Said effect of Dunk's exclamation was the abrupt halt of everyone within shouting distance (which was everyone, really, Dunk had the sort of voice that could carry a bit when he was angry). A half-dozen guards appeared as if by magic and surrounded Baelor (Prince Baelor, he was a prince and the Hand and the Heir and all manner of things that Dunk really had to remember, especially when he smiled at him with his dragon-toothed mouth and kind, sad eyes), who just tilted his head at Dunk and said, "Is something amiss, Ser Duncan?"

Duncan could feel the burn on his face. It wasn't caused by the sun this time, for Princess Daenerys had fretted over his "alabaster skin" when first he'd arrived along with the rest of House Targaryen, and had made a point each morning to march up to him and demand he kneel before her (for she hardly came up to his elbow, shorter even than thirteen-year-old Egg) so she could slather some liniment that smelled of elderberries and wax on his face. "You need minding, Ser Duncan," she'd tell him each time with a fond shake of her silver hair.

So this was merely the burn of humiliation. A usual feeling around House Targaryen, really. He often wondered at the odd twists in his life that had landed him amidst this pit of dragons, the most powerful and dangerous family in the nine kingdoms, but usually it seemed to come back round to an unlucky star under which he'd been born. He'd no idea which, but the bastard was up there somewhere. "I'm sorry, ser— milord— Your Grace," he managed to get out at least, and waved his hand over at where Egg was triumphantly trotting back to them, Daella's headscarf billowing out behind him. "It's just—"

It was just that Egg had retrieved his sister's scarf from where it had blown off her head and shoulders and onto the ground, without getting off his horse. Instead he'd galloped toward the thing at full speed and flung himself out of his saddle, only to grab hold of the stirrup with one hand and do something baffling with his boot and the pommel, flipping himself upside down like one of those tumbler-riders that oft made their coin entertaining the tourney-goers between jousts.

Baelor's expression didn't change, least not that Dunk could see in the glare of the sunlight, but behind him Dunk saw Ser Roland cover his mouth and cough. "It seemed a chivalrous gesture," Baelor commented as his guards put up their weapons and, with various reproving looks, went back to their place in the train. "At least," Baelor added, "it will be if he gives it back."

Sure enough, Egg seemed to be trying to negotiate with Princess Daella for some form of payment, while their Martell cousins watched with ill-concealed amusement. Swearing under his breath, Dunk nudged Rain into a canter to catch them up as the train slowly began moving once more. "You," he said to Egg, "give it back."

"You performed her a great service, ser!" Egg protested immediately. "It's only right that a lady offer recompense." That last was hissed at his sister, who glared back.

"I performed no such thing," Dunk sighed, more in resignation than in the hopes it would be heeded. It was true enough that any acts of a squire were considered those of his master, but in Dunk's experience that more often meant the knight took the blame, rather than the purse, that was extended as a result.

"Besides," added Princess Daella, "I could have gotten it myself, Omelette." And with an impressive bit of horsemanship — or horsewomanship — she leaned far enough out of her saddle to snatch the scarf out of Egg's startled grasp and tossed it high into the air, where it caught the wind and danced away into the wheat fields that rolled lazily away from the road in either direction. Rain danced a bit himself, nervy as always at the strange things humans got up to, but Princess Daella's gelding seemed positively bored as she nudged him into a canter, and—

"Has the sun made you all mad?" Dunk hissed, watching (though his fingers) as she performed the same upside-down trick, retrieving her scarf with, it had to be said, a good deal more grace than Egg had managed.

"As mad as a Martell, at least," said Princess Naerysa, laughing. She was Princess Daenerys and Prince Moran's eldest daughter, Heir to the Spear Seat and nearly as tall as her uncle, with his dark hair and stubborn chin. "It's been something of a tradition, ever since the days of Nymeria, when the Rhoynar had to exchange their boats and ships for horses and wheelhouses. We were the finest rivermen in the world, once, so Nymeria vowed we would become the greatest horsemen in the world. And so we are. Except for the Dothraki, of course," she added with what she must have thought was graciousness.

"And you all can do—" Dunk waved again, this time where Daella was rewrapping her scarf about her hair, primly tugging the fabric until it shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun. "All that?"

"Oh, that's nothing," said Prince Nymor with a broad smile. Dunk had met many lords of the Great Houses — Damon Lannister, Lyonel, Leo Tyrell, even Jace Stark (though he'd been no older than two at the time) — but the Prince of Dorne seemed the most regal of them, the one who might most easily be mistaken for a king instead. But he was merry for all that, and a more thoughtful ruler of his people Dunk could hardly wish for. "My mother can jump off her mount at full gallop, then spring back into the saddle in the next moment."

"It's our dragon blood," said Princess Naerysa with a toss of her head — ironical, most likely, since her hair was as black as her brother's, with only a little early greying at the temples to betray her. "We were meant to fly, you see, Ser Duncan. Until the dragons return, this is like the closest we can get."

"Which is why Mother is so good at it, though I suspect Aunt Myriah gave her extra lessons before she came to Sunspear," Prince Nymor said. He saw Dunk's puzzled look and added, "My father, may his memory bring joy, was quite the horseman himself, so Aunt Myriah knew any bride of his would need to be well-equipped to handle him." Princess Naerysa leaned out of her saddle to hit her brother firmly on the arm. "Ow," the Prince continued.

"Are you saying — Princess Daenerys can do that too?" Dunk asked. They really were all mad. 

"Oh, yes. She's quite the best of us."

"Except for Uncle Baelor, of course," said Princess Naerysa earnestly, her cheek dimpling as she looked slyly behind them. "Isn't that so?"

Dunk turned round in his saddle. Baelor— Prince Baelor— and Princess Daenerys had come up behind them. "You can really do all that?" he asked them.

Before the impertinence of the question could catch up to him and make him blush again, Prince Nymor said, "Oh yes, Uncle Baelor's quite the terror. Of course it helps him to have a sturdy mount, one who can... handle him." Nymor's horse tossed its head as if agreeing. "He's not as young as he once was, after all."

"Nymor," his mother said in a warning tone.

"And all that— turning your self upside-down?" Dunk asked, though he was looking at Baelor's ears — they'd gone red at the tips.

So he got caught completely unaware when Baelor looked at him, his blue eye flashing with all the mad mischief of a Martell and a dragon combined. "It's not so difficult, really," he said mildly. "Shall I show you?"

"No," Dunk said immediately, as the rest of the family erupted in a chorus of approval. 

Baelor ignored them all, including Dunk, and held out a hand. "Ser Duncan, if you might be so good."

"I haven't got a scarf," was all he could think of to say.

"A scarf, meaning no offense to my nephew and niece, is hardly a challenge. I thought perhaps," and he gestured down at Dunk's hands — for in addition to the ointment, Princess Daenerys had given him a pair of soft deerskin gloves that protected his "delicate hands," as she called them. He'd never thought of any part of himself as delicate before.

"Really, Uncle, in front of everyone?" said Princess Naerysa with a cluck of her tongue. Dunk couldn't understand what she meant, but a Prince's command wasn't to be gainsaid. 

He peeled off the left glove and held it out — only for Egg to take charge of it and gallop off into the field, dropping it somewhere ahead. "Here it is, Uncle!" he called out, which seemed unneeded.

"Don't, Baelor, please," Dunk said, because he'd nearly been the cause of the prince's cracked head once before and he couldn't stand the thought of doing it again.

But it was already too late, for Baelor had already urged his horse away from the train (amongst some muttering and restlessness from his guards) toward where Egg had moved off a few paces, shouting encouragement that the wind whipped away from them. Dunk couldn't be bothered to listen anyway, watching instead with his heart crawled halfway up his throat as Baelor dipped down, down, a sort of elegant slide until his hand touched the ground. Then he was twisting himself back up into the saddle, his horse turning in a slow circle back toward the train as the rider held something aloft.

"It would have served you well," Princess Daenerys said as Baelor returned to the train, brushing the dirt and dust off from the glove, "if you'd broken your neck. But you did the same for Jena, I don't know why I'm surprised." She looked over to Dunk. "It's a good thing he's pretty," she said, which made Dunk blush again, until she realized that she'd directed that last remark not about him, but to him.

"Dany," Baelor said, and it seemed to Dunk that everyone was saying each other's names in some tone which ought to mean something but which was leaving Dunk as lost as an oarless boat in the God's Eye.

Princess Daenerys only laughed and collected her children, along with Egg and Daella (still bickering over the cost of her scarf's return), to take a stop at a nearby stream under the shade of some apricots trees. It left Dunk alone (or as alone as could be in the midst of a few dozen guards and servants and courtiers) with Prince Baelor.

"Your glove, ser," Baelor said, holding it out.

Dunk took it back. It still had a bit of dirt along the seams, but he'd done his best to clean it. Dunk ought to have said thank you or Your Grace was very impressive or something like that, but what came out was, "I hope your horse is accustomed to such antics. Thunder would throw you off for nonsense like that."

He realized his mistake a half-second after the last word left his mouth, but Baelor only chuckled, his dragon teeth flashing in the sunlight. "No doubt he would, a venerable warhorse such as yours. Fortunately, Quicksilver was reared and trained here in Dorne, under the tutelage of House Martell's Master of Horse. She is as adept as I — likely more so," he added with a rueful wince, pressing a hand to his lower back. Dunk kept his eyes respectfully forward and away from the tempting swell of the prince's backside, but he could feel that damned burn on his face again when Baelor made a deep, groaning sort of noise as he stretched. "I confess, it's been some years since I've attempted something that— ambitious. I'll have to ask Maester Yormwell tonight to knead out the knots I've given myself with that nonsense, as you put it." But his expression held no reproof, it seemed, only amusement and perhaps something else, a sort of—

"I could do it instead," Dunk said. "I mean. I'm good at it. The old man always said so. If you— if you liked."

This he'd meant to say. He hadn't thought about it, that was true, but seeing Baelor like that — a half-wild thing, joyous and lithe and he'd done the same for Jena, Princess Jena who everyone agreed had been the love of Baelor's life but was gone these ten years at least, and Baelor had asked Dunk to come along with them from King's Landing to Sunspear to the Water Gardens, had found him every day to speak with, had smiled at him, and who Dunk had thought of in idle moments for three years and countless quiet nights and who was there, right there, so close he could reach out and touch — perhaps Dunk could be reckless too, off-balance and flinging himself into danger for the chance at something he wanted.

"Yes," Baelor said, and Dunk looked over at him, at his dragon teeth and eyes like sea-glass and his reddened ears. "Yes, I— would like that."

"Hit with me," Baelor Targaryen said. Shedding his jacket to reveal a close-fitting black polo shirt and arms that were still toned as anything.

Dunk stared at him. "What?"

"Hit with me. From what I've heard, you don't have a coach, let alone a hitting partner."

"Um– yeah. Okay. I'll just–" He fumbled with his racquet bag and took two out, tested their tension before handing one of them over.

Baelor held it loosely in his hand, turned it over to feel its weight. "You could go heavier."

"Probably could, yeah. But it's what I'm used to, and they're not– y'know, they're not dying to send me new prototypes, are they?"

"It matters little. I don't think power is your problem, is it?"

Dunk flushed, moved awkwardly to one side of the net. Baelor gestured for him to start at the baseline, so he did, sent a soft buttery serve over into the deuce court which Baelor returned just as soft and buttery. They went forehand to forehand for a while, then to backhands, volleys, lobs. Like they were warming up for a real match. Even easy like this Dunk could feel the artistry in Baelor's shots, twenty years' muscle memory to execute the perfect touch and spin.

And at length, Baelor called across the net, "Shall we play a set?"

"Oh, I don't–"

He was smiling to show crooked teeth. "You'll have to go easy on me. I'm an old man."

Dunk wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. Old or not, if he lost there would be no shame in it. Far greater players than he had lost to a 39-year-old Baelor Targaryen. Equally, the absolute horror that would ensue if he somehow managed to injure Baelor Targaryen in the process —