharper focus, and felt something cold settle in his chest.

Shane was sleazy in a way that was almost impressive. That smile he kept giving you — slow, drawled out at the corners, the smile of a man who'd decided that you were the lucky one to go out with someone like him.

His finger tapped once against the telescope casing.

The only reason Shane was still sitting across from you — the only reason Dex hadn't found a reason, a quiet, efficient, untraceable reason, for this to have ended before it began — was the jaw. The build. The specific physical arrangement of features that Dex had caught early on.

You had a type.

And it looked, inconveniently, remarkably, like him.

He watched Shane reach across the table and check his phone — just picked it up, mid-conversation, screen-up, didn't even angle it away from you — and felt the familiar simmer move through him.

‘ I wouldn't do that’ he thought, ‘ I would put my phone face-down before I sat across from you and I wouldn't look at it once. Aren't I better?’

Your ex Daniel wasn’t better either. Daniel had been a mistake— surely. Sure he was attentive on the surface in the broad strokes, completely blind in the specifics, which in Dex's assessment was actually worse because it meant Daniel had been trying and had still managed to miss everything that mattered.

He'd shown up to your Saturday brunch at the place on Mercer with lilies twice. Twice. Dex had watched you move them to the edge of the table both times, that small careful gesture of someone who didn't want another person to feel the weight of their own mistake, and you'd smiled through it, and Daniel had looked pleased with himself.

‘ you don’t like lilies’ He'd known that by week three. You slowed down at the flower stall on the corner when they had ranunculus, garden roses, things that looked like they'd come from somewhere real.

He'd watched you often enough to know your habits by heart. He knew which arrangements would inevitably draw your attention, which blooms would tempt your hand to reach out, and which flowers would make you lean in close, eyes softening as you breathed in their fragrance.

Daniel had also never gotten your coffee order right.

Four times. Four separate, documented occasions where Daniel had shown up with the wrong thing and you'd accepted it with both hands and that gracious smile that you gave people who failed you gently, and Dex had watched every single one of them from varying distances and felt something cold and flat move through him that he recognized as contempt.

‘What about him? What about dex? Don’t you care about him at all?’ He wouldn’t have gotten you lilies, he wouldn’t have gotten your coffee order wrong, he wouldn’t have failed you. And yet Daniel, for all his stupidity you still gave him the time of your day.

It’s not like your coffee order was complicated and yet Daniel could never get it right.

Large caramel frappe, extra caramel, from the bakery across from your apartment — not the chain, never the chain, the specific one eight minutes out of the way because you'd decided years ago it was worth the detour and you had never once wavered on that decision. The one that knew your name.

The one that had your order ready before you reached the counter on weekday mornings, when you came in at seven;fourteen — not seven;fifteen you were precise about your mornings.

He'd known your order by the end of the second week.

Daniel didn't know. Shane doesn't know.

Aren't I better?

He adjusted the telescope.

He gave it three weeks—

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He hadn’t planned to see you again at the coffee shop, that part was genuinely true and he turned it over in his mind with something close to satisfaction — that even without planing it, even on an ordinary morning, things had arranged themselves correctly. Because it’s meant to be.

The line moved slowly and he used the time the way he used all available time — observing. He watched you at the counter, watched Shane lean past you to speak to the barista with the easy presumption of a man who assumed competence was automatic,

Shane ordered you a dark coffee with milk.

The small wrinkle appeared between your brows — there and gone in under a second, smoothed away before Shane had even finished thanking the barista — and you said something gracious that Dex couldn't hear from here, and Shane looked pleased with himself, and Dex felt the contempt arrive the same way it always did.

You’re so kind— it frustrates him.

It’s been the third time and he still doesn’t know your correct order. That you took other people's carelessness and converted it into grace so automatically, so completely, that they never even felt the weight of their own failure. Shane would walk away from this date thinking he'd done well.

Thinking you'd had a good time. Thinking a dark coffee with milk had been fine.

It wasn’t fine

It was the third time. Three dates, three opportunities, and Shane still hadn't learned the single most consistent thing about your mornings— not like dex does.

Dex had known that by the end of the second week.

Daniel didn't know— Shane doesn't know either.

‘Aren't I better?’

He stepped up to the counter when his turn came and arranged his face into something he hoped read as pleasant.

He watched you do it enough times to understand the specific mechanics of it, the precise sequence. The way your eyes went first, a particular softening at the corners, like whatever you were looking at had done something to deserve the warmth.

Then the mouth, your lips parting just enough before the smile widened fully, teeth settling into place with an ease that looked effortless because for you it was effortless — it came from somewhere real. Unlike him— who tried so hard to be good for you.

He tried to replicate it. Eyes first — he consciously softened them, or attempted to, directed the muscles around them into the approximate configuration. Then the mouth. Corners up, lips parting, the full shape of it assembled piece by careful piece from memory.

The barista looked at him.

And then continued looking at him for half-a-second too long— a flicker of something, not quite discomfort, not quite confusion, but weariness — before she recovered professionally and asked for his order.

His smile didn't land correctly

"Large caramel frappe," he said, letting the smile drop back to neutral, “Extra caramel”

Your exact order— Shane had needed three attempts and still hadn't gotten there.

‘Aren't I better?’

“ Dex! “

He turned like he was surprised and you were already moving toward him, bright and unguarded, the sweetest smile flashing at him. Like he was something lovely to you. He could be, all you had to do was let him in.

"It's so good to see you," you said, and you meant it, he could tell you meant it, and Shane was materializing at your shoulder with that slow easy smile that Dex had catalogued and categorized and dismissed, and introductions were made, and Dex shook Shane's hand with the pleasant face and the approximate smile and then let his gaze drop to the cup in your hand.

" What did you order?"

The wrinkle. One second—then gone, “ I got a dark coffee with milk” A small pause, the gracious kind, “ It's a required taste “

His frappe arrived at the counter.

He picked it up and he looked at you — at the coffee in your hands, at the wrinkle you'd already smoothed away, at the patience you extended so automatically to people who hadn't earned it — and he held it out.

"Here," he said, “Try this, it’s my favorite “

It landed simply, easily, he watched something move across your face — surprise first, then that warmth, that specific warmth you produced when something landed unexpectedly right — and you looked at the cup and looked at him and said — “Are you sure?"

"Go ahead," he said easily, “Tell me what you think."

You took the cup from him and drew the straw to your mouth and he watched — kept his expression pleasant and neutral and completely appropriate

“Oh —" you pulled back, looked down at the cup like it had done something to you, and then looked back up at him with that expression, the genuine one, the one that came without the delay — "this is good”

"Wait —" you took another sip, shorter this time, confirming something. Then you beamed up at him, like he hung the stars themselves and every good thing in your life began and ended with him.

And god— does he wish it does.

“Is this a caramel frappe? With extra caramel?"

"It is," he said

Your face did that thing again. That beautiful, impossible thing where your eyes brightened and your smile followed a heartbeat later, as though joy couldn't stay contained inside you. It was his favorite expression of yours—the one he could never look away from, "That's my order. That's exactly my order — I get this every morning, from the bakery on my street!—"

"Really” He let the surprise land on his face in careful, measured degrees. Eyebrows lifting just slightly. Head tilting just enough. The performance of coincidence, "That's my usual too”

"No—“

"Same order," he said, "Every time”

You laughed, as though you couldn't quite believe it— and shook your head like the universe had done something charming, and said "that's wild, I never meet anyone who orders it with extra —"

‘I know’, he thought, ‘I know you don't. I know your order and I know the bakery and I know that you've been going there for two years and I know the name of the barista who serves you on Tuesdays and I know you tip more when you've had a hard week and I know every single thing about you and none of it is a coincidence’

"Small world," he said pleasantly

You handed the cup back to him, still smiling, and your fingers brushed against his in the exchange. The contact lasted less than a second, fleeting and insignificant by any reasonable measure, but he swore he felt a jolt race through his hand. It lingered in his fingertips long after you'd pulled away, leaving him staring at the cup like it might explain what had just happened.

He looked at the straw.

The small, precise smudge of your lipstick remaining on it — a faint transfer, the exact shape of where your lips had pressed, your color against the plastic in a way that was so specific, so undeniably yours— and he was being very composed about this, because you were still right there and Shane was still right there and he had a finely calibrated sense of what registered as normal in public spaces.

He discreetly slid his lips along the straw to where yours had just been.

An indirect kiss—! Your spit in his mouth and—

He lowered the cup

He kept his expression carefully neutral, like euphoria wasn't rattling around inside his head. Like his first kiss with you hadn't permanently altered the trajectory of his thoughts. The sweetness lingered with infuriating clarity. Sugar on your lips. Sugar on his. You kissing him. Him kissing you.

His first kiss with you and you’re standing right there and you’re acting as if you didn’t kiss him and Shane is ruining it by existing

Shane has been on three dates with you and he's holding a dark coffee with milk.

Dex has never been on a single date with you and he’s already kissed you.

‘Aren’t I better?’

Dex already knew the answer to that

‘You just don't know it yet’

"Stupid rabbit," Shane muttered, spitting a glob of blood onto the damp leaves. It landed with a quiet plop, dark against the moss. His tongue probed the split in his lip—coppery. You'd clocked him good with that rock. Not enough to hurt him, though.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across his greying stubble. His breath came ragged, not from exhaustion but from the fury simmering beneath his skin.

The blood welled up again, thick and warm, seeping between his teeth like old rust. Shane chuckled, low and rasping, as it dripped down his chin in lazy streaks. He didn’t bother wiping it this time—let it pool in the hollow of his throat, sticky under the collar of his threadbare shirt.

His tongue flicked out, catching a drop at the corner of his mouth, and the taste of iron made his pulse jump.

"Stupid fucking bunny," he breathed, the words garbled by the blood and spit clotting his tongue, “Think you can just... hop away?"

He exhaled slow, letting the rifle settle against his shoulder, the cold metal kissing his cheekbone. Through the lens, the forest stretched in shades of green and shadow, branches weaving a latticework of escape routes.

His teeth clicked against the scope's edge. "C'mon, bunny," he murmured, breath fogging the glass, "Show me those pretty little paws”

A flicker of movement—there. Behind the rotting oak, where the ferns grew thick enough to hide a trembling body. Shane's grin split his lip wider, fresh blood beading along the seam. The taste was better than whiskey. He adjusted the focus, dialing in until he could see the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath that stupid flimsy dress he bought you on a whim, “ There you are” he crooned, voice honey-thick with false gentleness. The kind of tone you'd use to coax a spooked animal from under a porch.

The scope traced the line of your bare calf where you'd torn your stockings scrambling through brambles. His tongue clicked, “Shoulda’ dressed for the weather, bunny” Not that he minded the view—the way the damp fabric clung to your thighs, the shudder that went through you when a branch snapped somewhere to your left. You flinched so prettily. Shane's finger hovered over the trigger guard, tapping once, twice. He could take the shot now. Pop you right through that delicate collarbone, watch you fold like paper. But where was the fun in that?

Shane pursed his lips and let out a sharp, lilting whistle—the kind that could cut through wind and leaves, the kind you’d hear even with your pulse hammering in your ears. He knew you’d catch it. Knew you’d freeze mid-step, breath hitching, because the sound was too deliberate, too close.

He let the note linger, then dropped it low, muttering underneath his breath, “ Run rabbit, run rabbit—“ The words slithered out between his teeth, singsong and taunting.

He couldn’t help the grin that split his face wider, fresh blood welling at the corner of his mouth. The sting was delicious. You bolted—a frantic scramble through the underbrush, dress snagging on thorns, feet slipping in the damp earth. Shane exhaled through his nose, tracking your clumsy movements through the scope. The crosshairs danced over your back, your legs, the nape of your neck where sweat-slick hair clung to your skin. He could almost taste the panic rolling off you, thick as the copper on his tongue.

"m'sorry, m'sorry..." Dex sobs, voice muffled against your neck, his words dissolving into broken breaths.

He won't pull away from you, not even when your nails rake down his broad back, drawing red lines and tiny beads of blood. The slap of his hips against yours is relentless, drawing filthy, broken sounds out of both of you.

"Can't stop — don't want to—" he whines, hips snapping harder, chasing the feeling. The wet noises of your cunt echo through the room, slick and obscene.

"Dex!" you cry out, back arching off the sheets, oversensitive, shaking, “ m'so close, too much, pleaseee stop—"

He shakes his head like he's the one falling apart, a choked sob breaking out of him. He can't stop, not when you're squealing out his name so prettily, not when your cunt is trying to milk him for all he’s worth.

His grip on your hips tightens enough to bruise, fingertips digging in like he's terrified you'll vanish if he loosens them for even a second. The rhythm of his thrusts falters, his balls slapping heavily against your ass, hips stuttering as desperation overtakes the control he had moments ago, bleeding into every messy, uneven snap of his hips. His breath hitches wetly against your skin, and you realize he's crying again, silent tears dripping hot onto your shoulder.

"You never—" he gasps, voice cracking, "—never made those sounds with me” The words spill out between ragged breaths, raw with something that isn’t quite anger but aches just as deep, “Not once. Not like you did with him “ he spat.

His words were swept away, lost somewhere between the ringing in your ears and the white-hot haze still clouding your head. You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted, trying to catch up to whatever he just said.

“Huh?"

Dex's face is wrecked above you — flushed, lashes wet, that same broken sob still caught in his throat.

"Your window," he pants, tongue dragging wet over your pulse point before his teeth sink in again, sucking another bruise into your skin, “ South side. The blinds were— fuck— always crooked “ His hips jerk forward again, slower now but no less insistent, grinding into you with a groan as he felt your cunt squeeze around him, “ Every Tuesday. Thursday nights too”

The realization creeps over you slow, sick, like cold water seeping into your bones. You go rigid beneath him, fingers twisting tighter in his sweat-damp hair, “ Dex—"

He whines, high and desperate, rutting against you like an animal, his cock twitching inside you, still sensitive, "Saw everything," he confesses, breath hot against your jaw, “ Every time— Every fucking time” His voice cracks open on the last word, ragged, raw, “ The way you— the noises—" He shudders, eyes squeezing shut, and you feel the fresh spill of tears against your cheek, “ Never with me. Never once”

You're pulling at his hair now, nails scraping his scalp, and he just moans, loud and broken, hips stuttering against yours. His lips are slick and messy against your skin, spit-wet kisses that trail down your throat, his teeth catching on your collarbone, “ Stop— Dex—" you gasp, but your voice comes out weak, trembling, because your body's still clenching around him, still squeezing him tight, betraying you.

"You squirted for him," he mumbles into your shoulder, delirious, hips jerking shallowly, “ Twice. I saw—" His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and you sob, oversensitive, shaking as another wave crashes over you, “ Wanted to— fuck— wanted to make you—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck, shuddering as he spills inside you again, hips twitching weakly.

The squelching 'pop' of him pulling out echoes obscenely in the quiet room, followed immediately by the warm spill of his cum trickling between your thighs. Dex doesn't give you a second to breathe—his hands are already dragging your hips up, his mouth latching onto you with a desperate, messy hunger.

His tongue swipes broad and flat through the mess he left behind, tasting himself mixed with your slick, and the broken sound he makes vibrates against your oversensitive cunt, “ m'gonna— fuck— m'gonna make you," he slurs between wet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his grip bruising-tight as he spreads you wider.

"Nonono— Dex, stop—" Your legs jerk uselessly against his shoulders, heels skidding against sweat-slick skin, but he pins you down with the full weight of his body, tongue working relentless circles where you're oversensitive and trembling.

The vibrations of his groan against your clit send another jolt of pleasure-pain up your spine, your thighs clamping around his head instinctively even as you try to squirm away.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbles into you, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass dragging you closer. "Gonna make you— fuck— gonna make you cum right—" His words dissolve into a wet, obscene noise as his tongue dips inside you, fluttering shallow and fast, and your back arches off the bed with a punched-out whimper.

You claw at the sheets, toes curling, breath coming in ragged gasps—but Dex just growls against you, the sound dark and possessive, and doubles down. His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard enough to make you yelp, and suddenly his fingers are there too, pressing in deep, curling just righttt— "Dex, please—" you sob, but it's too late, your body betraying you again as heat coils tight in your belly, your hips jerking against his mouth uncontrollably.

The orgasm hits you like a delayed aftershock—sharp and sudden, tearing through you with enough force to leave your vision momentarily white. Your thighs clamp around Dex's head instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as you arch off the bed with a choked cry, but it's not the same.

Not the gush of wetness he'd confessed to watching through your crooked blinds, not the mess he'd fantasized about for weeks. Just a shuddering, ordinary climax that leaves you twitching beneath him, breathless and spent.

Dex pulls back immediately, lips swollen and wet, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His eyes dart between your face and the space between your legs like he's waiting for something—some proof, some sign—but when nothing comes, his expression cracks, “ Why?" he rasps, voice raw, hands tightening on your thighs hard enough to leave marks. His cock twitches weakly against his thigh, still painfully soft, the flush on his skin deepening with frustration, “ Why not with me?"

The question hangs between you, jagged-edged and desperate. You reach for him, fingers brushing his sweat-damped cheek, but he jerks back like you've burned him. "Dex, it's—"

"Don't “His laugh is brittle, fingers dragging through his own hair as he sits back on his heels, his cock bobbing against his stomach, red and leaking, “ Don't fucking say it's fine. It's not “ His throat bobs as he swallows hard, eyes darting away from yours, “ I saw you. I know what I saw. So why—"

His voice cracks, fingers digging into his own scalp now like he's trying to physically pull the thoughts out, “ Is it me? Am I not— fuck— not good enough? Not rough enough? What is it? “

You push yourself up on shaky elbows, still catching your breath, “ Dex— baby please”

" Do you still love him?," he interrupts, voice breaking, and suddenly you understand the wet shine in his eyes isn't just sweat, “ You let him. You— fuck” His hand fists around his own cock now, stroking roughly, his hips jerking into the tight circle of his fingers, “ But not me. Never me “His breath hitches, his strokes turning punishing, “ What's wrong with me?"

Your stomach twists, “ Nothing's wrong with you “You reach for him again, but he flinches away, his jaw clenching, “ Dex—"

"Then what?" His grip on himself tightens, precum smearing over his knuckles. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to— fuck—" He cuts off with a groan, his free hand dragging down his face, smearing tears and spit, “ I watched you. Every time. The way he touched you, the way you—" His breath stutters. "I did exactly what he did. Exactly! “ he cried out

"So why—" His voice drops to a whisper, raw and shattered, “Why aren't you giving me what I want?" he whines

Dex doesn't let you mutter another word out. His hands clamp around your wrists, pinning them to the mattress with a force that makes your breath catch. His weight presses you deeper into the sheets, the heat of his body scorching where it touches yours. You can feel the tremor in his grip—the sheer restrain he was holding from lashing out at you.

"You don't get to lie," he grits out, voice ragged. His thumbs dig into the delicate bones of your wrists, not quite painful but close enough, “Not when I saw it. Not when I fucking counted” His breath hitches, wet against your cheek, “Twice, you did it twice— for him!” he cried out.

His hips jerk against yours, his cock dragging through the mess between your thighs with a filthy, wet sound.

You lift your hands gently to frame his face, thumbs brushing away the wet trails on his cheeks as you press soft, feather-light kisses to his trembling lips, “Shhh, baby," you murmur, the words warm against his skin, your voice honey-sweet, "It's okay, I'm right here. I love you so much, Dex—look at me, sweetheart” His breath hitched when your fingers slide into his hair, scratching soothingly at his scalp the way he likes, and you lean in to nuzzle his nose with yours, grinning when his lashes flutter.

Your thumbs trace slow circles along his damp cheekbones, to the scars on his skin, pressing delicate kisses to each eyelid, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his quivering mouth.

"Love you," you whisper against his skin, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers card through his tangled hair, "Love you so much it hurts, Dex. My sweet boy” His breath shudders when you nip playfully at his jaw, grinning against the stubble as he instinctively tilts his head to give you better access, “ That's it, baby. Just breathe with me, yeah?"

His fingers twitched as they slide towards your palms intertwining your fingers together. You squeeze gently, bringing his knuckles to your lip, kissing each one while his chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, “Think we've had enough for today, hm?" you murmur, stretching up to peck the furrow between his brows, smiling when it smooths under your mouth, "Got all tomorrow to—"

"No. No, no, no—" the words tumble rapidly out of his mouth, desperation cracking through every syllable.

His hands tremble where they're clutched around yours, gripping tighter instead of letting go, like he needs the anchor of your fingers laced through his to keep himself from spiraling.

"You don't—you don't get it," he chokes out, shaking his head violently, strands of sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. His pupils are blown wide, dark with something frantic and wounded, “I can—fuck, I can do better. Just—just let me—" His hips jerk forward involuntarily, still achingly soft despite his wants, body too spent to follow where his desperation wants to take it.

His words dissolve into a wet, desperate whine as he presses his forehead against yours, trembling fingers scrabbling at your hips like he’s trying to carve himself into your skin. "Let me—" His voice cracks, raw and broken, "Let me be enough, just this once—"

You barely have time to inhale before he’s pushing into you again, his cock still half-hard and oversensitive, the swollen head dragging against your walls with a shuddering gasp.

His whole body shakes with the effort, muscles twitching under sweat-slick skin as he forces himself deeper, teeth gritted against the overwhelming sensation. His fingers dig into the bruises already purpling your hips, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"Dex—no” you start, but he cuts you off with a ragged groan, his hips jerking forward in shallow, uneven thrusts. His breath hitches wetly against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point in something that might’ve been a kiss if it weren’t for the way his teeth catch on your skin moments later.

"Please," he whimpers, the word muffled against your collarbone, his voice so small it barely reached your ears. His cock twitched inside you, still soft enough that every movement draws a broken noise from his throat, his body trembling with the strain of chasing a pleasure that’s just out of reach. "Please, please, pleaseee—"

His plea dissolves into a wet gasp as his hips stutter forward, the swollen head of his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls.

The sound is obscene—wet, squelching—as his cock drags in and out of you, still half-hard but relentless in its pursuit. Each thrust is uneven, desperate, his hips jerking forward with a broken rhythm that makes his breath hitch.

His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you closer, as if he could fuse himself to you if he just pressed hard enough. "Fuck, fuck—" he whines, voice cracking, forehead pressed to your collarbone as his cock twitches inside you, still oversensitive but refusing to stop. His hands scramble upward, palms rough as they grope your tits, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

"Feel—feel so good," he slurs against your skin, tongue laving over the sweat-slick curve of your breast before his teeth sink in, sucking a bruise into the soft flesh. His cock pulses inside you, still struggling to stay fully hard, but he pushes deeper anyway, hips stuttering as he grinds against you with a choked sob. "Wanna—wanna make you—"

His words dissolve into a wet moan as his fingers pinch your nipples sharply, twisting just enough to make you arch beneath him, your cunt clenching around him reflexively. He groans, loud and wrecked, his hips snapping forward like he's chasing the sensation, even as his body trembles with exhaustion.

Dex's body gives out all at once—his arms buckle, his knees slip, and he collapses onto you with a ragged groan, his sweat-slick chest pressing flush against yours. His breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps, his muscles trembling with exhaustion as he nuzzles weakly into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse point in a silent plea.

“m’sorry, m'sorry," he slurs, voice thick with tears, his hips twitching weakly against yours even now, as if his body refuses to accept defeat, “ I'll—I'll be better, swear it, just—just lemme—" His words dissolve into a broken whimper, feeling your pussy clamp around his spent cock, jizz oozing out of your dripping hole.

You pant beneath him, your own limbs heavy, skin tingling from oversensitivity, every inch of you aching in the best and worst ways.

Your thighs quiver where they bracket his hips, your cunt still fluttering around him in aftershocks, and you wince at the sensation—too much, too soon, but Dex doesn't pull away. Instead, he presses closer, his fingers tangling in the sheets beside your head as he shudders, his entire body wracked with exhaustion.

“Gonna—gonna be good," he mumbles, lips dragging wetly along your collarbone, his voice wrecked. "Gonna—fuck—gonna make you—" His hips jerk again, but it's weak, pathetic, his body betraying him as a fresh wave of tremors wracks his frame.

Dex's voice scrapes out dry and cracked, throat raw from overuse— every whine and broken syllable he's spent the last hour pulling out of himself leaving him parched, "We're gonna go again”

His hips shift weakly against yours, a half-hearted grind that barely stirs him inside you, “ I’m gonna get it right this time”

The ceiling stares back at you, blank and indifferent, while something heavy settles low in your ribs, cold and creeping.

Aegon, her firstborn with Daemon, who was screaming somewhere behind her now, and she hoped he did not see, hoped he would be given mercy. Thought a small and wretched part of herself wished he would die with her. They would be reunited soon enough— with his little brother Viserys, who had never been able to part away from him anyway.

Oh— and Visenya, her little princess, dead far too soon, who never managed her first breath.

Each and every single of them born and feed to this war, one by one, like wood to a fire that could never be content.

The Dragonpit's pale grey light caught Sunfyre's scales then, gold bleeding into gold, and something in her that had never stopped being Viserys's daughter looked upon the dragon unmaking her and thought — absurdly, with her last guttering breath — beautiful.

Beautiful, she thought— and then she thought nothing kind ever again.

What a fool she had been. What a perfect obedient fool, raised on her fathers softness like a child raised on honeyed milk, fed believes about unity and love and the graduate of the realm that had repaid every Targaryen kindness with a knife. She had sacrificed her hatchlings— her dragons— sons, the future of her house and Westeros had called them bastards— incentious babes born from a mad womb.

Unnatural— monstrous by nature and then called her Maegor with tits for daring to want what was rightfully hers.

Maegor with tits. As thought that were an insult.

She thought— if only she had been born of cruler blood— Maegors blood. Not Rhaenys blood— Aenys blood. Aenys the false dragon, the weak king who allowed the faith Militant to rise and wept and apologized as if tears could fix it. Not Jaehaerys either, the great Conciliator, who had bent the knee to the grey rats and the faith.

Not Alysanna, the Good Queen, who was more andal with Valyrian coloring. Who had prayed for peace and gotten graves of all thirteen children.

Not her own father— her sweet, stupid father. Viserys the Kind— Viserys the Fool, Viserys the Kinslayer, was a more fitting name. Who had filled his daughter head with dreams of a united realm, and lords who would willingly bow to a Queen. Who had cut open his own own cousin-wife for a babe that could not make it part a fortnight.

And her spineless mother— Queen Aemma, who had spent most of her life on her back birthing dead children after dead children.

If the maestors had not been so trusted. If the faith had not been so accommodated with their Father above and their filthy andal customs.

Mayhaps Baelon the Brave would have lived— mayhaps Aemon would have drawn breath long enough to take the throne and this whole wretched story would have been different.

But no— instead there was her. Rhaenyra Targaryen the Cruel— Maegor with tits. Daughter of Viserys, granddaughter of Jaehaerys, blood of Aenys— blood of Rhaenys the first dragonlord who was shot down by dorne, by the descendants of water mages.

‘They called me Maegor with tits’, she thought as the dark finally closed in, ‘and they meant it as an insult’.

They had no idea it was the finest name they could have ever given her.

And then there was nothing.

Until, there was wind.

That was the first thing — the wrongness of her own position, spine pressed against scales, arms thrown wide, hair whipping across her face in a roar of cold air that stole every thought before it formed. The sky above her was vast and pale and she was moving, falling, the ground somewhere below her rushing up at a speed her body understood before her mind did.

Syrax

She was on Syrax's back. They were plummeting — dragon and rider both, tumbling through open air, the earth below them enormous and approaching fast, and Rhaenyra had just enough breath to scream her dragon's name before the wind took it, shredded it, scattered it across a sky that did not care.

Pull up, she thought, or screamed, or prayed — the distinction had ceased to matter. Pull up pull up pull up—

Syrax's wings caught.

Not fully. Not enough. But enough to slow the fall, enough to turn the plummet into something survivable, enough that when they hit the ground it was not death but something adjacent to it — a crash that knocked every thought from Rhaenyra's skull and left her flat on her back in the dirt, staring up at a sky she did not recognize.

She lay very still.

Ribs — present, possibly cracked. Hands — bleeding, she could feel that, the warm wet of it seeping into the dirt beneath her palms. Head — ringing, a high thin sound like a bell struck too hard. She was alive. She was furious about how much everything hurt and furious was good, furious meant alive, and alive meant —

She turned her head.

Syrax lay not ten feet from her, one great wing crumpled at an angle that made something in Rhaenyra's chest seize and pull. The dragon was breathing — she could see it, the slow heave of golden flanks — but her eyes were closed and she was still and silence from a dragon was the worst sound in the world.

Syrax

She tried to move. Her body disagreed. She made it move anyway.

Her darling girl. Her only sister, the one who had shared her cradle before she was old enough to walk, the one constant in a life that had taken everything else from her one by one. The only creature in all of Westeros that had never wanted anything from her — not her throne, not her womb, not her compliance. The only one who had ever simply known her, the way dragons knew their riders, down to the marrow, down to the blood

She groaned. The sound that came out of her was undignified and raw and she did not care — she had left dignity somewhere above the clouds. She rolled onto her stomach first, pressed her forehead against the cold earth for a moment that was longer than she intended, and then she crawled. Hands and knees through the dirt, leaves catching in her hair, mud smearing up her arms, every movement pulling at something in her chest that protested loudly and was ignored.

She could feel the grime of it — the cold wet earth soaking through the knees of her gown, the leaves plastered against her cheek, dirt crusted into the cuts on her palms. ‘A queen’,she thought, with a laugh that came out more like a wheeze.

What a queen she made.

She reached Syrax's side and collapsed against her, one hand pressing flat against the golden scales, and felt the heat of her — the slow rhythmic breath

‘Good’, she thought. ‘Stay. Stay with me’

She heard the horses before she saw them. The thunder of hooves against hard ground, fast and purposeful, the kind of riding that was not curiosity but intention. Someone had seen them fall. Of course they had — a dragon dropping from the sky was not something that went unnoticed.

Then the sun had vanished.

A large shadow moved across the ground like a stormfront, swallowing the pale light whole, and the cold that came with it was brutal. Rhaenyra felt it before she understood it — a tremor in the earth beneath her knees, a vibration that climbed up through her hands and into her chest and settled in her back teeth like the precursor to a thunderclap.

She looked up.

The roar hit her like a physical wound

It was not the roar of a dragon she knew. She knew dragon roars — had grown up beside them, had felt Syrax's call reverberate through her ribs since she was a little girl.

‘Vhagar’, was her first thought, instinctive and cold with dread.

But Vhagar was green— and dead. Daemon had made sure of it.

The shadow that blotted out the sun above her was cast by something black. Black as a sunless sea, black as the space between stars, wings so vast they swallowed the horizon on both sides as it banked low overhead, and the wind of its passing flattened the grass and tore at her ruined hair and pressed her half down against Syrax's flank.

One enormous eye caught the light as it wheeled — black scales, red eye, and a size that made Syrax look like a small hound.

‘Balerion’, she thought. And the word moved through her like ice water.

Balerion the Black Dread

The horses pulled up hard, small clouds of disturbed earth rising at their hooves, and not one of them obeyed willingly. They fought their riders — tossing their heads, skidding sideways, muscles bunching beneath their flanks as every instinct they possessed screamed against moving closer. The riders hauled at their reins with both hands, cursing low, keeping their distance. And who could blame the animals.

There was a dragon here. Wounded and grounded she may be, but a dragon still, and Syrax's golden eye was tracking every one of them with the slow patience of a predator.

One man, however did not stop.

He pushed through the line of spooked horses without slowing, his own mount steady and calm where every other animal was not. He rode until he was close enough that she could no longer pretend she did not know exactly who she was looking at.

Maegor

Maegor the Cruel stood before her.

As a girl she had seen him in the paintings that hung on the walls of Dragonstone. A kinslayer he may be — had killed his own nephews without flinching — but a Targaryen he would always be.

Even in death.

In the paintings he had always been rendered large — broad shouldered and imposing, with a stern face, he was a warrior. But painters were flatterers by trade and she had always assumed they had given him more than the gods had — had added inches to his shoulders and steel to his jaw because that was what you did for kings who frightened you.

They had not flattered him.

And yet it was not the size of him that stole the breath from her lungs, It was the simple and impossible fact of him standing here. Breathing. Alive.

Maegor Targaryen had been dead for over a century.

He was history. He was portrait and parchment and cautionary tale.

And yet— he’s breathing. Alive.

And gods— he was looking at her.

She was still on her knees, she realized. Mud soaked through her gown, Syrax's warmth at her back, blood drying in the creases of her palms. On her knees before Maegor the Cruel on the shores

“ who are you, girl? “

She got to her feet — she was a queen, and queens did not belong on their knees.

Slowly. Every inch of her body lodging its protest, her ribs pulling tight with each breath, her legs threatening to betray her before she had even straightened fully. The ground seemed uncertain beneath her, or perhaps that was her own skull still ringing from the fall.

But she got there. She got to her feet and she stayed there and she did not sway.

‘Have some pride’, she told herself. ‘Stand tall and face him’

She had faced the birthing bed six times. She had watched her children die and drop like flies. Had sat on council with men who wished her dead and still she held strong.

But she was afraid.

She had died— she was sure of it. Burned alive and then eaten.

She had died and she had woken and she was standing on the shores of Dragonstone which was her home and not her home and in front of her stood a man who had been dead for a century.

‘How’,she thought. ‘How could she be here. How was any of this—‘

“ I will not repeat myself, woman “

"Rhaenyra," she said, At least that much was true.

“ Rhaenyra of House Belaerys “

"Belaerys," he repeated. Tasting the lie in his mouth.

"One of the great dragonlord houses of the Freehold," she said evenly, “ As you well know”

The man at the registration had looked at him the way men looked at things they found beneath their consideration — a brief flat assessment, top to bottom, taking in the worn boots and the mended gambeson and the absence of any lord's seal or witnessed document, and had set down his quill and asked Dunk, with the patience of someone who had already decided the answer, who exactly had knighted him and whether said knight was present to verify it.

Dunk had stood there for a moment with nothing to say to that because there was nothing to say to that. Ser Arlan was dead and in the ground and the only other person who had witnessed anything was Egg, who was a boy of ten and a squire and hardly a reliable voucher for a knight's credentials, so he had said thank you in the flat toneless way he said things when he was swallowing something larger, and the man had written something down that Dunk could not read and told him to come back tomorrow, and Dunk had come back out into the afternoon light with his jaw tight and his pride in tatters.

Lost in his own thoughts he nearly collided with a horse — a fine one, pale grey and tall, the kind of animal that cost more than a hedge knight would see in a lifetime, held by a stablehand who scrambled out of the way as Dunk lurched sideways and caught himself.

He straightened up and opened his mouth to apologize and then saw the man holding the reins on the other end and closed it again.

The high born looked at him the way men of his station looked at large inconvenient things that had wandered into their path — a brief flat assessment, not unfriendly exactly, simply absent of any acknowledgment that Dunk was a person rather than an obstacle. He held out the reins without looking at him fully.

"You there," he said, “ Take it to the stables”

“Ser,” Dunk said, trying to keep his voice steady, “I’m not a stableboy, my lord”

The young lord’s answer came quick as a whip crack. “Not clever enough?”

He looked at Dunk then — truly looked — his pale eyes traveling slowly from Dunk’s worn boots to the mended seams of his gambeson, lingering just long enough to make the meaning plain.

Heat flooded Dunk’s face

He had known, of course. He had always known. A hedge knight’s kit was rarely fine, and his was worse than most. No bright silk, no polished silver clasps, no cloak trimmed in fur. Just plain cloth and leather patched where it had worn thin on the road.

Before him stood the opposite of that — silver hair bright in the sun, garments cut and fitted so well they might have come straight from a lord’s own tailor.

The noble ser snorted faintly.

“Well then,” he said lazily, swinging down from the saddle in one smooth motion, “if you cannot manage horses, fetch me wine and a pretty wench “

Dunk swallowed the knot rising in his throat

“My lord, pardon me,” he said, forcing the words out carefully, “I’m no serving man either. I have the honor to be a knight”

The silver-haired lord paused

His gaze slid over Dunk once more, slower this time, as though inspecting something mildly offensive that had been left in his path.

“Oh?” he said at last. The disdain in his smile was thin and sharp as a blade, “Well, Knighthood has fallen on sad days”

And with that, he turned and walked off without another glance, leaving Dunk standing where he was, feeling larger than most men and yet somehow very small all the same.

Dunk stood where he was for a moment longer than he should have, the sting of the exchange still sitting unpleasantly in his chest.

He turned back toward the registration office where he had left Egg and Nimue and found them more or less where he had left them, which was to say Egg was exactly where he had been told to stay and Nimue was standing three feet to his left studying a banner with a sigil on it that had apparently captured her complete attention, her head tilted, the teardrop pearl swaying gently at her brow.

The sound of a small wooden rattle drifted through the crowded market lane, joined by the soft pluck of strings that rose above the chatter of the tourney grounds. Dunk had seen plenty of crowds and tents before, but he had never had the chance to watch a puppet show up close.

Peering through the gap in the canvas he could see a tiny painted figure dancing across the stage, twirling on invisible wires as the puppeteer's deft fingers made it leap and bow in perfect rhythm.

He glanced down at Nimue

She was watching him instead of the puppets

He cleared his throat and looked back at the stage

He glanced down at Nimue again— still watching him

He pointed at the stage. One large finger, very deliberate, “ That," he said, “ Look at that”

She looked at his finger then back at his face.

"She's looking at your finger," Egg said

"I can see that”

"You pointed like she was a dog”

"I was showing her—"

"You showed her your finger, Ser”

"I was showing her the puppet—"

"By pointing," Egg said, “Like a dog”

Dunk lowered his hand. He looked at the stage. He looked at Nimue. Nimue looked back at him with those wide pretty eyes.

"Just—" His hand came up slowly, big and careful, and he cupped her cheek in his palm and turned her face toward the stage the way you turned something fragile and worth being careful with, “ There," he said, a little gruffly. "The puppet. See it?"

She looked at the stage for exactly one moment.

Then she turned her face back into his palm, nuzzling into the rough calloused skin with a purr rumbling low and steady in her chest. She looked up at him with those eyes and her cheeks had gone the faintest pink and her lips had curved into something so open and unguarded it barely resembled the small sharp smile he had grown used to.

She was just — happy. Simply and completely happy, looking up at him like he was the only thing worth looking at in a field full of color and noise and spectacle.

The flush crawled up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He was not a man women smiled at like that. He was too large and too rough and too uncertain in polite company and he had made his peace with that a long time ago. And yet here she was. Looking at him like that. Like he was something.

A sharp tug at her coat interrupted them.

Nimue looked down.

Egg had the fabric bunched in both fists, his face tipped up toward hers, and he was pointing at the tent with one hand and then looking back at her with the particular expression of a child who wanted something and had decided she was the one to give it to him. He made a sound — impatient and wanting and very young — and pointed again.

She looked at what he was pointing at.

Something settled in her face that had not been there before.

His sire had done the same thing not moments ago — that same large deliberate finger aimed at the tent, that same wanting in his eyes. And now here was his guppy, small fists bunched in her coat, pointing at the very same thing with the very same expression on his small face.

She took his hand.

Egg pressed forward through the small gathered crowd with the focused determination of someone who had decided on the best vantage point and intended to have it, towing Nimue behind him by the hand. She followed without resistance, stepping around land-dwellers.

His eyes moved across the little stage, tracking the painted figures as they danced and dipped on their strings, his lips slightly parted.

Nimue stood beside him and watched.

Not the puppets

She watched Egg's face

The wonder on it. The way his chin had tipped up and his eyes had gone wide and his small hand had tightened slightly in hers without him noticing he'd done it. She looked at him the way she had looked at Dunk in the lake — with that still, certain, unhurried attention of a creature that had found something worth keeping and was quietly deciding never to let it go.

Her guppy

The puppeteer took her bow to a scatter of applause, the little painted figures stilling on their strings, and the crowd began to shift and disperse the way crowds did when the thing they had gathered for was finished.

Egg clapped with the focused enthusiasm of someone who had genuinely enjoyed himself and was not embarrassed about it.

Nimue released his hand and looked back through the crowd for Dunk.

He was already there. He had found them sometime during the second act, large and unmistakable at the back of the small crowd

He cleared his throat

The puppeteer was packing away her figures with quick practiced hands when Dunk stepped forward. "Hello there." He tossed a coin toward her — quick and easy — and she caught it without looking up, fingers closing around it neat as a snap, and when she did look up there was a smile already spreading on her face, warm and unguarded.

"That was great," Egg said, materializing at Dunk's elbow, "How did you do the fire tricks?"

The puppeteer — young, dark haired, paint stained fingers — reached into her kit without ceremony and threw a quick pinch of powder at the nearest burning candle. The flame flared sudden and bright and Egg flinched back half a step before he could stop himself. She dusted her hands off on her skirts, satisfied.

Egg recovered his dignity immediately, “ Is it pollen?"

"Collected on the way," The puppeteer replied

Egg hummed, filing it away in whatever part of his mind stored useful information. His eyes had already moved to the puppets being carefully folded and packed away, large and intricate and painted in vivid colors. "I've never seen such giant puppets," he said, “ Did you make them yourself?"

Nimue cared little for their conversation; instead, she remained quietly watching Duncan.

The way he stood — too straight, too careful. His weight shifting almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other. The hand that came up to rub the back of his neck and then thought better of it and dropped back to his side and then came up again anyway.

She could smell it on him.

Salt and warmth and the particular sharp edge that came with nervousness, rolling off him in waves she could feel from where she stood.

She could feel the heat radiating off him too, that specific warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun and everything to do with the woman standing in front of him.

Her eyes flicked from the dancing objects to the female land-dweller. To the smile. To the way it kept finding Duncan’s face, smiling up at him.

Nimue’s expression fell flat. Her lips curled upward, revealing the jagged points of her teeth, and her head tilted slightly to the side, nose upturned, as though measuring the threat before her.

Her gaze hardened, cold and unblinking. The faint flare of her fins along her ears twitched, rigid with tension, and the faint shimmer along her skin seemed to pulse like a warning.

Foolish land-dwelling female — and a dull one at that.

No wonder she carried no scent of a male on her. For who would take such a plain female? She had no jewelry worth speaking of — no pearls, no luminous things, nothing that caught the blotted light the way it ought to be caught. Only small trinkets hanging from her fins and wrapped through her dark hair like an afterthought.

So instead of finding her own she set her eyes on others— she had set her eyes on a male that was already taken for.

Her mate. Who had taken her pearl and placed it carefully on his person.

How could she let such a male slip from her webbed palms?

Broad, warm and steady as a kelp bed, the kind of steady that did not shift with the current but held firm underneath everything, something you could wrap yourself around and trust to stay. A male who had sired a fine guppy— surely to grow strong and capable, to catch strong prey one day, to make any mother proud.

And no dull plain land dweller with trinkets in her hair and no pearl to her name was going to take either of them from her.

She imagined burying her teeth deep into the flesh of the female land-dweller, feeling in her mind the stringy meat give way beneath her bite. Muscles would tear and pull apart as she wrenched at it, the tough fibers stretching before finally snapping under the strength of her jaws.

In her thoughts she ripped the flesh free piece by piece, savoring the brutal satisfaction of the hunt.

Her kind was no stranger to such disputes— you fought for what was yours or you lost it. You ate or you were eaten.

Nimue watched her with the patient certainty of a creature who had no trouble waiting for a promising hunt.

The waters just needed to thin a little more

Dunk was not a man who questioned the will of the gods. Scarce as their favor had always been for him — and it had always been scarce, for a boy born with nothing in Flea Bottom had little reason to believe the Seven spared him much thought — he had learned to accept the shape of his life without complaint.

He was a simple man. Honor was the only cloth he had ever owned and he had worn it thin in places but he had worn it nonetheless. So he could not explain, by any logic available to him, how he had arrived at this particular stretch of road to Ashford with a squire he hadn't asked for and a maiden he understood even less, walking beside him on feet that had been a fish tail.

He could not explain it. He had stopped trying.

What he could not stop, no matter how he tried, was looking at her. His eyes had developed a treacherous habit of finding her face every few seconds regardless of what else he pointed them at — the road, the treeline, the back of Egg's head, it didn't matter, they always drifted back.

She was pretty when she was still and she was pretty when she moved and she was devastating when she smiled, which she did often and without warning, and every time she did his cheeks went hot and his jaw went stupid.

Gods, but she was something. Something fierce too, he reminded himself, wincing as he shifted his sword arm and felt the long rake of claw marks pull tight beneath his sleeve — still fresh, still deep, the kind of marks that would scar. He had not entirely ruled out that she had been trying to eat him. He had also not entirely ruled out that he would have let her.

If he hadn't known better he would say she was trying to drown him with the surprising strength in her soft hands. The water surging and swallowing him, closing over his head cold and dark and complete, his feet leaving the lake bed entirely before he had understood what was happening — and then she had pulled him back up just as easily, one hand fisted in his hair, and he had broken the surface gasping while she watched him with those big eyes.

But surely such a wonderful creature wouldn’t dare to cause harm?

He had stood there, gripping the pearl tight in his palm, the claw marks on his forearm burning at the touch of the cold water, and he had thought — perhaps he had frightened her somehow. Perhaps she had panicked. He was large, he knew he was large, he had always known it, and a maiden alone in a lake with a man the size of Dunk had every right to panic.

He could not fault her for that. He did not fault her for that.

But surely. Surely a maiden that pretty, with pearls in her hair and that fine gossamer veil floating around her and a teardrop pearl sitting so delicately at the center of her forehead — surely such a maiden was not the sort to — he had rolled his sleeve down carefully over the marks. She had pressed her lips to his cheek not ten minutes later and he had felt the flush climb all the way to his ears and he had decided, quietly and finally, not to think about the lake anymore.

Egg kept pestering him about it regardless. The boy had that look on his face, the particular one where he thought hard and strenuous about something.

He had refused to say anything else, unsure how to voice it. He would sound mad if he did. He would not know how to explain such a pretty creature — not to an innkeeper, not to another knight, not to anyone with the sense the gods gave them. ‘ I found her in a lake’ was not an explanation. ‘ She has—had? a fish tail and teeth like broken glass and she kissed me and now she won't stop and I don't know what any of it means ‘ was considerably worse. He kept it behind his teeth where it belonged and watched the road and said nothing.

He had given her his spare shoes and his shirt and his cloak and his spare pants and gods — he had not been prepared for any of it. His shirt on her small frame, the hem falling past her thighs, the sleeves swallowing her hands entirely, and the pants cinched at her waist with a length of rope because there was nothing else for it, bunching at the ankles, and she had looked — he kept his eyes on the road. It was not proper to think about. She deserved better than his old worn things, that much was plain.

She should have had fine things. Silk and samite and embroidered cloth the way noble women wore, the kind of finery that came with wealth he would never have, fabric that caught the light the way she caught the light. Something worthy of the pearls in her hair and the veil and that delicate teardrop at her forehead. The nearest inn, he decided.

Whatever copper he had left. He would find her a dress at the nearest inn they came to if it cleaned him out entirely, because his clothes made him feel the full weight of what he was — a hedge knight with a bedroll and a horse he shared with his squire and not a copper to his name worth mentioning — and she deserved better than that. She deserved better than him, if he was being honest, which he tried to be.

She tugged suddenly on his forearm.

He stopped walking. Looked down at her. She held his forearm in both hands and pulled, patient and insistent, until he understood and crouched down to her level.

She pressed her lips to his cheek.

Warm and soft and unhurried, held a breath longer than usual, her small hands still curved around his forearm over the marks she had left there, and when she pulled back she was smiling that small curved smile directly into his face from two inches away.

And then she did not stop.

His other cheek. His jaw. The corner of his eye, which startled him enough that he made a sound he would never admit to making. His cheek again.

She was very thorough about it, cupping his face in both small hands to turn him where she wanted him, and Dunk stood bent at the waist with his hands braced on his knees because she had pulled him down to her height and he was too large to crouch comfortably and too bewildered to straighten up, folded nearly in half on the side of the road while she worked through whatever this was with the focused efficiency of someone completing a task.

His ears were on fire. Everything was on fire. He was a very large man bent double on a road to Ashford being kissed repeatedly on the face by someone that had a fish tail— and he had absolutely nothing to say about any of it.

Then she kissed his mouth.

Brief and soft and simple, the same as everything else she did, like it required no more thought than any of the rest of it, and pulled back with that smile still in place.

Dunk straightened up slowly.

His full height. All of it. He needed it.

"That — I—" He stopped. Took a breath. Tried again with the measured deliberateness of a man rebuilding something that had fallen over, “ My lady. Such displays of affection are — they are things reserved for husbands and wives. For couples who have — who are — it is not proper between two people who are not—"

She was looking up at him. Directly at him, big pretty eyes and very close, and he felt the thought he had been constructing simply come apart somewhere in the middle of his chest. The flush was climbing again. He could feel it, "It is not — that is to say — a man and a woman ought not to—" She tilted her head. The teardrop pearl swayed gently. He looked at her face and forgot what proper meant and what it was for and why he had ever thought it applied here.

“ Perhaps," he said, after a moment, in a voice that had given up entirely on authority, “ Perhaps not in public”

She smiled

He looked at the road

His ears were red

She patted his chest with one small hand, the way you patted something large and harmless, and then her hands were moving, sliding from his chest to his arms, down to his forearms and back up and she wrapped both hands around his bicep and squeezed with that same slow deliberate pressure and tilted her head like she was taking measurements and Dunk stood there with his mouth open mid-sentence and forgot entirely what the sentence had been.

Her fingers traced the ridges of his chest, pressing into muscle hardened by years of swordplay and labor. The contrast was sharp—her hands, cool as river stones against his sun-warmed skin, mapping him with unhurried curiosity.

Dunk swallowed hard, his breath hitching when she dug her thumbs into the thick cord of his forearm, kneading like she was testing dough. A soft, pleased sound hummed in her throat, something between a sigh and a purr, and the noise sent an odd jolt through him, half embarrassment, half something else entirely.

She lingered over the swell of his bicep, squeezing with deliberate interest, and Dunk’s face burned hotter than forge coals.

She moved up to his bicep again. Both hands this time, thumbs pressing into the muscle with that same slow deliberate interest, and she made the sound again, lower this time, more satisfied, like she had found what she was looking for and approved of it.

Dunk's jaw had gone very tight. He was staring at a fixed point somewhere above her head with the focused desperation of a man trying to think about something, anything, the road, the tourney, Ser Arlan's advice on sword grip, anything at all, and failing comprehensively because she had both hands on his arm and was purring and he was only a man.

"You are—" he started, and had to stop because his voice had done the thing again. He cleared his throat. Tried once more, “ You are very—" She dug her thumbs in again and the word he had been reaching for dissolved entirely. He exhaled through his nose. Long and slow and controlled, the way he breathed before a fight, which felt appropriate because he was losing this one badly.

She looked up at him with those eyes and that small curved smile and her hands still wrapped around his arm.

She looked very pleased with herself

Ser Arlan had never prepared him for this. Then again, Ser Arlan had been only a man too — and perhaps Dunk ought not to have judged him so harshly all those years when he whored and spent good coin on pretty faces. He understood now. He owed the old man an apology he would never be able to give.

She patted his cheek once and walked away toward Egg.

Dunk stood where she left him longer than he should have and watched her go and said nothing about it.

She reached Egg and looked up at him from the ground with that patient tilted attention and Egg looked back down at her from the saddle and whatever passed between them in that moment was apparently sufficient because she reached up and took his small face in both hands and began.

Forehead. Both cheeks. The tip of his nose, which scrunched. The top of his bald head, which she pressed her lips to and held a moment. Egg did not pull away. Egg did not say anything sharp or clever or pointed. Egg, who had an opinion on everything and kept it ready, went very quiet and very still under her hands and his chin tipped up slightly the way a cat tipped its chin up when you found the right spot, asking for more without asking, and his eyes drifted shut and stayed there. She chirped softly.

She smoothed both palms over his head. She tucked his collar up and straightened his cloak and kissed his temple and his cheek again and Egg sat in the saddle and basked in it the way the earth basked in sun after a long winter, openly and without shame.

Dunk watched them and said nothing and looked back at the road.

Something sat in his chest that he didn’t have a name for either.

They walked like that for a time, the three of them, the horses plodding and the road flattening out ahead and the distant sound of Ashford carrying on the wind before they could see it — woodsmoke and voices and the faint bright noise of a crowd gathered for something. She had drifted back to his side by then, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm when the road narrowed, and she did not move away from it. He did not move away from it either. He told himself it was because the road was narrow.

It was not a narrow road.

“We’ll need to know what to call you “ he said, to the road ahead, because saying it to her face still did things to his ability to form sentences, “Before we get there. Someone’ll ask”

She looked up at him. Patient and unhurried, the teardrop pearl swaying gently at her brow.

He opened his mouth

“Bess,” he said

The silence that followed was considerable

She looked at him. Egg looked at him. Even the horse seemed to have an opinion.

“Bess,” Egg repeated, in the tone of a man identifying a dead body.

“It’s a good name,” Dunk said, with the defensive conviction of someone who knew he was losing. “Common, Tis’ a pretty name ”

“She has pearls in her hair,” Egg said. “She has — “ he gestured broadly at all of her, “ — she looks like that, and you want to call her Bess”

“What’s wrong with Bess—”

“My horse is named Bess, Dunk.”

A pause

“ The horse is named Maester,” Dunk said

“I renamed her. In my head. Just now. So that you would understand the problem”

She was watching them with her head tilted, looking between them

"She deserves better than Bess," Egg said, with finality.

"There is nothing wrong with Bess," Dunk said, “ Bess suits her”

"Bess," Egg said flatly, "is the name of a dairy cow."

"It is not—"

"Or a washerwoman “

"There is nothing wrong with washerwomen—"

She was watching them both with her head tilted and her hands folded neatly in front of her, looking between them with the mild interest of someone watching two dogs argue over a bone. The teardrop pearl swayed. She chirped once, softly, to no one in particular.

"She agrees with me," Egg said

"She doesn't know what we're talking about”

"She knows your tone," Egg said, "Everyone knows your tone."

Dunk looked at the road ahead and said nothing because there was nothing to say that would help him.

Egg was quiet for a moment, the sharpness leaving his voice briefly, replaced by something younger. "My father used to read to me when I was small," he said. "Old stories mostly. He mentioned a name once — Nimue." He looked at her, at the pearls and the veil and the teardrop at her brow and the shimmer of her skin in the last of the light. "It means Lady of the Lake”

Dunk looked at her

She tilted her head at him and waited.

"Nimue" he said

She smiled, wide and slow and warm, and the points of her teeth caught the light.

"You're welcome," Egg said

"I didn't thank you “

"You will," Egg said, with the serenity of someone who had never once in his life been wrong about anything.

They heard Ashford before they saw it.

The noise came first — a distant roar that grew gradually into something distinguishable, voices and steel and the deep percussion of hooves on packed earth, the particular layered sound of a great many people gathered in one place with something happening. Then the banners, visible above the treeline, bright against the pale sky.

Then the gates, and the crowd funneling through them in both directions, people leaving with tired feet and full eyes, people entering still bright with anticipation, and Dunk slowed without meaning to at the sight of it.

Nimue stopped beside him. Her hand found his arm. He let her take it.

He found comfort in such a simple touch. It was not just him here. He had his squire at his back and Nimue at his side and that was — that was something. That was more than he had arrived at most places with. Ser Arlan had always ridden alone at the end, just the two of them, and before that it had been just Dunk.

He was not that boy anymore. He had people now, small as the number was, and they had followed him here and that meant something. It meant he had to be worth following. It meant he had to be what he said he was — honorable, decent, a true knight.

He looked down at Nimue's small hand on his arm. She was not looking at him. She was looking at the gates, at the press of people moving through them, at the banners and the noise and the whole enormous unfamiliar world of it, and there was no fear in her face. None at all.

Whether she had walked on land before, whether any of this was new to her or old to her, whether she had seen a hundred tourneys from the bottom of a hundred lakes — he didn't know.

He knew very little about her and had no way of asking and she had no way of telling him and somehow that did not trouble him the way it should have. She was here.

She had chosen to be here, with him and his squire egg.

Dunk squared his shoulders.

He was Ser Duncan the Tall. He had trained nine years under a good man who had believed in him when there was very little to believe in.

He had a sword that had belonged to that good man— honest about what he was, and a name he had carried down every road he had ever ridden without disgracing it. He was not a lord.

He was not a knight with a castle and a father who had jousted before him. He was a hedge knight with mud on his boots and a squire on a borrowed mare and something that had been a fish not two days ago holding his arm, and yet it meant everything to him.

He walked forward through the gates of Ashford and the noise rose up around him like a tide and he did not flinch from it.

The grounds were everything the road had promised and more. The smell hit him first — horses and sawdust and roasting meat and the particular sharp smell of oiled steel baking in the afternoon sun. Then the sound resolved itself into its parts — the distant ring of steel on steel from the practice yard, the calls of merchants hawking food and favor tokens and sharpening services, the low constant rumble of a thousand conversations happening at once.

Banners everywhere, more than he could count, snapping and turning in the warm breeze. Pavilions stretched in rows that seemed to go on further than made sense, silk and wool and fine linen in every color, each one bearing a sigil outside. Sigils he half knew and half didn't — stags and lions and towers and things he couldn't name.

Squires everywhere underfoot, running errands, carrying helms, polishing things that were already polished. Pages younger than Egg with the harried expressions of boys who had been told to hurry and had been hurrying since dawn. And the smell of the food — gods, the food — roasting meat somewhere close enough that his stomach made its feelings known immediately and without subtlety.

Nimue's hand tightened on his arm

He looked down at her

She was looking up at him with those big eyes, not at the grounds, not at the banners, just at him, and there was something in her face that he didn't have a word for but felt in his chest regardless. He looked at her for a moment that stretched slightly longer than he intended and then looked away because looking at her for too long still did things to his ability to think clearly and he needed to think clearly right now.

"Stay here," he told her, then to Egg, “ Both of you”

Egg looked at him with the expression of someone who had been asked to do something beneath their considerable capabilities. "Both of us," he repeated.

"Both of you”

"So you want me," Egg said, "to stand here. In the middle of Ashford. And watch her “

"Yes”

Egg looked at Nimue. Nimue had found a banner with an interesting sigil and was studying it with her head tilted and the teardrop pearl swaying at her brow, entirely indifferent to the conversation happening two feet away from her.

"And if she wanders?” Egg questioned

"She won't wander”

"She absolutely will wander”

"Then stop her”

Egg looked at him with the flat patience of someone pointing out something obvious to someone who should already know it, “ Ser Duncan, she dragged you underwater. What exactly am I supposed to do?”

Dunk opened his mouth

He closed it.

"If you lose her," he said finally, pointing at Egg, "I will find the biggest stick between here and the Reach and I will clout you with it”

"Noted," Egg said, entirely unbothered. "Off you go then”

Dunk looked at Nimue one last time. She chirped at him, soft and warm, without looking away from the banner.

He ducked through the door of the registration office.

His forehead caught the top of the frame.

He went in anyway, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment.

The lake had no name on any map Dunk had ever seen, and he had seen precious few maps in his life. It was simply there, nestled between two low hills like a secret the land had been keeping to itself, the surface so still it looked like hammered tin in the fading afternoon light.

Egg had spotted it from the road and declared they were stopping, which Dunk could not rightly argue against given that the boy had mud caked into his hair from a fall three days prior that neither of them had fully managed to wash out. So the horses were tied to a low branch, Egg was told to sit and stay, and Dunk waded in alone.

The cold hit him at the knees first and he nearly turned back, but the heat of the day had settled deep into his skin the way it did after long hours on the road — sitting in it, sweating through it, wearing it like a second gambeson — and the cold was a relief against that, sharp and clean and good in the way that simple things were good.

He went deeper. It crept up his thighs, his stomach, his chest, and he exhaled long and slow as it swallowed the heat whole, the ache in his shoulders loosening by degrees, the dust and sweat of three weeks on the road lifting off him like something he had not realized he was still carrying.

He stood there chest deep with his eyes closed and his head tipped back and the last of the sun warm on his face, the rest of him cold and grateful for it. It was the closest thing to peace he had felt in some time. He might have stayed like that a good while longer, if not for the sound that did not belong to any bird he had ever known.

He turned his head by degrees, water shifting around his chest with the movement, and scanned the far bank where the light was thinner and the reeds grew tall and tangled at the water's edge. Nothing. Just the stillness of the lake and the distant sound of Egg sulking on the bank behind him, kicking his heels against a tree root the way the boy did when he had been told to stay put and disagreed with the instruction.

His brow creased. He looked down at the water and saw nothing but his own submerged hands. The ripples spread outward from where he stood, each one breaking against his chest like a whisper. Then — a glint. Silver beneath the surface, quick as a blade caught in sunlight, darting just fast enough to leave the water smooth and undisturbed behind it. He leaned forward slightly, squinting.

It was pale and luminous, catching what little light filtered down through the water and giving it back tenfold, the way he imagined pearls did, though he had never been close enough to one to know for certain.

He had heard of pearls. Ser Arlan had described them once — small and perfectly round and worth more than a hedge knight would see in a lifetime of riding — but Dunk had never been close enough to a wealthy enough person to know if the description was true.

He reached down anyway, slow and careful, fingers closing around something small and smooth against the lake bed. He brought it up. Held it in his palm. It was no bigger than his thumbnail, sitting in the cup of his big scarred hand like it had no business being there, which it didn't. He turned it in the light. It gleamed the way expensive things gleamed — bewitching

How could something so small be so costly? He could not understand why they cost what they did. It was small enough to lose between the floorboards. Small enough to swallow by accident. And yet Ser Arlan had once told him a single pearl could buy a decent horse, and Dunk had filed that information away in the part of his mind reserved for things that were true and also deeply unfair.

Pretty, he thought, in the simple honest way he thought most things. Just a pretty little thing.

He was still turning it over in his palm, watching it catch the last of the light, when the water in front of him moved. He looked up.

A pair of eyes watched him from just above the surface. Big eyes and very still, the way deep water was still, unblinking and level with the waterline so that he could see nothing else — just eyes, and above them a crown of silky shair spreading across the surface like seafoam. They watched him with an expression he could not name and did not have time to try to name because his brain had already arrived at the relevant information.

A woman

There was a woman in front of him

The color left his face so fast he felt it go.

"I—" he started, and immediately spun around so his back was to her, which achieved very little given that he was chest deep in water and had nothing on his person that would help matters. His hands moved uselessly. He was a very large man and there was nowhere to put himself. "I didn't — I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn't know — I'm not — I wouldn't have—" He pressed a hand over his face, “ Seven hells. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm — I'm an idiot, I'm thick as a stump, I didn't see you, I swear it on my honor, I didn't—"

He was still facing the opposite bank, one hand over his face, the pearl clutched in the other, the back of his neck burning red in a way that had nothing to do with the sun. He could hear the water moving behind him. Small sounds. Close.

"I'm sorry," he said again, to the reeds, “ I'm — I beg your pardon. Truly. I didn't know anyone was — I wouldn't have — I'm not—" He stopped. Tried again. "My name is Dunk—Ser Duncan the Tall. I'm a knight." He said it the way he always said it when he didn't know what else to say, like it was an answer to a question he hadn't quite heard. "I'm honorable. I want you to know that—“

He stood there with his hand over his face and the pearl biting into his palm and the water very quiet behind him and then — something touched the back of his shoulder. Two fingers. Light as anything. He went rigid from his heels to the base of his skull.

He turned around.

She was right there, close enough that he took a short involuntary step back and found the lake bed uneven under his foot and lurched, arms out, and very nearly went under entirely. He found his footing. Barely. He straightened up to his full height with as much dignity as the situation allowed, which was not a great deal, and looked at her face and kept his eyes there and did not look anywhere else because he was Ser Duncan the Tall and he was honorable and Ser Arlan had not raised a fool—

The first thing Dunk registered was how small she was. She barely came up to his chest—no, not his chest, because he was standing in water up to his chest, and she was—oh gods, she was there, entirely unclothed, the water lapping just below the gentle swell of her breasts, the pale curves of them catching the last amber light of the setting sun. Droplets clung to her skin, sliding slow and lazy down the slope of one nipple, dark pink and peaked from the chill of the water. His throat clicked when he swallowed.

She tilted her head, watching him watch her, her smile curling wider at the corners of her mouth. That was when he saw them—sharp little points of white just barely pressing into her lower lip.

Ser Arlan had raised a fool.

He looked at her face. Just her face. He was looking at her face.

He became aware that his mouth was open again.

He closed it.

Heat rose up his neck in a slow, merciless climb, flooding beneath his skin until even his ears burned. It felt near as scalding as the forge fires he had once stood too close to as a squire — only there was no stepping back from this. The flush spread across his cheeks, dark and unmistakable against wind-roughened skin that had known sun and steel but not this.

His mouth had gone dry.

Gods, it was dry.

He swallowed and found nothing there but the thick scrape of his own throat, as though the lake had stolen every drop of moisture from him and left him standing stupid and parched in the shallows. His tongue felt too large, clumsy against his teeth.

His eyes — traitors that they were — had gone wide as a boy’s.

Dunk tried very hard to remember how men behaved around maidens. Proper maidens. Maidens who wore pretty dresses and had pretty things and did not bathe naked in lakes.

He was fairly certain it involved being proper—

Not staring as though he had been struck over the head with a mace.

His heart had begun beating in a heavy, uneven rhythm against his ribs, each thud loud in his own ears. He attempted to square his shoulders — a knight’s posture, steady and respectable — but the water lapped treacherously at his chest, reminding him in no uncertain terms that he was bare as the day he was born.

Seven hells

A maiden — even a bold one — would have shrieked by now. Thrown her hands over herself. Splashed backward in outrage. Called down curses or brothers or both.

He did not know whether he ought to be grateful she was not screaming and summoning half the countryside — or deeply troubled that she was not.

Gods

She was beautiful

The fairest maiden he had ever laid eyes on. And Dunk had seen pretty women in his travels — at fairs, at inns, in castle yards bright with banners and silk. He had thought some of them lovely in their way.

None of them could compare to her.

No candle could match that sort of light.

Dunk had never been a man much sought after by the gentler sex. For all his efforts to speak softly and move carefully, he was still enormous — broad as a door, scarred, looming without meaning to. He knew he could be intimidating. No matter how small he tried to make himself, how mindful of his size, few maidens ever approached him.

He had grown used to that.

But she did not look afraid.

She did not look as though he frightened her at all.

It was only then, in his gawking, that he noticed the rest of her. Pearls threaded through all that silver-white hair in long draping strings, dozens of them, pale and luminous and worth more than everything he owned twice over.

And something else — a veil of sorts, so fine he could see straight through it, the kind of fabric so delicate he didn't know what to call it or how it had been made, held together by tiny pearls knotted throughout like stars in a pale sky, floating on the surface of the water around her. And at the center of her forehead, hanging from a single thread, a teardrop pearl that rested between her brows.

He looked down at the single pearl sitting in his open palm.

It looked very small suddenly.

"Did you drop this?"

He held the pearl out toward her on his open palm and kept his eyes fixed somewhere around her forehead, at the little teardrop pearl hanging there, which was a safe place to look and did not require him to look at anything else. His arm was very straight. He was holding it out at full extension, as if the extra few inches of distance would help matters, which it did not.

"I found it," he said. "On the lake bed. I thought — I didn't know it was — I wasn't trying to take it." He could hear himself talking and could not seem to stop, "I'm not a thief. I want you to know that as well. Honorable, like I said. I'm — if it's yours you should have it back”

She looked at his outstretched hand

She looked at his face

He was doing his very best. He was keeping his eyes on her forehead and his arm straight and his face was still doing the burning thing regardless. He was not a man of the nobility. He could never be. He had grown up in the streets of Flea Bottom where nobody had the luxury of modesty and he had spent his years since on the road.

Sleeping under hedges and eating what he could find, and the sum total of his experience with women of any kind was limited to innkeepers' wives who called him love when they handed him his supper and serving girls who refilled his ale without looking at him.

She looked at his outstretched hand for a long moment.

Then she reached out and gently, with two fingers, folded his hand closed around the pearl.

Dunk stared at his own fist.

He looked up.

She was smiling again. That small sharp smile with the points of her teeth just barely visible and her eyes bright and pleased and her head tilted.

His hand was still warm where her fingers had touched it. He stood there holding the pearl in a closed fist and trying to work out what to do next when he made the mistake of opening his hand again.

"I really think it might be yours," he said earnestly, and held it out a second time.

The smile dropped.

It did not fade. It did not fall slowly the way smiles usually fell. It simply stopped, like a candle pinched out, and what replaced it was something else entirely. Her ears — he had not looked closely at her ears before, had been very deliberately not looking at anything closely — spread outward and fanned wide, long and fin-like, spreading like the sails of a ship catching a sudden wind.

Her lips pulled back. All the way back. And there were her teeth — not just the two small sharp points he had glimpsed before but a full row of them, jagged and irregular and overlapping slightly.

She was not smiling

She was very much not smiling

A sound came from her — though he couldn't believe such a sound could come from a lady — it was low, clicking and sharp, like a warning felt against his bones, and she had drawn herself up in the water in a way that made her seem larger than she was, her eyes gone dark and flat.

The droplets of water cascading down her skin where glittering scales were much more prominent now, catching the last of the light like armor, like something that had always been there beneath the surface of her skin waiting for exactly this moment to make itself known.

They ran along her collarbones, down her shoulders, trailing into the water where he could only imagine they continued, and they were beautiful and terrible in equal measure the way a drawn blade was beautiful and terrible.

He was, he reflected dimly, an enormous fool.