lili

You and your brothers had been escorted by several yearning guards who all wanted to be the first one to report your arrival to the prince. They practically tripped over one another trying to all pile into the darkly lit room. You walked in last, hoping that maybe they could not see you.

All you could see was Dunk. And the last look on his face when he was dragged away by the guards. No words left his mouth, but you could feel the deep betrayal in him. The image stuck, unmoving, no matter how hard you tried to look away. There were so many thoughts left in your brain, unsaid feelings, and questions you wished to shout at the man.  And yet, when his eyes were on you for the last time, you couldn't even meet his gaze. 

You killed him, and you couldn’t even give him the decency to look him one last time in the fucking eyes.

Maybe you should take his place.

Maekar’s booming voice pulled you out of your trance. The room seemed to shrink around him before he even spoke. “Why weren’t my children brought to me at once when I asked?” he yelled. The words cracked through the chamber, sharp enough to make even seasoned men flinch.

“There was too much commotion, my prince. We apologize,” one of the knights said, head bowed as if he was scared of poking the dragon.

Maekar’s gaze shifted from steaming anger to landing on the three of you. He studied you all closely, the drawn lines on delicate skin, exhaustion etched in your brows and shoulders carrying the weight of the whole world. He was particularly stricken by the bloodied faces of you and Aerion. His eyes also lingered on the disguises of you and Egg.

But for the first time, you could not read what he was thinking. Only then did he shift back to anger and bark out for all the guards to get the fuck out. Leaving the three of you alone in a den with a wild animal.

When the three of you stayed silent, Maekar spoke for you. “Well, someone explain!” he shouted.

Explain? Where to even start? 

The three of you all spoke in unison, shouting several different accounts of the events that took place in the spacious puppet tent. Maekar tried to make you quiet down again and again. After the fifth shout, your ramblings collapsed into silence.

“Silence! From all of you. I will no longer hear this buffoonery.” He gritted his teeth.

He focused on the youngest.  “Aegon.” The name made the little boy stiff, even though it was his own; he had tried not to think of the name for so long. “Go. I will deal with you later.”

Egg looked up at him, stunned wide. “But—”

“Now, boy. The maids will show you.” The tone left no room for argument. Egg hesitated only a moment longer, sparing one last glance in your direction. You could see the fear in his eyes, the unspoken apology. Then he turned and walked out of the room as the door closed softly behind him.

Maekar’s brows scrunched at the two of you, sharp and accusatory. “Why? Why is it always you two?”

You tried not to audibly shriek at the way he roped you in with your brother. 

“Because he never stops,” you said, voice low. “He struck a woman!” 

Aerion scoffed, though there was a flicker of something uneasy beneath it. “She was a threat,” he said. “Anyone who dares to bring down our nam—”

“You don’t care about that!” you snapped. “You only care about yourself, how she made you look small.”

That one landed. You saw it. Just for a second. 

“You came at me with a dagger,” Aerion shot back, “and sent your beast on me.”

Your head whipped toward him. “That’s a lie.”

“Aerion struck Tanselle first,” you said, forcing the words steady despite the heat rising in your chest. “She did nothing,” you went on, louder now. “She didn’t fight you. She didn’t touch you. She begged you to stop.” You swallowed, but didn’t stop your rant. “And you broke her fingers anyway.”

Aerion’s jaw set. “I will not be made a fool of by common—”

“You made a fool of yourself,” Maekar cut in. The words cut him further than any punch Dunk threw at him. “You name every slight a threat,” he continued, each word measured. “You turn sport into spectacle, and spectacle into scandal. Do you think the realm blind? Do you think they will not speak of what they saw? I will not have my children running wild through tourneys in disguise, striking at puppeteers and performers, and calling it justice.”

Then his lecture stopped. He ran a hand through his beard. You waited for something, anything, a sign that this was not simply going to slide. “I care little for which of you struck first,” he said at last. “What I see is disorder. So fix it.”

You watched him, really watched him this time. The way his anger bent, not toward what had been done, but how it had been seen. The way Aerion still stood, unbowed, unbroken, and unafraid. He wasn’t going to punish him. Not truly. Not for this.

The realization settled warm in your chest.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter than before, but it carried. “After all of this? Where is his punishment?”

Aerion’s head turned toward you sharply, but it was Maekar who answered first, his expression hardening at the challenge. “You presume much—”

“Oh, I think it’s quite clear,” Aerion cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to draw attention back to himself. There was something eager in the way he spoke now, sharpened by the opening. “There will be punishment.”

You didn’t like the sound of that.

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”

Aerion’s lips curved, faint and cruel. “The man who aided her,” he said. “The hedge knight. He raised his hand against a prince of House Targaryen.”

Your stomach dropped.

“He will answer for it,” Aerion continued, almost lightly. You already knew. Before he said it. 

“As any traitor would, with death.” The words rang in the room like a sentence already passed.

You stepped forward without thinking. “He defended—”

“He struck a prince,” Aerion snapped, the edge breaking through now. “Before witnesses. That alone is enough.”

“You speak as though the judgment is yours to give.” Maekar let out a sound that could've doubled as a laugh.

Aerion stilled.

“It is not,” he finished. The words were quick, but absolute. “You do not decide who lives or dies,” Maekar continued. “Not here. There will be a council held.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened, something frustrated flashing beneath his composure. “What?” he yelled.

Something in you snapped. This still was not good enough.

“You may not give him the power,” you said, your voice tight and body trembling, “but you’ve never taken it from him either.” Maekar’s gaze shifted to you slowly. That was your warning. You didn’t take it. “You ask why it is always us,” you went on, the words coming faster now, sharper. “It is because you let it be.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Careful—”

“For years,” you cut over him, “you’ve let him do as he pleases. Call it temper. Call it pride. Call it anything but what it is.”

Maekar went very still. “And what is it?” he asked.

Your hands trembled, but you didn’t stop. “Unchecked foolishness. It festers,” you said. “Because you allow it.”

The room felt smaller now. Dangerous.

“You look at what happened today and see embarrassment,” you continued, your voice unsteady but unyielding. “You see whispers, and witnesses, and shame to your name.”

His expression hardened.

“But you do not see what he’s done,” you finished. “Not to them. Not to me.”

Aerion’s head turned toward you, almost giddy that you were about to set your father up and face the consequences. Maekar’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “Choose your next words carefully.”

You met his gaze anyway. “When has it ever mattered what he does?” you asked.

Your voice faltered, just for a second.

Not from fear. From something older. 

“You didn’t even care when it was me.”

Silence, complete and suffocating silence.

For the first time, there was no quick answer. No immediate anger, just stillness.

A command left your father's mouth with swiftness. “Leave.” You flinched, thinking his words were thrown at you. But they weren't, for the first time, your father picked.

Aerion blinked, caught off guard and disappointed for no fight. “Father, what?”

“I said leave,” Maekar repeated, sharper now. “Go anywhere but here.”

The finality in it landed. For once, Aerion did not have an immediate retort. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking between you and Maekar, searching for something, an opening, a challenge, anything to regain footing.

There was none, since the room no longer belonged to him.

“…As you command,” he said at last, though the words were tight with restrained frustration. He turned sharply, his outfit shifting with the motion, and strode from the room. The door shut harder than it needed to.

The two of you stood there, alone now. 

Maekar let out a groan. “What in the seven hel—”

“What are you going to do with him?” you blurted out. The words burst free before you could stop them.

“With whom?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“With Ser Duncan, the knight.”

He threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t fucking know yet! I am more concerned about why my own children are sneaking out and causing problems.”

Despite his anger, you kept calm. “It wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion,” you said quietly.

“Speak up, girl.”

You cleared your throat, heart pounding. “I said it wouldn’t have been a problem if not for Aerion. He always ruins everything. I mean, he thinks of himself as a dragon.”

“Aerion is no longer of your concern; he is gone,” he barked. “The concern lies with my daughter disobeying me. You were told to stay at Summerhall.”

“I had to do something!” you cried out.

“You shouldn’t even be here!” The words hit harder than a blow.

“Is that all you care about?” you demanded. “What rules have I broken when a man is now being imprisoned, and a woman’s fingers are broken? All because that idiot took her craft as a snide against House Targaryen?”

“It’s your fucking house!” he shouted.

“This hasn’t been my house,” you said, voice shaking with fury. “Not for a long time.”

Maekar stood rigid near the hearth, broad shoulders tense, his shadow stretching long and crooked across the walls. He had always been loud when angered, sharp and cutting. But where others bowed and withered under his fury, you only grew brighter, hotter, and more defiant.

After all, you were your father’s daughter.

The words tore out of you like something breaking. “I will not hear this anymore!”

He turned on you sharply. “You will? You will?” he snapped. “I am your father. What you will do is listen to me. Heave my words into that thick, stubborn skull of yours.”

Your hands shook, fists clenched so tightly you drew blood. “I care for him,” you choked out, the truth scraping your throat raw as it escaped.

For one fragile heartbeat, Maekar froze.

Then his face twisted, disgust curling through his expression. “Care? What is this? Love?” he scoffed. “What do you know about love, girl? You are a foolish child who believes desire is destiny, who thinks she can force the world to bend simply because she wants it to.”

Something inside you fractured.

“I know enough about love,” you said, voice trembling but rising, “to know I have not felt it from you in years.”

The room seemed to contract, the fire dimming low.

“Ever since Mother died,” you went on, the words coming faster now, harder to hold back, “you shut me out. You vanished into grief and left me to pick up everything you dropped.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “That is not—”

“I was a child,” you cut in, sharper now. “Barely old enough to understand what death was, and suddenly I was expected to run a household.”

You took a step closer.

“The feasts. The guests. The expectations. All of it.” Your voice wavered, then steadied. “And I did it without you.”

He said nothing.

“I raised them,” you continued, quieter now, but no less fierce. “Egg. Daella. Rhae.” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.

“I was the one who put them to bed. The one who dried their tears when they cried for a mother who wasn’t coming back. I taught them their letters. I braided their hair.” A breath. Sharp. Unsteady.

“They won’t remember her,” you said. “Not really. Just pieces. Stories.” Your gaze didn’t leave his.

“Stories I had to tell. Because you wouldn’t.” Silence pressed in around you. “I was a child,” you said again, softer this time, but it cut deeper. “And you left me alone.”

“I will not hear another word,” Maekar growled, teeth clenched. 

“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer, the space between you suffocating. “Why must I always be quiet? Why do you never want to hear me?”

He turned away from you then, already moving toward the door, as though your pain were something he could simply walk away from, as he always did.

“Maekar!” you cried. “I am standing right in front of you. Listen to me.”

His hand closed around the latch.

Something desperate and dangerous rose in your chest. “Or you will never see me again!” you shouted, the words tearing free. “I will leave, and you will never see me again. You will hear of me only through others… and songs for the rest of your life.” Your voice echoed violently against stone and timber, louder than you had ever spoken, louder than you ever thought you could. The castle itself seemed to shudder beneath it.

For the first time, you realized that no matter what he chose, something between you had already been irrevocably broken.

Maekar stood at the door with his back to you, hand braced against the latch as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You could almost hear him breathing, slow and uneven, as if he were forcing himself not to turn around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, scraped raw by restraint. “There are chambers set up for you,” he said. “Go to them, and fucking stay there.”

The words were not shouted. That almost made them worse. Then, quieter still, thick with bitterness and something dangerously close to care, “And wipe that muck out of your hair.”

He did not look at you. He did not say your name. You stood there for a moment longer, chest aching, then turned away before he could see what his words had done. The door remained closed behind you.

Not slammed.

Just shut.

Tears would not come. Not for him. They had not for years. Whatever had once existed in you had long since run dry. But your breath caught, and you folded in on yourself, shoulders caving as the sound tore out of you anyway, raw and broken, nearly choking you where you stood.

Blood started dripping again from your nose, warm and persistent as it slid past your lips and down your chin, each drop landing softly against the stone beneath you in a rhythm that felt far too loud for how distant everything else had become.

You did not wipe it.

You kept walking.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, torchlight bending and warping against the walls as if the castle itself was shifting around you, and for a moment, you thought you recognized where you were, until you turned a corner and found yourself staring at the same tapestry you were certain you had already passed.

Or maybe you hadn’t.

It was hard to tell.

Your hand drifted outward, fingers brushing along the cold stone as you moved, grounding yourself in something solid while everything else felt just slightly out of place, like your body was moving a half step behind your mind. The ringing in your ears had not stopped since the hall, a low, constant hum that swallowed the edges of every sound around you, turning voices into distant murmurs and footsteps into dull vibrations beneath your feet.

You turned again, slower this time, your steps faltering as something inside your chest tightened, not sharp, not sudden, but steady, pressing inward as if the weight of everything was beginning to settle all at once.

The pain followed.

Your nose throbbed first, then your ribs, then something deeper that you could not name, each ache arriving dulled and delayed, as though your body had been waiting for you to notice it.

You exhaled slowly, though it did nothing to steady you.

Shadows moved at the edge of your vision, figures passing you in the corridor, their presence marked only by the faint shift of air and the suggestion of motion. Someone spoke, perhaps to you, perhaps not, but the words slipped past before they could take shape, leaving only tone behind, soft and uncertain.

You kept walking.

Or tried to.

At some point, your steps slowed without your permission, your body lagging as if wading through something unseen, until you stopped entirely, your hand pressing more firmly into the wall beside you as the stone seemed to tilt beneath your touch.

That was when they approached.

Three girls, their movements quick but careful, their expressions shifting the moment they took you in, the blood, the bruising, the way you swayed slightly where you stood, as though even remaining upright required more effort than it should have.

“My princess—”

The words reached you this time, though faintly, as if carried from a distance too far to matter.

Another voice followed, overlapping, softer but more urgent, and though you could not catch the meaning, you understood enough from the way their hands hovered near you before settling lightly at your arm.

You did not pull away.

Not out of trust.

Simply because the effort of resisting felt too far removed from where you were.

They guided you forward, their touch careful, almost tentative, as though you might break beneath it, and you let them, your steps falling into place beside theirs without thought as the corridor shifted again around you, unfamiliar doors and dimmer light replacing what had come before.

Voices grew clearer, then blurred again, questions asked and left unanswered, your silence passing unnoticed or unchallenged as they led you somewhere warmer, somewhere quieter, where the air did not feel quite so sharp against your skin.

You blinked,

and the space had changed.

A washroom now.

You did not remember entering.

Their hands lingered a moment longer, one of them reaching for you again, more hesitant this time.

“My princess, you should—”

“No.”

Your voice came out low, flat, but it was enough.

They stilled.

You moved past them without looking, stepping toward the basin as your fingers curled around its edge, gripping it tighter than necessary while the room swayed faintly around you.

Then, without allowing yourself to think, you lifted it and poured the water over your head.

The cold struck immediately, sharp enough to force a breath from your lungs, dragging you back into your body with a suddenness that almost hurt, and for the first time since leaving the hall, something felt real.

You filled it again.

And again.

Each time the water ran heavier, soaking through fabric and skin alike, dripping from your hair and pooling at your feet as the world narrowed to the simple, repetitive motion of lifting, pouring, breathing.

Your fingers moved next, scrubbing harshly at your arms, your neck, your scalp, nails dragging across your skin as if you could strip away more than just the dirt and sweat that clung to you. Dark streaks began to run with the water, curling and twisting as the dye bled free, staining the floor in uneven patterns that thinned with each passing moment.

You did not stop.

Not when your hands reddened.

Not when the skin beneath them began to sting.

Only when there was nothing left to take.

The movement slowed, then ceased entirely, your hands falling still at your sides as the last traces of color slipped away, leaving only pale strands clinging wetly to your shoulders.

For a moment, you did not look.

You only stood there, water dripping steadily from your frame, your breath uneven, your body suddenly too light without the weight of what you had been hiding behind.

Then your gaze lowered.

The reflection wavered in the shallow water below, distorted at first, then slowly settling as the ripples stilled.

White.

Not pale.

Not faded.

White, bright, and unmistakable, catching what little light remained and holding it there.

Silver, just as your father’s had always been.

Your throat tightened, a small, involuntary hitch of breath breaking the quiet before you could stop it, and though you blinked quickly, something still slipped free, vanishing the moment it fell.

The door opened behind you, softer this time.

They had returned.

You did not tell them to leave.

Hands found you again, gentler now, more certain in their movements as they worked in practiced silence, drawing dry fabric over your shoulders, guiding your arms when needed, careful not to jostle what was already bruising beneath your skin.

You let them.

The resistance you might have offered before never came, not because it had been taken from you, but because you could not find it within yourself to reach for it.

They moved around you with quiet efficiency, tending to what they could, drying your hair, smoothing oil into your skin, their touch light but steady, as though trying to ground you in a way you no longer seemed able to do on your own.

You barely registered it.

The warmth.

The closeness.

It passed through you without settling.

By the time they finished, the room felt dimmer, the candle they had lit casting long, wavering shadows along the walls as they guided you toward the bed, their presence lingering only a moment longer before slipping away entirely.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

You lay back without remembering the moment you decided to, your body sinking into the mattress as you stared up at the ceiling, the faint flicker of light above you the only indication that time was still moving at all.

You were tired.

You could not sleep.

Your thoughts did not come all at once, but in pieces, slow and uneven as they found their way back to you.

Egg, somewhere in this castle, alone.

Dunk.

That thought did not continue, catching too quickly, too sharply, leaving behind only the image of stone and iron, of space too small and too dark, of him held somewhere you could not reach. Your hand shifted slightly against the bedding, searching without thinking, your fingers brushing space where your dagger should have been.

Gone.

You felt that absence more than anything else, your hand curling faintly against the sheets as if holding onto something that was no longer there.

The room remained still around you, unmoving, unfamiliar in a way that settled deep beneath your skin. And when your mind drifted, it did not linger here.

It returned to the road.

To uneven ground and open air, to the crackle of a small fire and the quiet weight of Dunk’s presence beside it, to Egg’s voice cutting through the night with something bright and unguarded.

Simple things. Clear things. Things that had felt solid beneath your feet. You held onto those small, steady memories for as long as you could. But the quiet stretched too far.

It settled into something familiar in a way that made your chest tighten, something you had felt before, long before the road, long before Dunk and Egg, back when silence did not mean peace but absence, when rooms full of people could still leave you entirely alone.

And without meaning to, your thoughts shifted again.

Not to the road.

To a table.

To a hall filled with voices that had never once been meant for you.

Aerion’s boot found your foot beneath the table, not by accident, never by accident, pressing down just enough to make your toes ache before easing away, only to return moments later, measured and deliberate, as though he were testing the boundaries of your patience, or perhaps simply reminding you that he could.

The red dress did not help.

It clung where it should not, tight across your ribs when you tried to breathe too deeply, the fabric heavier than anything you would have chosen, thick and warm beneath the candlelit heat of the hall, its color impossible to ignore even when you wished to disappear into the background like you usually could.

You never wore your house colors.

Never allowed yourself to be wrapped so plainly in what you were meant to represent, but tonight there had been no avoiding it, no slipping past the expectation, only careful hands pulling you into something presentable, something proper, something that sat on you like a lie the longer you remained still in it.

A perfect princess, if anyone cared to look closely enough.

Aerion’s boot pressed down again.

Above the table, he ate without restraint, chewing loudly, wet and unrefined, as though he took some quiet pleasure in fouling the air itself, in making his presence unavoidable in every possible way.

You kept your gaze fixed ahead, on your uncle as he spoke, forcing yourself to follow the shape of his words even as their meaning slipped past you, your focus pulled again and again to the pressure beneath the table, to the slow, deliberate way it returned.

“Sit still,” Aerion murmured, not looking at you. “You make it obvious when you twitch.”

You stilled.

You had been looking forward to this night. Foolishly. Tomorrow, you will ride to Ashford. There would be banners, horses, a tourney held in honor of Lord Ashford’s daughter, a girl you knew only through stories, spoken of as something gentle and kind, something untouched by the sharp edges you had grown used to.

The thought of her had stayed with you. A small, fragile thing. Proof that the world could be something else.

All you had to do was endure this. That had never been difficult before.

You knew how to sit quietly, how to fold yourself inward, how to let discomfort pass without acknowledgment. You had done it for years.

But Aerion did not tire of testing that control. Everyone knew it. They saw enough to understand what he was, even if they chose not to name it. Most of all, your father. You had told him. More than once.

Aerion did not simply provoke you. He lingered where he was not wanted, broke what was not his, turned your chambers into something you could not recognize when it suited him. He struck your attendants when they displeased him. He laughed when they flinched.

And those were only the things spoken aloud.

His hand brushed your leg beneath the table, light at first, then firmer, lingering where it should not have been, and your entire body went rigid.

“If you speak,” he said quietly, “they will only hear you making noise.”

Above the table, his voice lifted easily moments later, answering a question with practiced ease, as though nothing at all had changed.

You stared at your plate until your vision blurred. This was the only meal you were required to attend. One evening, before you could return to your chambers, to quiet, to something that belonged to you.

One night.

Your breath came shorter without your permission, your fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table as the pressure beneath it shifted again, more deliberate now, more certain.

The hall seemed to tilt. Candlelight wavered, stretching and bending at the edges of your vision. When his hand moved higher, something inside you faltered.

You stood abruptly, your chair scraping sharply against the stone. The sound cut through the hall. Voices faltered. Heads turned. Not in concern. In interruption.

“Little sister,” Aerion said lightly, almost amused. “Have you forgotten yourself?” 

The name settled cold in your chest. Your pulse hammered, too fast, too loud, your thoughts slipping just out of reach as you turned, not to him, but to your father.

“Father,” you said, forcing the words out through a tightening chest, “the hour has grown late. I am spent from your talk of battles and knightly deeds, and I would retire.”

“Sit.”

He did not raise his voice.

He did not need to.

For a moment, you only stared at him, disbelief rising slowly and heavily in your chest.

“I—”

“Sit down,” Maekar said, irritation threading through the words now. “You are not dismissed.”

You lowered yourself back into your seat, slow and controlled, moving as far from Aerion as you could manage without drawing further notice.

“Good,” Aerion murmured beside you. “You remember.”

The hall resumed as though nothing had happened.

Conversation returned. Cups were filled. No one spoke of it.

No one asked.

Your uncle glanced toward you once, something tightening briefly in his face before he looked away, as if even that small acknowledgment was more than he could afford.

You picked at your food until it went cold, untouched, your appetite gone entirely, leaving behind only a hollow, uneasy weight in your stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

Perhaps it was over.

Perhaps he would tire of it.

He did not.

His hand returned, slower this time, deliberate in a way that left no room for doubt.

Your palms struck the table before you fully understood that you had moved, the sound cracking through the hall, sharper than it should have been.

“That is enough.”

Your voice carried, strained but steady.

“Father,” you said, more tightly now, “I will leave.”

“No.”

The word came heavier this time, edged with annoyance.

“But Aerion.” Your voice lowered, controlled in a way that felt fragile, as though it might splinter if pushed even slightly further. “You know his behavior. Everyone does. I will not sit here and be treated as though I am something to be handled at his leisure.”

Then, quieter, more dangerous, “I am done enduring it.” You said.

Aerion let out a soft breath beside you, almost amused.

“What is she speaking of?” he asked mildly. “I have done nothing.”

“You are lying!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Always so certain,” he said. “And yet never correct.”

“I have had enough of you,” you said, the restraint in your voice beginning to splinter. “Enough of this fucking table, this fucking silence.”

“I have had enough of both of you,” Maekar cut in, his hand striking the table hard enough to still what little movement remained. “Cease this fucking arguing or starve.”

He looked at you when he said it.

Aerion smiled.

Something in you gave way, not slowly, not in pieces, but all at once.

You seized his goblet and threw it over him, the red wine soaking into his pale hair, running down his face in uneven streaks that looked almost like blood.

“You insufferable, miserable creature,” you said, your voice breaking where you had meant it to hold.

Aerion wiped at his face slowly, unbothered.

“There,” he said softly. “Now they will remember you.”

You turned before anything else could be said, moving toward the doors, your pulse still racing, your hands shaking despite yourself.

“Come back,” your father called after you.

You did not stop.

“I choose to starve,” you said, not turning. 

Laughter followed you.

Aerion’s.

“Let her go, Father. She was never suited for this. No man would take her as she is. Might as well send her to the Silent Sisters before she worsens.” 

You stopped.

Your hand tightened against the door.

For a moment, you stood there, the distance between you and him stretched thin, your breath uneven, your body held in place by something that had not yet decided what it would become.

Then you turned.

The space closed quickly.

Your fist connected with his jaw, the impact sharp, immediate, reverberating up your arm in a way that felt almost grounding.

For a heartbeat, the hall froze.

Then it broke.

Voices rose, chairs scraped, Daeron laughed too loudly for it to be anything but a spectacle as Aerion staggered, then straightened, blood and wine mixing as he reached for the nearest cup and threw it back at you, soaking you in turn.

“Better,” he said. “Now we match.”

You were on him before the guards could react, striking again and again, each blow landing harder than the last, the force of it carrying something you had not been allowed to release before, something that refused now to be contained. He couldn't even shake you.

Hands grabbed at you.

Pulled.

Shouted.

You fought against them, even as they dragged you back, your breath ragged, your vision narrowed to him and nothing else.

He laughed. Spitting blood.

They tore you away. For a moment, everything fractured into noise and motion, hands still gripping your arms as you fought against them, your breath coming sharp and uneven, your pulse loud enough to drown out the first few words thrown your way.

“Have you lost your mind?” Maekar’s voice cut through it, not concerned, not even surprised, but furious in a way that made it clear the offense was not what had been done to you, but what you had done in return.

“Unhand me,” you snapped, twisting against the grip on you, the fabric at your shoulders pulling tight as you struggled, the dress biting where it had already begun to strain.

Aerion laughed again, not even shaken.

“You see?” he said, dragging a hand back through his hair, pushing it out of his face only to smear the last of the wine further along his temple. “You can lace her into silk, sit her at the table, teach her which fork to use, and still this is what comes of it.”

“Enough,” Maekar said sharply, though his gaze stayed on you. “You will hold your tongue.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering that, but did not stop.

“Though I suppose we should not be surprised,” he went on, his tone turning almost thoughtful, as if he were making an observation rather than an accusation. “Some things do not take, no matter how much effort is spent trying to make them fit. Blood will show itself in the end.”

A chair shifted softly along the stone.

One of the ladies lowered her gaze to her plate, adjusting her sleeve as though something about the fabric required her full attention, while a knight further down the table reached for his cup without looking up, his posture settling into something deliberately neutral, as if stillness itself might keep him from being drawn into it.

No one spoke.

No one asked him to clarify.

They did not need to.

Your hair had come loose in the struggle, pins slipping free one by one until it fell unevenly around your shoulders, strands sticking where the wine had soaked into the fabric at your collar, where sweat and heat had undone whatever careful work had been done to make you presentable.

You could feel it, the difference. The unraveling.

“Look at you,” Aerion said more quietly now, his gaze moving over you with something like quiet satisfaction. “All that effort, and it slips the moment you are pressed.”

Maekar said nothing. He did not look at Aerion. He did not correct him.

His attention remained fixed on you, hard and unyielding, as though you were the only part of this that required discipline.

Something in the room settled again, not into comfort, but into understanding, into something unspoken that passed easily between them all, as though a question had been answered without needing to be asked aloud.

Your grip on the moment slipped. The hall, the voices, the hands on your arms, all of it began to pull away from you, not all at once, but in pieces, like something receding just beyond your reach.

A strand of silver hair caught against your lips when you tried to breathe. You did not move to fix it.

Morning came without ceremony, and you woke into it already in pain, not the sharp kind that demanded immediate attention but the deep, spreading kind that had settled into your body overnight, lingering in your knuckles where they had struck harder than they should have, in your ribs where each breath pulled a little too tightly, and behind your eyes where the world felt slightly misaligned, as though you were still half a step out of place in it.

You lay there for a moment without moving, staring at the canopy above your bed as if it might offer something recognizable, but all it gave you was stillness, and the faint pressure of sunlight pressing through narrow windows that had already begun to warm the stone of the room, turning it from cold to indifferent.

When you finally sat up, it was not with urgency but with the slow acceptance of something already decided for you, and only then did you notice the clothes laid out across the foot of the bed. 

Carefully prepared in a way that made it clear this morning had been arranged without your input, the riding dress already pressed and waiting, boots placed side by side as though you would simply step into a role that had been set for you in advance, your cloak folded with precise attention to the colors of your house, bright and undeniable in a way you never dressed yourself.

It was wrong, sitting there like that, too intentional, too composed, as though nothing had happened at all, as though you had not spent the previous night shouting until your voice broke and your hands bled, and yet the castle itself seemed to insist on continuing forward as if you had never stepped out of line.

You dressed because there was nothing else to do, each movement slow and quiet, the fabric of your clothing feeling unfamiliar against your skin after everything that had been stripped away from you, and when you finally stepped into the corridor, the emptiness of it was the first thing that struck you, not just quiet but emptied in a deliberate way, as though the life of the castle had been carefully removed rather than simply absent.

There were no voices ahead of you, no distant arguments, no footsteps of attendants or guards shifting in their routes, only the long stretch of stone and the echo of your own movement, and it did not take long before you understood why.

They had already gone.

The realization did not arrive as anger, not yet, but as something hollow and weightless that settled in your chest and stayed there, unmoving, as if your body had accepted it before your mind had fully caught up.

You made it halfway down the stairs before a servant appeared at the base of them, hurrying toward you with visible hesitation, his hands restless at his sides as though unsure where they were meant to rest, his expression carefully neutral in the way of someone delivering something they did not wish to be responsible for.

“My princess,” he said quickly, eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder rather than on you, “I was told to find you.”

You stopped, though not because you expected anything good.

“Told by whom?”

“His Grace, the prince, Maekar,” he replied, swallowing once before continuing, “I am to speak in his place.”

That, more than anything, told you everything you needed to know.

“Well,” you said, your voice even in a way that felt distant from you, “speak.”

He hesitated only briefly before reciting what had clearly been given to him word for word, the cadence of it rehearsed and stripped of warmth, telling you that in light of your conduct the previous night and in consideration of what was appropriate for ladies of the realm, you would remain at Summerhall while the rest of the court departed for Ashford.

There was no softness in it, no pause that suggested uncertainty, only the clean delivery of something already decided, and when he finished, the silence that followed felt heavier than his words had.

Then, as if remembering something secondary, he reached into his sleeve and produced a small parcel wrapped in plain cloth, holding it out toward you with visible reluctance, as though even this gesture felt misplaced.

“And from Prince Baelor,” he added more quietly, “he says happy name day.”

The words did not land immediately, not as meaning, only as sound, until they slowly gathered weight and became something sharper, something that did not belong in the same space as the message you had just been given.

Your name day.

The thought of it surfaced belatedly, disjointed from the rest of the morning, and with it came the realization that the clothes, the preparation, the careful arrangement of your chamber had not been for nothing, but for something you had been excluded from before it even began, remembered only enough to be acknowledged after you had already been left behind.

You took the parcel because there was nothing else to do with your hands.

It was light.

Almost carefully so.

The servant lingered for a moment longer, then bowed with something that might have been discomfort or pity or simply the desire to leave quickly, and when he finally spoke again, it was no longer part of his message but something that escaped him despite it.

“I am sorry, my princess,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and left you standing there alone in the corridor, still dressed for a journey that no longer existed, holding something meant to soften an absence that had already taken shape around you.

You remained there for a long moment, listening to the quiet settle properly into the castle, and somewhere beyond its walls, far enough that it no longer mattered whether you heard it or not, hooves had already begun to fade into the distance toward Ashford, carrying with them every sound that should have included you.

And you were still at Summerhall, in the highest, hidden tower of the castle.

Egg pushed open the large oak doors, the hinges creaking softly against the stillness of the chamber, and he came in with the kind of urgency that did not belong in a place like this, his steps uneven and too quick for his small frame, as though he had been running long before he reached you and only just remembered how to be careful once he arrived.

“Sister,” he said, and then again, faster this time, “sister, please, please say something.”

It took you longer than it should have to understand that he was speaking to you at all, because for a moment the room still felt slightly unreal, like you had not fully returned to it yet, like your thoughts were still catching up to the fact that there was a floor beneath you and air in your lungs that required effort to use properly.

When you did breathe, it came uneven, too shallow at first, as though your body had forgotten how to regulate itself in the absence of violence, and you only slowly became aware of Egg standing near your bed, hesitating in that way he always did when he wanted to be close but was not entirely sure he was allowed to be.

You noticed the clothes then, belatedly, the way the maids had dressed him in black and red without explanation, as though color alone might prepare him for something they had not told him about, and yet it only made him look more exposed, more like a child being fitted into a role that had not been designed with him in mind.

He climbed onto the bed without fully asking, but in a way that made it clear he did not expect permission anymore, not from you, not from anyone, and his hands were already reaching for your cloak before he even spoke again, clutching at it as though it might tether you both to something stable.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking now, “please come with me. We have to go to Dunk.”

The name did not strike as it had before.

It settled instead, heavier, slower, as though it had been waiting in the background of everything else and had only now been allowed to exist fully in your mind.

What followed was not a memory so much as a layered awareness of absence, of where he was not, of what had been taken out of your hands before you had been given any real chance to understand the shape of it, and you felt the weight of it without needing to see it again.

“I can’t,” you said, though the words did not feel like refusal so much as delay, as though your mouth had spoken before your mind had agreed.

Egg shook his head immediately, too fast, too desperate to accept it.

“He doesn’t hate us,” he insisted, voice rising in a way that made him sound even younger than he was. “He can’t. He wouldn’t. We just have to explain it. We just have to fix it before Father—before he decides anything.”

His grip on your cloak tightened as he spoke, fingers curling into the fabric as if it might anchor him, and only then did you realize how hard he was trying not to fall apart in front of you, how carefully he was holding himself together because he believed you were still the one who could steady him.

And then his voice faltered, just slightly, as if something in him had finally caught up to itself, and you saw it clearly then, not just his fear for Dunk, but the strain of being the one who had come to find you instead of the other way around.

“Egg,” you said quietly, and he looked up immediately, as if your voice alone could change direction.

For a moment, you hesitated, not because you did not know what to say, but because you were suddenly aware of how small he still was compared to what he was trying to carry.

“Are you okay?” you asked, softer now, and it did not feel like a question you expected an answer to so much as something you needed to say out loud so he would not forget he was allowed to be more than the messenger of something breaking.

He blinked at you, caught off guard by it, and the urgency in him faltered for just a moment as he tried to process it.

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly at first, then quieter, more honest without meaning to be, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

That answer did not fully hold.

But it was enough to show you what he was doing with himself.

So you let your hand rest against his head again, slower this time, grounding him as much as yourself.

“I’m here,” you said after a moment, though it felt more like something you were reminding both of you of rather than a promise.

He nodded quickly, but did not let go of your cloak.

“Then come on,” he said, voice still unsteady but determined in a way that did not match his size. “We have to help him. You always know what to do.”

That should have made something in you tighten.

Instead, it only made the silence inside you shift, as though responsibility had simply changed direction rather than disappeared.

You stood slowly, not fully because you were ready, but because staying still no longer felt like something you were permitted to do, and when you reached for your cloak properly this time, it felt heavier than it should have, as though it understood more than you were willing to say aloud.

“Go on,” you told him quietly. “Put on something heavier, it's cold.”

He obeyed immediately, too quickly, as if afraid you might dissolve again if he waited.

When he returned, you followed him out.

The corridor beyond your chamber felt narrower than it should have, though you knew it was not, the stone walls closing in with every step as though the castle itself had begun to adjust to the weight of what had happened within it, and the quiet that followed you was no longer peaceful but deliberate, almost watchful, as if even sound had learned to move carefully around you.

Egg walked ahead, but not far ahead, always close enough that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing back at you without meaning to, as though he needed confirmation that you were still there, still moving, still something he could rely on to remain steady even when he was not.

The stairs came sooner than expected, or perhaps you simply had not noticed reaching them, because one moment you were walking level ground and the next you were descending, the angle of the world shifting underfoot in a way that made your stomach tighten, and the air grew colder almost immediately, as though the castle was pulling warmth away from you with every step downward.

Stone replaced stone, but it no longer felt like passage, only repetition, the same turn of corridor, the same narrowing light, the same weight pressing in from all sides until even Egg’s small footsteps began to sound louder than they should have, echoing too sharply in spaces that felt too enclosed to properly contain them.

At some point, a guard passed you without speaking, his eyes lowering too quickly, not in respect but in avoidance, and that small refusal to acknowledge you at all lingered longer than it should have, settling into the space between your thoughts as another confirmation that the world above had already made its decision and was no longer interested in revisiting it.

Egg did not notice.

Or if he did, he chose not to stop.

He kept going.

Always forward.

Always downward.

Until the light behind you had thinned into something distant and unreliable, and the only remaining certainty was the sound of his voice when he finally spoke again, quieter now, as though even he understood that raising it too much might disturb something he could not see.

“It’s just down there,” he said, and it was not really reassurance, only direction, as if naming the destination might make it less frightening for both of you.

The air changed again as you reached the lower levels, becoming damp and still, carrying the scent of stone that had not seen sunlight in a long time, and the walls here were closer now, not visibly but perceptibly, as though the castle had forgotten how much space was necessary for comfort and had begun to prioritize containment instead.

Every sound felt absorbed before it could fully form.

Even your own breathing seemed muted.

Egg slowed without meaning to, his steps shortening as the corridor ahead grew darker, and for the first time, he did not look back immediately, as if whatever lay ahead required more attention than reassurance, and that small shift in him made something in your chest tighten without fully becoming fear.

You did not speak.

There was nothing to say that would not change what came next.

So you followed him into the narrowing dark, where the castle stopped feeling like a place you were moving through and started feeling like something you were being lowered into instead.

The only thing separating you from Dunk was a guard and a kitchen servant bringing his meager dinner. The food was gruel fit for the lowest kitchens, thin enough that even from a distance it looked like it would not hold a man upright for long, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what it meant to be kept here like this.

Egg did the talking, his small voice steady in the way it only ever became when he was afraid but refusing to show it. 

Explaining carefully that you were there on official business from the crown, that there was no need for disturbance, no reason for alarm. The men at the door exchanged glances that lingered just long enough to make you feel it, that subtle shift of recognition that did not quite settle on you as a person, but on something more distant, something half-real, like a story being repeated rather than a presence being acknowledged.

Royals, yes.

But not one they had expected to see in a place like this.

And then they let him pass.

You pulled Egg aside before he entered. “Talk to him first,” you said gently. “I’ll go in after.” The boy nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the dungeon door and stepping inside. 

The door closed again, and the sound of it felt heavier than it should have, like something had been sealed rather than opened. Suddenly, there was only the corridor, the dim torchlight, and the realization that you were still standing on the outside of something you had already set in motion.

You did not move at first.

In that gap, in that thin stretch of waiting that had no structure to hold it, your thoughts began to press in on you more sharply. Not in words, but in implications, in the slow awareness of what could happen behind that door without you, of how little control you actually had over anything once it was out of your sight.

Your breath came uneven again, and you found yourself staring at the seam where stone met iron, as though watching it closely might prevent it from becoming something irreversible.

Time did not feel like it was passing correctly.

It felt like it was gathering.

Each second stacking without release, without sound, until even the corridor behind you seemed too narrow to stand in, as if the space itself had begun to lean inward.

When Egg finally came back out, it was so sudden you almost stepped forward without thinking, your body reacting before your mind had fully caught up, but he was already there. Wiping at his face in a way that did not fully hide the relief in him, the kind that came from a tension finally loosening rather than a fear worsening.

“What happened?” you asked immediately, voice sharper than you intended.

He sniffed once, then steadied himself.

“He’s ready for you,” he said. “I will be here.”

There was something in the way he said it that made it sound like a promise he was offering you rather than something you had asked for.

You hesitated only a moment longer, because the thought of stepping through that door did not feel like movement anymore but like consequence, like entering a space where every decision you had made so far would finally stop being theoretical and become real in front of you.

Then you drew a breath that did not fully settle your nerves but forced your body forward anyway.

And with one last moment of stillness at the threshold, you stepped inside.

The first thing Dunk noticed when the door swung open was that you were not a guard telling him it was time to die. You were yourself, but different. Smaller somehow, drained of color, silver hair loose around your frame as if whatever had been holding you together had finally stopped doing its job, and the dress you wore did nothing to keep the cold from reaching you. And yet it was still you.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence did not feel calm, only uncertain, like neither of you trusted what would happen if you filled it too quickly. Dunk stayed seated, rigid in a way that suggested he had been holding himself still for far too long, while you stood near the threshold longer than necessary, as if crossing it meant committing to something that could not be taken back.

When you finally moved, it was careful, almost hesitant, as though even your steps were asking permission.

You did not sit immediately.

Instead, you hovered near him, hands twisting into your cloak, and when you spoke, your voice came out thin, strained by something you were still trying to keep under control.

“Are you alright?”

Dunk let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but something tired. “I’m alive.”

That should have been enough to settle something. It wasn’t.

You swallowed and tried again, quieter. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

Another pause, heavier now, stretching until it became uncomfortable.

“Has anyone told you what happens next?”

“No.”

Each answer made the space between you worse instead of better, because there was nothing in them to hold onto, and your chest tightened as you realized how much of this had been decided without either of you being allowed to speak inside it.

Dunk shifted slightly, the scrape of chains or restraint faint in the background, and when he finally looked at you again, there was something more fragile underneath his earlier anger.

“I do not understand this,” he said, voice rougher now. “I do not understand how I go from standing for your honor to sitting here like this while you walk in and look at me like I am already something you are trying to fix.”

Then his voice sharpened slightly, not angry yet, but worn at the edges. “What is this supposed to be?”

You hesitated. “I had to see you.”

That earned you a look, not cruel, but searching. “Had to,” he repeated.

And something in that made your chest tighten.

Because it sounded wrong out loud.

Like everything else.

Your fingers tightened in your cloak. “I needed to make sure you were—”

“Safe,” he finished for you, but there was something guarded in the way he said it.

That word pressed harder than the rest. And suddenly the air felt too thin to hold your thoughts.

“I do not know how to do this,” you admitted, voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I do not know how to explain it in a way that makes sense because nothing about this should exist in the first place.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “Then explain what you can.”

And that was where it cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just enough that everything you had been holding behind your ribs began to press outward.

“I did not want this,” you said, and your voice wavered before you could stop it. “I did not want any of it. I did not want the court, or the name, or the way everything I do becomes something someone else decides for me.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I did not want you in this,” you added, softer now, more broken. “I did not want you dragged into something that started because I exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Dunk frowned slightly. “That is not how it happened.”

But you were already shaking your head, the thought turning inward before you could stop it.

“It is,” you whispered, and then it came out worse, more fragile. “If I had never met you, none of this would have reached you. None of this would be sitting in a cell because of me.”

Your voice cracked fully then.

“And I keep thinking that maybe I am just… a curse that follows people until it ruins them.”

The words landed in the space between you as something dropped too hard.

Dunk went still.

Not softened yet. Not comfort yet. Just still.

Your fingers tightened into the fabric at your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself in place.

“And I did not want to lose you.”

That last part came out smaller.

More honest than you intended.

Dunk exhaled slowly. Then, quieter, sharper in refusal than argument:

“No.”

You flinched anyway.

Dunk leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you now in a way that did not let you disappear into your own thoughts.

“That is not how this works,” he said more firmly now. “I chose to step in. I chose to act.”

Then, slightly lower, less about logic and more about truth:

“And I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”

That part lands heavier than the rest.

You shook your head again, but weaker this time. “You would not have been there if not for me.”

“And I would have been somewhere else,” he cut in, sharper now, but not unkind. “Getting myself into trouble in some other way, because that is what men like me do.”

That pulled something out of you that you were not ready for. A broken sound that was almost a laugh, but not quite. Almost a sob.

“I cannot keep pretending I am fine,” you said, quieter now, but unstable. “I cannot keep doing this and acting like I am not breaking every time I am alone.”

You did not speak clearly after that anymore, only fragments of breath and pressure, and Dunk did not force you back into words.

Dunk’s expression shifted, something in him loosening, not in relief but recognition.

“You are not the only one carrying it,” he said finally, lower now, more grounded. “I am not angry at you. I was angry because I did not know what I was supposed to do with all of this. With being taken, with being used like a point in something bigger than me.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And because I do not like the idea of you being anywhere near that man without someone making sure you are safe.”

Dunk exhaled slowly, then added, more quietly, “I came here thinking I was going to lose something I did not even understand I had yet. That is what scared me.”

Your hands came up to your face before you could stop them. The sound that left you next was uneven, torn between relief and grief, because it was not just about him anymore; it was everything that had been sitting behind your ribs for too long, finally finding somewhere to go.

Dunk moved immediately as you lost yourself, crying uncontrollably.

He reached for you and pulled you in, steady, anchoring, his presence solid in a way the rest of your world had not been.

“Hey,” he said quietly, closer now, voice rough but not unkind. “Dry your eyes, sweet girl.”

That was all it took to make it worse and better at the same time.

Because now you could let it happen. Now you were not holding it alone.

You clung to him without thinking about dignity or titles or anything that had been built around you, and he held you there like it was not something unexpected, like it was not something dangerous, just something real that had finally stopped being denied.

And after a long moment, when your breathing began to slow again, Dunk spoke again, lower, steadier.

“I am not letting you walk into whatever this becomes alone,” he said. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

It wasn’t a promise of certainty. But it was a promise of presence. And that mattered more.

Neither of you moved after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because anything spoken now would have felt too loud for the space between you. Dunk’s hands were still steady where they had settled around you, not holding tight anymore, just there, as if he had forgotten the exact moment he was supposed to let go.

And you had not moved away. Not even slightly.

It took a moment for you to notice that.

The silence stretched, but it was no longer empty. It felt like something suspended, like time itself had stopped asking either of you to make a decision too quickly.

Dunk looked at you then.

And something in his expression shifted in a way that did not belong to anger, or confusion, or duty anymore. It was quieter than all of that. Present in a way that made your breath catch without warning.

You realized you were looking back.

And neither of you corrected it.

You should have looked away. You did not.

The distance between you had not changed, but it felt smaller now, like it had been worn down by everything that had already happened and simply forgotten how to stay large.

Dunk’s voice came low, uncertain in a way you had never heard from him before.

“You are still shaking,” he said.

“I know,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved after that, either.

But the moment did not break.

It deepened instead, quietly, as if it had found somewhere to settle.

His gaze flicked once, briefly, to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if he had not meant to do it but also could not pretend he hadn’t.

That small moment changed something.

Your breath slowed without permission. Dunk didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. And then, very quietly, as if neither of you had fully decided to allow it, the space between you stopped feeling like distance.

It stopped feeling like anything that could be maintained. 

He kissed you, as if it had been decided long before either of you spoke. 

Everything went still in a way that felt almost unreal, like the world had paused mid-breath and forgotten to continue. When he pulled back, it was only slightly, as if even that distance felt uncertain now. Neither of you spoke. Dunk looked at you like he was trying to understand what he had just done without undoing it.

“I am so sorry. We shouldn’t,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move back. 

“I don’t care,” you admitted, barely above a breath. “Just you and me, together.” You pulled him back in.

It shocked him at first, he expected to be slapped or yelled at. But when you kissed him like you needed his air to breathe he pulled you in closer. If that was even possible.

The two of you pulled and pawed at each other like youd be gone if you stopped kissing. It was so intense that you, too, flopped over. You land back first on the cold ground, with one of his hands shielding your head from it slamming.  All while still grabbing at each other, even here, he still protected you.

You only pulled apart to reposition yourself, and then went back in. He moved his affection from your lips to your neck as he began to kiss down your body. Hands roaming to hold onto your thighs, stopping only when the sound of knocking was heard.

You were in a dungeon, don't forget

It was Egg who was knocking. He said that it had grown quiet and that he was coming in.

The two of you halted. Slowly, Dunk adjusted your dress and cloak to make sure everything looked right. But it could not fix the way your body flushed against his, and your chapped lips. It was enough for Egg not to say anything, though.

“Prince Baelor request your presence.” The boy looks at the two of you. “Sooner than later.”

There were no escorts as you walked back down the hallways of the cobblestone castle. Egg’s words weighed heavy on your chest. The crowned prince is requesting you, in all of this.

Still, you followed.

By the time the doors opened, you had already braced yourself. For more judgement, more words you would have to learn how to let slip down your brain.

The first thing you noticed was how warm the room was. It was almost comforting. The exact opposite of how it had been when you and your father stood in here together.

It instantly seeped into the cold of your bones. Light from the calm fire caught onto dust in the air, softening the edges of the room, making everything feel quieter than it should have been.

Baelor did not loom. He did not fill the space with his voice or force. He sat writing as if he hadn’t noticed your presence at all.

“Uncle?” you croaked, the word feeling foreign in your throat.

He said your name—your true name—softly. His face almost brightened when he looked up at you, but it settled quickly when he saw you still standing there, unmoving.

You weren’t sure what to do. How this conversation was going to go. If you needed to keep track of the door behind you.

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “I assume you’re confused as to why I called you here.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I just… I already spoke to Prince Maekar. My words have lost their emphasis.”

Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your formality.

He paused before answering, studying you for a moment longer than expected. “You are still my niece, yes? No matter what you present as?”

You looked anywhere but at his mismatched eyes. “Well ye—”

“Then why do you speak to me like this?” he interrupted, not sharply, but firmly. “We are family. I did not call you here to make you explain yourself again.”

The words struck something deep in your chest.

“Then why am I here?” The question came out sharper than you meant it to.

“This situation is less than ideal—” he began.

“The situation?” you cut in, something hot rising up before you could stop it. “This situation… it’s not new, Uncle.”

The words hung there.

Baelor did not snap back. He did not raise his voice.

He simply waited.

And somehow, that was worse.

“I was not called here for this,” you said, your voice tightening despite yourself. “If this is about Aerion, then you already know what he will say. What everyone will say.”

Still, he said nothing.

Your hands curled at your sides.

“You all do,” you added, quieter now. “You always do.”

Baelor set the quill down carefully. Not rushed. Not startled. Deliberate.

“I know what has been reported to me,” he said. “That is not the same as knowing.”

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “And what difference does that make?”

“A great deal.”

Silence stretched again, but it did not feel empty. It pressed, gently, insistently, until something in your chest gave way.

“You ask why I did it,” you said, your gaze fixed somewhere just past him. “Why I left, why I interfered, why I put myself there.”

A pause.

“No one else was going to.”

The words landed heavier than you intended.

Baelor’s expression shifted, something quieter settling behind his eyes.

“No one?” he repeated.

You swallowed.

“That is not how it works,” you said quickly, like you could reshape it into something safer. “People don’t step in. They watch. They always watch.”

Your voice faltered slightly on the last word.

“And you have learned that from us.”

It was not a question.

Your throat tightened again, but you did not answer.

Baelor leaned back slightly, his gaze still on you, but different now. Not distant. Not weighing.

Trying to understand.

“That is my failing,” he said quietly.

The words did not make sense at first.

You blinked. “What?”

“My failing,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Not yours.”

You stared at him.

“I have no daughters…” he began, the words slower now, less certain. He paused briefly, as if searching for the right way to say it. “Maybe one day. But until then, I told myself that meant I did not know how to guide you. That your father would. That your brothers would. That the household would.”

A faint, humorless breath left him.

“I see now that I used that as an excuse to stand at a distance.”

Something in your chest shifted, uncertain and sharp.

“When your mother died,” he went on, quieter now, “I told myself grief was a private thing. That it was not my place to intrude.”

Your hands trembled slightly. You stilled them quickly.

“When Aerion’s cruelty began… I told myself it was a matter of temper. That boys grow cruel in ways they must unlearn.” He paused again, jaw tightening faintly. “I thought it would pass.”

It didn’t. You both knew that.

“When you were given responsibilities beyond your years,” he continued, “I told myself it was because you were capable.”

Each word felt placed carefully between you, like something fragile that might break if handled wrong.

“I watched you carry all of it,” he said. “Silently. Without complaint. Without asking anything in return.”

Your vision blurred, but you refused to let it show.

“And I thought that meant you did not need anything from me.”

That hurt more than anger ever could have.

Baelor’s gaze returned to you fully.

“I was wrong.”

The room felt too warm all at once. Too small.

“You should not have had to step into that situation today,” he said. “Not because you were wrong to see it for what it was, but because you should have believed—known—that someone else would stop it before it came to that.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“That is what we failed to give you.”

We.

Not you. Not just him.

Your breath came unevenly now, something fragile cracking under the weight of it.

“I did not—” you started, then stopped.

You didn’t know how to finish that.

Baelor did not rush you.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that we have mistaken your silence for strength, and your endurance for willingness.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“They are not the same thing.”

No. They weren’t.

You had just never been given the space to separate them.

Baelor straightened slightly, though his voice remained gentle.

“I cannot undo what has already been done,” he said. A pause. “But I can do better than I have.”

Another pause, quieter this time.

“If you will allow me to.”

The words settled somewhere deep, unfamiliar.

“I… don’t know how,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, stripped of its edge.

That seemed to settle something in him.

“Then we will learn,” Baelor said. “Both of us.”

Silence followed again, but it felt different now. Less like something to endure.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling a quiet, frustrated sound, as if your body did not know what to do with everything that had just been placed into it.

“What is to happen now?”

Baelor did not answer immediately. He stood, moving around the desk slowly, as if giving both of you space to step out of what the conversation had been.

“As you know, Aerion would like Ser Duncan’s head for what he did.” He grimaced faintly. “He will not have it.”

You looked up at him, something sharp and desperate in your eyes. “How do you know that’s true?”

“I will do everything in my power to stop it,” he said. “For honor, for sacrifice… for you. But I cannot deny him a trial.”

You could finally breathe.

Relief came sharp and sudden, like something you had been holding back without realizing.

“There is one other matter,” Baelor added, his tone shifting slightly.

You stilled.

“Daeron has claimed that Ser Duncan kidnapped you from Summerhall, and the boy from the inn. A desperate attempt, I think, to cover his own failings.”

You were on your feet before you fully realized it, the chair scraping harshly behind you. “That’s blasphemy. Dunk would never—”

Baelor’s brow lifted slightly at your openness.

“I mean—Ser Duncan,” you corrected quickly.

Even so, you did not take it back.

You swayed slightly, and this time when Baelor stepped forward, there was a pause—just enough to notice—before his hands settled carefully on your shoulders.

Warm. Steady.

You stiffened for half a breath.

Then… didn’t pull away.

“That is where you come in,” he said, his voice gentler now. “An eyewitness. The court will not favor him otherwise.”

His hands dropped after a moment, giving you space again.

“I will personally see that you are present when decisions are made. You will speak the truth of what happened. And we will see it set right.”

You shook your head slightly, uncertainty creeping back in. “But… what if—”

“I’m afraid we can only act on what is right, not what is feared,” he said quietly. “We will face the rest when it comes.”

You nodded slowly, drawing in a deeper breath than before, forcing something steadier back into yourself.

“I will do all I can.”

Baelor studied you for a moment longer, then nodded once.

“He has only one other option, if punishment is to be avoided,” he said more quietly. “So I will ask you this.”

A small pause.

“How good of a knight is he?”

You took a step back, but this time it was not out of fear. Something in you had settled. Something certain. There was no hesitation when you answered.

“The best.”

There was something steadier in your step as you made your way back through the halls. Not lighter, not easier, but steadier in a way that felt unfamiliar. Baelor’s words still sat heavy in your chest, the weight of what was to come pressing at the edges of your thoughts, but it no longer felt like something you had to brace against. It felt like something you could carry.

By the time you reached your chambers, your hands had stopped trembling.

The door closed softly behind you, sealing you into a quiet that felt almost unnatural after everything. No voices. Just the stillness of the room and the sound of your own breath as you stood there, unmoving for a moment, letting it all settle into place.

Your gaze drifted toward the wardrobe, looking for something else to wear other than your nightgown. Your fingers brushing across fabrics. Soft colors, simple cuts, pieces that allowed you to exist without being seen too closely. They could have been enough before. They could have been safe.

Not now.

You pushed further into the wardrobe, shifting past what you knew until something darker caught your eye. The black stood out immediately, deep and rich, threaded through with gold that caught the light in sharp, deliberate glints. 

It demanded to be noticed.

You stilled, your hand hovering over it before finally pulling it free. The fabric was heavier than what you were used to, structured in a way that held its shape instead of falling away from it. It felt different in your hands, like it carried expectation within it.

It wasn’t yours. Who’s was it? You tried not to dwel.

For a moment, you hesitated.

Then the memory of Baelor’s voice returned, quiet and certain in a way that left no room to retreat from it. He had not raised his voice. He had not demanded anything of you. You could fully trust him, he was safe. 

You tightened your grip on the dress.

Let it be known.

Today.

They would see you.

You dressed slowly, more deliberate than you had ever been before. Each movement felt intentional, every adjustment made with care until the fabric sat properly against your frame. It felt strange at first, the way it held you upright, but as you settled into it, the unfamiliarity began to shift into something else.

When you turned toward the mirror, it took you a moment to recognize what you were looking at. Not because it was unrecognizable, but because it was not what you were used to seeing. There was something sharper there, something more defined, like the version of you that had always been expected but never fully realized.

You looked amazing.

You reached for the brush next, dragging it through your silver hair with more care than usual. Each pass smoothed something out, not just the tangles but the lingering hesitation that still clung to you. You did not rush it. You did not avoid your reflection. You watched yourself as you worked, as if trying to understand this version of you as it formed.

Your eyes caught on the small items left on the table.

A pot of rouge. A small glass vial of perfume, the scent faint even from where you stood.

You hesitated again, your fingers hovering before slowly reaching forward. There was something strangely intimate about it, about taking what was not yours and making it part of yourself, even for a moment. 

You pressed the color lightly onto your lips, then your cheeks, the warmth of it bringing life back into your face in a way you were overly noticing was missing. The perfume followed, just a touch at your wrists, your neck. Something soft, something that lingered without overpowering.

You stepped back from the table slowly, your hands falling to your sides as you took yourself in again.

Different.

Not someone else. Not something false.

Just… more.

Your thoughts drifted then, pulling you somewhere you wish you could go back to/

To him.

Dunk.

The way he had stood between you and the world without hesitation, as if there had never been a question in his mind. The way his voice had sounded when he said your name, not careful, but certain in a way that had caught you off guard.

And when he kissed you.

Your breath caught slightly, the memory sharper now that you allowed yourself to linger on it. It had not been soft or hesitant. There had been nothing uncertain about it. It had been sudden, unguarded, something that had broken through every wall you had carefully kept in place.

You had not stopped it. That thought lingered longer than the rest. Your hand lifted slightly, as if you could still feel it, before you forced it back down..

A knock sounded at the door, pulling you back into yourself.

“My princess,” the maid’s voice came, gentle but firm. “It is time.”

Finally

You closed your eyes briefly, drawing in a slow, steady breath, letting it settle deep in your chest. When you opened them again, there was no hesitation left in you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice louder than usual, but no less certain.

When you stepped through the door, you did not pause.

You stepped back into the hallway with your head held just slightly higher, the weight of the dress grounding you, the warmth of the room still lingering faintly against your skin.

This time, you were not walking toward something waiting to judge you. You were walking toward something that would have to hear you.

Tag list:

...

It was cold, since the fire had long died down, Dunk and Egg were asleep, all that was left was you and the pit feeling in your stomach that kept you awake. As you sat up from your bed roll, you tried to pay attention to the earth around you. The woods breathed softly around the camp and leaves whispered together whenever the wind passed through. Somewhere far off, an owl called, low and hollow. Everyone was prepared to rest, wary from the day's misfortune, except for you.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the chill in your chest had little to do with the air.

“Can’t sleep?” Dunk’s warm voice called out to you.

You turned to him with a shudder, not having realized he was awake. His large body shifted beside you, propped up on one elbow.

“You should be sleeping.” The words came out with little emotion.

The man next to you fully sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before looking your way again. “So should you,” he says gently, scooting closer across the ground until he was close enough for you to feel his breathing. “What’s wrong?”

Your hands grip your hair slightly, in a stroking motion, and you think about whether you should share your feelings. Since they were only a small preview of the ideas in the darkest corners of your mind. Dunk watched you quietly while you thought. He never rushed you, not once. Even now, he simply waited.

“You can tell me, m’lady. There is no judgment here.” Yes, there is. You wanted to scream out. That if you knew who I was, there would be nothing but judgment.

“I just have a bad feeling..” you whisper.

Dunk’s eyes soften, the crease between his brows deepening as he studies you. “About what?”

You hesitate, staring out into the trees again. “Anything could happen,” you say quietly. “Something bad. Something we can't stop.” You swallow. “Then what would happen to… us?” Your words trailed off, scared to say what you were assuming. 

“Nothing bad is going to happen.” He concludes.

You shake your head. “You don't know that.”

“And how do you know?” he asks softly, not challenging, only curious.

“I just… I know.” That’s all, you knew.

For a moment, Dunk doesn’t answer. He scratches the back of his neck in a thinking matter, the way he always did when something weighed on his mind. “In that case,” he says at last, mind steady again, “even if something bad were to happen, it wouldn't go unpunished. I’d do something to cease it.”

You smile slightly, playing with the hem of his cloak. The thick material bunched between your fingers as you twisted the fabric absentmindedly. “Sweet knight..” He was truly sweet, no rotten bone in his body. It made you frown to think that the world’s cruel ways would corrupt him sooner than later.

Dunk falters at your touch, clearly unsure what to do now. He looks down at your hands briefly before clearing his throat. “You need to sleep somehow, m’lady.” An idea washes away his embarrassment as he tilts his head up to the sky. “Look up,” he says.

Your eyebrows furrow as you follow his gaze. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The stars,” he replies. “You can lose yourself in them instead of your thoughts.” He shifts slightly closer. “I’ve spent tons of nights on the road myself just staring up at the stars. Even when Ser Arlan told me to quit it.”

“Why?”

Dunk lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the faintest laugh in it.

“Because, despite the worries of future days ahead, the night sky always stays the same. No matter where you are.” He stops and turns his head to you. “Or who you're with.”

He could have sworn the purple sky illuminated you, that the stars shone down onto your frame. The silver light caught in the loose strands of your hair and traced the curve of your cheek. He could've stared at you for the rest of his life.

“So just look,” he finished.

Once you did, you could not turn away. A sight you had taken for granted every day of your life, stars you could barely see out of your tower at Summerhall. All shining for you like they were greeting you for the first time.

“So the stars all look this beautiful?” you beamed.

Dunk grinned at that. “Some more than others.” He pointed with his hand at a certain line of light stretched across the sky.

“That one there is the Crone’s Lantern,” he explains. “Ser Arlan used to say if you follow that one long enough, it’ll guide you through the darkest woods.” His finger moved again. “And those there, see the little cluster? Looks like a crown if you squint hard enough.”

You leaned slightly closer, squinting exactly as instructed.

“I do see it,” you murmured. “Though it may be a crooked crown.” You chuckled softly. “Most crowns are.”

He explained to you for what felt like a fortnight. Some stories he knew were likely wrong, half-remembered from Ser Arlan’s mutterings during long rides, but he told them anyway. About wandering stars, about sailors who used them to find their way home, about knights who once swore oaths beneath certain constellations. The two of you went back and forth in each other's company. He still lent his ear to hear your troubles even though he had no obligation.

“You're so.. knowledgeable, my knight,” you smiled.

Dunk shook his head immediately. “That is too high praise, m’lady. I just try my best.”

“You remember quite a lot for someone who claims not to know much.”

“Well,” he mutters sheepishly, “when you spend enough nights sleeping in the dirt, you start memorizing the sky whether you mean to or not.”

Your mind spoke before you did. “Your best is more than any woman could wish for.”

His breath hitches in his throat. Dunk suddenly lies back down with little grace, as if trying to bury himself in the ground. So the two of you moved from sitting up to sitting flat on the ground. Still watching the stars. 

After a while, you let out a soft yawn, bringing your hand to your mouth. “And it seems you have tired me out.”

Dunk smiles. “Then my mission is complete,” he says quietly. “Now I hope you dream well, m’lady.” Then he closed his eyes. Dunk’s body once again began to grow tired, until he noticed you. Still awake, and looking up.

Your voice came softer this time, almost lost to the quiet of the forest. “I have seen and accomplished more with you than in my years on this planet. What does that say about me?”

“It says,” he says slowly, “there is far more left to see.”

You return to him then, slowly moving yourself until you're practically lying on top of him.

He gasps, trying to stay as still as possible. “M’lady!” he exclaims under his breath.

“I’m going to be selfish tonight,” you murmur, already settling against him. “As you are mine. So I will lay as such.”

You settle comfortably on him; he was as warm as a fire with triple the body mass. Despite training, despite living on the road, he was soft as a kitten. Your cheek pressed against his chest, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart thumping beneath his ribs. Dunk freezes for a moment, unsure what to do with arms that suddenly have somewhere to go.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asks awkwardly after a moment.

“Very.”

“That’s… good,” he says. Without protest, he allowed you to continue. Slowly, carefully, he shifts one arm around you, more to keep you from sliding off than anything else. His chin rests on top of your head. He looked at the stars and then at you while continuing to tell facts about the night sky.

His voice grew softer as he spoke. “And that one there… Ser Arlan always said it meant fair weather,” he murmurs.

You were asleep only minutes later. He hadn't known you before to snore, but tonight you did softly. Dunk smiles faintly at the sound, until slowly he fell asleep to the smell of your hair. It was almost walnut-ish

Egg found you two curled up on the marrow in the early day light; the two of you looked entirely unaware of the world. He stopped for a moment, hands on his hips, squinting thoughtfully at the sight. “Hm,” he muttered to himself. Then he quietly gathered his boots and slipped away without waking either of you.

He had a mission himself.

You only awoke when he accidentally made a large boom. Hands running to your dagger without a second thought, the Valyrian steel almost slicing your own palm in the process. 

“Egg!” You called out.

The boy froze, turning slowly as if he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Good marrow, my lady..”

You took in his look, the way his hands slid to Dunk’s sword, and how he had already gotten the man’s horse ready to leave. “Where are you going with Thunder?”

“We are going to train for the tourney,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“I applaud your efforts, don’t misunderstand, but don’t you think you should tell Duncan you’re taking his horse?” You gestured to the sleeping man you were still next to.

Egg pouted slightly. “We’ll only be gone a little while, promise.” You had no reason not to believe him; his heart was always in the right place, if a bit misguided. And after yesterday, he seemed eager to prove himself even more.

The boy gave you a look only the cruelist of sister’s could resist.

You sighed and glanced at Dunk as if seeking his counsel. “I’ll let him know when he wakes, go ahead.” The boy did not waste a second before seizing the man’s sword and scuttling off deeper into the woods.

Your hands pressed timidly against his chest. “Dunk…” you whispered. No response. 

You chose to let him sleep. After the strain and nerves that came with entering the lists, it felt like the least you could do. So instead, you got up and spun around. What to do? You were hungry to say the least. But your stomach twisted at the thought of salt beef. If you were a better person, maybe you would know how to make something. Alas, you had no idea.

But you slowly came up with another idea.

Your skills that left much to be desired would not stop you from spending a bit of your coin on Dunk. No matter how much he might grumble about it later. And if you purchased food, it would give everyone the chance to break their fast properly, to begin the day with full bellies. 

You found comfort in the thought as you set off. 

The market square was quiet at that early hour, the kind of stillness that came before the day truly began. Most of the vendors were only just setting up their stalls, arranging baskets, and hanging cloth awnings while rubbing sleep from their eyes. Despite the calm, the air felt heavier than it should have been. Something unseen pressed down between the rows of stands as it refused to lift. 

It was the vendors, all gossiping. Low whispers slipped through the square that drew your attention, no matter how hard you tried to ignore them. As you passed by, the snatches of conversation reached your ears, but they were never complete enough to make sense of. 

From what you heard, it started with a couple of lords fighting. Then a royal scandal. You could only roll your eyes as you thought of who in your family created the next big news. Each rumor shifted as quickly as it appeared, reshaped by every mouth that carried it onward. Whatever truth they started from no longer mattered. You stopped near a stall of restless geese, their loud honks masking your presence as you continued listening to the next scandal.

“Aye, it’s true,” an old woman in blue said, her voice tight with worry.

“Do you think she was taken?” a younger woman asked, eyes darting toward the stalls.

“Who knows? The prince can’t keep track of his two missing sons. How’s he meant to watch a princess?”

You sucked in a sharp gasp. Surely they weren’t speaking of you.  Only when leaning in closer did you catch the whole truth of it.

“But I don’t believe it,”  a man muttered, lips pursed. “She was all the way in Summerhall. How did no one see her?”

“Wasn’t she meant to come here? With her family?” the young woman pressed. 

“That’s what I heard. Seems not,” 

“The eldest daughter of the Anvil,” another man said, shaking his head, “the king’s favorite grandchild, yet she’s barely seen at court. Why would this time be any different?”

Your heart dropped.

They never spoke of you like this; usually, they never lingered beyond titles and half-remembered facts, but truly, how would you know what they would say? Every careless word felt loose enough to travel, to find its way back to people you had fled from. Had the castle attendants only just come to terms with your leaving and begun letting it slip into quiet conversation? 

“I hope she’s all right,” the young woman whispered, brow furrowed.

“She’s just another sack of blood for those vipers to intimidate us with,” a snotty woman snapped.

No one seemed to disagree.

“Miss?” The goose seller’s voice startled you, his face drawn in mild concern. 

You swallowed and forced your expression into something pleasant. “Three eggs, please,” you said, praying your voice sounded steady. 

After an awkward encounter over eggs, you steadied yourself once again and headed to a baker’s stall for loaves of bread. But the whispers were louder and misguided there.

“Father,” a girl asked, tugging at the baker’s sleeve. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. “Is the princess a spinster?”

“No, no,” he replied loudly, handing over the loaf. “She’s still young. Just… unlucky in the marriage department.”

The girl frowned, studying the subject far too closely. “But five marriage prospects, all ending before the wedding? That’s more than bad luck,” the girl said, almost smug. “Will I end up like her?”

“Not if you do as you’re told,” he added firmly. Your fingers tightened around the bread. For a moment, you nearly dropped it. The two of them turned to you in annoyance as if they weren't just speaking proudly about business that had nothing to do with them. You gave them a tight smile as you walked away.

The sound of people talking still trailed after you.

“What if she were here right now? For the tourney?” another woman asked her friend, alarmed.

“A princess,” the other woman hissed, lips tight, “walking among us like… as she belongs, don’t be daft.”

The first nodded back. “Just the thought of it feels wrong. The blood of kings… among market folk. A Targaryen should not be out here, should not touch our streets. It unsettles me. What if she brings trouble?”

“All I know is, I would not want her near my stall,” the second replied, voice slightly shaking. 

They had the strength to say that, yet smiled at you when you walked past.

You did not stop walking until the sounds of the market dulled behind you. Only then did you slow, fingers tightening around the bread until the crust cracked softly beneath your grip. The truth settled in with an unpleasant clarity: they had always spoken of you like that. These strangers carried your name more easily than those who truly knew you ever had.

“My lady!” A woman's voice called out; it was Tanselle. She rushed over to you with haste, her blue coverup swishing in the wind with every step. “You were with the knight? Ser Dunk?”

“Yes?” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your stomach twisted.

Her eyes flicked to your face, and she paused mid-step. “Are you… all right? You look troubled.”

You hesitated, then found yourself blurting out the question that had been nagging at you since the whispers in the market. “Have you… have you heard about the princess? How she could be here among us?”

Tanselle raised an eyebrow; she was more confused than anything else. “Yes, word spreads fast, but if I may, why are you asking about the princess?”

“Everyone… everyone either hates her or is scared of her.” You look down while saying that.

Tanselle’s gaze softened as she crouched slightly to meet your eyes. “I think we all have our flaws and things we’re afraid of,” she said gently. “The royals, especially the princess, are no different than anyone else. We all bleed the same blood, no matter our skin or our station. That goes for you, too, my lady.”

Your shoulders that had been tense for so long loosened slightly, and a shaky exhale escaped your lips. You blinked once, twice, feeling some of the tight knot in your stomach unwind, just enough to make the fear less suffocating. For a fleeting moment, the weight of being… other, of being judged, seemed to lift.

“Could you tell him his shield will be done before eveningfall?” Tanselle asked, gesturing toward Dunk’s camp.

“Of course.” You tried to let your smile hold. “I’ll let him know.”

Tanselle’s smile bloomed; it was warm enough to make the wind seem lighter. “Thank you.” 

And just like that, she was gone, hurrying back into the bustle of the market, leaving you with a momentary sense of calm and a reminder that kindness could still exist even here.

But it only lasted near her. Then your mind started to drift back to the words of others.

Spinster. 

Unlucky.

Ideas that you would only bring hurt.

That wasn't you, that was the title of a princess. Five betrothals, five almost endings. But these people didn't even understand half of it; you never chose those men. Even your own father did not understand that your hatred of marriage only stemmed from not being able to pick for love. 

But you couldn’t bring these feelings back with you; instead, you had to push them down and hope you didn’t explode. 

“Where were you?” The startling voice of Dunk made you jump. He was awake, but he did not look good; he was pale, as if he had been throwing up.

“Are you okay, ser?” You asked, trying to ignore the topic of the market.

He frowned at your words. “I asked you a question.” 

You sighed. “I went to get some things to break our fast, just bread and eggs.” You tried your best to sound ecstatic, but now eating was the last thing on your mind.

He raised an eyebrow. “What were you planning on doing with eggs and bread?”

“I am not sure...” you trailed off. You didn't want to say out loud the fact that you have no idea how to make anything, fearing that if that news broke out, it would just be another royal stereotype waiting to be thrown at you.

“Don’t go off by yourself next time, wake me.” His voice is firm, but concern threads it.

You force a short, humorless chuckle. His words press on you, heavier than they should. Just like every other voice that ever measured you by title, by size, by actions. “Why?”

“It’s dangerous on your own,” he says, as if stating a fact you already know. 

Like he was portraying you as... as a princess. 

You set the eggs and bread beside the fire pit without replying. Then the words slip out meaner than you intend: “I am fine on my own. No need to worry.”

“But I do. You’re vulnerable, and you look shaken,” he insists. “What happened at the market?”

You stiffen, heat rising. Whatever he means, he won’t understand. “I am not vulnerable. Whatever I feel or do, it’s nothing of your concern.”

“Really? You’re here under my watch, and it’s none of my concern?” His tone intensifies, voice rising higher.

“No one assigned you that task, Ser.” You hang your satchel on your horse, creating distance where words cannot.

Dunk’s hand pauses over his stitching. He rises slowly to close the horrid space between you. “I’m not asking because I was assigned. I care if something happens to you. Especially after what you said last night.”

Care and judgment blur together in your mind as the feeling of defending rather than listening takes over. You bite out, “If caring means watching me like a liability, then don’t dress it up as kindness. I have survived worse than a morning market.”

“Really?” He looked astonished. “How?”

“What are you trying to say?” You raised your voice slightly.

“You say you’re fine on your own,” Dunk grits, “but from the looks of it, you don't know how to cook. You had no idea how to make a proper fire. You would get rattled around your horse, and you still seem to have no concept of spending. And that’s just what I’ve seen.”

Every word lands like a weight pressed against your skull. You meet his eyes at last. “You think that was a choice? I wasn’t raised to take care of myself, and I was never meant to beg for scraps like a hedge knight.”

Dunk goes still. You go still. The words settle between you, impossible to take back. 

Something inside you folded inward when your shoulders drew in, and your gaze slipped away from him, as if you had no fight left. Dunk remembered this look from when the two of you just met, a runaway and a knight with no purpose. 

You retreat elsewhere, a place he thought he could not follow. He opened his mouth, then stopped. He did not know what to do. Pride told him not to chase. Instinct told him to fix it, without knowing how.

That was when the sound of hooves and hurried footsteps broke the silence. Egg stepped into the clearing with Thunder’s reins looped loosely in his hand. He slowed when he saw your faces, his expression shifting from cheerful to uneasy.

“Where were you?” Dunk asked, his voice had no steam left.

“Training,” Egg stated. “I told her to tell you.”

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Really? So everyone is just leaving by themselves now?”

“I didn’t even get the chance to tell you yet, before you decided to come at me!” you exclaimed, frustration flaring as you gestured to your chest.

Dunk paused, clearly at a loss, then he turned back to Egg. “Go brush Thunder, he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge.”

But that did not resolve anything. Neither you nor Dunk softened as you parted ways; the argument still simmered unbroken. Egg shifted uneasily beside Thunder, wishing for an invisible escape hatch.

Dunk watched with a frown as he saw you pick up your things. “Where are you going now?” He called out as he saw you start toward the woods.

“To go do something,” you replied over your shoulder. “Washing my clothes can’t be too hard a task for vulnerable people like me, right?” Then you walked off.

Dunk cursed under his breath and went back to sit under the tree. Fingers attaching themself to his sewing equipment. That was the only thing left he could do without losing his mind.

Egg noticed, of course, as he brushed down Thunder. He looked up at Dunk. “What are you doing? Is that not my job?”

“Do you know how?” Dunk grumbled. When Egg shook his head, Dunk let out a long, frustrated sigh.  The two of you could still not equal one person with skills on the road. 

He still beckoned the boy closer. “Come on, I’ll show you.” Because he was not a man of blame, especially when he could teach, he was just frustrated, that's all. But now he was scared you would never speak to him again…

The two of them fell into a steady quiet rhythm, stitching back and forth, while you wandered down to the small man-made lake nearby. 

You sank to the ground at the edge of the lake with your knees drawn close. Your fingers pressed into the damp grass when a shiver ran up your spine.

“What happened?” Egg asked, breaking the silence.

Dunk’s voice was low and still rough around the edges. “I do not even know.”

“But you know how you feel?” The boy led on.

“All I know is… I care. Seeing you two not whole, not calm, and not close to me, it’s not something I can accept.” Dunk’s words faltered, heavy with a truth he couldn’t name.

Egg tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “That may be the case, but your leaving a part out. You care for her in a deeper sense than you do for me.” He let the pause hang, letting the truth settle between them.

Dunk wheezed, caught off guard. “What?”

“Oh, please,” Egg said, cutting him off. “Look at yourself. You would move heaven and earth for her. You stay close to her, flinch whenever she speaks, and get flustered at the smallest thing. You do not feel that way for just anyone.”

Egg’s eyes softened. “You need to show her how much you care. She is blind to her own feelings and yours.”

For a long moment, Dunk simply stared, the usual glow in his eyes tempered by uncertainty. Then the corners of his mouth lifted into a tentative, almost sheepish grin. “How did a boy like you get so wise?”

Egg shrugged, still focused on his patchwork. “It does not take a maester to see it. You two are very obvious.”

The cold bit at your fingers as you scrubbed at the fabric, working dirt and sweat from the seams of your blue dress and cloak. When you leaned closer, the water caught your face. At first, you barely registered it; it was just a pale blur. Until the light shifted, then your breath caught. Your hair color was fading rapidly. The cursed rain and bathing in the lake worked just like you predicted days ago. 

Closer to snow than earth.

You should scream. Just as word spread about your arrival, your disguise was unraveling. The gods truly picked you for their amusement. The last permanent mark that will always haunt you, no matter if you wear plain dresses and venture on the roads. You pulled back from the water, your fingers curled into the damp fabric of the brown dress you wore as if it might anchor you. 

Your silver hair was the only thing that lasted; everything else was temporary. Every day that you spend here is borrowed from the fire. As you return to your washing, you try to push it into the back of your mind once again. Your hands moved more quietly now with movements more careful. That was when you felt him before you heard him.

Dunk stopped a few steps behind you. He did not speak right away. He just stood there, awkward and uncertain, as if afraid the wrong word might undo what little peace was left.

“M’lady,” he said finally, softly. “I’m sorry.”

You stilled but did not turn.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued. “I didn’t say it because I think less of you. I said it because I can see you’re struggling, and I didn’t know how else to help without overstepping.”

You looked at him then. He seemed smaller somehow, shoulders rounded, gaze earnest and worried. The apology sat plainly on his face, without pride or excuse. When you don't respond, he takes it as a sign to sit down and level with you.

“It is all right,” you said after a moment. “ I took it too far.”

He shook his head gently. “Do not blame yourself for what you were never taught to do. Your family seems… daft.”

A breath of a smile escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes. Yes, they are.” Then, more quietly, “But I do not need them. I have you.”

“Aye, as I have you.” He replied.

The words surprised you as much as him. But neither of you took them back. Then once again you stared at each other.

You hesitated, then asked, “Do you have something I could borrow while this dries?” Your brown dress was soaked through, heavy, and clinging uncomfortably to your skin since you had to bend over a lake. 

He flushed faintly and nodded. “I suppose my shirt will do.”

He turned away as he pulled it over his head, revealing pale skin and a spectacular physique from moons of being a Knight. You physically had to stop yourself from looking as you moved to hide by a tree, trying to make a bit of privacy to change. 

Your fingers brushing fabric that smelled like smoke and leather and him. When you stepped out again, the shirt nearly swallowed you. It draped to your ankles, sleeves covering your hands, ridiculous and unmistakably his.

Dunk looked up, then immediately looked away.

The sight struck him harder than he expected. The way the shirt hung on you. The way you moved in it as though it were nothing at all, as though you belonged in his things. He busied himself with the fire, with anything, but his eyes betrayed him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet was thick, not uncomfortable, just full.

Then Egg appeared, squinting at you. “My lady, it looks like you are wearing a potato sack.”

Dunk turned sharply. “Do you want a clout in the ear?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Egg. I meant it.”

As your clothes dried on a tree branch that Dunk had reached for to hang for you, you listened to Eggs' excitement about the new food. Then the three of you sat around the fire as Dunk taught you how to cook eggs.

“Like this,” he demonstrated, cracking an egg against the rim of the iron pan. The shell gave way easily, and the yolk slid free before settling onto the heated metal with a quiet, almost satisfying sound. You tried to conceal how taken you were by something so simple. Dunk noticed anyway.

“Now you try.” 

You grabbed one of the huge goose eggs with a fear of breaking it. Placing it on the other side of the rim of the pan. With two giant knocks, the egg split open, and you felt yourself close to letting out a sigh of relief.

Dunk smiled, “Perfect. Now you, Egg, try cracking the third one.”

The boy wrapped his small hands around the final egg, nearly dropping it, before mimicking your motions and letting the yolk fall into the pan.

“Yours could use some work.” The man teased. Egg sat there with furrowed brows and a mouth agape at his words.

Still, the two royal siblings had learned the small but satisfying skill of cracking an egg.

Both of you watched as Dunk stirred the pan with his knife, blending the yolks and whites to create a creamy dandelion color. Then slowly, the liquid hardened into something edible. That's when Dunk cut open your loaves with ease and scooped portions of egg between two halves of the bread. Creating giant sandwiches filled with fluffy eggs for the three of you to eat. By comparison, each egg sandwich was almost the size of Egg’s head.

Returning to the tourney grounds felt like slipping past unseen hands, like you were evading capture by sheer luck alone. You chose not to tell Egg what you had learned. The boy already carried more than enough on his narrow shoulders, and adding to it would have helped no one. You had already slipped by letting the early morning vendors see you. It would not happen again.

Dunk did not question why you were so thoroughly covered. It was a cold day in his mind. Your hood sat low and awkward on your head, completely covering your hair and forehead. The fabric chafed as you moved, increasing your level of annoyance.

Instead, Dunk fell into easy conversation with Egg about how he would not be able to put his name on the list that day. He was not a knight of great renown, nor of noble birth, and the realization stung more than he wanted to admit. At first, disappointment gnawed at him, quickly giving way to restless eagerness. The desire to prove himself to everyone, to you, ached in his soul. Eventually, he made peace with it, deciding that taking you both to see the opening joust would be enough for now.

The joust itself dragged on far longer than you expected. Had Dunk not kept a steady grip on you, you might have dozed off where you stood. It was the roar of the crowd, waves of cheers crashing again and again, and the constant movement and chatter of the men packed in close beside you that kept your eyes open. Forcing you to stay present as lances splintered and horses thundered past.

When it was finally over, the three of you placed yourselves on the grassy hilltop overlooking the grounds. You lay on your back listening to Dunk and Egg converse. Only then did you allow your hood to come off. You caught only bits and pieces of their conversation as sleep slowly claimed you.

Egg sat with his knees pulled to his chest. “I return a war hero,” he said dreamily, “and he gives me land of my own. And the hand of his most beautiful daughter.”

Dunk lay on his side, pride swelling in his chest at the boy’s words. The childlike certainty in Egg’s voice soothed him, and there was something comforting in how easily the boy shaped his future into a fairytale.

“But he would not forget about you, Ser,” Egg added.

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And whose hand would I get?”

“The most beautiful person you know,” Egg said simply.

Dunk sighed. It was only a fantasy. He was a hedge knight, and he had to hammer that truth into his skull no matter how tempting the dream.

Egg looked at him as though he wanted to say more, but a voice called up from the base of the hill, beckoning Dunk away. When the man rose and left, Egg was left alone with his thoughts and you resting quietly at his side.

When Dunk finally returned, there was a distant look in his eyes, gears clearly turning from whatever the man below the hill had told him. He barely spoke before it was time for the next tilt.

This time, you felt more awake, more alert. Your attention sharpened as you waited to hear which knight would be announced next, eyes scanning the grounds with quiet anticipation. That sense of readiness vanished the moment you reached the front of the fence.

Your smile fell as soon as the herald raised his voice.

“Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

Brightflame. The name alone made your jaw tighten. A useless nickname, one your elder brother had forced into use through sheer insistence. It was ridiculous, but then again, so was he. An excuse for a man.

You watched with hardened eyes as Aerion rode into the lists. His armor caught your attention immediately, impossible to ignore. It was as obnoxious as its wearer, fashioned to resemble black dragon scales, complete with a dragon-shaped helm that gleamed in the light. You could not help but wonder how much begging and pestering it had taken for your father to allow such a commission.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but you offered only the barest claps as Aerion paraded across the court. He reveled in the attention, even bringing a drummer to announce his presence, as if steel and skill alone were not enough to make him appear fearsome. At last, he turned his gaze toward the royal box, clearly seeking your father’s approval for the spectacle he had crafted.

The seat was empty. To miss his son’s own tilt could only mean one thing. He was out there somewhere, searching for Egg, searching for you.

Aerion tried to shake it off, forcing himself to focus on picking his opponent, but you could see it lingering in his mind as it gnawed at him. He never knew how to handle it when things did not go his way, and this was no different.

There were three major opponents he could have chosen. The first was his cousin, Valarr. But he was not foolish enough to challenge his own blood, not when the boy’s father held the title of Hand of the King. No matter what he might have thought of their shared brown locks and mismatched eyes, the risk of family politics and wrath from his father was too great.

Instead, your brother shrugged and called it not embarrassing his cousin before moving on to the next choice. Finally, he named Humfrey Hardyng, a knight of growing renown due to his feats in the lists so far.

The three of you exchanged glances at his selection, but Dunk did not know your brother’s temper as you and Egg did. This match was going to be dangerous, possibly dirty. You stepped back slightly as everyone started clapping, a show of courtesy as the men positioned themselves on opposite ends of the arena.

Then it began. Both men surged forward, horses pounding, lances leveled. You tried not to suck in your breath as they closed the distance, inch by inch, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Egg shouted suddenly, and you and Dunk turned to him, startled. He was not far off, but his excitement needed tempering. Shouting for someone to kill a prince was not a good omen for anyone. You placed a gentle hand on his back, soothing him, reminding him that caution mattered more than fury.

As the lances neared, Aerion cowered at the last moment, and the crowd gasped in frustrated anticipation. Ser Humphrey nearly toppled from his mount, caught off guard by the prince’s sudden withdrawal. Murmurs of disapproval rose at first, and soon the crowd began to boo. This was the kind of arena where even the royal family could not shield its members from honest opinion.

Ser Humphrey, however, did not falter. He turned his horse around, demanding another lance, and readied himself again. You gripped the fence with wide eyes, trying to anticipate what Aerion would do next.

Dunk saw it before anyone else. “He’s… he’s too low,” he said.

The truth hit you at the same time. Aerion’s lance was aimed not at the knight, but at the horse. He drove it deep into the animal’s neck, the steel piercing through with a sickening squelch, blood pulsing as the horse screamed in terror and pain. You stumbled back, hands covering your mouth, horrified. The crowd around you reacted in shock and disgust, some gasping, others frozen in disbelief.

The horse spun wildly and thrashed, unable to remove the lance lodged in its neck. It finally collapsed onto its side, throwing Ser Humphrey violently against the ground. Not only was his leg crushed under the weight of the animal, but the impact left him dazed and bleeding.

Dunk looked down, his expression grim. Egg could not look away, transfixed by the violence, and you hovered somewhere between horror and disbelief. Even Baelor, seated in the royal box, had grimaced, unable to watch the brutal scene unfold.

Aerion was not done flaunting. He rode over on his horse, blissfully ignorant of the man and horse screaming in such pain. Instead, he lifted his helm and broke into the closest thing to a smile he could muster. The crowd grew restless, their cheers replaced with shouts of anger and disbelief. They shook the fence violently, threatening to tear it down under their weight.

“Another bastard acting Targaryen!” an old woman called, her voice sharp and accusatory.

A man climbed on the shaky fence, took a huge rock, and chucked it at the prince’s head. It landed with such precision, you were sure Aerion would find the man later and kill him. It struck his helm with a clang, forcing him to flinch. The mob took it as their sign to surge forward, men and women alike vaulting over the deteriorating fence, pushing past any knight or guard who tried to stop them.

Someone behind you shoved you to the ground, trying to join the fray, but Dunk was quick, lifting you into his arms. The shouts of nobles and royals filled the air, voices rising over the chaos, demanding control over what had quickly become a near bloodbath. There were not enough knights to contain the mob without reinforcements, but eventually, more Kingsguard arrived, forming a fragile barrier to keep the crowd at bay.

Even the barrier could not prevent every blow. Fists flew, blood splattered, and curses rained down on Aerion, who remained seemingly unfazed.

Dunk had seen enough. He let you stand on your own and urged Egg forward, though you could not tear your eyes from the scene entirely. You saw the final act, a man delivering a fatal strike to Ser Humphrey’s horse, piercing its heart, making the pitiful sounds of the animal finally stop. It was a merciful but gruesome end to its suffering.

That sight finally propelled you into motion. You stumbled forward a few steps on your own, the mud sucking at your boots, the rain plastering your hood to your forehead. Dunk and Egg had moved ahead, but in the press of chaos and the noise of the storm, you found yourself entirely alone. A hollow panic gnawed at you.

You called out, your voice cracking, “Dunk!” but the rain swallowed it instantly, scattering it across the empty air. There was no answer, no echo, only the relentless patter of water and the distant, fading screams of the crowd.

Even if no one knew who you were, you felt their eyes. Faces blurred by rain and motion, strangers pressing past you or stepping aside, yet you could feel the weight of them, sharp and cold, staring. They whispered in fragments, murmurs you could not piece together, and you imagined their fear or hatred aimed at you. They stared, they recoiled, and you could feel their judgment pressing in from every side.

Your family, your own blood, answered back in ways that made it worse. Their presence, their poised approval of the chaos, the way they leaned into power and cruelty, made it clear that any compassion or mercy had been deliberately abandoned. You were not protected, you were a spectacle, and everyone around you knew it.

Your chest tightened. You were lost, not just in the storm of people and mud, but in yourself. Everything you thought you knew about who you were, your place in your family, your place in this court, even your own sense of strength, felt unmoored. The walls of the lists, the royal banners, the shouting lords and spectators, pressed down on you in a way that made the world feel impossibly large and alien.

You were Y/n, and yet you felt like no one knew you, like the name you carried had no meaning here, like you were nothing but a shadow running through mud and rain.

Every direction looked the same, gray and wet and endless. You wanted to collapse, to let the world swallow you, to vanish from everything, to escape the weight of your family’s hold.

The wind tugged at your wet cloak, the rain stinging your eyes, blurring the ground ahead. You called Dunk’s name again, a desperate whisper this time. Maybe he could hear you, maybe not. It did not matter. The sound vanished into the storm. You were alone, drenched, and more than physically lost. You were untethered, untangled from the life you had known, and the court that had always seemed so grand now felt like a cage you did not belong in.

Dunk was losing it. He had a young boy next to him, a boy who had seen far too much today, horrors that would stay with him long after the day ended. Dunk’s chest tightened as he tried to steady himself, but the rain did little to hide the trembling in his hands or the panic clawing at his stomach.

And then there was you. Dunk had no idea where you were, and the thought gnawed at him. You were alone, scared, soaked to the bone, with no clear direction and no anchor in the chaos. Every second without seeing you made his stomach twist. He shouted your name again and again, voice cracking each time, only for the rain to swallow it. He was supposed to be keeping Egg safe. He could not leave the boy, and yet he could not reach you. He was failing, failing at being a friend, failing at being a knight, failing at keeping anyone safe in this storm.

As he saw you, a dark figure in the gray blur of rain and mud, moving unsteadily but still moving forward, his eyes widened in alarm and relief. Egg tugged at Dunk’s sleeve, voice urgent, nearly lost to the wind. “There, she’s there!”

Dunk’s heart lurched. You were just a figure at first, but as he focused, he saw your face. It mirrored his own.

You called out, your voice cracking with exhausted relief, “Dunk!” You forced yourself forward, following the shapes of familiar figures in the storm. Egg’s small, steady presence at Dunk’s side, Dunk’s broad shoulders tense with worry, every muscle taut with fear for you.

When you finally reached them, Dunk grasped your arms, pulling you into a careful, grounding hold. Egg’s small hand landed on your soaked cloak, steadying you without a word. The storm still raged, the screams and chaos echoing in the distance, but in that moment, a fragile relief settled over the three of a kind. You were not alone, not entirely. Not yet.

The three of you hid under a vendor’s stall, and when the weather began to clear slightly, you kept walking.

“That… that was a terrible sight,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “And it was no mishap.”

Dunk paused at your words, trying to piece together what you were saying. “Why would a pr—”

“Because he is evil. Because he can!” Egg shouted over the rumble of thunder, his small body trembling and eyes filling to the brim with tears.

Dunk put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, voice low and firm. “The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come.” He led you both toward somewhere warm, somewhere that might feel safe, Lord Baratheon’s tent.

Once inside, the warmth hit you like a small relief, but it did little to lift the weight of what you had just seen. As Dunk had predicted, there was another party underway, but you were nowhere near in the mood for celebration. The three of you sat at one of the tables, trying to exist in a space of calm, even for a single moment.

The tent offered little solace. Lyonel and the other lords danced and chanted a song about a girl named Alice, the noise and frivolity a harsh contrast to the chaos you had just escaped. Egg pressed against your side, burying his head into your damp clothes, seeking comfort and warmth. You sat rigid, eyes forward, letting more water run down your face. Each droplet washed away a little of your disguise and a little of your composure.

You ended up leaving once you were dry enough to keep going. By then, the mood of the grounds had lifted, but yours remained a steady, dull ache. Every corner and shadow seemed to hold the threat of something about to spring out at you, keeping you tense and alert.

Dunk continued next to you, clearly unsure how to soothe your restless mood. “Did you ever know your parents?” Dunk asked. His question was not directed at either of you specifically; he was simply trying to fill the silence, to open some small bridge between the three of you.

When Egg stiffened at the question, you responded. “My father more than my mother,” you said quietly.

“Most likely I saw mine hanged,” Dunk replied, voice low. “There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom. I used to sell them rats and carts and pigeons for brown. The cook there always said my father was some thief. If he had been as big as me, he would not have made a very good one.”

His words drew your attention, pulling you both out of your own headspaces for a moment. The stories were grim but familiar, reminders of how strange and heavy the world could be.

That was until Dunk froze mid-step, his eyes locking on the same man who had called him over earlier. The man sat near Lord Ashford on a bench, and Dunk gave him only a glance before continuing down the path.

“Is everything okay, Ser?” Egg asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, yeah. It is nothing,” Dunk said quickly, though his voice did not carry conviction. The man’s presence seemed to hold weight, some quiet authority, but Dunk chose not to speak further, his mind returning to keeping you both safe rather than explaining the unease he felt.

Before you could even startle, a woman appeared in front of the three of you. It was the same woman in all her purple mystic from the fortune teller tent of days past. This time, she appeared in a similar sense as you, her hood hung so low you could barely tell if her eyes were even open. She looked scary. You wondered if you appeared like that too.

“Say your fortune?” she asked Dunk, voice low and cryptic.

Dunk looked at her like he would look at anyone else, with a sense of wonder and respect. “Oh yeah. Go on, then.”

It did not even take her a second to prepare what she was going to say to him. “You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister.”

Dunk did not look too impressed. “Thank you. Now do the boy.” He nodded before answering.

The old woman set her sights on Egg. The boy was hopeful for a good reading, and he even smiled.

“You shall be king, and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”

The boy’s mouth hung open, fear imminent in his eyes. “What!”

You tensed. This was just a coincidence, right?

Dunk paused for a second before breaking out into laughing fits. “Oh my! Thank you, that is very good. And for the girl?”

“I already read her fortune. Fortunately, nothing has changed.”

He stopped laughing, turning to look at your pale face. The woman was gone before Dunk looked back. “And what did she tell you?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. “She… she said that I was going to end up in ruin,” you said quietly.

The man looked at your somber expression as well as Egg’s. “Oh, come on, you two should know better than to listen to her. It is all falsehood.”

You did not know better.

After all, that was the Targaryen way.

The three of you ran into Raymun, who had that same easy, infectious smile plastered across his face, just like everyone else, forgetting as quickly as the hardships around them.

“Ser Duncan! M’lady! And the squire!” he said as he ran over, a bit out of breath but smiling all the same. “How do you do?”

Egg gave a curt nod, already drifting past Raymun’s shoulder, eyes glued to something beyond him. “Good day.”

You smiled quickly at the apple man, then turned toward where he was looking. The puppet tent was filling once again, the hum of anticipation rising as people slipped inside in small groups. Laughter rang out here and there, as if the horrors of the morning had never happened at all. You knew the boy was itching for an escape, for something bright and simple to focus on instead of broken horses and screaming crowds.

“Will you three join me in my tent for a cup of cider? And some treats if you’d like,” Raymun offered eagerly, almost bouncing on his heels.

“Egg,” you called out, drawing his wandering attention back for just a moment. “Perhaps you could wait by the puppet show, and get Duncan’s shield from Tanselle when the show is over.” You addressed everyone, but your eyes lingered on the boy.

Dunk looked hesitant, the crease between his brows deepening. He clearly did not want to let the boy out of his sight, not after everything that had happened today.

Raymun let out an excited shrug. “We make it ourselves,” he said, as if that alone should settle the matter.

Egg looked between you and Dunk, hopeful but careful not to push his luck.

Dunk exhaled slowly. “Very well, run along, Egg,” he said at last. He trusted your judgment, especially after you said you would check on him later.

In a split second, Egg gave you a thankful glance before rushing toward the puppet tent, weaving between people with surprising speed. The boy nearly disappeared into the crowd, clearly hoping to secure a front-row seat.

You followed the very thrilled Raymun to his tent. It was a spacious room, filled with red cloth and candles that flickered softly in the dim light. The strong smell of warm apples filled the air so heavily it almost made your head spin, but it also made you relax just a bit. It felt warm in here, safe in a way the tourney grounds no longer did.

“Have you chosen an opponent yet?” Raymun asked Dunk as he poured you a mug of cider, the steam curling gently into the air.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Dunk replied, taking off his cloak and setting it aside. “Who does your cousin mean to challenge?”

“If anyone’s wounded on the morrow, I’m sure Steffon will be quick to knock on his shield.” Raymun rolled his eyes as he said it, the disdain he held for his cousin and his antics making you think back to Aerion immediately. “He’s about as chivalrous as a starved weasel.”

A man who relied on those same nasty tricks to get through life. It made your skin crawl that wherever he was right now, he was probably riding off the high of his “win,” grinning somewhere, moving on to cause chaos as if what he did today was nothing at all.

“M’lady, can I interest you in a red apple cookie or a green apple tart?” Raymun asked brightly.

It snapped you out of your thoughts.

“The apple tart. I’ve always preferred green apples,” you answered quietly. The response resonated with Raymun for a split second. You noticed it got easier for him to speak to you after that, like the simple preference had made you more real to him somehow. You bit into the tart, losing count of how many you had had since the tourney started. The sweetness spread across your tongue while you listened to Dunk’s words.

“I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite equally matched,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Raymun laughed. “Ah! A local favorite. You mean to play the villain.”

“I heard Aerion were in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horses,” he continued, lifting his cider.

“Serves him right,” you chime in, wiping crumbs off your face.

“Yeah, little comfort that will be to Ser Humphrey,” Dunk added quietly. “It looked as if he was going to carry the day.”

Raymun took a sip of cider before answering. “Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”

Dunk let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “M’lady and my squire believe Aerion meant to kill the horse.”

That made Raymun go quiet.

For a moment the tent felt smaller.

“He’s a monster. He’s done way worse. He will continue to do worse.” You chugged the rest of your drink, the cider suddenly tasting far too sweet.

“Just hard to accept that a knight… might be so dishonorable. Let alone a prince!” Dunk continued, shaking his head slightly.

Raymun shrugged. “Why is that hard?”

“It’s just—”

“They're incestuous aliens, Duncan!” Raymun raised his voice suddenly.

The words almost made you spit back up your drink.

“Blood-magicakers 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.” His voice grew sharper with each word, bitterness spilling out faster and faster. “Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us is madder than the last, gods knows how.”

Your face dropped with every overpronounced word he threw into the air.

“The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits.” He said harshly. “So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”

The chair scraped softly behind you. You stood up without realizing it.

Dunk called out your name, asking if everything was well but you did not hear him.

You curled your hands into fists as you stared down at Raymun, breathing harder than you meant to.

What are you doing?

Why are you reacting like this?

You held no sympathy for the life you left behind, yet here you were standing with anger burning in your chest.

“I’m… going to check on Egg,” you said quietly.

“M’lady! I did not mean to be so vulgar,” Raymun blurted out quickly, assuming that must be the reason.

Dunk tried to reach you, but you were already pushing out of the tent. He turned back to Raymun for a moment.

“I heard that part about the tits from Steffon,” Raymun said awkwardly. “I didn't mean it truly.” He sounded almost sad about making you leave.

When you fled back into the outside world, everything around you blurred just like it did in the rain earlier. The noise of the crowd felt distant and strange, like you were walking through water.

You moved slowly toward the puppet tent, slipping inside without causing a disturbance. The show had already started. Egg sat near the front, completely absorbed in the performance. Finally reaching him made your shoulders sag. The weight of everything pressed down all at once. You wanted to hunch over. To disappear. To slip out of consciousness entirely. It was too much. All too much.

“Look!” Egg pointed happily at the scene. It was Tanselle, dressed like a knight, even with a sword and shield. She circled a fire-breathing dragon, and you paused at its lifelike appearance. This scene would almost remind you of centuries past, in a world where your house used to be strong and mighty.

You could feel the shouts of the crowd as they yelled at her to kill the dragon. Your sign. Everyone hated you. You now understood. And it was not without its reasoning, just today your own brother making it seem like you were truly all mad. How do you even combat that? Were you mad? Is that why your life was going to end in ruin? Is that why you dreamt of everything coming to an end?

But instead of racing more, you thought back to Tanselle’s kind words from earlier. Even dressed in dark shades, she shone as a light in dark times. When she said that the royals were like everyone else, it made you feel less like your life was a sentence and more like an opportunity.

You were finally able to watch the play with your full attention.

Back in the tent, even though Raymun and Dunk laughed together, Dunk could not shake you leaving. But he knew you were just at the play, and that it would be okay to speak later.

“Aerion is all smiles and cheers as long as his father is watching,” Raymun said, leaning back comfortably where he sat.

Dunk sat across from him, elbows on his knees, turning his own mug slowly between his palms. “I saw Prince Maekar’s chair was empty,” he added after a moment. “In the royal box.”

“Aye,” Raymun nodded. “He left Ashford this morning.”

Dunk looked up at that. “Left?”

“To search for the rest of his misbegats.”

Dunk blinked, the unfamiliar word catching him off guard. “Misbegats?” he repeated slowly. “W-Which are those?”

Raymun took a casual sip of cider, completely relaxed as he explained. “His heir, Daeron, and the youngest boy. They departed Summerhall together a few days ago, but never reached Ashford.”

Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Never reached?”

Raymun shrugged like it was hardly worth worrying about. “Rumors are going around that the boys are dead.” He said it plainly, though there was a faint grin on his face, the way people sometimes smiled when sharing a scandal. “Though most likely Daeron, he’s probably just drunk again.”

Dunk let out a small, uncertain chuckle, though it did not carry much humor. The idea of princes wandering drunk across the countryside felt strange, even if he knew better than to think nobles were always noble.

Raymun leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on a table. “As for the girl,” he continued, “his eldest daughter is no longer at the castle.”

Dunk lifted his head.

“She was supposed to be riding in with her brothers and father here,” Raymun went on, speaking easily as if recounting common gossip. “But they had a big blow-up fight right before. Loud enough that even servants were whispering about it.”

He grabbed a tart, chewing thoughtfully.

“And then she was gone the next day.”

Dunk’s eyes widened.

“What?”

Raymun nodded as though confirming it again in his own mind. “Her bedchambers were empty. No note or anything. Just gone.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Probably ran away since her father was going to wed her to the beast Aerion.”

Dunk sat back a little in his chair, clearly trying to sort through that. Did he truly know the prince had an elder daughter? He had heard plenty about the sons. Daeron the drunken heir. Aerion with his temper. Even the youngest boy sometimes. But a daughter? His thoughts turned over uselessly.

“I heard she looks like a pig.”

Dunk blinked hard. “What?” he asked again, certain he must have misheard.

Raymun shrugged, completely serious. “Why else have I never seen her?” he said, as if the logic spoke for itself. “Targaryen’s do not hide. They do not cower. They flaunt.”

He leaned back again, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion he had reached.

“Therefore,” he finished simply, “she must look like a pig.”

Dunk just stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.

Raymun’s logic was plagued by the fact that he might not have been that smart. But as long as he believed his words, that was all that mattered.

“What? There have been ugly Targaryens before.” He tried to reason. “Little wonder Maekar has been walking around like someone pissed in his swan pie.”

“He is probably just worried about his children.” Dunk tried to make sense.

“Seven only know why!” Raymun looked disgusted. “Daeron is a sot. Aerion is vain and cruel and about to marry his little sister. The girl is so forgettable, I do not even know her name. The third boy is probably going to the Citadel to become a maester. The other two girls are probably still attached to wet nurses. And the youngest boy—”

“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come quickly.” Egg ran into the tent, pure terror evident in his eyes as he begged Dunk to follow him. “Aerion is hurting her!”

Dunk stood up with swiftness only a knight would have. “Hurting who?”

Dunk’s blood ran hot, and his body moved before his mind even caught up. One letter of your name was enough. He dropped the mug, sending cider sloshing onto the floor, and bolted out of the tent. The crowd around him became a blur of shouting and motion as he shoved past anyone in his way, knocking aside nobles, merchants, and spectators alike, heedless of the indignation and curses raining down on him.

Guards stepped in, trying to block him, but he ignored them, forcing his way through with the strength of sheer resolve and raw fear. Each second counted, and the thought of you in danger sharpened his movements into something almost animalistic.

When he finally reached the spot, the scene that met his eyes struck him dumb for a heartbeat, a mixture of shock and horror so intense it sent a tremor through his entire body.

You watched as the dragon performed the fire tricks Tanselle had shown you before, filling the room with a blaze so hot that you had to shrug off your cloak. The darkness and crowd made it easy to blend in, or so you tried to convince yourself.

The heat from the braziers licked across the low canvas roof, making the air waver like water. Shadows swayed across the tent walls as the puppets danced. Every cheer from the crowd seemed to roll through the packed bodies like a wave, carrying the smell of sweat, smoke, and cheap ale.

Egg cheered beside you, completely taken by the spectacle, his voice rising above the rest without shame. The little dragon twisted and leapt through rings of flame, the puppeteer’s strings almost invisible in the dim light. Its painted wings beat frantically as it dove and rolled, snapping at imaginary foes.

For a moment, the crowd laughed and clapped as if the world were simple again. As if kings, princes, and wars did not exist beyond the canvas walls. As if the world could truly be nothing more than firelight and painted wood.

Then the dragon died.

Tanselle’s hero struck it down in a dramatic flourish. The puppet knight raised his sword high before bringing it crashing down upon the beast. The dragon collapsed to the ground, its painted body spilling red confetti meant to look like blood. The bright scraps fluttered across the stage like falling petals.

The audience gasped, then laughed, delighted by the spectacle.

But instead of bowing, Tanselle froze. Her false sword slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the wooden boards. The movement was small, but in the sudden hush it sounded louder than it should have.

Very slowly, she turned toward the edge of the stage.

Toward him.

The shift rippled through the crowd before you even saw why. Bodies leaned aside. Heads turned. Someone near the front shouted, voice cracking with excitement and dread all at once.

“Prince!”

Aerion stood with his arms folded, his pale hair catching the firelight like silver thread. The shifting darkness of the room casted strange shadows across his sharp face, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the cold brightness of his eyes.

He had not laughed. He had not smiled. He had simply watched.

The murmuring of the crowd began to fade as he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Each footfall seemed heavier than the last, pressing down on the fragile cheer that had filled the tent only moments ago. The air thickened with something sour and expectant.

Egg’s cheer died in his throat.

If anyone in the audience had hoped for a spectacle, Aerion looked more than willing to give them one.

“So…” he said at last, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You wish to conquer the dragon?”

Tanselle’s hands trembled so badly the stage began to shake. “M-My prince…”

Aerion tilted his head, studying her as one might examine a curious insect trapped beneath glass. “What makes you think a dull creature like yourself could ever succeed?”

No one laughed. No one moved.

“The dragon never dies,” he whispered.

For a heartbeat his eyes seemed strange in the firelight, cold, reptilian, almost inhuman. The flames reflected in them like twin sparks trapped in ice.

Then he lunged. 

The motion was sudden and violent. One moment he stood before the stage, the next he had vaulted onto it. His hand shot out, seizing Tanselle by the wrist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. 

“Please—my prince—!” She cried out as she struggled.

His other hand closed around her fingers. And began to bend one backward.

The crack was quick. Her scream was not. It tore through the tent like a blade. High and sharp and full of pain. The sound seemed to bounce off the canvas walls, amplified by the sudden silence of the crowd. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Not a breath, not a step, as if the whole tent had forgotten how.

You froze, only for half a second. The anger came quickly, burning hotter than the pretend flames. It surged up through your chest so fiercely that it made your hands shake.

This was Tanselle. Kind, harmless Tanselle. A woman who made children laugh with painted wood and scraps of cloth. And Aerion had twisted it into something ugly just to feel powerful.

You couldn’t allow it.

Egg grabbed your sleeve suddenly, his fingers small but desperate. “Wait—!” But you tore free before he could say anything else. His voice followed you for a step, then was swallowed by the crowd.

Your heart pounded so loudly you could hear it in your ears as you stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively, people shrinking away as if they feared being caught between you and the prince. Every step was a fatal mistake you could not take back.

Would your brother even recognize you? Would he care? It didn’t matter.

You were done being afraid of him. 

“Put her down!” Your voice rang through the tent like a struck bell.

Aerion’s head snapped toward you. His eyes blinked once. Twice. Slowly, as if adjusting to the sight before him. Then he smiled.

“Well now,” he said softly. “I suppose the rumors are true.”

His gaze traveled over you slowly, taking in the plain dress, the dust on your boots, the cloak you had cast aside. “You traded your rubies for copper.” He chuckled under his breath. “I almost didn’t recognize you, little sister.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd as understanding dawned. Princess. Prince. The words passed between them like ghosts. Aerion released Tanselle with careless indifference. She dropped heavily to the stage boards, her body crumpling where it fell. She did not scream again, but her breathing came in ragged, frightened bursts.

“Quit now, Aerion,” you warned, stepping closer. Your hands curled slightly. Only the tremor in your chest betrayed how hard your heart was beating. “Before you do something else you regret.”

He laughed, it was low and cruel. “I don’t regret anything.” His eyes gleamed as he gestured vaguely toward the stage. “Why would I? This thing disrespected our house with… this excuse for amusement.”

“It was just a play!” you shot back. “You know it. Must the only pleasure you find come from hurting others?”

“The dragon will never lose, it's an insult to the crown itself.” he murmured again.

“No dragon exists here,” you said firmly. “You’re nothing more than a man pretending to be greater than you are.”

Someone in the crowd laughed. It was a foolish sound, nervous and far too loud. Aerion’s head whipped toward it instantly. His expression sharpened like a drawn blade and the laughter died at once, the man who had made it shrank back into the press of bodies as if hoping the canvas itself might swallow him.

Then Aerion turned back to you.

“Where is your respect, girl?” he asked harshly. “Perhaps your time among the unfortunate has changed you.”

“I see you for what you truly are,” you said, your voice low and cold. “A wannabe. Leave now, with your pretend tail between your legs.”

He stepped closer. “Or what?” His presence filled the tent like a gathering storm.

“Or… do you want a repeat of last time?” you whispered with false confidence. The words left your mouth before you could take them back, hanging between you like something fragile and dangerous.

For the briefest moment something flickered behind his eyes. Memory. Then his smile returned, sharper than before. “Tell me,” he said lightly, “what else have you given these people?”

His gaze slid slowly over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “Do you remain pure for our wedding? Father says it could be any day now.”

A murmur of shock passed through the crowd. “I would rather die than marry a filthy cheater,” you spat.

“That can be arranged,” he shrugged.

And just like that, his attention returned to Tanselle. He lunged again. This time his sword flashed from its sheath in one smooth motion. You moved before thinking, throwing yourself in front of her. Luckily he stopped before the blade could tear you apart but the steel hovered inches from your chest. Aerion’s eyes snapped back to you, fury blazing. He shoved you hard. The force sent you stumbling backward, the world tilting for a moment as the stage lurched beneath your feet.

“Do you think you can lecture me?” he snarled. “Do you dare stand in my way?” His fist came suddenly. Pain exploded across your face as the blow sent you crashing to the ground. The impact rattled your teeth and filled your mouth with the taste of copper.

The crowd erupted, surging toward the exit in panic. Shouts, screams, and the crash of overturned benches echoed off the canvas walls. Mothers clutched children, men shoved past one another, and cloaks and belongings tumbled in the chaos. The noise spilled into the tourney grounds, drawing every nearby head toward the tent.

But you pushed yourself up again. Your breath came uneven, sharp, but your body moved anyway, like it knew what to do before you did. The way someone does who has been hit before. Your fingers slipped inside your bodice and found the dagger hidden there. The familiar weight steadied you.

The sight even made Aerion pause as his gaze dropped to the blade in your hand. For a long moment he said nothing then he laughed. “A pathetic blade? Did you steal that from father?” he murmured.

Aerion stepped closer. Slowly. “Do you intend to kill me with that?”

You tightened your grip, though your hand trembled.

No one had moved.

No one had stepped forward.

Not for Tanselle.

Not for you.

It was all left to you. You just hoped that Egg wasn't there to see it.

Aerion leaned in slightly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Go on then,” he said. “Strike.”

Your heart thundered. This was a knight. A warrior trained since boyhood. You were just a girl with a dagger and shaking hands. Still, you raised the blade. But hesitated on how to strike, without warning he deemed your reaction too slow and decided to attack you instead.

“You will not interfere!” he roared as he swung his sword toward you. 

This was it, you failed. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping whatever came would end quickly. Your grip tightened uselessly around the dagger, your arm refusing to move in time.

But the blow never landed.

Dunk surged forward with a force that seemed to make the very ground quake beneath him, eyes blazing with a storm. Every step was driven by raw desperation, the kind of fear that comes when a man is about to lose everything he holds dear. He grabbed Aerion’s arm mid-swing and twisted it with unyielding strength, then let his fist crash into the prince’s jaw. Once. Then twice. Then three times, each strike a brutal punctuation, until Aerion finally toppled, skidding across the ground like a ragdoll.

The sound of each hit echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the chaos.

Your thoughts were a haze of panic, yet instinct drew you toward Tanselle. You reached her in time to see the damage, the delicate bones of her finger crushed under the weight of Aerion’s aggression, blood seeping from every angle, painting the floor a deep, terrifying red.

“Princess…” she rasped, voice thin with pain.

“I’m so sorry," you cried, knees nearly buckling under the surge of guilt and fury. Why had it come to this? Why had the darkness in your brother’s heart spilled into your world?

A sound tore through the chaos behind you, the grunt of struggle and the snap of flesh meeting force. Dunk was grappling with a guard who tried to drag him off.

“Stop it!” you screamed, voice cracking with disbelief and command. “Can’t you see he’s not the aggressor?” Your words grew sharper, edged with authority. “Do you hear me? I order you to stop!”

But no one moved. These were men you had known all your life, yet in that moment, they acted as if you were invisible, as if your very presence could be dismissed. Their indifference cut deeper than any blade.

Dunk broke free with a roar that rattled the tent’s canvas. Aerion scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword, a pale glimmer in his bloodied hand. But Dunk’s reflexes were brutal and unrelenting when he kicked Aerion back into submission, sending him sprawling across the floor, spitting blood and  gasping for breath.

He didn’t stop fighting, even when it was clear he couldn’t win like this.

Even then, it took five men to truly restrain Dunk. Their combined strength could hold him only so far; he strained, twisting, his muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes burning with fury. Aerion rose again, staggering, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the side of his face marred with red and dirt. He tried to muster a mask of bravery, but it was hollow, brittle, the kind of performance that disgusted anyone who had eyes to see it.

Dunk’s fists itched to strike again, to tear into Aerion for the vile insinuation, for the insult against you. But a part of him froze, then his eyes flicked toward you. You were crumpled on the floor, the panic and horror on your bruised face clawed at Dunk’s chest, but then a thought struck him with the force of a blow to the face. Did he… did Aerion just call you his sister?

The word hung there, heavy, suffocating. The fight in him stuttered, just for a moment, enough for the thought to take hold as his mind raced. Your bloodied dress, your solemn eyes, your pale hair… all those moments you shared that had seemed impossible to reconcile now snapped into terrible clarity. His heart hammered. You’re a princess. Not just anyone. A Targaryen.

Aerion’s lips curled, sharp and cruel. “She’s a traitor. I told father to ship her off years ago, and look what finally happened.” He turned toward you, eyes glinting with malice. “I hope you’re happy, girl. You’ve just condemned a man to die.”

You pressed closer to Tanselle, trying to shield her, to shield yourself, to make the world stop spinning. “Aerion, please, not him!” Your voice cracked, pleading, raw.

Your brother’s sneer deepened, twisting into disgust. “Don’t tell me you care for this man? Truly?” He chuckled, a sound without warmth, without restraint. “Father will love hearing of this.” 

And then his gaze snapped back to Dunk, sharp, predatory. “Nothing to say? Fine.” He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “You’ve loosened one of my teeth, so we’ll start by breaking all of yours.”

“No!” you screamed, your voice tearing through the tent. “Stop it! You can’t!”

“Watch, sister,” Aerion said softly, mockingly, as though every syllable was a nail driven into your chest. “This is what happens when you disobey.” He signaled to the guards.

The men moved with deliberate slowness, pushing Dunk down, forcing his face to the stage. Mouth first, positioned cruelly beside you so that every movement, every sound would be unavoidable. Time seemed to stretch thin, each second dragging as you realized what they were about to do. You screamed until you could no longer, you sounded like a dying dragon more than a woman.

Your feet slammed against the ground as you tried to stand up and push your way towards him, but two more guards arrived to restrain you from reaching him. Forcing you to stay in place and watch as Dunk’s hands tried to push against the wood, but the weight of men and the rigid orders pinned him. He looked at you, his eyes wide, and for a moment the world narrowed to just that gaze, steady and unyielding, yet desperate.

Dunk, your Dunk, had thrown himself into the storm for you without hesitation , into the shouting, the crush of bodies, the kind of chaos that swallowed men whole. He didn’t hesitate because he was brave or foolish. He didn’t fight for glory. He fought because he chose you , you, out of everything else he could have walked away toward. And you realized with a sinking weight that pulled low in your stomach, cold and heavy, that it was your fault. You had cursed him not with your family name but with your own existence, with the path that led you to ruin , a path that dragged others down with it whether you meant it or not. If you had never been here, none of this would have happened.

You whispered his name, a sound half-prayer, half-confession , your throat tight, the word catching like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Dunk… I’m so-”

“No! Don’t touch him!” A small voice popped out from the background, sharp against the noise. It was Egg.

Dunk yelped out in desperation, hoping that the boy would just get out and leave before the same fate could reach him, before his choice could spread any further. “You stupid boy. Hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you.”

“No, they won’t.”

Raymun stood behind him, eyes budging at Dunk and your forms, taking in the blood, the disarray, the way neither of you looked straight.

“If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of my sister! Get off of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” Egg commanded the room just like your grandfather himself, his voice cutting clean through the tension, leaving no room for refusal. And to your surprise, they actually listened to him. Yet they had no care what you had to say, not your voice, not your struggle, not your place in any of this. You could almost scoff when the men let you go, pushing them away in rebellion, even as your arms ached from where they had held you.

Aerion gaped at the boy. “You impudent little rat, What’s happened to your hair?”

Dunk’s head was spinning, not only from the pounding in his head that throbbed behind his eyes, but also the confusion that came crashing in all at once. Egg was a Targaryen. You were a Targaryen. He had been harboring two of the royal blood, two people he trusted, two people who had said nothing.

Egg narrowed his eyebrows at the grown Targaryen, “I cut it off, brother. I didn't want to look like you.”

Aerion hummed, looking back at your disgruntled form, his gaze slow, deliberate, lingering where it shouldn’t. “Now you're confusing the youth, tricking him into your harlot ways.” He looked at you like you should be ashamed, like he expected you to be.

But everyone else in the room looked at you and Egg in awe, like you became something distant and untouchable, no longer just people, but something set apart.

Another guard broke through the crowd of onlookers and walked towards you. “Your Grace’s. I have a message from Prince Maekar. He seeks the Princess and Princes, and the capture of the hedge knight. Effective immediately.”

“No!” you shouted.

Before your eyes, they dragged Dunk away. His weight resisted for only a moment before it gave under their grip, his boots scraping against the ground as they pulled him back. He turned, even then, even now, his gaze finding you through the crowd.

You felt it, even from here.

That pull. That choice.

For a second, it felt like the rest of the room fell away, like it was only the two of you left in it. But you couldn’t tell what was in his eyes. Not from this distance. Not through the bodies between you. Whatever might have been there was swallowed by it all, leaving only the fact that he was looking at you at all.

And that was worse.

Because it could have been anything.

You couldn’t look back at him. You couldn’t meet those bright blue eyes, couldn’t risk seeing what might be there, or what might not be. Not after all of this.

Not when this was your doing.

…

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