⸻ 𝓠 ! 𖥸

Duncan

Dunk is certain you are going to get yourself hurt one day at the flea bottom marketplace.

You wave at everyone in there, compliment a baker far too enthusiastically, stop to admire ribbons you absolutely do not need, and strike up a cheerful conversation with a stranger as if they’re an old friend, the possibility of them being dangerous never crossing your mind. Dunk loves the way you are, but it frightens him too. You are so bright, so openly kind, traits he believes are far too advanced for this cruel backwards world. He fears that with your sweet, trusting nature, someone will see it as weakness and try to take advantage of you.

Still, he does not wish to change you. He would never dull your spark. Instead, he chooses to protect it, to stand between you and anything sharp enough to wound you.

He trails behind you, mortified but intensely focused, his hand hovering near your waist, ready to pull you back against his broad chest if even the slightest danger arises. You skip along, blissfully unaware of how tense the man behind you is. Duncan knows Maekar would have his head before the morrow if he knew where his daughter and the knight sworn to protect her was. At the moment, Dunk hardly cares he would rather face the wrath of the dragon than see the she-dragon sad if he said no.

You don’t notice the danger at all. You’re still smiling, chatting about how you should get something for everyone, even Aerion.

“Princess, we should be getting back—”

“Just five more minutes,” you say brightly. “I want to look.”

“At what?” he asks, exhausted.

“Everything.”

You suddenly dart toward a stall of hand-crafted trinkets, picking up a doll with a frown. “Don’t you think this looks Aerion?” You giggle. “I should get it for him, he’d hate it, which makes it better.”

Dunk huffs despite himself. “I don’t think provoking your brother is wise.”

The owner of the stall leans a little too close, smiling in a way Dunk doesn’t like.

“You’ve got fine taste, my lady,” the man says smoothly. “Perhaps I could show you more we have in the back.”

Before you can respond, Dunk steps in, large and immovable, placing himself fully between you and the stranger.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dunk says sternly.

The man falters under his size alone. “I meant no harm.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Dunk mocks.

You peek around Dunk’s arm. “Oh! He was just being friendly.”

Dunk glances down at you, softening instantly. “Aye but we’re finished here.”

He guides you away with a firm hand at your lower back. You don’t protest, just loop your fingers through his.

“That shop owner was not being friendly was he?” you finally observe after a few moments after.

Dunk looks down at you, it always pained him when you were aware of how cruel some people could be. “Aye” he replied

“Well I am very lucky to have had you here with me.” You beam at him. You then go off to talk about whether horses have favorite apples, immediately discarding the situation like you simply just threw out trash.

Dunk thought you were wrong, he was the lucky one here, he has no problem protecting you for he made it his personal oath if the world insists on being cruel, he decided then he will simply have to be cruel back so you never have to be.

Baelor

The exhaustion shows in the slump of his shoulders.

In the way he has been staring at the same line of parchment for far too long.

In how he only half hears what Maekar is saying yet nods as though he understands every word.

The large doors open without a knock nor announcement.

Both princes glance up, but the first thing anyone sees is you peeking your head inside as though testing the weather before committing to it.

Baelor’s expression softens immediately, a small smile curves at his mouth, it is also a silent permission for you to come in.

You enter triumphantly, arms full of folded fabrics and trailing ribbons. They threaten to spill before you reach the table and deposit them in a dramatic heap.

Bright colors cascade across the dark wood, swallowing ledgers and maps whole.

Maekar exhales slowly through his nose but says nothing.

You smooth your hands over your skirts as if you have just completed grueling labor.

“Right,” you begin, clasping your hands together with great importance, “do you think Lord Celtigar would prefer warm or earthy tones for his chambers?”

You say it with the gravity of war strategy.

“I want the room to feel calm and welcoming,” you continue, . “I do like the earthy tones, but blues and greens might feel… seasick or mayhaps i can do bright colours….but now that may seem childish.” You speak as though you blurt out whatever new thought forms in you brain without thinking it through.

Maekar finally looks up.

“You interrupted a discussion of royal finances,” he says flatly, “for curtains.”

You glance at him, entirely unshaken. “This is an alliance matter. Colours affect morale, if he sleeps poorly, he will think poorly.”

Baelor does not hide his proud smile.

He leans back slightly, studying the fabrics as though you have presented battle plans.

“Anything will likely please him,” he says gently. “He was raised among stone and steel. Colour might surprise him in a good way.”

He considers for a moment longer.

“Earthy tones, perhaps. He often speaks fondly of hunting as a boy.”

Your entire face lights at once, ideas igniting behind your eyes.

“Yes—yes, that is perfect and if that’s the case we shall have a hunt in his honor!”

You spin toward the door, already halfway gone before.

“Beloved.”

You turn instantly. “Yes?”

Baelor gestures lightly toward the table.

You gasp softly, having entirely forgotten the heap you left behind. You hurry back, gathering the fabrics in a flurry.

“You should eat,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You forget when you worry”

Maekar arches a brow.

Baelor only inclines his head solemnly. “I will my love, join me in the garden later and we can also discuss your ideas”

You smile feeling satisfied and silence returns.

Maekar watches his brother for a moment.

Baelor sits back down, but something in him has steadied. His shoulders do not sag quite so heavily now. His hand moves with clearer purpose as he resumes his work.

There is still a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Maekar exhales once.

“Curtains,” he mutters.

Baelor’s eyes remain on the parchment.

“Curtains,” he says softly.

And continues writing.

Lyonel

Lyonel is halfway through shouting at one of his men to bring more barrels of wine for the evening feast when you appear.

“This is not enough, you half-wit,” he snaps, not yet looking at you. “Do you plan to have my guests licking the bottoms of empty casks? Move.”

The servants scatter.

He notices you then, though he doesn’t turn right away. Instead, one arm opens in silent invitation. You step into it without hesitation. His hand finds your hip, firm and possessive, drawing you against his side while he finishes glaring down the trembling steward.

“And if I see watered wine,” Lyonel adds coldly, “you’ll be drowned in it.”

Only when the man flees does Lyonel finally turn to you. The sharpness in his face softens instantly.

“What is it?” he asks, voice dropping into something far warmer. “Do you need new silks? More jewelry? More flowers for your garden?” His hands settle fully at your hips now, thumbs brushing over the fabric. He is already prepared to grant whatever you wish.

You place both palms against his chest and shake your head. “No. I want to play a game.”

He narrows his eyes at you purr leaving his lips. “Oh?”

“What scent am I wearing?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I’ve been experimenting and I think this is my favorite one.”

A slow grin pulls at his mouth. While other lords might dismiss such things from their lady wives, Lyonel never dismissed anything that mattered to you, no matter how “silly” or womanly it was.

He leans down, nosing into your hair like a great hunting hound. “Rosemary.”

You beam. “No.”

He shifts to your neck, fingers hooking gently into the neckline of your gown to bare your shoulder. His lips hover there before placing a slow kiss. “Honey.”

“No.”

He gasps in mock outrage. “Deception.”

You laugh. “False, you are simply bad at this.”

“I am excellent at this,” he protests, dragging you flush against him until your chest presses to his. “You are just a deceiving little minx.” His fingers sneak to your sides, tickling until you squirm.

“Do you give up, my lord?” you grin up at him.

“No,” he declares at once. “If I can not guess by smell I am sure I can by tasting you.” He lifts you suddenly, hands firm under your thighs, hauling you against him like you weigh nothing. You squeal, gripping his shoulders as your feet leave the ground.

“You have a party soon” you laugh but make no attempts to escape

He only shrugs they can do without their host for a few hours.

Maekar

Maekar hasn’t even turned the corner but he already knows you’re infront of his study when he hears a bright, unrestrained, entirely too enthusiastic voice for the early hour down the corridor.

You are standing far too close to one of his guards, peering up at the man’s helm with open fascination.

“Does it pinch your ears?” you ask, head tilted like a curious pup. “Because it looks like it would, my mama always said I have a rather large head… do you think it would pinch mine because of that?”

The guard looks as though he would prefer a battlefield.

Maekar steps into view.

“You are distracting my men.”

The guard immediately straightens, spine snapping rigid. He looks uncertain whether being caught indulging you by his prince is worse than answering your questions.

You turn, bright and unbothered. “I was merely checking on him.”

“He does not require checking,” Maekar replies flatly.

You glance back at the guard, then at Maekar. “You could at least ask if it pinches.”

“It does not pinch,” Maekar says, already moving past you toward his study. “And if it did, he would endure it.”

He pushes open the door

And stops

The heavy dark curtains have been drawn back, tied with absurdly cheerful yellow ribbons. Sunlight spills across the stone floors, chasing away the shadows he prefers. On the windowsill sits a small cluster of wildflowers in a simple vase,bright blues and yellows and whites standing in defiance of the room’s gray austerity.

A strip of soft blue fabric has been draped carefully over the back of his chair, clearly meant as a blanket.

His jaw tightens.

“What is this.”

You step in behind him. “I thought it was very gray in here,” you say cheerful . “Whenever you come inside, you always look… tense, I thought perhaps I might make it feel more homey.”

“This is not a sitting room,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “It is a study, the most important matters of the realm are handled here.”

He walks farther inside, gaze sweeping over the flowers,the fabric, the faint sweetness in the air that certainly was not there before.

“You cannot simply alter my privacy because you feel inclined to.”

You shrink at that.

Your fingers twist together and your shoulders fold inward. “I am sorry… I- I did not move anything important,” you say softly. “just moved books to dust lightly I swear it.”

It is subtle but he sees the change.

The way your voice lowers, the way you look at him as though you have disappointed him.

He had been prepared to lecture you about boundaries, order, and propriety but the sadness in your face unsettles him more than the flowers.

He steps to the window and lifts one of the blooms. The stem is slightly bent making it slightly uneven.

“You picked these yourself,” he says.

“Yes.”

“They will wilt.”

“I know.” Your voice is quiet now. “But they are pretty while they live.”

He studies the flower a moment longer, then sets it back down with measured care.

“Then you will see to replacing them,” he says at last. “If they are to remain.”

Your head lifts instantly, warmth returning to your expression like sunrise.

“Of course.”

He has to look away as if your smile was the very sun itself.

“I have work to attend to,” he adds. “I will see you at supper.”

You dip your head, smile lingering, and slip from the room closing the door gently behind you.

Maekar stands still for several long moments.

He glances toward the closed oak door, listening until your footsteps have fully faded down the corridor.

He takes the vase from the sill and carries it to his desk, setting it carefully within his line of sight, adjusting it so it no longer appears lopsided.

Then he sits back down and returns to his work as though nothing at all has changed.