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oath keeper

description: tourneys draw attention from far and wide–lords and ladies, kings and queens, the knights of old–oh, and hedge knights and whores, too. or, where ser duncan finds himself with not one, but two new companions with secret identities.

warnings: UNEDITED (plsssss do not judge me guys i just finished a 20K fic i was not down to edit it rn), wrote this while ovulating so the reader wants dunk so bad like shes so horny its not funny sorry but enjoy, slight description of reader (mentioned to have valyrian features (silver hair) but race is ambiguous–implied bipoc!reader), alcohol consumption, unwanted touching (to reader, not by dunk), descriptions of gore and death, angst, semi fluffy ending

words: 20.2K (i’ve been working on this for so long don’t get me started)

date posted: 20/03/26

The Reach was warmer than King’s Landing, and the wine much sweeter. Those were the two things she looked forward to upon arriving in Ashford. The idea of spending a sennight there in the encampment for the duration of the tourney was less than ideal for the young silver haired woman.

The realm alights with excitement when the heir to the Iron Throne announces his and his brother’s attendance at a tourney, drawing the masses from across the Realm. Merchants and blacksmiths and whores alike all flock to the grounds, eager to celebrate and earn some silver from the noblemen. It was nothing unusual for a brothel master to bring many of his women to these events, of course, but it was a first for the young woman with silver hair.

Though, she cannot say that her journey from King’s Landing was under the same pretences as most of the common women who were travelling to Ashford. Many of the women she met along the road were on their way to earn some coin, whether it be by singing, serving, or selling her services. She did not stand out amongst them–silver haired women in tattered dresses were not hard to come by in the South. She was, however, the only amongst them to be travelling for leisure, simply eager to set foot outside of King’s Landing for the very first time in her life, a small bag of essentials at her hip and a pouch of gold tucked into her cloak, stolen straight from the pocket of Prince Daeron as he slept against the tabletop in the corner of a tavern. The road before her was long, but at least she had found some company and a cart to catch a ride on that made the days of travel seem more tolerable.

She had not expected the air to be so…pleasant. King’s Landing was a place of overflowing filth, and the air smelled like rotting corpses and human waste. Even from the halls of the Red Keep, the stench of the city below was choking, but here, even with the horses and the food and the blood, the air in Ashford was miraculously clear as she arrived at the tourney grounds. A man led her to an available tent to rent, somewhat hesitant to loan out to a single woman but quickly agreeing at the sight of two glittering gold dragons in his palm.

The town was alight with celebration on that very first night. Everyone loved a tourney, even those who may or may not live to see the end of it. Only during these events did lords and ladies step down from the pedestals to drink and dance among the common folks–the veil of status temporarily falling away for just a few hours at a time.

She had brought along three dresses to wear for the duration of the tourney; two of the dresses were quite plain, one made of brown wool and the other of blue linen for daytime wear, and one that was made of worn red silk, which she had eagerly packed with visions of dancing among a crowd. It wasn’t fancy enough that it raised questions or drew too much attention, but just fine enough that with her silver curls loose around her waist and a satin belt of jingling bells tied around her hips, she felt it was enough to draw some potentially wanted attention.

Between the soft silk of her dress and the faint floral perfume left on her sun-bronzed flesh, she finally felt more presentable than when she’d arrived at the encampment–a thick layer of dirt and sweat from days of travelling washed away with a lengthy soak in the wooden tub left in her tent. She spent the night drinking ale and dancing and watching performances from travelling entertainers. She wondered how easy it might be for her to join one of these bands and disappear into a life of amusement and comradery, to never set foot in King’s Landing again and spend the rest of her days in the Free Cities, where no one cared where she came from or what colour her hair was.

The gold she carried was enough to keep her belly full of warm food and sweet desserts and an endless flow of fruity Dornish wine. The sun was low on the horizon when she entered a canvas tent styled as a tavern, her hips swaying at the beat of the salterello played by the band in the corner. Mind buzzing from the wine and sheer adrenaline, she quickly fell into step with the others in a simple but jovial dance.

She should have known better than to accept the inviting hand of another young woman to dance atop the table of a long dining tent, rocking her hips in sync with the music to create her own jingling rhythm. She could feel dozens of eyes on her–she’s sure almost every woman was being watched just as intently–but the man who caught her own gaze seemed to be the only one who didn’t seem so sure he wanted it. He was watching her with the same enchanted gaze, but when her narrowed eyes met him, not breaking her movements for even a beat, his face burned a deep scarlet colour and he ducked back into the crowd.

The man was more than a head taller than the next tallest man at the tourney, towering over the others in his failed attempt to blend in. Her eyes never left his broad figure as she twirled and kicked and laughed aloud. Then, in the blink of an eye, her grin disappeared and the tall man’s eyes narrowed as her face twisted in confusion, then anger as a grimy hand tugged at her skirts and attempted to reach beneath them.

“Unhand me!” She hollered, tugging desperately to tear her skirts from the drunkard’s fists, “Let go!”

Suddenly, the man released his hold, sending her tumbling backwards and over the edge of the table, her slippered feet slipping out from beneath her as she landed against a firm figure, strong hands gripping her waist tightly to keep her from falling as she grunted from the impact. The hands carefully lowered her feet to the ground before removing themselves, but staying close in a protective stance.

“The lady said to unhand her. What sort of knight are you to ignore a lady’s plea?” A deep voice erupted from the chest of her saviour. She tilted her head back to glance up at the man behind her, pleased to find that it had been that giant of a man who had come to her rescue.

The drunken knight rolled his eyes defiantly, seemingly unwilling to try his luck against the big man opposite him, “Have her yourself then, oaf. She’s no more special than any other whore.”

She resisted the urge to lunge at the man as he disappeared into the crowd, but instead turned to face her saviour. She craned her neck to look up at him; she’d never been considered to be a remarkably short girl, but the man made feel like the smallest woman who had ever lived.

“Thank you, ser,” she heaved, eyes scanning his roughened features appreciatively.

“Are you alright, my lady?” He asked urgently, hovering his hands around me, gesturing to anywhere that may have been hurt from her tumble without actually touching her, “that man had no right to touch you like that, he is no true knight.”

Her soft giggle caught him by surprise.

“I am no lady, ser,” she shook her head, “and you’d be a fool if you think you’d find a true knight still alive, let alone here at a tourney.”

He furrowed his brow in confusion, “they may be hard to come by, but chivalrous knights do still exist, my lad–miss.”

“And which of those knights are standing before me?”

His cheeks flushed a dark berry colour as her violet eyes flickered across his features. She looked at him expectantly, tilting her head to the side curiously.

“Oh,” He grunted as he finally clued in to her question, “I’m Dunk. Ser Dunk.”

She raised a brow, “Well…Dunk. Perhaps I could buy you a drink to show my gratitude.”

He jumped in surprise as she rested her hand on his arm gently, clearing his throat as he answered, “Forgive me, I don’t have any coin on me.”

She let out a small laugh, “I just told you I would buy it.”

“Not for the drink,” he blurted, “I only mean…I wouldn’t want you to waste your time with me when you can find someone more…generous.”

“I beg your pardon?” She hissed, eye widening, “you forget yourself, ser. I am not a woman any man can buy.”

His body shrunk with shame as his face grimaced at his mistake, “Forgive me, I only thought…the way you were dancing, and the bells, and the way you were looking at me?”

“And how exactly was I looking at you, Ser Dunk?” She purred, any offense she may have felt melting away as she preened herself for working the large man to such a state of embarrassment–the red flush of his skin spreading to the tips of his ears and disappearing beneath the torn linen of his shirt as he stuttered in search of a response.

“My lady–I didn’t mean–” He gulped nervously, “I didn’ mean any offense, miss. I only mean…”

She let out a small laugh, squeezing his bicep in a dual attempt to comfort the man while also taking the moment to appreciate the bulging muscle beneath the tattered cloth, “I fear I have teased you too far, my knight. You would be mistaken to think you are the only man who was watching me dance. Tell me, do you think I am the only woman watching you?”

His brow raised in surprise, “I-I don’t know, miss.”

“So women watch you often, then?”

“No–no! I only meant–”

“I cannot blame them,” she continued, “have you had many women, ser?”

“Had?” He gasped, appearing both aghast and confused by her assessment of his character, “this is–”

“I cannot imagine otherwise, a man of your stature. Where are you from, ser? The ladies of your house must swoon at your feet.”

The knight looked like he was ready to throw up, his pink lips pursed and brow lowered over his deep blue eyes in confusion. She couldn’t quite tell whether he was totally aware of her flirting, or if he even liked it based on his bashful nature, but she couldn’t find the strength to let up. She’d been attracted to him upon first glance, of course, but now that she had come to learn how easily flustered he was, she was determined to have him.

His blush deepened, only this time it seemed to be less from her teasing and more from embarrassment, “you’re mistaken, miss. I serve no house, and most ladies do not even notice my presence. I protect the innocent, as any proper knight does.”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” she whispered, “if they take no notice of you, perhaps they are blind.”

He scoffed, “I’m better at hiding than you may think.”

“You cannot hide from me, ser,” his blue eyes met her violet ones, locked in her stare like she had bewitched him, “and I do not speak of your height. I have met many bad men in my life, so I am very certain when I am looking in the eyes of a good one.”

His eyes finally fell away from her gaze, drawing down the slope of her nose, the darkened flesh of her cheeks–from wine and dancing and his sheer proximity–the column of her throat, and the mounds of her breasts that peeked out over the tight bodice of her dress. Her skin was coated in a thin layer of sweat, and the blazing torches around the tent caused a luminous glow across her copper skin. Her silver curls were a mess, but Dunk could not think of any word for her other than beautiful.

“You don’t know me,” He stammered, “I could be a murderer, a thief, a raper–”

“Are you?” She asked.

He paused for a moment, “well…no.”

She smiled at him, plush lips stained from the deep purple coloured wine, “I know.”

A line of women bumped into him from behind, forcing him to step closer to her, hands falling to her waist to balance himself while her own palms settled against his chest. He stuttered out an apology, moving to step back as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, not letting him go far. He stared down at her, his large figure tensing under her touch as if he was scared she might let go if he moved.

“I would like to repay my debt to you before this tournament is over,” she whispered to him, “you may find me when you wish to collect.”

She released her hold on him, and as if she’d been holding his lungs in her very hands, Dunk let out a deep breath. He nodded curtly, straightening himself as she stepped back, glancing at him once over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last she saw of the hedge knight that evening; she’d set her trap, it was only a matter of time before he unwittingly fell into it.

***

The hedge knight was different from any man she had ever met. She had not expected him to follow her through the crowd that very moment, but men typically remained close by after such interactions with her, waiting for her signal to approach. Instead, she was stumped to find that he had disappeared, leaving the tent entirely while she was distracted finding another cup of wine.

The silver haired woman was no stranger to the art of seduction, though she had grown accustomed to being the prey in this game of cat and mouse, toying with her partners until they finally pounced and took what they wanted. She was taken aback when Ser Dunk showed little interest in her games, but was determined to hunt him down.

In truth, she had never met a man like Dunk before. The men of the Kingsguard and the City Watch were the knights she entertained the most, finding them either so pompous and arrogant she couldn’t even stomach the idea of a conversation with them afterwards, or she had to comfort them through the guilt of breaking their oath of chastity. Either way, she had always been able to pick out the ones who reciprocate her attraction and the ones who would willingly lay with her from those who were devout to their oaths and would deny her.

Dunk, however, was an oddball. He was attracted to her, that much she could tell, but he seemed hesitant to reciprocate her advances. She felt slighted, but if anything, it only spurred her on even further. Her belly burned with desire at the sight of the tall man, his broad figure sending her mind spiralling with thoughts of everything she wanted to do to him. She’d never been known to chase a man, but she could not deny that his sheer ignorance of her attempts at flirting only spurred her on further.

She stalked him from a distance throughout the camp, catching a glimpse of him following a much smaller man through the crowd and towards a tent that housed a rowdy crowd. She hesitated for a moment, catching a glimpse of the banners and statues around the tent of a deep onyx stag, decorated with thread of gold and a field of honey yellow. She’d met a Baratheon man before, knowing the bunch to be drunken lords who all seemed to think with the wrong head. She shook her head, deciding that the risk was well worth the reward if she were able to reign in the tall hedge knight.

She took a cup of wine from a servant’s tray, sipping it casually as she slid onto one of the benches of a long table. The silver haired woman pursed her lips as she took in the atmosphere of the tent; it was just as rowdy as the last, but had a more intimate feeling to it; they hadn’t all gathered there just to drink, they gathered to eat, to celebrate. She hummed in satisfaction–this was the exact feeling she had sought out in her travelling to Ashford to begin with.

Lyonel Baratheon was a…unique man. She had only witnessed a few others act so flamboyant, like a male bird flashing his colourful feathers to attract a mate. He never seemed to tire of attention, appearing before everyone that night at his high table wearing a crown of golden antlers, his voice cutting through the laughter and the music as he began rattling on about the history of tourneys and their significance to Westerosi culture, only to pause mid-thought.

“What the fuck was I going to say?” Lyonel muttered under his breath, glancing at the man sitting next to him. He continued to ramble on for another moment, then seemed to have bored himself enough to give up, tossing a cupful of coins into the crowd and gesturing for the musicians to return to their song.

She waited in silence from her corner of the tent, watching as Dunk ate and drank and finally was called up to speak with Lord Lyonel. Dunk seemed tense the entire time, Lyonel’s face shifting from stony to humorous every few moments before he stood, shedding his outer layers until he was left in his undershirt and forcing Dunk into the middle of the crowd. She watched in delight as they danced together, violent as it may have been, but a dance all the same.

Finally, she made herself known, appearing a few heads away from him in the crowd as Lyonel traded out partners. Dunk seemed blissful in the moment, arms raised over the others’ heads as he bobbed back and forth on his feet, freezing as he turned and found his gaze locked on hers once more. She grinned knowingly at him as his face returned to that deep berry colour from earlier as she slithered through the crowd to stand before him.

“You must be following me, Dunk,” she teased.

“Followin–what? You must be mistaken, miss–”

“I am only teasing,” she giggled, shifting closer as she continued to dance, “we simply keep running into one another. It must be the will of the gods.”

He flushed again, clearly drunker than he had been earlier, “you think so?”

“I see no other explanation,” she shrugged, “I think this means you must dance with me.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the ale or his conversation with Lord Lyonel that had induced his sudden burst of confidence, but she did not complain as he fell easily into step with her, his large hands on her waist as he guided her through the motions. He stood straighter than before, like he was no longer afraid of his height, despite the fact that the woman before him couldn’t be any less than two heads shorter than he.

A large grin was shared between them, glossy eyes meeting glossy eyes and never retreating as the dance continued, their bodies moving together in a fashion that was probably much slower than the other couples on the floor might have been. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly and a squeal escaped from her lips as he hoisted her into a twirl, just as the couples around them had, only much higher. She patiently waited there for him to place her feet back on the ground, but he hesitated.

Dunk held her there for a moment, pressed tight against his chest with his hands flat to her back. For the very first time, they were face to face, breaths mingling in a beat of uncertainty, his eyes flickering to her lips for a moment before returning to her captivating stare. Her hands slid from his shoulders to around his neck, securing herself in place, smirking to herself as his expression shifted at her movement. He seemed to have fallen into a state of acceptance now, suddenly seeing through the fog of ignorance to recognize what danger was beneath her hooded gaze.

Her nose bumped against his suddenly, both sticky from sweat, “do you think I’m beautiful, ser?”

He gulped nervously, “yes–of course, miss.”

She must’ve looked a fool; dangling from the man’s arms helplessly, legs swaying from side to side limply beneath her while she grinned like a shadow cat before devouring its prey, but she paid it no mind. This was the game, and she was finally regaining control, and Dunk would be under her spell before he even knew what had happened.

A hand clapped Dunk on the shoulder, Lyonel Baratheon appearing at his side. Lyonel swayed on his feet, drunkenly giggling as he leaned his body against Dunk’s side.

“I leave you alone for one moment and you find yourself a beautiful woman,” Lyonel bellowed, “Ser Duncan the Tall, slayer of maidens.”

She held her breath as Dunk lowered her to her feet, Lyonel’s eyes finally shifting to her with a flash of recognition as he took in her appearance. He grinned wickedly at her, glancing between her dishevelled appearance and the tall hedge knight at his side.

“My, my,” Lyonel chuckled, “you certainly have a refined taste, hedge knight. Now what could you have done to capture the attention of the elusive Lady Waters?”

She cringed at the name, rolling her eyes at him, “Lord Lyonel. Forgive me, I did not think myself so memorable.”

“It would be a dark day for me if I began forgetting the most beautiful women in the realm,” Lyonel winked at her.

Dunk glanced between the pair uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, “you two…know each other?”

“You could put it that way,” Lyonel shrugged with a laugh, “beware, big man, once she sinks her claws into you, it is impossible to shake yourself free.”

“You certainly think highly of me,” she sneered, narrowing her eyes at him.

“How could I not,” he grinned, “I, myself, have been victim to your enchantments.”

She pursed her lips, “that is no one’s fault but your own. Now if you’ll excuse us, Ser Duncan promised me another dance.”

Lyonel laughed, patting Dunk on the back in congratulations, “she is all yours, hedge knight. Treat her well.”

Dunk shifted nervously as Lyonel disappeared, standing up straighter as she stepped impossibly closer, one hand reaching back to cup the back of his neck. She could feel the mixture of emotions rippling through the large man–confusion, intrigue, frustration. All she could do now was pray that her charms would be enough to reel him back in. Ser Duncan had been a difficult fish to catch, slipping between her fingers at every wrong turn, but she was determined to tighten her hold.

“Now where were we?” She purred, leaning up on her tip toes.

“How do you know Lord Lyonel?” He blurted.

She sighed in annoyance, rolling her eyes at the discomfort in his tone, “I met him at a tavern in Flea Bottom.”

“Flea Bottom,” he repeated, unconvinced. He placed his hands on her shoulders, carefully pushing her away from him, “then why is it he called you lady when you told me not to.”

“It is what they call me,” she said bitterly, scoffing as he pushed her back, “a nickname.”

She had not expected this. Ser Duncan seemed to have been taken by surprise

“In Flea Bottom?” He asked, “forgive me, but I think you’ve mistaken yourself, miss. You’re beautiful, but I have no money to offer you.”

She jolted back, insulted, “I already told you I am not a whore. You think I would lie to trick you into sleeping with me?”

Dunk seemed to freeze at the sudden anger in her voice, the velvety tone turning frigid as she took a step back from him, “I mean no insult, miss, I only meant–”

“If you do not wish to have me, then you could have just said so.”

“I do!” He cried out before he could stop himself, “I only thought…you said you weren’t, but then you followed me here, and you knew Ser Lyonel from Flea Bottom, and you’ve been with him–”

“I have never slept with Lyonel Baratheon,” she hissed, “so that’s what it is? You could not handle having someone’s seconds?”

He gasped, “no, no, of course not! He just said that you’d ‘sunk your claws into him,’.”

“Because he wanted to fuck me and I would not let him,” she sneered, “do you believe everything rich men tell you?”

He gaped at her, unsure of how to answer.

“Blind faith will cost you your head, Ser Duncan,” she scowled at him, shifting away, “I thought you a kinder man, ser, different from these other men who are knights in name more than nature. I suppose I was wrong.”

She turned on her heel then, stalking through the crowd, feeling his gaze hot on her back as she disappeared amongst the growing mob of jovial attendees. Her scowl began to shift, curling into a smirk. Now all she had to do was wait.

***

Later that evening, Ser Duncan sat at Lyonel Baratheon’s head table, the crown of golden antlers seated atop his strawberry blonde locks as he slouched in his seat. Lyonel rattled on to him about anything and everything that came to mind; Duncan was not even fully understanding all of it, but he nodded along anyway.

His mind was elsewhere, on the young woman with the long silver curls and a gaze that cut right through him. He’d never met a woman like her before, especially not one who was undeterred by the fact that he had no money to offer her. He’d offended her with his brutish words, as he so often did when he was faced with a beautiful maiden, and he regretted the way he went about the altercation, but the mere idea of her inviting another man to her bed caused a simmering rage in his belly that he could not seem to put out. How was it that a woman he’d only just met had bewitched him so? It had to be the wine, he was sure of it, but even now as he was beginning to see through the fog of his intoxication, he could not stop thinking of it.

“How do you know her?” Duncan interrupted Lyonel’s drunken ramblings, “that woman, I mean. Lady Waters, you called her.”

“My Lady Waters, oh where do I begin?” Lyonel tipped his head back with a thunderous laugh, “I met her in King’s Landing, of course. The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the most beautiful woman alive. I’ll never forget that night.”

Duncan scowled, “so you…and her?”

Lyonel smirked at him, “Don’t give me that look, hedge knight, you, too, would lay down your life for a night with a woman like that. But alas, our night came to an early end when she threw wine in my face and called me a fool.”

“So you haven’t…been with her?” Duncan asked carefully.

“Only in my dreams,” the lord sighed wistfully, “besides, it seems she is more interested in elevating herself beneath her station. Consider yourself a lucky man, Ser Duncan.”

Duncan felt a surge of pride through him, quickly followed by a flood of shame. Who was he to ask such questions about a lady, especially one he had only just met? Her life before that night was no one’s business but her own. She was the first woman to show interest in him–genuine interest–in a very long time, and he’d been too caught up in his own thick skull to seize the moment.

“Lucky, perhaps,” Duncan shrugged, “but far too stupid to know what to do with such a thing. Everything I touch turns to dirt.”

“Well, you certainly touched Lady Waters, and she is still just as much woman as she always has been.”

“Why do you call her that?” the hedge knight asked, brows furrowing, “Lady Waters, I mean. She didn’t seem very…receptive to it.”

Lyonel snickered, reaching out to snatch his golden antlers from the taller man’s head, “That’s enough for tonight, I think. Straighten up, hedge knight, you may make your amends with your lady love in the morn, and perhaps she may still let you have her before the tourney is over.”

Before Duncan could utter another word, the lord was leaping over the head table unceremoniously, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Ser Duncan to his thoughts.

***

The next morning, she did not rise from her bed until the sun was almost at its highest point in the sky. Her body was wracked with aches from dancing and drinking, and there were faint purple splotches along her sides where the tall hedgeknight had hoisted her into the air, his large hands digging into her side to keep her to his chest.

His touch was seared into her flesh–just as the confusion in his eyes was seared into her foggy memory.

She had reevaluated her plan since last night–she’d surely succeeded in catching the hedge knight’s attention, but she decided that her approach may need to change; he seemed rather taken by her, but her forwardness was not as effective as she had hoped, causing him to take a step back from her. There was a moment where it seemed that he had completely submitted himself to her charm before the Laughing Storm disturbed their moment, but the hedge knight was deep in his cups by that point. She may have wanted him, but she would only have him knowing that he was not spurred on by alcohol-induced lust.

She set out to the market, belly rumbling as the mouth watering scent of fresh baked bread and smoked meat reached her. Bakers and butchers and farmers alike all gathered at the tourney grounds to sell their goods, offering only the finest of their product in hopes of catching the attention of wealthy knights and nobles. She suddenly found herself in the possession of minced pie, excitement licking at her heels at the smell wafting from the warm pastry. It cost more than she was necessarily hoping to pay for it, of course, but since the money had not come from her own pocket, she found herself feeling rather extravagant.

She felt a shock of excitement through her as her eyes caught on a familiar figure staggering from the gate leading into Ashford Castle, face drained of colour. She followed after him, finally creeping up behind him as he leaned against the outer castle wall.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Ser Duncan,” she called out, stifling her smirk as she watched him flinch in surprise at her sudden cutting tone.

He turned to face her, lips parting as surprise crossed his features, “my lady, I–”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

He gulped, “Right, sorry, miss.”

She paused for a moment before letting out a breath, “I wanted to apologize, Ser Duncan. My behaviour last night was unbecoming, and I would have never behaved so loosely had I not overindulged in too much Dornish wine.”

He appeared surprised at her admission, almost like he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t a trap.

“None of that, miss,” he said, his voice coming out lower and more gravelly than she’d remembered, “I–I shouldn’t have–”

“Called me a whore?” She interrupted with a soft smirk on her lips, “Twice.”

He looked offended, “I never called you a…”

“No, but you thought I was one,” she continued, “even after I told you I wasn’t. Either way, that is not as insulting to me as I may have let on. Another consequence of the wine, I suppose. Perhaps we could start over. Forget about last night,” she paused as her eyes scanned up and down his large figure, “It would honour me to consider you a friend, Ser Duncan.”

He stared at her in utter disbelief. It was an expression she had grown accustomed to on the hedge knight’s features, but she found herself almost purring in delight at the idea of drawing him into such a stunned state that he couldn’t even come up with a word to utter in response to her teasing. The colour began to return to his face then, a redness spawning in his cheeks and flooding across the bridge of his nose, over his jaw, and down the column of his throat.

“Yes–of course,” he stepped forward then, letting out a heavy sigh, “I could use more friends around here, between you and I.”

“And what makes you say that?” I prompted, “Busy making enemies with Lyonel Baratheon, have you?”

He let out a snort, louder than he’d probably intended considering the deepening of the scarlet in his cheeks, “Ser Lyonel is not someone I would consider an enemy, no. I thought we were leaving last night in the past?”

“You’re right,” she smirked, “then I no longer owe you a drink? You did save my life, after all.”

He grimaced, “you owe me nothing. I’m certain you could’ve handled it yourself, I just…”

“You just…”

“It’s not right to grab at a woman that way. Even if you were…you know.”

She felt a tug at her heart. She had not taken Ser Duncan to be an aggressor by any means, nor did he seem to be the type of man to wreak havoc for the sake of wreaking havoc, but also hadn’t set aside the idea that he was still a man, above all else. However, now as his words settled over her, she began to realize that Ser Duncan was unlike any man she had ever met–he was content with his life as a hedge knight, entered a tourney simply as a means to survive rather than in search of glory, and his knighthood appeared to be the utmost important thing in his life, never flinching at the chance to make things right, even if it cost him his reputation.

“You’re an interesting man, Ser Duncan,” she mused, “I would still like to–”

Her words stopped suddenly, catching in her throat as two men walked past. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of their shiny armour, and took a step back as she caught sight of the soft white cloaks blowing in the wind behind them as they patrolled the tourney grounds.

“What is it?” Duncan looked behind him, alarmed at the sudden concern on her features.

“Nothing–” she composed herself, stepping aside to be nearer to the tall man, “I just, I am surprised to see the kingsguard here.”

Duncan furrowed his brow, but shrugged nonchalantly, “where princes go, their knights follow, I suppose.”

She grimaced, “I suppose you’re right about that. How many of them are there? And which princes did you see?”

“Well, I don’t know all their names,” Duncan seemed embarrassed, “forgive me, miss. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in King’s Landing, I haven’t been able to keep up with who–”

“Did you catch their names, Ser Duncan?” She demanded, hand gripping his forearm to capture his focus.

He looked at her curiously, “Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. And another one, I didn’t catch his name. He thought I was a stable boy.”

She let out a small curse, but covered it with a soft smile as she slid her hand up his forearm. She watched the confusion melt away from his features under her gentle touch as her fingers came to curl into his elbow. She smiled at his easy submission under her touch, tightening her grip around his firm arm as she tucked herself in next to him.

“Come, Ser Duncan,” she purred, leading him away from the castle walls, “let me buy you that drink, then you may tell me more.”

***

Ser Duncan the Tall was a knight fuelled almost solely by his desire to do what he’d always known was right–to protect the innocent and see that no wrongdoings are done under his watch. For years, he had considered himself to have grown somewhat of an immunity to the base desires of man. He’d grown up in the streets of Flea Bottom, spending most of his youth stealing and trading for just enough coin to survive, and even life with Ser Arlan did not provide any sort of luxury. The only comforts he’s known in his life was the company of the older knight, who’d taught him not to lust after things he could not earn with his own two hands and whatever wits he could gather.

Dealing with women was not something that Ser Duncan was very used to. Innkeepers and their wives and daughters, women calling out to him from their windows as he passed by on the street below, beggar women weeping at his feet when he’d tell them he had no coin to offer–that was the extent of it, and even then, he made a conscious effort to keep his gaze to the ground and avoid further interaction with them than what would be considered polite. He was a man, after all, and his ideals of knighthood often brought on fantasies of a beautiful princess falling for a lowly knight, but he was smart enough to know that such things were just fantasies, and to never make attempts to woo his betters.

Even common women tended to make him nervous. It was rare for one to look at him with anything akin to lust or intrigue, and it was even more rare that he might exchange more than a handful of words with a woman, so he was often unsure of what sort of approach to take. He’d experienced the cruelty of men himself, and often opted out of interacting with others when he could, but he understood that the way he fell victim to men was very different to the way that women often did, and did not want to impose that fear onto anyone.

It should not come as such a shock when he suddenly found himself bewitched by the first woman to spare him more than a single glance, but he had thought himself to have a stronger resolve than this. Most women saw him and turned the other way, fleeing before he could come near and spreading word about the half-giant who had tried to abduct them.

He hadn’t expected to earn so much attention when he arrived in Ashford. Eyes tended to follow him due to his size, but he’d grown accustomed to shrinking away from attention, slouching to make himself appear less threatening, if not shorter all together. He had only hoped to take part in some of the festivities while he waited for Lord Dondarrion to make an appearance so that he might ask him to vouch for his knighthood and allow him participate in the tourney. He had only intended to make a stop in that tent for a moment, perhaps to have a pint of ale while he waited when his eyes had landed on the woman on the table.

He’d been completely unable to look away, following her movements with his eyes as her long silver hair swayed loosely around her shoulders, the jingling of the bells around her hips drawing his gaze down. In that moment, even the simplest action of breathing seemed more difficult than he had ever remembered as he took in her curves through the tight bodice of her red gown, and his lungs stopped working altogether the moment that his gaze moved back up only to find himself meeting her own stare. Feeling caught, he’d tucked himself away into the crowd, but could not resist the temptation to step in as that man grabbed her so inappropriately. The mere thought of bringing harm to such beauty sent a surge of rage through him, and his feet were moving quicker than his brain could process and suddenly the beautiful woman was no longer on the table but instead in his arms.

She was more beautiful up close. Her eyes were a dark violet colour that he may have mistaken for blue if he hadn’t been so close, and her silver curls smelled of fresh wildflowers. He wondered how she’d made herself smell so nice and pretty when everyone else all smelled the same–like ale and shit.

It was the way she had looked at him that was the final nail in his coffin. He was completely taken by her when she stared up at him in surprise, then relief, then gratitude. For the first time, someone had looked at him like he was, well, a true knight, one who was capable of protecting those who needed it and strong enough to defend them. He was only glad the drunkard had not put up a fight, giving him a chance to speak to the lady without making a fool of himself so quickly.

And then she opened her mouth, silver tongue curling around his name as she repeated it back to him, tone slipping from playful and coy to teasing and sly. Just speaking to her for a moment gave him whiplash, and fear crept into his bones at the thought of what she might do to him–what he would let her do to him with little to no convincing on her part.

She looked different the next day. No less beautiful with her silver curls in simple braids away from her face, and the sultry red silk of her gown had been traded for a simple one of blue linen, modest and comfortable in the Southern heat. Her face did not glow as it had under candlelight, but instead beamed under the comfort of the warm sun. The way she composed herself, less bold, but still playful, perhaps even a touch shy, was inexplicably different from the night before, almost like it was an entirely different woman–though her stare, it was unmistakable. It held the very same hunger as it had the night before, only now cloaked in something softer, easier for Dunk to stomach from a woman of such beauty. Either way, his stomach was in knots as he flushed under her gaze.

“He vouched for you?” She scoffed, drinking from her own cup of ale, grimacing at the taste, “how did you manage to convince him to do that?”

“I didn’t,” Dunk shook his head. He was sitting sideways along the bench of the table they’d taken in a bar tent, straddling the seat next to her as she faced ahead, “I just asked, and he remembered him. Imagine that, the only highborn knight to remember Ser Arlan is the future king.”

“Don’t tell me you’re awestruck by him, Ser Duncan,” she rolled her eyes.

“It’s not every day I come to meet a Targaryen, let alone the heir to the throne.”

“I suppose not,” she pursed her lips, “then I suppose I’m sitting with a soon-to-be-champion. Tell me, Ser Duncan, who will you crown as Queen of Love and Beauty?”

He gulped nervously, “I–uh…I hadn’t thought of it.”

“So what other damsels have you defended in Ashford, ser?” She teased with a grin, “I had not realized you were such a busy man.”

There it was, that stinging heat through his veins, a reminder that the sultry woman he’d met the night before was still alive and well beneath her polite exterior. To anyone else, she was the picture of propriety, modestly dressed but still strikingly beautiful. Duncan was the isolated soul enduring it alone, struggling to fend off his innocence from a feral seductress.

“No. No,” Duncan shook his head furiously, “I didn’t mean–I haven’t–there’s no other maidens, I swear it..”

She watched him carefully for a moment, violet gaze taking in his cautious demeanour. She wondered if it was his size that caused his ginger movements, if anyone had ever shamed him for taking up too much space when it was the space that the gods had willed him to take. The enjoyment she found in his flustered nature suddenly felt like ash on her tongue.

“I believe you,” she giggled, “tell me, how many tourneys have you attended before?”

Embarrassment flashed across his features for a moment, “This is my first, miss.”

She froze. Some of the opponents he would face were among the most skilled swordsmen in the realm, and here Ser Duncan was trying his hand and risking everything but the clothes off his back and so far out of his league that even the gods couldn’t help him.

“You are as brave as you are tall, my hedge knight,” I sighed heavily, “do you have a proper sword? And what of your armour?”

“Ser Arlan’s longsword is a formidable weapon, and for armour…” he defended as he sat up a bit straighter, suddenly feeling scrutinized under her intense stare, “I sold my palfrey for some thicker steel. I’ll make do with what I’ve got.”

“Your horse?” She scoffed, “you mean to joust on foot? Is that the sort of fighting they teach you in the hedges?”

Ser Duncan looked at her like she’d suddenly sprouted another head. Perhaps it is the air in the reach that has taken away the general ability for others to think before they speak. The woman before him, Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway, that pesky little squire he’d somehow taken on…

“I have other horses,” he expressed a huff of air at her bluntness, “why would I…”

“You’re a curious man, Ser Duncan,” she laughed at him, “why would you come to Ashford without the means to protect yourself? You seem to have a pattern of making surprising decisions.”

Dunk gaped at her. He’d never seen someone be so innocently blunt in his life, peering up at him with inquisitive eyes, as if she hadn’t been so blatantly interrogating him. She smiled at him expectantly, calmly waiting for him to explain himself.”

“Are you always so…”

“Honest?” She suggested, “my father tells me it is both my greatest strength and still my most deplorable weakness. Honourable, but dangerous. But he puts up with it because I got it from my mother.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman then, your mother.”

The smile on her face faltered for a moment, then softened, “Yes, she was. Or, at least I’m told she was. She died when I was very young.”

“Oh,” an embarrassed blush bloomed across his cheeks, “I’m sorry–I didn’t know…”

“It is alright, ser,” I said, “the wound is not fresh, and I like to keep her alive through stories.”

He watched her for a moment, his soft blue eyes taking her features in the warm sunlight as she unfolded before him. Slowly but surely, she was beginning to seem less and less like the confident woman from the night before, only then for her to make a reappearance.

“You could tell me about her,” Dunk said carefully, “er–if you’d like, that is.”

“I don’t remember her, really,” she sighed, “I wish I could, but all I have are flickering memories–just a glimpse of her before it’s all darkness again. My father tells me she was smarter than any woman he’d ever met; that’s what caught his attention. He said she made him laugh, and that she was deeply beautiful.”

“One can only imagine,” Dunk let out, the admission slipping past his lips before he could even think to stop himself, “I only mean, if she looked anything like you, that is.”

She let out a giggle, “you think I am beautiful, ser?”

He gaped at her for a moment, visibly swallowing nervously, “I mean no offence, miss.”

“None taken,” she assured him, placing her hand over his on the table, “I was hoping you might.”

A small smile appeared on his lips, a mixture of desire and disbelief flickered across his strong features at her words, like he’d only just picked up on the attempts she’d been making to flirt with him. They stared at each other for a moment, then they both began to laugh at the silent understanding they had seemed to come to.

“I suppose I should not keep a knight occupied all day,” she sighed, moving to stand from the bench they shared. The sun was much lower in the sky now, a deep orange colour licking at the horizon–the tourney’s opening joust would begin soon, and she had no desire to make herself present for it. Duncan scrambled to his feet after her, towering over her figure with a newfound confidence, “perhaps we might dance again soon, Ser Duncan.”

“Will I see you at the joust?” He asked, a hopeful look on his features.

“Will you be riding today, Ser Duncan?” She asked with a knowing smirk.

“Er, no. Not today.”

“Then you will not see me there. I have no desire to see such brutality until I have some investment in it.”

“You have investment, then?” He asked, shifting his weight nervously, “in me?”

She stepped closer, just narrowly avoiding crossing the line of impropriety as she lowered her voice, “There is no one else deserving of my favour, my knight.”

***

The first joust of the following afternoon had ended in a needless display of brutality and cruelty, she had heard from a baker’s wife when the crowd came rushing back from the arena. Prince Aerion had entered the lists, and shamelessly slaughtered his opponent’s horse with his lance in a grand show of poor sportsmanship and embarrassment to the names of his house and ancestors.

This came as no surprise to her–Prince Aerion was known for his sadistic barbarism, thinking himself above any others and eager to restore the house of the dragon to its former glory. The people of King’s Landing mock the prince in taverns and brothels so long as he was nowhere to be seen, but most found themselves rather tight-lipped when he decided to step down from the palace to find his pleasures with any woman he could find. The atmosphere seemed tenser in th, a simmering rage burning amongst the common folk at the blatant disregard of rules, honour, and humanity. The night air caused goosebumps to ripple across her flesh as she stepped out of her tent, once again adorned in the same red gown from the night before.

The crowd was ablaze that evening, glaringly different to the energy of the night before. She felt a sense of unease nipping at her stomach as she cut through flocks of angry and drunk commonfolk. A sense of relief washed through her as her eyes easily caught sight of Ser Duncan’s imposing figure in the crowd. His eyes fell on her over the crowd as she called out to him, his eyes lighting up as she maneuvered through the crowd to him. His young squire brushed past me as I approached, rushing off towards a busy tent behind me as Ser Duncan remained with another man.

“I was wondering if you were avoiding me, Ser Duncan,” she said as she joined him.

He flushed, “I couldn’t–I wouldn’t, miss.”

“I believe you, my hedge knight” she brushed her fingertips over his forearm lightly, her eyes turning to the shorter man next to Dunk. She introduced herself, offering him her spare hand in polite greeting, clearing her throat as he stared at her in disbelief.

“Raymun Fossoway,” Dunk nudged the smaller man firmly, prodding him out of his daze, “he is Ser Steffon Fossoway’s squire.”

“Pleasure,” she smiled tightly at Raymun as she slowly withdrew her hand from his, “Ser Duncan has promised to take me dancing tonight, Raymun, if you might care to join us.”

Duncan stared down at her, his blue eyes stared down at her in both surprise and awe as her hand slipped into the crease of his elbow.

“Apologies, m’lady,” Raymun stammered, “I didn’t know Ser Duncan was occupied for the evening.”

“All is well, Raymun,” she giggled, “I do not mean to steal him away altogether, perhaps you might join us for a drink?”

The two men shared a look, uncertainty and urgency in their gazes as she patiently awaited a response. She silently basked in the attention they both seemed to offer her, finding far too much enjoyment in their shared nervousness in her presence.

Raymun cleared his throat as she raised a brow at him, “very well. I was just offering Ser Duncan a pint of my family’s cider. We Fossoways, you see, harvest the finest orchards in the Seven Kingdoms, miss.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, I’ve heard stories of how sweet the cider from the cellars of Cider Hall was, though I’ve never been fortunate enough to taste it.”

Raymun flushed, “Well, I hope not to disappoint the lady. This way.”

She gave Dunk’s arm a gentle squeeze as she tugged him along through the crowd, following behind Raymun to an empty tent decorated in reds and yellows and expensive wood, apples decorating almost every inch of the place as she settled onto the stool that Raymun gingerly pulled up for her.

“Ser Duncan did not tell me he had a companion,” Raymun sent a wide smirk to the taller man, certainly less subtle than he was likely hoping, “especially not one as elegant as you, my lady.”

She sputtered out a laugh as he handed her a large cup of cider, “For one, I am no elegant lady, so better call me my name instead of filling my head with false titles. Secondly,” her gaze flickered to Ser Duncan next to her for a moment, “I do not believe Ser Duncan has a woman. Not yet anyway.”

Dunk choked on his own cider, pounding at his chest hurriedly to force his throat to clear. She smiled up at him innocently, reaching up to touch his back comfortingly as he came to stand next to her stool.

“How long have you squired for your cousin, Raymun?” She asked, turning her attention away from the hedge knight entirely as he finally overcame his coughing fit.

Raymun glanced between them, clearly entertained by how easily flustered Ser Duncan was proving himself to be, “almost two years, miss. Hopefully not much longer, if I have it my way.”

“Oh, so you see big plans ahead of you then?”

“Well, one can only hope,” Raymun sighed, “but I cannot stand to keep the position much longer. It serves for now, but Steffon is a miserable man with little honour. I pity anyone who he challenges, he fights like a dog and doesn’t abide well by the rules. Have you chosen an opponent yet, ser?”

Duncan’s brow raised as their attention was now back on him, “Uh, I’m not sure. Who does your cousin mean to challenge?”

Raymun let out a small laugh, “If anyone’s wounded on the morrow, I’m sure Steffon will be quick to knock on his shield.”

“Your cousin seems to be…” she hesitated as she struggled to come up with kinder words to offer.

“He’s about as chivalrous as a starved weasel,” Raymun finished for her.

Duncan took the seat next to her, shifting nervously as he placed his own stool a respectable distance from hers. She looked at him questioningly before she scooted just a tiny bit closer, a subtle advance in comparison to her past attempts to woo him. He only hoped that his morning dip in the river was sufficient enough to prevent any terrible odor that he may have gathered throughout the day, especially as her soft, herby and floral perfume reached his nose like she, herself, was made of petals and sunshine. She smiled at him gently, her silver hair glimmering in the warm candlelight of the tent. His blue eyes traced her pretty features, the arch of her nose, the soft pout of her lips, the column of her throat leading down to the bulge of her breasts as they led into her tight bodice… If only Raymun wasn’t there and Dunk had a bit more ale in him, he’s not sure that he could stop himself from–

“Have you any prospects in mind, at least?” Raymun interrupted his thoughts as if he knew of their impropriety and wanted to cut them off before they could go any further.

Dunk cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, “I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite evenly matched.”

“A local favourite,” Raymun commented, “you mean to play the villain?”

“I cannot even imagine you as a villain,” the young woman laughed, “you’re far too kind hearted for it. Besides, Ser Androw is a big man, sure, but you are larger by a long shot. And he is sloppy in hand-to-hand, so as long as you can manage to remain seated for a few lances until you can get in on foot, I believe you would be the victor, Ser Duncan.”

They both stared at her in surprise. Most women present had little interest in the joust itself, let alone had enough knowledge of the knights in the lists to know his strengths and weaknesses.

“I saw him at Prince Valaar’s name day tourney in King’s Landing last year,” she explained. “He was a strong competitor against Prince Aerion. It was the Prince’s first joust, of course, but a prince’s training would prove more effective than a common knight.”

Raymun scoffed at the mention of the prince, “I heard Aerion was in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for givin’ away his horse.”

Duncan raised his brow, “Little comfort that will be to Ser Humphrey. It looked like he was going to carry the day.”

“Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”

“Was it truly that bad?” The silver haired girl asked, “I’ve heard around about it, but the masses take any chance to spit on a noble name, don’t they?”

“Worse than you’ve heard, I reckon,” Raymun asked, “slaughtered the poor beast, speared it right through the throat.”

She grimaced at the thought, taking a slow sip of her cider in an attempt to reign in the venomous thoughts that danced on her tongue. This came as little surprise to her–Prince Aerion spread his cruelty wherever he could, taking full advantage of his title as he escaped almost all consequences of his actions. King’s Landing was only safe from him when his father dragged him off to Summerhall.

“My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse,” Ser Duncan chuckled, watching as the other two shared an uncomfortable, knowing glance, “it’s just hard to accept that a knight might be so dishonourable, let alone a prince.”

“Why’s that hard?” She asked, “some of the worst men I’ve known have been…” she paused for a moment, “they’ve been meant to be the most honourable of all men. Men who have no fear of consequences have no reason to have honour.”

“I know, but I–”

“They’re incestuous aliens, Duncan!” Raymun hissed, “blood magickers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people…dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs. Every pale haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how.”

She sat back uncomfortably as he continued his venomous rant, “the only honourable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits. So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”

Duncan leaned forward, noticing the young woman’s discomfort, his expression hardening at Raymun in a silent demand for him to stop. The dark haired man finally paused, his eyes shifting from the hulkish hedge knight to the woman next to him, his eyes shifting between her silver curls and pale violet eyes.

“I only meant…” he flushed in embarrassment, “I meant no disrespect, miss. I did not–”

“It’s alright, Raymun,” she offered him a comforting smile, “fear not, I am no Targaryen, nor do I feel overly enthused about my heritage.”

“Still…” he shook his head, “I should not have–a lady should never be exposed to that sort of language. It was unseemly of me.”

“That is hardly the worst thing I’ve heard in my lifetime, Raymun. It is already forgotten.”

“Either way. I…I got a bit carried away there. I heard that part about the tits from Steffon.”

Both men watched her carefully for a moment, waiting to see whether or not she was about to snap at him for insulting her ancestry–whether she considered herself to be part Targaryen or not. Instead, she let out a small giggle, which then grew into loud laughter at his confession. The other two followed in suit, chuckling along with her in relief as the moment passed.

It was quiet for a moment before a deep belch released from Raymun’s gut. He cleared his throat, leaning back against the table for a beat before pushing himself up. He swayed on his feet, clearly having indulged in some cider before he had invited Ser Duncan and the young woman and the young woman to join him. He excused himself for a moment, disappearing through the tent flap drunkenly and leaving the pair alone in the tent.

Ser Duncan sat nervously in his seat as she turned her attention wholly to him, running his clammy palms over his fabric-covered thighs anxiously, “You look nice. Your dress, I mean–and you, of course. They’re both nice…you’re…”

She chuckled, scooting closer to him, “You needn’t be so nervous around me, Ser Duncan, but thank you. The dress was my mother’s. My father says it was her prized possession when they met–he’d probably lock me away for a month if he caught me wearing it here. He’s lucky I’m wearing anything at all.”

Duncan flushed at that, his mind whirling with the unstoppable images of her figure under the same flickering candlelight, only she was completely undressed before him. He shifted back, his hands coming to rest in his lap in a subtle attempt to conceal any physical reaction to the thought.

“Hard man, then, your father?” He asked weakly, eager to change the subject.

She hummed, “Gods no. Stern, more like, honour and righteousness run deep in his bones. He does what is right, always, even when it may not feel right. He is good like that, but he oftentimes wants to control everyone and everything in his path, and I think he loathes me sometimes because I am not so easily controlled.”

“A good man then,” he nodded, “perhaps not always a good father. Most men are at fault for that, I suppose.”

“He is a good father,” she corrected, “but sometimes he does not understand that what comes so easily to him does not come as easily for me. He and my brothers like to think they understand when they make certain demands and decisions for me, but I cannot expect them to know how my experiences differ from theirs so much.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “I believe it. Of course–I cannot know either, I suppose, but I only meant–”

“I imagine you’ve met your fair share of men who think they know better than you too, ser,” she reached out, taking his hand in her own as she spoke, “I cannot explain it to you, but I cannot help but feel safe with you, like you accept me better than most, even when you do not fully understand what you are accepting of.”

His eyes lingered on their joined hands, his fingers lacing through hers carefully, leaving her the chance to pull away before he finally tightened his grip on her.

“You sell yourself short,” he said, “perhaps you simply haven’t been shown the respect you deserve. Men can be cruel, I know it, but I would rather burn alive than be known as that.”

She let out a soft giggle, leaning closer, “I think you may be the kindest, most honourable man I have ever met, Ser Duncan the Tall.”

He flushed as her face came closer to his, freezing as her soft breath ghosted across his lips teasingly.

“You think too highly of me,” he breathed, “I’m but a hedge knight. There are men of higher standing and purpose than I who would do all of the same.”

“I have met many men of higher standing than you, and none even hold a spark to your flame,” she said, squeezing his large hand in her own, lifting it to press a soft kiss against the hardened skin of his knuckles, “and I think you have a greater purpose than them all, too. Greater than you know.”

His blue eyes, holding her deep stare unwaveringly, finally glanced down to her lips for a moment. She grinned at him, tilting her head back slightly, almost as if she were daring him to make the first move. He licked his lips, gulping nervously as he began to lean in, their lips just barely grazing one another when the tent flap swung open.

“Ser Duncan!” A small boy stumbled into the tent unceremoniously, Raymun tumbling in behind him.

The boy was slim, dressed in ragged clothing and hair shaved down to the scalp. Her eyes narrowed at the boy, trying to catch a better glimpse of his face as he shouted for the hedge knight wildly.

“You have to come! Aerion’s hurting her!” He continued, hardly waiting another moment before turning and disappearing again.

“Egg!” Dunk called after the boy, “Wait! Hurting who–damned boy!”

“Egg?” She said aloud, racing after Ser Duncan as he chased his squire down through the crowds and towards a tent near the centre of the camp, a loud ruckus coming from within.

Her mind raced as she followed close behind, struggling to the front of the crowd, where Prince Aerion stood on stage with several dismantled puppets scattered beneath his feet. The two white cloaks that had accompanied him were busy fighting back the puppeteers while Aerion forced a young woman to her knees centre stage, gripping her wrist tightly as he bent her fingers back so harshly that they snapped.

Her screams pierced the air like a dragon taking its first breath, and Aerion seemed to revel in the sound. She fisted Ser Duncan’s tunic in her fist tightly as she finally caught up to him, recognizing the flickering rage in his eyes at the sight of yet another dishonourable display from the prince.

“No, no!” She shouted as he slipped out of her grasp, rushing forward as he grabbed Aerion with one large hand, his other fist driving into the prince’s face with the strength of ten men before throwing him to the floor.

She watched in horror as Aerion pulled a blade from his belt, only for Duncan to send him to the floor again with a hard kick to his chest as Aerion’s guards restrained his arms. He struggled in their arms, two men hardly able to hold him back as Aerion stood up, blood dripping from his lip. The prince narrowed his eyes at the hedge knight, observing his large figure and threadbare clothing with disinterest.

“Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” Aerion asked, “she’d scarcely worth it. She’s a traitor. The dragon ought never lose.” His face was now dangerously close to Duncan’s as he seethed with rage, “nothing more to say?” He stepped back with a smug expression on his face, sharp features smudged with dirt and blood from Ser Duncan’s attack. “You’ve loosened one of my teeth, so we’ll start by breaking out all of yours.”

“No!” The silver haired woman shrieked, hurling herself towards Aerion from her place among the crowd as her hands shoved at his chest aggressively.

Aerion caught her with ease, one hand coming to clutch at her throat while the other gripped the hair at the back of her neck. His eyes widened as he took in her expression, his hand tightening around her throat as a choked rasp escaped her. He smirked as a deep roar escaped Ser Duncan as the woman let out small whines of pain as he continued to squeeze and pull her hair.

“Now this…this may be a whore worth something.” He mused, turning back to the hedge knight, who’d been forced down to his knees by the guards, “you must not be a very good one if you’re stuck with the likes of him.”

With the little strength she could muster, she spat a wad of saliva against his face the moment he turned back to her. His face twisted in anger, his hand releasing her hair but still tightening even further around her throat as he forced her forward, nodding to the guards to get the hedge knight in position.

“Let’s see how much you like him when he has no teeth, eh?” His lips brushed against her earlobe as he held her back pressed flush to his chest, lowering his voice amidst the chaos as he continued, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

She reared against him, her hands clawing at his where they clutched her neck desperately as he tightened his grasp. His hands were certain to leave a bruise, at the very least, though she wasn’t even certain that he’d relent his grip in time for her to live. Her vision was growing fuzzy, her strength slipping away as she watched the guards force Duncan down, his teeth biting against the edge of the stage. Her knees were weak, only held up by Aerion’s hold on her neck, losing hope of saving herself, let alone Ser Duncan.

Suddenly, Aerion released her, letting her body fall to the floor before him as he whipped around. She coughed loudly, her hands cradling the swollen flesh of her neck as her attention swiftly turned to Ser Duncan, crawling towards him weakly as the guards stepped back from him.

“Du…Dunk,” she rasped, letting out a sigh of relief as he turned to her, gathering her into her arms and cupping her face in one of his large hands, eyes scanning her features desperately as she settled against him weakly.

Then, his eyes moved to the figure standing atop a table amidst the crowd.

“No, you stupid boy!” He shouted at his squire, “they’ll hurt you!”

“No they won’t,” the boy assured him, “if they do, they’ll answer to my father.”

Aerion scowled at the boy in disbelief, “you impudent little rat. What’s happened to your hair?”

Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to focus, then it all dawned on her. Egg, Dunk’s squire, the small bald boy he’d taken in and always seemed to disappear when she was near…how had she not noticed it? The boy on the table, the one who had been sleeping beneath an elm tree on a river bank with a hedge knight who was risking everything he owned just to participate in the tourney…he was no orphan boy, after all, he was Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Maekar and brother to Aerion.

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

***

Prince Baelor was not the type of man you wanted to disappoint. He was a stern man, demanding respect from anyone, and powerful enough to bring swift consequences to those who refused. His wordless stare cuts straight to the bone, dissecting your every thought, action, and emotion before you can even utter a word to him. It was never a good idea to go against his wishes or to challenge his authority. He was a good man, just and compassionate, but was a stickler for rules and demanded propriety, so when she was dragged before him by Aerion, the young prince’s fingertips leaving bruises on her bicep from his grip.

“What is the meaning of this?” Baelor questioned, stalking towards the pair as they entered the council chambers of Ashford castle.

“Look who I found among the lowborn,” Aerion practically sang as he shoved the girl toward his uncle, “they are so depraved they turned her into a wild beast, she attacked me.”

Baelor stopped just an arm's length from the girl, one finger coming to tip her chin up so he could inspect her for injuries, his eyes narrowing in on the red swelling of her neck.

“How did this happen? How did you come here?” Baelor demanded.

“Ask Aerion,” she said, her voice raspy from the irritation.

Baelor turned to Aerion with a raised brow. The younger prince shouted in protest.

“She attacked me!” He argued, “She had a blade!”

“You liar!” She sneered at him, “I was unarmed!”

“Quiet, both of you!” Baelor commanded, his tone short and authoritative as he snapped his gaze between the pair, “you both sound like poorly behaved children. Aerion, off to bed. I’ll deal with you later.”

The young prince sent her a sadistic grin as he shoved past her and down the corridor, leaving her alone with the Crown Prince in the council chamber. His dual-coloured stare was hard, never wavering from her bashful expression as she stood before him.

“You’re meant to be in King’s Landing.”

“I know,” she mumbled in response.

“So why is it you’re standing here before me, in Ashford?”

“I just…I wanted to attend the tourney,” she offered weakly.

“You hate tourneys. You’ve always hated tourneys.”

She shrugged, straightening her spine as she finally met his gaze, “I don’t understand why it matters, or why I’m the one being questioned. If it weren’t for Aerion’s tantrum, you probably would have never known I left the capitol until you returned.”

Baelor raised his brow at her, “It matters because I will not have my daughter mingling among commoners without any protection. What would happen if someone recognized you?”

She rolled her eyes defiantly, “You forget that I am a commoner, father. Besides, I am hardly the only silver haired girl in the crowd.”

“You’re different from them.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, “I’m different from you, no matter how hard you try to mold me into something else.”

His expression softened, “I do not wish to mold you into anything aside from a successful young lady. I want you to live a comfortable life, a good one, and yet you seem to think I am cruel for it.”

“You demand that people accept me, but you cannot make them, father,” she sighed, turning away from him to stand before the fireplace, eyes staring into the blazing hearth, “I may be your daughter, but I will forever be your bastard daughter. I do not serve any political office, I do not stand with the royal family, I do not receive attention or protection from others. I live under the restrictions of a princess, yet I do not reap the same benefits.”

Baelor stared at her for a moment, his face twisted in deep thought, “You…you may still find an advantageous marriage, hold titles and lands.”

“The offer of my hand is an insult,” she murmured, “only the most desperate baron would accept. Punish me if you wish, but I will not apologise for seeking community in a place where no one cares who I am or where I come from.”

Baelor hesitated for a moment, mulling over her words as he rested his hands flat against the tabletop, “and what of this hedge knight? He understands who you are and where you come from?”

She scoffed, “he did nothing wrong. He was protecting an innocent, that’s all.”

“That is not what I asked,” Baelor said, “why were you with him?”

“It is not what you think,” she muttered, “there was no impropriety, we were simply sharing a drink when Aegon found us.”

“And what were your intentions with this man?”

“Father–”

“Do not play me a fool, daughter,” he drawled, “you wear your mother’s dress. I’ve only caught you wearing it once before and it was–

“I simply wanted to wear it!” She protested, “I…this is unproductive! Aerion is a madman and Ser Duncan was the only one with enough courage to–”

“You care for him,” Baelor interrupted her, “this…Ser Duncan, he laid hands on the blood of the dragon. That in itself is a form of treason. Tell me you are not being guided by senseless whims.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at her father as her lip began to tremble, a fresh wave of emotions washing over her. She let out a small, choked whine as tears welled along her waterline. Baelor clicked his tongue at the sound, pushing himself away from the table to stalk over to her. Her cheeks were warm under his touch as he cupped her face in his palms, turning her face up to meet his gaze.

“Tell me, girl,” he insisted, “tell me he’s an honourable man who deserves a chance, and not simply a vision of chivalry that you’ve conjured up.”

“He is the finest man I have ever met,” she whispered, “the first time we met, he was protecting me from a man who would have forced himself on me, and he has never made himself to be any sort of aggressor. He’s been kind to me, and to Egg, and to everyone else he’s ever come across. He comes from nothing, he has nothing…and he does not desire more.”

“And he loves you?” Baelor asked.

She pursed her lips, face heating at the question, “I…I cannot say love…but something akin to it, I think.”

Baelor sighed, stepping away from his daughter. He rested his hands on his hips as he took in her appearance; red dress torn at the shoulder, silver curls dishevelled and falling around her shoulders, cheeks bright with tear tracks.

“You look so much like your mother.”

She let out a scoff of a laugh, turning away from him again, “you say that like it is a curse.”

“It is,” Baelor said, “it is my curse. For not protecting her enough, I think.”

She shook her head, “she died of childbed fever. If one of us is at fault, it is not you.”

“I do not only mean in the end. She underwent her own arrangement of issues as my mistress, and for that I cannot express my sorrow enough. I should have stopped it, carried the burden for her. Just as I should have for you.”

She shook her head, sniffling into her sleeve, “none of that. Will you help him?”

“I’ll speak with him at dawn,” the Crown Prince said, “there will be a trial, and Maekar will demand justice not only for Aerion’s pride, but his own and that of our house. I will advise him, but I’m afraid it may be out of my hands.”

She nodded slowly, hands clutching at her own face in distraught. Her head throbbed under the weight of the situation, sending a tingling sensation down her spine and through her limbs until she felt completely numb. She knew that she would not survive it if Ser Duncan was put to death for this, or even harmed in punishment. She, herself, would be put on trial for carving Aerion’s wicked heart from his chest with his own blade, and the idea delighted her.

“I should not tell you this, but I fear you will find it out regardless of my intervention,” Baelor continued, “Maekar has returned from his search for Daeron and Aegon. He found Daeron in an inn, drunk and insistent that a man the size of a bear made off with Aegon while he was inebriated. Ser Duncan has been identified as this man.”

“Daeron is a liar!” She wailed, “this is preposterous! Ser Duncan left that inn days ago. I was with him on his first evening in Ashford Meadow, and I'll attest to it in trial if I must.”

“None of that matters now,” he shook his head, “the words of two princes will not be put to rest so easily by those of a hedge knight and a–”

Her breath caught in her throat as he caught himself before the word slipped from his lips. His eyes closed in defeat, losing a life-long battle between the pair with the slip of a tongue.

“A bastard,” she finished for him, “it is not lost on me that you always said my mother’s heritage meant nothing so long as you accepted me until it served you otherwise.”

Baelor lowered his head in shame, shaking his head slowly, “you know I do not see it that way, and I will protect you from such treatment I can.”

“You cannot protect me from this treatment,” she whispered, “they will never let me forget my place.”

Baelor was silent, observing with a thoughtful stare. He was the Crown Prince, next in line for the Iron Throne, the second most powerful man in the realm…and yet he could not even protect his daughter from public scrutiny.

“I will do what I can to help your hedge knight,” he said cautiously, “though, I’m certain Maekar will not let this slide without punishment. I will advise him, but I’m afraid that is all I can do.”

She sniffled, nodding her head slowly as she stepped back.

“Am I confined here?” She asked.

Baelor’s shoulders lowered in defeat, “You are not trapped, but you must understand that I cannot allow you to–”

“Can I see him, at least?” She scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, “if I must be locked away in this castle, at least grant me this kindness.”

Baelor sighed. His daughter was hardheaded and wise beyond her years, just as he was, but her courage? That had to have come from her mother. Sometimes it pained him to even look at her–a young woman trapped in this life because of his birthright, the one thing in the world that he could not change for all of his might. He was a stern man, even with his own kin, but there were certain privileges that he found himself unable to deny her of when he was able to.

“Very well.”

***

She should have expected that her father would only allow her to enter the dark dungeons beneath Ashford Castle if she changed out of her sultry red gown and was flanked by guards. Her new dress felt stiff, and stretched uncomfortably around her middle. It had belonged to Lord Ashford’s lady wife, one that she did not seem to care very much for considering that it was forfeited to Prince Baelor’s bastard.

The guards offered her no words of comfort as they forced the door open, stepping aside to let her in.

“Ten minutes,” one of them grunted, “and no tryin’ to get him out, we’ll hear it if you do.”

She nodded stiffly, eyes shifting into the dimly lit cell as she finally stepped inside.

Ser Duncan was pacing the length of the far wall when the heavy door opened, his large figure taking a step back until he was pressed against the grimy wall of his cell. His brow dropped in disbelief when she stepped inside, but a wave of relief washed over him at the sight of a familiar face. His lips parted as a sound of confusion was ready on the tip of his tongue, but there was little time to let it slip before his arms were rushing to catch her around the waist as she lunged for him.

Her face found the crook of his neck, burying as deep into his flesh as she could as a few tears began to leak from beneath her eyelashes. His flesh grew hotter beneath her own at the sensation of her tears pooling against his collar as meek apologies were muffled into the fabric of his tunic.

He forced her back by the shoulders, his eyes narrowing in on her face, then over her entire figure to check over her for signs of harm. In the dim torchlight, his eyes took note of the new dress, the grime of the night washed from her skin, and her loose curls now tucked away in a neat, intricate braid. His eyes narrowed in on the faint bruise forming on her throat, anger tearing through him knowing that those marks were left by Aerion.

“What are you–how are you here?” He stammered.

She ignored him, hiccuping through her sobs, “are you alright? What have they done to you?”

“I’m alright, but–”

“Aerion is a wicked boy, a weak, pathetic excuse for a man. He calls himself a knight, but he does not have an ounce of honour in his blood–let alone the dragon blood he thinks himself to have,” she hissed, turning away from him to pace the length of the cell, “he has done things like this for far too long, always relying on his father to come to his aid. It seems a curse that the only Targaryen prince to ever care for his children is the one who seems to spawn petulant beasts–”

Dunk called out her name, his voice hoarse and laced with desperation. His eyes were hooded, watching her tiredly as she turned back to face him. Realization dawned across her features; she had limited time to speak with him, and she was wasting it with her rambling–not to mention that she was so fuelled by her own emotional outburst that she had completely overlooked how he must be feeling in this situation. She was a bystander, and no matter how angry or saddened she was, it was Duncan whose life was ultimately on the line for protecting an innocent girl from a terrible, evil man.

“I’m sorry,” she said, stepping nearer to him again and taking his large hand in her own, “how are you feeling?”

He closed his eyes at the contact, his fingers curling around hers appreciatively as a deep sigh rumbled through his chest. He guided her to sit, offering her the single low stool that had decorated the cell while he lowered himself onto the dirty floor; even with the difference in height, Duncan was so tall that they were still at eye level.

“I don’t know what to think,” he confessed, “they’re going to kill me. They’ll have my head.”

“They won’t,” she insisted, “they can’t. You did nothing wrong.”

“I know,” he sighed, “but what I did…if it had been any other man…anyone.”

She let out a soft sigh, an admittance. She knew this just as much as he had; it could have been a highborn noble or a common butcher and he may have escaped with a slap on the wrist, but a prince of the realm? Especially Aerion? It was treason, and worst of all, it was visible proof in front of the common folk that the dragon house was weak, its already vulnerable foundation furthered as the hedge knight drew blood from the prince.

Her forehead tipped forward, pressing gently against his, pausing for a moment before her voice escaped her weakly, “my father has promised to help you, ser.”

“Your father?” He questioned.

“As much as he can,” she continued, “Aerion will not let this go, nor will Maekar, but he may be able to lessen the blow.”

Duncan pulled away from her, his furrowed stare meeting her own, “what do you mean? Your father? Is he a knight?”

She hesitated, knowing what sort of reaction was about to come from the hedge knight as she revealed her father’s name. She watched as a series of emotions flashed across his handsome features; shock, followed by confusion, then realization, and finally anger.

“You told me you weren’t a lady,” he hissed, pushing himself away from her entirely as he stood and crossed the cell, “you lied to me!”

“I am not a lady!” She hissed.

“No, you’re only a princess,” he argued, “you and Egg both–how have I allowed myself to be fooled so easily by not one, but two dragons?”

“I am not a princess,” she huffed, “my father is Prince Baelor, yes, but my mother was a whore. I’m told that he loved my mother very much, and it is only for her memory that I am granted any sort of lenience. I am a stain on my father’s legacy, as my cousins so often remind me, and if it weren’t for my father I probably would be dead in the streets or working in a brothel myself. They call me a lady when my father can hear and an urchin when he cannot.”

Duncan stared at her, his breathing heavy as he seemed to struggle with deciding whether it was enough of a reason to lessen his resolve. His hands settled on his hips, shaking his head as he mulled over the information; it wasn’t her fault that he was in this situation, but it was still her family that would be putting him to trial.

“You lied to me,” he said again.

“I know,” she said, “I am sorry. Deeply.”

He watched her silently. She stood before him, eyes swollen and cheeks dampened by tears, hands clenched into fists at her sides while her figure trembled before him. He was angry, yes, but every bone in his body longed to take her into her arms, to soothe her tears and tell her all would be well. He had an undying urge to protect her, to keep her safe and warm and happy and never let the terrible world touch her goodness, but just looking at her, taking in the silver-white hair and violet eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creeping into his belly. He had fallen for her, there was no questioning it, but if he lived to see this trial through, he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing such true Valyrian features ever again.

The door creaked open, a guard stepping inside and storming over to her. The guard grasped her wrist in his gauntleted hand tightly, dragging her away from the hedge knight roughly.

“Time’s up,” he grumbled, hauling her towards the door forcefully, ignoring her pleas for another moment and using brute strength to pull her, despite her efforts to escape him.

“Ser Duncan,” she called out to him, not seeking help from the hedge knight, but rather forgiveness, “I am sorry, ser, I am so, so sorry!”

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Duncan alone, once again, in the cold, dank dungeon.

***

Ser Duncan had done his best to not look too shaken as he stood before the Crown Prince and his brother.

Baelor had offered him advice, just as she had promised, but there truly was little that he could do to stop his brother and nephew from getting the trial that they wanted. A trial by combat was Duncan’s best chance–Aerion may have been skilled in combat, but hand-to-hand against an opponent such as Ser Duncan was bound to end in a humiliating defeat. The Trial of Seven was set to happen, and for all Duncan knew, it would be a greater mercy for them to just take his head then and there.

“Can I go now?” Ser Duncan asked as Maekar dragged Aerion out of the room by the collar of his doublet like a scolded child.

“Ser Duncan, a word?” Baelor said, bringing him to a halt as the other lords fled the room.

Duncan watched him carefully, “of course, Your Grace.”

Baelor waited until the footsteps of Lord Ashford and his advisors had gotten far enough away that he knew they were not being overheard, “there is one more matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Duncan raised his brow in confusion, but waited for him to continue.

“My daughter,” he said, “she seems quite taken with you.”

Duncan flushed, and he felt a deep pit grow in his belly. It was one thing to be standing before the heir to the Iron Throne as a convict for beating his nephew, and a very different thing to be standing before the heir to the Iron Throne as a former companion of his daughter.

“My Prince, I swear to you I did not know she was–”

“Calm yourself, ser,” Baelor raised a hand dismissively, “my daughter’s misleadings are not your fault.”

“It is not her fault either, Your Grace,” Duncan wanted to curse himself for wanting to protect her even now, even to her own father, “she misled me, yes, but she is no liar.”

Baelor huffed a laugh, “yes, yes. My daughter is an honest girl. She gets it from–”

“From her mother,” Duncan finished, “she told me so.”

Baelor stared at him, an expression of reserved shock crossing his features as the weight of Ser Duncan’s words settled into his brain.

“She told you about her mother,” it was not a question that fell from the prince’s lips, but rather a statement of disbelief, “you must have formed a very intimate bond with her. She rarely speaks of her mother, not even to me.”

“I did not touch her,” Duncan blurted, blushing furiously as Baelor raised in brow in question, “I only meant–

“I know what you meant, ser,” Baelor pursed his lips, “you are a good man, Ser Duncan. I know you would not dishonour my daughter in such a way.”

Duncan gulped, “I will not speak to her again if you wish it. I will not even look at her.”

“Is that what you want?”

Duncan paused for a beat, then admitted, “no, Your Grace.”

Baelor nodded, his fingers coming up to stroke his chin thoughtfully, “this world is not kind to women like my daughter, Ser Duncan. It is my greatest punishment that she is forced to live in my shame. I loved my late wife, I loved her in a way that any man would love a woman who has given him sons and raised a good life with him. Jena was a good woman, and I am grateful for her, but it was a love born from duty. There was another that I could not love in the way I wished to, and it was her that gave me my daughter.”

Duncan stood in stunned silence as the prince continued to vent to him, confessions leaving his lips that no one save for the gods had ever heard before.

“This world would beat my daughter down if I did not stop it from doing so, and if I were not who I am, I would not have that power. There will come times where I cannot be there to protect her, and there will come a time where I will leave this world forever, and my daughter will still need protecting. Tell me, ser, do you love my daughter?”

Dunk felt the breath sucked from his lungs at the question. Did he love her? She was beautiful, kind, selfless, and she was among the first people to ever look at him with genuine fondness. She did not want his strength, or his height, or his sword…she simply wanted him.

“I…”

“I believe you do,” Baelor bit back a small smirk, “even if you are not ready to say it. I was like you once, I can recognize a man who is not ready to admit his feelings. My point is, Ser Duncan, is that you are the very first person that my daughter has shown this sort of care towards, and her openness about her mother, well that is very telling. If you manage to survive this trial, which I have high hopes that you do, I would offer you the position of my daughter’s personal guard.”

Duncan froze, “My-my prince…I do not think I am fit for the role. Should it not be a member of the kingsguard?”

“She would have a sworn protector already if her station would allow for it. The kingsguard offers her standard protection, as they do to anyone in the Red Keep, but they would not protect her against her own kin should there come a time when they must. You have shown already that you can and will stand against a member of House Targaryen to protect her.”

“Your Grace–”

“You need not make a decision now, Ser Duncan. Go find your men, and prepare yourself for the trial at dawn.”

***

The air was heavy and damp the next morning, fog settling low in the sky as dawn broke over Ashford Meadow. The lists were already filling with spectators when she slipped through the outer corridors of Ashford Castle and down toward the encampment. Word of the trial had spread like wildfire through the tourney grounds; knights, squires, and smallfolk alike had crowded toward the field to witness the spectacle.

It was her first day setting foot in the arena. She’d travelled to Ashford for the experience, not to witness unnecessary and ruthless violence, but she had also promised Ser Duncan that she would come watch when he finally entered. Regrettably, that was today. She stood just beneath the seats reserved for Lord Ashford and his royal guests, shoulders brushing past lesser lords and ladies as she rushed to the front of the crowd, fingers curled around the bannister as her eyes moved to Ser Duncan standing amongst his own men–her eyes widening when she only counted five, not including Raymun Fossoway and Egg, neither of whom had been knighted.

She felt shame bubbling deep in her belly at the idea of none of the thousands of knights making any attempt to put forward their lances, none noble or honourable enough to take a stand against a prince of the realm for the sake of a man they had never heard of. Her eyes scanned over Duncan’s looming figure, his body wrapped in chainmail and a heavy surcoat, enough to offer some protection but not nearly enough to stop a longsword from penetrating his flesh. Dread consumed her mind; even with the Warrior himself at Ser Duncan’s side, the trial could not commence without seven knights on either side, and Dunk would be found guilty for his crimes.

Her eyes flickered over to where Lord Ashford had been sitting, watching in boredom as the knights prepared themselves below, then to where her own father had been sitting only moments earlier, only to find his seat empty. She felt her heart in her throat, rushing up the staircase to grab at her brother’s sleeve urgently.

“Valaar,” she hissed, tugging at the velvet on his arm, “where is father?”

Valaar turned to his sister with wide eyes. He had always known her to be rather calm, never wanting to give others any sort of ammunition against her position at court. They had always been as close to one another as they could have with their staggeringly different statuses, so Valaar was quite taken aback to see his sister gripping his arm so frantically.

“Sister,” he said, “what’s wrong? Something’s wrong, I can see it in your eyes.”

“Nothing–I’m not sure yet,” she stammered, “father was just here, did he say where he was going?”

Valaar looked at her, unconvinced, but nodded in the direction of the large pavilions flying the Targaryen flag, their peaks visible over the high walls of the arena, “he said he would only be a moment. Just–where are you going?”

“It’s nothing, just–stay here!” She barked over her shoulder, rushing out towards the pavilion.

He was alone when she found him, save for a single young squire, who held the reins of Valaar’s black stallion, donning intricately designed armour that appeared to be a size too small. The rest of the crowds were inside the arena already, all too interested in what was happening inside to think of what was taking place outside. His hand was on the saddle of the horse, preparing to hoist himself up when she finally caught sight of him, realization struck her like a blow to the chest. Her feet carried her forward before she fully knew what she was doing.

“Father.”

His eyes fell on her, and for a brief moment the stern mask slipped from his face, replaced with something softer, something almost weary.

“You should be inside,” he said to her, “the trial will begin any moment.”

“So should you,” she said softly as she stopped before him. Her eyes swept over the armor, the sword at his hip, the weight of duty sitting heavy on his shoulders, “you mean to fight.”

It wasn’t a question. The armour was answer enough, though the three headed dragon on his chest brought a sense of dread over her. Aerion already had his seven at this point, while Dunk only had five, and here Baelor was preparing himself to fight in defense of his house.

“Please,” her voice was small, almost a sob as the words fell from her lips, “I beg of you, you cannot do this. You know Aerion was wrong,”

“It seems I can,” he sighed, turning to face her, “but I will not fight for Aerion. I will take your hedge knight’s side.”

“What–” she choked, “you…”

“I promised you that I would help him as much as I could.”

“Help? This is not helping, this is–”

“It is protecting him,” Baelor corrected gently.

“And risking your life.”

Baelor’s expression softened in a way that made her chest ache.

“All fathers risk their lives for their children,” he said. “Some simply do so more publicly than others.”

Her eyes burned.

“This isn’t about me,” she whispered, “none of this is about me. There must be something else you can do–beseech Maekar to stop this, command someone else to take your place…”

“This is about you,” he interrupted her, “for too long I have allowed slights against you. It is Ser Duncan that is on trial here, but my joining is just as much about you as it is about doing what is right.”

She was silent, violet eyes watering as she stared up at her father. She felt like a girl again, staring up at her father and seeing a man who appears tall and strong and immovable. But that was not the case here, for Baelor was being moved, and it was his daughter that was doing it.

“You care for him,” he continued, telling her rather than asking, “if there was ever a time for me to be a father to you–”

“You are my father,” she pleaded, “you needn’t do this. This is your life at stake.”

Baelor scoffed, “look at my opponents. The kingsguard are sworn to protect me, Aerion will be too involved with Ser Duncan to even take the chance, Daeron is of no threat, and Ser Steffon has only just been made a lord; he won’t be willing to give that away by striking a prince.”

“You forget one,” she reminded him, “I understand you and Maekar are close, but what if–”

“My brother would never intend to bring me harm.”

Baelor studied her carefully, and for a moment he looked less like the heir to the Iron Throne and more like the man who had raised her—tired, thoughtful, and terribly human.

“I have watched you all your life,” he continued. “You guard your heart as fiercely as any knight guards his blade. Yet somehow, in the span of a few days, you’ve opened yourself to a hedge knight of all people. More so than you ever have with me.”

Her lips trembled as she struggled to form words, “father, that is–”

“You needn’t deny it, daughter,” he smiled softly at her, tucking a single loose curl behind her ear, “he told me you spoke of your mother. We haven’t spoken of her since you were very young.”

She swallowed harshly, “I did not mean for this to happen.”

“I suspect that only makes it worse.”

A weak laugh escaped her as she sniffled harshly, wiping her nose aggressively against the sleeve of her borrowed gown–Lady Ashford wasn’t likely to wear it against anyways, considering who she had been forced to loan it to.

“A hedge knight is beneath your standing, I admit–”

“I am a bastard,” she reminded him, “I have no standing.”

Baelor ignored her as he continued, “but he is a good man. Better than any I’ve met in a very long time, for that matter. Perhaps, should we all survive this, he may return to King’s Landing with us.”

The idea was meant to bring her peace, but it only further fuelled the anxiety inside of her as she thought of Ser Duncan’s goodness being chipped away at by being there in that cesspool, the gossip and betrayals and plots would eat him alive and destroy the light in his soul, and there would be no one to blame for it but herself. He wouldn’t blame her for it, she knew that much, but that only made it worse.

“He’ll die,” she whispered.

“Not if I can help it.”

Her breath hitched.

“You always do what is right,” she whispered, “sometimes I think it is your most damning quality.”

Baelor shook his head slowly.

“This is not about right and wrong,” he admitted, “not entirely, anyway. I’m doing this for you.”

Tears blurred her vision. She’d waited years to hear those words, to feel her father’s protection where it really mattered. He loved her, yes, but her illegitimacy made it almost impossible for him to include her as a member of his family. Of course, he recognized her as his own, made sure she was fed and clothed and educated, and allowed her to form relationships with her brothers and cousins, but even as the heir to the throne he was unable to completely destroy that invisible barrier. This was the first time he had ever publicly taken a stand for her, even if others did not know it was for her.

“You always told me that I would find a brave knight,” she whispered.

“And so you have.”

She threw her arms around him before she could stop herself, her body shaking with her sobs as she curled into his chest, “thank you.”

For a moment he stiffened in surprise, then his arms came around her in return, strong and certain. He did not answer, only raising one of his hands to hold the back of her head, cradling her against himself gently.

“Be careful,” she whispered against his shoulder.

Baelor pressed a kiss to the crown of her head before finally releasing her from his hold, his hand cupping her chin as he met her gaze once more, “always. Now go, you should not stay to witness what happens next.”

Baelor turned to his horse then, hoisting himself into his saddle and sliding his head into the sleek helm, not sparing her a glance as his horse took off towards the arena.

He already knew she would not listen.

***

The shouting didn’t stop, even after it was over.

She didn’t know who had won.

She didn’t know who was still alive.

The field had dissolved into movement—men shouting, bodies being turned, armor clattering as knights were dragged from the dirt. The crowd pressed forward, breaking whatever lines had held them back. She forced her way through it blindly.

She had remained on ground level after parting from her father, now among the common folk and jammed so tightly into the crowd that she could hardly even hear the clanging of steel and yells of pain over their excited chittering and shouting.

She forced her way through it blindly.

“Let me through—please—”

No one listened.

Someone shoved past her, a maester rushing ahead towards the wounded princes in the mud. When she could finally see through the crowd, her stomach lurching at the sight of blood and gore in the mud; the air smelled of mud and blood and sweat and something metallic that made her stomach turn. She stumbled from the force, head turning as she caught herself and–

She caught sight of him between the pushing and shoving of the crowd as they cheered for the hedge knight. Not clearly, not all at once, but he was too big to miss even as he collapsed into the side of a smith, Raymun Fossoway coming to support his other side and drag him out of the arena.

The woman elbowed her way through the crowd —hard enough that someone cursed at her, but she didn’t stop.

“Move—!”

No one moved.

They were cheering now.

Cheering.

“For the hedge knight!”

“He’s done it—!”

She shoved between them anyway, slipping in the churned mud as she broke past the last line of bodies and onto the torn field itself.

Men were still shouting. Some were kneeling over the fallen, others dragging the wounded away by their arms. A prince’s banner lay trampled in the dirt. Somewhere nearby, a horse screamed.

And there—

Dunk.

Half-carried, half-dragged between a smith and Raymun Fossoway, his weight sagging heavily between them.

“Wait!” she cried.

They didn’t hear her, dragging him through the arched entryway of the arena.

She chased after them, forcing her way through the smallest gaps in the crowd and shoving past unruly spectators with no regard for the force she was using. Her skirts caught in the mud, the fabric soaking through and growing heavier by the second as she clambered over the barricade, rushing through the gore and mud after them. She hoisted them up, her stocking probably more exposed than what would be considered decent, but it allowed her to quicken her steps as she closed in on him.

A wash of relief fell over her at the sight of his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, but his name fell from her lips in a breathy whisper as she took in the blood and bruises that had covered his flesh.

“Dunk!” She gasped as she dropped to a squat before him, forcing herself into the way of the smith, who was rambling off what supplies they would need to heal the hedge knight.

His one good eye flickered open, his lips parting in disbelief, as if he thought she was a figment of his imagination.

“…Egg?” he murmured, voice rough and distant.

Her breath hitched.

“No,” she said quickly, brushing mud from his cheek with shaking fingers. “It’s me.”

He blinked, trying to focus.

“My lady,” he breathed, reaching his hand out weakly. She took it, having no regard for the mud or the blood that he passed onto her skin, “you…you shouldn’t…”

“You shouldn’t be here, my lady,” Raymun interrupted, “this–this is no sight for a lady’s eyes.”

Egg appeared beside her, his already large eyes widening even further as he reached for his cousin’s hand instinctively. She glanced up at him for a moment before her own violet stare turned back

“I’m not leaving,” she barked at him, then turned her attention to the smith above her, “what do we do? How do we help him?”

“We’ll get ‘im drunk, then we’ll pour boiling oil on it,” he said, “that’s how the maesters do it.”

“Wine, not oil,” another voice called out from behind, Prince Baelor joined them with an eerily calm expression on his features, “oil will kill him. I’ll send Maester Yormwell to have a look at him when he’s done tending to my brother.”

“Father,” she gasped, looking torn between wanting to rush to her father’s side and not wanting to let go of Ser Duncan’s hand, “are you–”

“I’m alright, child,” he offered her a weak smile.

“Your Grace,” Dunk grunted out, forcing himself to his feet for a moment, staggering toward the prince and dropping to his knees before him, “I am your man. Your man. It would be my honour to-to do what you’ve asked of me.”

Baelor’s eyes flickered down to the tower of a man, then to his daughter as she tried to force him to rest. He nodded slowly, almost unnoticeable as a knowing smile briefly flickered across his face, because, whether he had intended to or not, Ser Duncan had just indirectly confirmed Baelor’s suspicions about his feelings for the young woman.

“I need good men, Ser Duncan,” Baelor said slowly, a glazed look appearing in his eye as he took a stumbling step backward, “the realm…”

“Father,” she hissed, letting the smith take hold of Dunk and force him back onto the bench as she moved towards her father. Her hands came to clutch at his arm to steady him.

“Father, you need to see the maesters,” she continued, “you stumbled–is it your leg?”

Baelor waved her off, “nonsense, I am merely winded. A long bath and a hot meal should suffice. Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind.”

“At once your grace.”

“The visor…the visor’s cracked.”

Her brows furrowed at his comment; the visor in his helm wasn’t cracked, it was completely gone. Somehow amidst the fighting, it must have been broken off.

“Father, what do you…”

Raymun came to Baelor’s other side. Her grip on his arm tightened as Raymun reached for her father’s helm, his face tightening as he struggled with it. His eyes flickered to the woman's with concern painted across his features, their shared gaze tainted with confusion and fear.”

“My fingers…feel like wood.”

Raymun looked back at the prince, his eyes scanning the damaged helm.

“Goodman Pate, a hand,” he called out.

The smith left Ser Duncan’s side, moving to stand behind the prince and inspecting the damage his armour had taken.

“The helm,” Steely Pate said, “it’s crushed down the back, Your Grace. It’s smashed into the gorget.”

“My brother’s mace, most like,” Baelor smiled softly as pride swelled in his chest, tilting his head toward Raymun, “he’s strong.”

“Father, please let me call a maester. Something is wrong.”

Baelor’s hazy stare turned to look at her with a fond expression, “you look so much like your mother. It was my greatest regret that I could not marry her–”

Steely Pate finally managed to pull the helm free, lifting it from Baelor’s head. A sickening squelch filled the air as Baelor’s eyes suddenly became lifeless, his knees buckling forward and bringing his body down into the mud at her feet. Blood splattered over her dress as Steely Pate dropped the helm to the ground in shock, a horrified scream tearing through her throat as she stared into the gaping hole in the back of her father’s skull, blood and gore splattered in the mud.

“No…no!” Duncan fell to his knees once more, catching the prince before his head could reach the ground, “no, Your Grace. Get up, ser. Get up, ser!”

Her body was still, staring down at her father’s limp corpse with a blank stare. Tears filled her eyes, burning at her waterline desperately, but they could not break free. Her breath trembled as it fell from her lips in short clouds of fog against the cold morning air.

Prince Baelor was dead.

Her father was dead.

And now, she is more vulnerable than ever.

***

The earth was warm beneath her, heat resonating from beneath the few remaining embers of her father’s funeral pyre.

The funeral had ended almost a while ago. She stood in her place the entire time, behind the small crowd that had gathered–exactly where she belonged. It was only after the flames died down and the others returned to the castle that she stepped forward, waving off Valaar’s concern, telling him she wished to stay a while.

She did not know exactly how long she’d sat there before Ser Duncan appeared behind her, his movements slow and unsteady. Carefully, with the help of his makeshift crutch, he lowered himself down into the dirt next to her.

They sat in silence for a while, his blue eyes never wavering from her profile as she watched her father’s ashes being collected by the silent sisters before them.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was quiet, like he hadn’t even truly meant to speak. He had not seen her since the trial–since her father fell dead at her feet from fighting for Ser Duncan’s life. He did not know if she even wanted to see him, for any affection she held for him may have been erased due to his hand in her father’s death.

She did not answer, though her eyelids fluttered closed as she inhaled sharply.

Duncan reached out hesitantly, his movements pausing for a beat before his fingers finally pressed against her shoulder gently. His stomach twisted as she pulled away.

Her movement was small, but it still cut through him like a blade. He flinched gently in response.

“I didn’t mean…” he cleared his throat as his voice cracked sharply, “I did not mean for this to happen.”

She laughed humourlessly.

“I know,” she sniffled, “but I’m thankful you survived. It’s what he wanted.”

Silence stretched between them for a beat. Ser Duncan was unsure what to say, while she was unsure how to feel. It was sadness at first, then anger, and finally fear; the kind that ate away at her entire being until she could do nothing but run and hide from everything that the gods had planned for her, good and bad.

“I cannot go back,” she said.

Dunk frowned, his brow furrowing.

“To King’s Landing,” she explained, her voice faltering, “not without him…they’ll throw me to the streets.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened, his heart rate spiking as he recognized the crippling fear apparent on her features.

“They wouldn’t…what of your brothers?”

She scoffed, “what–my brothers and I care for one another, that is true, but I think you overestimate the political power that they hold. If they cannot send me away, they’ll kill me, and my brothers know that well enough.”

“You could come with me.”

She turned slowly, raising a brow as she watched him struggle to stand with the help of his crutch, waiting until he was steady on his feet to offer a response.

“With you?” She asked, “what use am I out there?”

His cheeks held a pink glow beneath the bruises and cuts, shuffling awkwardly.

“You’re someone who needs someone to protect them,” he grumbled, pausing for a moment before he continued, his voice softening, “I promised that I would.”

She did not ask who he had made this promise to.

She did not need to.

Her violet stare scanned over his face, taking in the sight of his swollen eye and darkened, swollen flesh.

“And that’s enough?”

“It should be,” he said.

A long silence followed before she took a slow step forward, wrapping her arms around his waist. He let out a soft grunt as she pressed herself against him, her cheek smushed tightly against his chest.

“You’re hurt,” she said, her voice muffled by the worn fabric of his tunic.

“So are you,” he retorted, his arms curling around her shoulders, gently holding her against him as one hand cupped the back of her head comfortingly.

She laughed weakly through her tears.

“I suppose we’ll have to care for each other then,” she mumbled, craning her neck to look up at him.

He let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Does that mean you’ll come with me?”

A gentle smile curled onto her lips as she stared up at him, her eyes still wet but now much brighter.

“I’m afraid for your safety otherwise, Ser Duncan.”

For the first time since the trial, she felt less afraid. She buried her face deeper into his chest, melting as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head as his arms tightened around her.

She did not look back.

Whatever remained at Ashford Meadow belonged to another life—one buried in the mud with shattered armor and a prince whose goodness was the cause of his own downfall. Grief lingered, sharp and unyielding like a blade beneath her ribs, but this time, she did not hide from it.

The road stretched on before them, uncertain and unkind.

She did not fear it. She could not, when Ser Duncan offered her more protection and kindness than anyone ever had.

Still, as Duncan’s steady footsteps fell into rhythm beside her, something quieter took root beneath the ache—not peace, not yet, but something that might one day become it.

And for now, that was enough to keep walking.

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