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At this hour the inn should have thrummed with voices and laughter, yet the common room lay hushed, almost forsaken. Dunk paused in the doorway. The common room was empty save for one slumped figure. A single young woman in a fine damask mantle cape slumped across a table, her head pillowed in a dark pool of spilled wine, breath rising and falling, like a fire guttering out. Then a stout, whey-faced woman shouldered through the kitchen curtain.

“Sit where you will,” she said. “Ale, or food?”

“Both.” He chose a chair by the window, far from the sleeping stranger, the night pressing cold against the warped panes.

“Good lamb roasted with herbs, and ducks my son brought down. Which?”

He had not tasted inn fare in half a year or more. “Both.”

She laughed, a rough, kind sound. “Big enough for it, aren’t you?” She drew a tankard of nut-brown ale - thick on the tongue, just the way he liked - and set it before him. “Room for the night as well?”

“No.” A straw mattress and a roof would have been heaven, but his coin was too thin. The ground would do. “Food, ale, and on to Ashford. How far?”

“A day’s ride. Bear north at the burned mill.” She glanced toward the stable. “My boy seeing to your horses, or has he run off again?”

“He’s there.” Dunk sipped the ale, savoring the warmth that spread through his chest. “Quiet tonight.”

“Half the town’s gone to the tourney. My own would follow if I let them. The boy dreams of swaggering with soldiers; the girl sighs and giggles whenever a knight rides past. Can’t fathom it. Knights are built the same as other men, and a joust never changed the price of eggs.” She studied him - sword and shield speaking of one life, rope belt and roughspun tunic of another. “Bound for the tourney yourself?”

He took another swallow before answering. “Aye. Mean to be a champion.”

“Do you, now?” Polite, but no more.

Across the dim room the woman lifted her head from the wine. Her face was sallow, unhealthy, framed by a wild tangle of sandy hair streaked with dull gold. She rubbed her mouth, blinked at Dunk with eyes too bright for the gloom, and whispered, “I dreamed of you.” A trembling finger pointed. “Stay away from me. Do you hear? Stay well away.”

Dunk stared, uncertain. “My lady?”

The innkeep leaned close. “Never mind her, ser. Drinks and dreams, that’s all she has. Food’s coming.” She bustled away.

“Food?” The woman turned the word into a curse. She lurched upright, one hand braced on the table, the other pressed to her lips. “I’m going to be sick.” Old wine crusted the front of her cloak, the fine damask ruined. “Wanted… I wanted…” She looked around aimlessly. “No one’s here. All gone to Ashford Meadow. Gods, more wine.” She staggered toward the stairs, humming a broken, mournful snatch of song under her breath.

Then the retch came - wet and wretched from the stairwell - followed by the sour splatter of sickness on wood.

Dunk winced and set his tankard down. Poor thing, he thought. Drunk as a drowned rat, alone in a place like this. Not safe for any woman, let alone one dressed so fine. 

The innkeep returned with his platter and shook her head. “Leave her be, ser. She’s been drowning her sorrows since midday. Won’t thank you, mark me. You’ll smell of her sick all the way to Ashford.”

But Dunk was already rising, long legs carrying him to the stairs before doubt could catch him. A knight helps those in need, old Ser Arlan’s words echoed in his skull. Even fools. Even drunks. Even when they tell you to stay away.

She had sunk to her knees halfway up, one hand clutching the rail, the other clapped over her mouth. Vomit streaked the steps, sour and wine-dark. Her cloak dragged in it. In the flickering lamplight she looked small, trembling like a leaf caught in a gale.

“Here now,” Dunk said gently, big hands hovering. “Easy. Let me help you up.” His big hands hovered, afraid to touch. Flea Bottom had taught him what desperate women sometimes did when grabbed.

She flinched at first, eyes wide and glassy - fear? recognition? - then sagged against him like a doll with cut strings. Her breath was sour, her skin clammy. “Stay… away,” she mumbled, but the words held no strength, only weariness.

Dunk lifted her as lightly as a child, though she was tall for a woman, long-limbed with the grace of highborn blood beneath the ruin. What sort of lady ends so? he wondered, carrying her up the narrow stairs to the first door. Run off? Fever? Or something worse?

 She stirred against his chest. “The boy… don’t let the boy…” A wet hiccup. 

He paused on the landing. “What boy, m’lady?”

But she had already slipped into drunken sleep.

He kicked open the first door, laid her on the pallet, and tucked the fouled cloak around her as best he could without soiling himself further. A sad creature, he thought. A single candle guttered on a stool. The room smelled of old wine, sickness, and a faint ghost of myrrh - perfume gone stale.

The innkeep gave him a long look as he sat. “Soft heart for a hedge knight.”

Dunk shrugged, cheeks warming beneath the stubble. “A knight helps those in need.”

He ate in silence after that, but her words lingered like smoke: I dreamed of you. They would not leave him. What trouble had he just carried up those stairs? And what could a lunk like him possibly do about it?

Some time had passed before the master of horse appeared. Dunk waited in the dim stable, breathing in the thick smells of hay and horse-sweat, when a sudden blare of trumpets split the quiet from the castle walls. A commanding voice rang across the yard. Curiosity pulled him forward; he led Sweetfoot to the open door and peered out.

A great company poured through the gates like a glittering river -knights in shining plate, mounted archers in quilted black, at least a hundred strong on horses so fine they might have stepped from song. Coats of mail flashed like fish scales in sunlight; banners snapped in the wind. Some great lord has come, Dunk thought, heart quickening. 

He caught a stableboy by the sleeve as the lad dashed past. “Who are they?”

The boy gave him a queer look. “Can’t you see the banners?” He twisted free and vanished into the throng.

The banners…

A sudden gust caught one aloft, black silk billowing high. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen breathing crimson flames, wings spread as if to devour the meadow whole. The banner-bearer sat tall in white scale chased with gold, a pure white cloak streaming behind him like a fall of snow. Two others beside him gleamed the same - head to heel in milk-white armor.

Kingsguard. And the royal banner.

No wonder Lord Ashford and his sons hurried from the keep, the fair maid with them - a short girl, red-haired, round pink face flushed with excitement. She does not seem so fair to me, Dunk thought. The puppet girl was prettier.

The riders filled the yard in a tide of color and steel. Horses stamped, snorted plumes of breath into the chill air; grooms shouted, reins jingled. Amid the press, one figure drew Dunk’s eye like a lodestone - a tall woman on a dappled grey palfrey, cloaked in black edged with crimson. Her sandy-blonde hair was bound beneath a hood, and she rode a little apart, head bowed as though the clamor weighed upon her.

Something in the line of her jaw, the weary slope of her shoulders, plucked at memory.

Dunk frowned, watching as she drew nearer. The pale curve of her cheek, the downturn of her lips. Then recognition struck him like a bucket of cold water: the woman from the inn - sprawled in spilled wine, trembling on the stairs, murmuring about a boy in her drunken sleep.

Heat climbed his neck. Gods… a lady. No common drunkard, but one who rode in the king’s own company. He had lifted her in his arms, carried her up those narrow steps, tucked her into a pallet like a child, left her to the mercy of wine and shadows. What must she think of him now - a hedge knight who had dared lay hands on a princess without leave?

The party dismounted in a swirl of cloaks and ringing steel. A slim rider near the front swung down before the stables - straight as a dirk, black cloak bordered in scarlet, garments beneath blazing red and gold and yellow. Silver-gold curls framed a face carved from ice; deep violet eyes flicked over the yard with casual disdain.

Prince Aerion Brightflame, Dunk guessed, and his stomach knotted tighter.

The princess - Daenys, he heard the name murmured among the grooms - dismounted more slowly, accepting a stableboy’s hand with careful grace. Her movements were measured, almost weary, as though every step cost her something. She kept her gaze lowered while her brother barked orders, as if willing herself invisible.

Then she lifted her eyes toward the stables.

They found Dunk across the yard.

For a single heartbeat the clamor of hooves and voices fell away. Recognition bloomed in her face - surprise first, then something softer: a flicker of relief that she quickly veiled behind lowered lashes. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came. She only looked at him - searching, uncertain, a silent question in her violet eyes.

His ears burned. She remembers. The thought brought a rush of shame… and something stranger. Unease, perhaps. Or the faint stir of hope he dared not name. He half wished to melt back into the shadows of the stable.

“Boy, let go of that nag and see to my horse.”

He is speaking to me, Dunk realized. “I am not a stableboy, m’lord.”

“Not clever enough?” Aerion’s voice dripped scorn.“If you cannot manage a horse, then fetch wine for me and my lady sister.”

The way he said my lady sister carried a proprietary edge, as though the words belonged to him alone. Daenys stiffened visibly at the phrase, her gloved fingers tightening on the reins she still held.

“I… m’lord, pardons. I’m no serving man either. I have the honor to be a knight.”

“Knighthood has fallen on sad days,” the princeling drawled. A stableboy came running; Aerion thrust the reins of his blood bay into the lad’s hands and turned away. Dunk was forgotten in an instant.

Relieved, he withdrew into the cool gloom of the stable to wait for the master of horse. He felt out of place enough among the lords in their bright pavilions; he had no wish to draw a prince’s eye. Or a princess’s.

Yet as he busied himself with Sweetfoot’s saddle - fingers clumsy on the straps - the memory of her look lingered like smoke. What does she see when she looks at me? he wondered, throat tight. And why does it feel like trouble?

“Will you drink a horn of ale?” he asked the puppet girl as she knelt scooping sawdust blood back into her dragon’s hollow belly. “With me, I mean? Or a sausage? I had one last night - good, it was. Pork, I think.”

“I thank you, m’lord, but we have another show.” She rose in a swift, graceful motion and ran to the fierce fat Dornishwoman who worked the strings of the puppet knight. 

Dunk stood rooted, feeling every inch the great lunk. Yet he could not help watching the way she ran - light, long-legged, her braid swinging like a dark pennant. A pretty girl, and tall, he thought. I would not have to kneel to kiss that one. He knew how to kiss. A tavern girl in Lannisport had taught him a year past, though she had been so short she perched on the table to reach his mouth. The memory scorched his ears. What a great fool he was. It was jousting he should be thinking of, not kissing.

He turned from the puppet stage, cheeks still warm, and started back toward the stables. The meadow pulsed around him - knights shouting hoarse challenges, hammers ringing bright on steel, horses snorting plumes of breath into the crisp air - but his mind kept drifting to the tall Dornish girl and the quick, sweet curve of her smile. 

He had not gone far when he saw her.

She stood near a copse of young oaks at the field’s edge, half-veiled by the shadow of a pavilion. Two Kingsguard flanked her in their milk-white cloaks and enameled scales - one tall and stern as winter stone, the other younger, watchful. Princess Daenys Targaryen.Even in daylight she looked pale and distant, her sandy-blonde hair drawn back plainly, her black-and-red gown simpler than a princess ought to wear. She stared at the ground as though the grass itself whispered secrets only she could hear, barely acknowledging the knight murmuring at her elbow.

Then she lifted her head.

Her eyes found him across the meadow.

Dunk stopped dead, boots sinking into the soft earth. Gods, not again. The inn rushed back - the sour wine, her retching on the stairs, the way he had carried her like a sack of meal and laid her on the pallet. Heat climbed his neck hotter than before. What must a princess think of a lunk like me? He wanted to turn and vanish into the crowd, but his legs refused him.

She stepped forward, slipping past the nearer Kingsguard with a small, determined gesture that brooked no argument. The man frowned but yielded, falling a pace behind.

Dunk bowed - too low, nearly toppling. “Y-Your Grace,” he stammered. “I… I didn’t mean to… at the inn, I only - ”

“You owe me no pardon,” she said quietly.Daenys lowered her gaze at his apology, a faint rose blooming in her cheeks. “If any should ask forgiveness, it is I. I was… no proper sight. I suppose it is good you found me before my father could.”

Her eyes lifted to his then, and the daylight caught her fully: pale streaks of gold threading her sandy-blonde hair, violet eyes clear and bright as rain-washed amethysts, the soft color warming her pale skin. She was pretty, Dunk realized with a jolt - like a sudden warm wind against his neck. Not the laughing prettiness of the puppet girl, but something quieter and sadder.

From the folds of her sleeve she drew a strip of blue silk, no wider than his palm, edged in faint silver thread. A three-headed dragon had been stitched along one side - clumsy, earnest, the scales lopsided and the wings ragged as storm-torn banners. The work of hands that had tried hard and known they might fail

“I am no great seamstress,” she said, a faint, self-mocking smile touching her lips. “The needle pricked me more than the cloth. But… I thought it might serve.” She held it out to him, palm up, offering something fragile as a moth’s wing.

Dunk stared at the favor as though it might bite. His mouth went dry. A favor. From a princess. No girl had ever given him one. His big hands felt clumsy as stones. “Your Grace… I… I couldn’t possibly…”

“You can,” she said simply. “And you will.” She stepped closer - close enough that he caught the faint scent of wine and something sharper, like myrrh or poppy - and pressed the cloth into his palm. Her fingers brushed his, cool and trembling just a little.

Dunk’s heart hammered so loud he feared she could hear it. “Thank you,” he managed, words tumbling in a rush. “I’ll honor it, Your Grace. On my honor as a knight.” He fumbled to tie the strip to his sword belt, fingers thick and useless. The blue silk looked small and impossibly bright against his roughspun tunic.

As he knotted the last twist, he glanced up - and for one suspended moment she wasn’t merely pretty. She was beautiful. Not the flawless beauty of songs, but something truer: sunlight gilding her hair, her eyes softening with shy hope, the faint flush warming her cheeks. Just then the melancholy that clung to her lifted, and she looked more woman than princess.

And then she smiled - small, fleeting, gone almost before he could catch it - right as his clumsy fingers finished the knot.

Dunk blinked, stunned.

She watched him with those too-bright eyes, the sadness returning but gentler now, still and certain. “You will win,” she said.

Dunk blinked again. “The… the tourney, you mean?” 

Daenys did not answer with words. She only looked at him a moment longer - searching, hopeful, as though she saw past his shambling frame to the knight her dreams had promised. Then the taller Kingsguard cleared his throat.

“Your Grace,” the man said gently but firmly. “Prince Maekar awaits in his tent.”

Her shoulders tensed. The brightness dimmed. She gave Dunk one last quiet nod, then turned and walked away, the Kingsguard falling in beside her like white shadows. Dunk stood rooted, clutching the favor, watching until she vanished among the pavilions.

Dunk stood rooted, clutching the scrap of silk. He touched it with a thick thumb. The idea was absurd… And yet it warmed him more than any horn of ale ever had.

Egg had worked hard at the campsite, stacking wood with steady little hands and coaxing the fire until it crackled bright against the gathering dusk. Dunk watched him with quiet satisfaction; he had half feared the boy would vanish again. But Egg had stayed, small and stubborn, and that steadied something deep in Dunk’s chest.

“Did you get a good price for the palfrey?” Egg asked, brushing soot from his palms.

“How did you know I sold her?”

“You rode off mounted and walked back on foot,” the boy said simply. “And if robbers had taken her, you’d be angrier.”

Dunk chuckled. “Fair enough. I got enough for this.” He unwrapped the new armor from its oiled cloth. Steel caught the firelight like captured stars. “If you’re ever to be a knight, you’ll need to know good steel from bad. Pate rounded the top and curved it so - an axe or sword will slide off instead of biting deep into a flat crown.” He lowered the greathelm over his head. The world narrowed to thin slits of light. “How does it look?”

“There’s no visor,” Egg pointed out.

“Visors are weak points. Air holes are better. You’d never want one if you knew how many knights have taken an arrow through the eye just for lifting the visor to breathe.”

“No crest either,” Egg said. “It’s plain.”

Dunk lifted the helm free. Cool air rushed over his face. “Plain suits the likes of me. See how bright the steel shines? That’ll be your task - to keep it so. You know how to scour mail?”

“In a barrel of sand,” the boy answered at once, “but you don’t have a barrel.” He paused, then added carefully, “Did you buy a pavilion too, ser?”

“I didn’t get that good a price.” The boy is too bold for his own good, Dunk thought. I ought to beat that out of him. Yet he knew he never would. He liked the boldness. He needed more of it himself.

As Dunk spread the mail shirt across his knees to trace a seam, the blue silk favor slipped from beneath his belt and fluttered to the ground like a fallen petal.

Egg’s sharp eyes caught it instantly. He knelt and plucked it up before Dunk could move, turning the narrow strip between small fingers. The clumsy stitched dragon stared back at him.

“What’s this?” Egg asked. His voice was almost too neutral.

Dunk felt his ears heat. “A favor,” he said, reaching for it. “From… a lady. For the jousts.”

Egg held on a moment longer, studying the lopsided scales with something close to reverence. “A lady gave you her favor?” Surprise colored the words, and beneath it something sharper - like a blade half-drawn. “Not just any lady, I’ll wager.”

Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. “Not just any lady,” he admitted quietly. “Princess Daenys.”

Egg went very still. For a heartbeat his face was blank as fresh parchment. Then he blinked twice and a small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. It never reached his eyes.

“Princess Daenys,” he repeated, tasting the name as if it might burn his tongue. He turned the silk over again, thumb brushing the ragged wings. “She sewed this herself?”

“Aye. Said she wasn’t much with a needle. But it feels fine to me.” Dunk gave a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t know what to say. Never had a favor before. Not from anyone, let alone… well. A princess.” He looked down at his big, rough hands. “She told me I’d win. Just like that. ‘You will win.’ I don’t even know what she meant by it.”

Egg handed the favor back slowly. His fingers lingered a fraction too long on the silk, reluctant to release it. “She believes in you, then,” he said softly. “That’s… rare, ser. Not many knights get this from her.” He glanced toward the darkening meadow, where the first cookfires winked like distant stars. “She’s a dreamer, you know. Some say her dreams come true. Others claim it’s only the wine talking.” He gave a quick, almost defensive shrug. “But if she gave you this… it’s a high honor. You should wear it proudly.”

Dunk tied the favor back to his belt, knotting it more securely this time. His thick fingers lingered on the damp silk. “I mean to,” he said. “Though I still feel half a fool.”

Egg gave a small laugh. “You’re no fool, ser. Not for this.” He turned back to the fire and poked at the embers with a stick, but Dunk caught the quick sidelong glance the boy sent toward the blue silk.

“You did well here, Egg,” Dunk said, changing the subject before the silence grew too heavy. “On the morrow you’ll come with me. We’ll walk the tourney grounds, buy oats for the horses, fresh bread for ourselves. Maybe some good cheese - they were selling fine wheels at one of the stalls.”

“I won’t need to go into the castle, will I?” Egg asked, still staring into the flames.

“Why not? One day I mean to live in a castle. I hope to win a place above the salt before I’m done.”

The boy said nothing. Perhaps he fears a lord’s hall, Dunk thought. That was no more than might be expected from a small orphan. He would grow out of it.

Dunk returned to admiring his armor, running a thumb along the bright steel and wondering how long he would wear it - how long the favor would remain tied there when the last lance shattered against shield or helm.

Egg kept his head down, tending the fire, but Dunk thought he saw the boy’s mouth curve again - just once, small and secret - when he thought no one was watching.

The Great Hall of Ashford was no grand cavern of stone and light, only a modest chamber in a modest castle. Faded wool tapestries of fruits and flowers hung limp on the walls, wilting in the dim torch-glow. Smoke and old rushes thickened the air. Dunk slipped through a side door, boots soft on the strewn reeds, and spotted the steward at once - standing at the high table beside Lord Ashford and a dozen other men, their voices low and edged with anger.

“ - more concerned if they were your own children, I’ll wager,” a harsh voice was saying.

The speaker’s straight hair and square-cut beard caught the torchlight like frost on iron, so pale they looked white. Thick-bodied and powerful, he wore a leather brigandine studded with silver beneath a heavy black cloak trimmed in ermine. Pox scars pitted his cheeks, half-hidden by that silvery beard.

“Daenys has done this before,” another voice answered. Plummer stood in Dunk’s line of sight, blocking the speaker. “You should never have forced her to come. She belongs nowhere near the lists, brother. Nor your other daughters.”

The bearded man snorted, a sound like gravel under a boot. “I need no reminder of my daughter’s failings. She has only eighteen years. She can change. She will change, gods be damned - or I’ll see her dead.”

A chill scraped down Dunk’s spine. He should not be hearing this.

“Do not be a fool,” the seated man said quietly. Tall even in his chair, dark hair streaked with grey, nose broken more than once, he wore a plain green doublet stretched across broad shoulders. Long fingers turned a sheaf of parchments that rustled like dry leaves. “She is what she is. And she is still our blood.”

“Blood no lord will take,” the bearded prince snapped. His voice rose like a storm wind. “Offers withdrawn the moment they hear of her… episodes. One match after another slips away. The Tyrells. The Baratheons. Even the the damn crabbers!” He slammed a fist on the table. “And now this. When I ask what happened she only looks at me with those dead eyes and says, ‘I don’t know, I was asleep.’ As if the boy vanished into mist. Thank the gods Aerion found her before she could follow.”

The seated man rubbed his jaw slowly. “Daenys is no liar by nature. If she says she does not know, perhaps she truly does not. Give it time. Ser Roland will find Aegon, as he has a dozen times before.”

“When the tourney ends, perhaps,” the bearded prince muttered. “Aerion is here. He is a better lance than any of them in any case - if it is the tourney that concerns you.”

Dunk’s mouth went dry. Princes. Gods, he had stumbled into Targaryen business. The sad girl from the inn - the one who had pressed a clumsy silk favor into his hand and whispered You will win - was their daughter. And here was her father speaking of her like a broken blade that needed mending or melting down.

He took one careful step backward. The rushes whispered under his heel.

Too late.

The prince with the silvery beard and pox-scarred face turned sharp eyes on him. “Who are you, and what do you mean by bursting in on us?”

The seated man lifted a hand before Dunk could stammer. “He is the knight our good steward was expecting,” he said, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. As though he had known Dunk stood there all along. “You and I are the intruders here, brother. Come closer, ser.”

Dunk swallowed. Their gazes pressed on him - the bearded one’s sharp as winter wind, the taller one’s calm but heavy as old iron. He thought of the blue silk hidden beneath his tunic, warm against his chest like something stolen. Fool. You should have waited outside.

He looked to Plummer, but the pinch-faced steward only stared at the floor stones. “My lords,” Dunk began, voice rough, “I asked Ser Manfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so I might enter the lists, but he refuses. He says he knows me not. Ser Arlan served him, though - I swear it. I have his sword and shield, I - ”

“A shield and a sword do not make a knight,” Lord Ashford declared. Big and bald, face round and red as an apple, he leaned forward. “Plummer has spoken to me of you. Even if we accept that these arms belonged to this Ser Arlan of Pennytree, it may well be that you found him dead and stole them. Unless you have some better proof - ”

“I remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree,” the tall man cut in quietly. “He never won a tourney that I know, but he never shamed himself either. At King’s Landing sixteen years ago he overthrew Lord Stokeworth and the Bastard of Harrenhal in the melee. And years before that at Lannisport he unhorsed the Grey Lion himself. The lion was not so grey then.”

“He told me about that many a time,” Dunk said.

The tall man studied him. “Then you will remember the Grey Lion’s true name, I have no doubt.”

For a moment Dunk’s mind was empty as a cracked bowl. A thousand times the old man had told the tale. The lion, the lion, his name, his name… Despair clawed at him - then the answer came sudden and bright. “Ser Damon Lannister!” he blurted. “The Grey Lion. He’s Lord of Casterly Rock now.”

“So he is,” the tall man said pleasantly, rattling the sheaf of papers. “And he enters the lists on the morrow.”

“How can you possibly remember some insignificant hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?” the silver-bearded prince demanded, frowning.

“I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes.”

“Why would you deign to joust with a hedge knight?”

“It was nine years past, at Storm’s End. Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him.”

“Seven,” Dunk insisted. “And that was against the Prince of Dragonstone!” The words were out before he could stop them. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.

The prince with the broken nose smiled gently. “Tales grow in the telling, I know. Do not think ill of your old master, but it was four lances only, I fear.”

The hall dimmed around Dunk. His ears flamed. “My lord.” No - wrong. “Your Grace.” He dropped to one knee, head bowed so low his neck ached. “As you say. Four. I meant no… I never…”

Prince Baelor Breakspear regarded him with quiet amusement. “Rise, ser. No harm was done.”

Dunk stood. He did not know whether to keep his head down or meet a prince’s eyes. I am speaking with Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, heir to the Iron Throne. What could a hedge knight say to such a man?

“You wish to enter the lists, is that it?” Baelor asked.

“I… only wished to enter the tourney proper, Your Grace. The steward said there might be room if some knights withdrew. I have armor now - good steel - and… and a favor to wear.” The words slipped out unbidden. Fool. Keep your mouth shut.

“That decision rests with the master of the games,” Baelor said, “but I see no reason to deny you.”

The steward inclined his head. “As you say, my lord.”

Dunk tried to stammer thanks, but Prince Maekar cut him off, lip curling. “A favor. From whom?”

Dunk hesitated. He could not lie - not here, not to these men - but the truth felt too vast, too dangerous. “From… a lady, Your Grace. She bade me honor it.”

Baelor’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “A lady’s favor is no small thing for a hedge knight. Wear it well, ser, and may it bring you luck.”

Dunk bowed again - awkward, hasty - and backed toward the side door, heart thudding against his ribs. He had come for the lists. Now all he could think of was the princess who had sewn that lopsided dragon with pricked fingers, the princess whose father spoke of her as something to be fixed or discarded.

She will change, or I’ll see her dead.

The words followed him out into the corridor like a shadow cast long by torchlight. He touched the silk through his tunic, the cloth soft and warm against rough skin. You will win, she had told him.

And that he meant to.

The apple of House Fossoway rippled above the gold-colored pavilion, bright as a summer sun caught in silk. Raymun held the flap open for him, and behind the tent two servants turned a goat on a spit, basting it with honey and herbs until the fat hissed and dripped into the cookfire, sending up curls of sweet smoke.

“There’s food as well, if you’re hungry,” Raymun said, waving him inside.

The air within was warm, scented with roasted meat and woodsmoke. A brazier of coals glowed like a captive heart. Raymun filled two cups with dark, gleaming wine and handed one to Dunk.

“They say Aerion is in a rage at Lord Ashford for awarding his charger to Ser Humfrey,” he remarked as he poured, “but I’ll wager it was his uncle who counseled it.”

“Prince Baelor is an honorable man.”

“As the Bright Prince is not?” Raymun laughed, low and knowing. “Don’t look so anxious, Ser Duncan. There’s none here but us. It’s no secret Aerion’s a bad piece of work. Thank the gods he sits far down the line of succession.”

“You truly believe he meant to kill the horse?”

Raymun shrugged. “Is there any doubt? If Prince Maekar had been here, it might have gone differently. Aerion’s all smiles and chivalry while his father watches, but when he’s not…” He took a long swallow. “I saw Maekar’s chair empty at the high table tonight. He’s ridden off with Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard to hunt for his youngest boy. Some wild tale of robber knights, but I’ll wager the lad simply ran off. Maekar’s daughter was supposed to be minding the little whelp - Aegon - and she…”

Dunk’s stomach tightened. He had noticed the empty chair himself. And beside Baelor he had glimpsed her: Daenys, sitting very straight in crimson, a goblet of wine in her hand, looking every inch the princess - hair bound with silver thread, face pale and composed - far more regal than the meek, trembling girl who had pressed a favor into his palm.

Raymun went on, voice growing brutish. “Daenys the Drunkard, they call her behind Maekar’s back. Drinks like a fish, dreams mad things, rides men like a Dothraki rides a horse, stares at walls for hours. Maekar dragged her here hoping the tourney might restore her name and find her a proper match at last. She was meant to watch the boy, but she let him slip away. Some say a robber knight took the lad - either while she was passed out drunk or while she was busy spreading her legs for any commoner or lord or what have you behind the tents. Either way, the boy’s gone and Maekar’s half-mad with it.”

Dunk’s ears burned. The wine turned sour in his mouth. He had seen her at the inn - clammy and retching - and later in the meadow, shy and hopeful, pricking her fingers to sew him a clumsy dragon. She had believed in him when no one else would. And now this Fossoway was calling her a drunkard and a whore. She is but a sad girl, he thought, anger rising hot and clumsy in his chest.

“You shouldn’t speak of a princess that way,” Dunk said, louder and angrier than he meant. “Nor any lady, to be frank.”

Raymun blinked, then gave a dismissive snort and a lazy shrug. “Princess?” He waved the word away like a fly. “She’s Maekar’s shame more than she’s anyone’s princess. But suit yourself, Ser Duncan.” He refilled his own cup, still grinning faintly. “Poor Maekar. Fourth son of the king - not bold as Baelor, not clever as Aerys, not gentle as Rhaegel. Just a sour, pox-scarred brute saddled with a mad daughter and a cruel son. The whole Targaryen lot’s rotten to the core, if you ask me. Incestuous, mad, savage aliens.”

Dunk set his cup down hard. The anger in his chest swelled into something fiercer. He reached beneath his belt, fingers clumsy on the silk, and drew out the narrow strip of blue. The lopsided dragon stared up at them both.

“The princess gave me this,” he said quietly.

Raymun stared. The cup paused halfway to his lips. “Seven hells. Princess Daenys gave you her favor?”

Dunk’s cheeks went hot. He looked down at the silk, suddenly shy. “Aye. She… she said I would win.”

A grin split Raymun’s face - genuine, almost admiring. “Well, I’ll be damned, Ser Duncan. A hedge knight winning a Targaryen princess’s token. That’s a tale for the singers.” He clapped Dunk on the shoulder. “You’ve more luck than sense, half-man. Wear it proudly tonight, but for the love of the gods, take it off before the jousts tomorrow. Don’t let anyone else see it. It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Dunk frowned, confused. 

Raymun leaned in, voice dropping. “You don’t understand. Prince Aerion has - ”

“Ser! Ser Duncan!”

Egg burst through the tent flap, panting, hood fallen back so the brazier’s light danced on his bald head and wide dark eyes. “You have to come - right now! He’s hurting her!”

Dunk was on his feet before the words finished, cup tipping, wine spilling dark across the rushes like blood. “Hurting who?”

“Aerion!” the boy shouted. “He’s hurting the puppet girl! Hurry!”

Egg whirled and darted back into the night.

Dunk was already moving, heart hammering against his ribs, the blue favor still clutched tight in his fist. Raymun swore behind him, but the words were lost. Boots pounded damp earth as Dunk ran toward whatever cruelty waited in the dark.

The morning bled into afternoon, the distant clamor of the tourney fading like a song sung out. One by one the horns fell silent, the shouts dwindled to murmurs, until only the wind moved across the field. Dusk crept into the cell on quiet feet, a slow stain of indigo and shadow that pooled in the corners and pressed against the narrow window. Dunk sat in the embrasure, knees drawn up, staring out at the gathering dark, trying to ignore the hollow ache in his belly that gnawed like a small, persistent beast.

Then came the sound - footsteps on stone, deliberate and unhurried, followed by the bright metallic jangle of iron keys. He uncoiled from the sill and rose to his full height as the door groaned open. Two guards stepped in, one lifting an oil lamp whose flame trembled and threw long, wavering shadows across the walls. A servingman followed, bearing a tray that steamed with the scent of hot bread and roasted meat. Behind them came Egg.

“Leave the lamp and the food and go,” the boy said, voice steady, almost regal.

They obeyed without a word, though Dunk noticed they left the heavy oak door ajar. A narrow bar of torchlight spilled in from the corridor like a hesitant promise. The smell of the meal struck him hard - fresh-baked bread still warm, honey glistening in the lamplight, pease porridge thick and savory, a skewer of onions blackened at the edges and meat charred to a deep, fragrant crust. Hunger rose in him sudden and fierce. He sat beside the tray, tore the bread apart with his hands, and pushed a piece into his mouth. The crust cracked softly, crumbs scattering like pale stars.

“There’s no knife,” he observed, chewing. “Did they think I’d stab you, boy?”

“They didn’t tell me what they thought.” Egg stood framed in the doorway’s glow, clad in a close-fitting black wool doublet, waist tucked, long sleeves lined with red satin that caught the lamplight like spilled wine. Across his chest the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen spread its wings in crimson thread, fierce and proud. “My uncle says I must humbly beg your forgiveness for deceiving you.”

“Your uncle,” Dunk said slowly. “That would be Prince Baelor.”

The boy looked miserable, small shoulders hunched. “I never meant to lie.”

“But you did. About everything. Starting with your name. I never heard of a Prince Egg.”

“It’s short for Aegon. My brother Aemon named me Egg. He’s off at the Citadel now, learning to be a maester. And Daenys sometimes calls me Egg as well, and so do my other sisters.”

Dunk lifted the skewer, bit into a chunk of meat - goat, rich with some lordly spice he had never tasted - and warm grease slid down his chin. “Aegon,” he repeated, the name heavy on his tongue. “Of course it would be Aegon. Like Aegon the Dragon.” He chewed, swallowed, tore off more bread. “Why did you do it? Was it some jape, to make a fool of the stupid hedge knight?”

“No.” Tears welled in Egg’s eyes, bright as glass in the lamplight, but he stood straight, refusing to let them fall. “I was supposed to squire for Aerion on the way to Ashford. The three of us rode together in a litter - me, Daenys, and him. But Aerion… he was horrible to us both. Father keeps dragging Daenys to these things hoping to find her a proper match at last, but Aerion said he’d never let that happen. She was restless for days and drinking more and more. She found a way to slip us out, said we’d hide until it was over, that no one would look for us at a common inn. She shaved my head herself, with a knife she took from the baggage. Said the silver-gold would give us away too quick. She knew Father would send men hunting.”

“The blood of the dragon,” Dunk said, almost to himself. “Silver-gold hair and purple eyes, everyone knows that.” Thick as a castle wall, Dunk. 

“Yes. So she shaved it off. We were meant to stay hidden until the tourney ended. Only then you took me for a stableboy at the inn stables, and… I didn’t want to go back. Not yet. I wanted to see the jousts, the melee, everything. I wanted to be close to knights, real ones. I’m sorry, ser. I truly am.”

Dunk looked at him - really looked. The boy stood there, small and brave in his borrowed finery, tears shining but unshed. Dunk knew that hunger, that fierce want that could drive a person to lie, to steal, to run. 

“I thought you were like me,” Dunk said quietly. “Might be you are. Only not the way I thought.”

“We’re both from King’s Landing still,” Egg said hopefully, voice small.

Dunk had to laugh, a rough, surprised sound. “Yes, you from the top of Aegon’s Hill and me from the bottom.”

“That’s not so far, ser.”

Dunk took a bite from an onion, the sharp sweetness bursting on his tongue. “Do I need to call you m’lord or Your Grace or something?”

“At court,” the boy admitted, “but other times you can keep on calling me Egg if you like, Ser.”

Dunk shoved the platter aside and stood. “What will they do with me, Egg?”

“My uncle wants to see you. After you’re done eating, ser.”

“I’m done now, then.” Dunk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve already kicked one prince in the mouth. I don’t mean to keep another waiting.”

The blue favor brushed his hip as he moved toward the door. He touched it once, lightly, the silk soft under his rough fingers. He thought of Daenys again: the girl who had slipped away from guards - and from Aerion - to hide this child. She had protected her little brother the only way she knew how, even while the world called her drunkard and worse. She let him run to me. She said nothing when they found her. Whatever happened now, he owed her that much. 

He squared his shoulders and stepped out into the corridor, Egg at his side, the three-headed dragon on the boy’s chest catching the lamplight like fire.

The Great Hall of Ashford felt smaller by torchlight, the faded tapestries stirring faintly in the draught. Prince Baelor Breakspear studied Dunk across the long table, his quiet grey eyes giving nothing away. A single goblet of wine sat between them, untouched.

“Ser Duncan,” Baelor said at last, “let me ask you this - how good a knight are you, truly? How skilled at arms?”

Dunk did not know what to say. “Ser Arlan taught me sword and shield, and how to tilt at rings and quintains, Your Grace. I… I can hold my own.”

Baelor seemed troubled by the answer. He rubbed his jaw, the way Dunk had seen him do in the hall earlier. “My brother Maekar returned a few hours ago. He found his eldest son beaten bloody in front of half the realm, and his youngest boy shaved bald and squiring for a hedge knight. Maekar would never admit it, but I believe he hoped his children might bring him some measure of glory in this tourney. Instead they have all shamed him before gods and men. And now he must have a target for his wrath. He has chosen you.”

“Me?” Dunk said miserably.

“Aerion has already filled his father’s ear with poison,” Baelor continued. “And Daenys… well, she has not helped you either.” Baelor’s voice stayed gentle, but there was a weariness beneath it. “To excuse his own failings, Aerion told Maekar that a huge robber knight - chance met on the road - raped his sister, took her maidenhead by force, then stole young Aegon from under her nose while she was too frightened and mad to stop him. He claims you are that knight, ser. That you left Daenys weeping and broken on the road, and that she has been too terrified to speak the truth.”

Dunk’s face went hot, then cold. The words landed like a mace to the gut. “He what?” Fury rose in him, thick and clumsy. “I never -  I would never -  Your Grace, I laid no hand on her save to carry her up the stairs when she was sick. She was drunk, aye, but I only helped her. I swear it on my sword, on my honor, on anything you like.”

Baelor lifted a hand. “I believe you, ser. Daenys has already denied the charge to her father’s face. But Maekar… Maekar is willing to believe the worst. And her word, I fear, carries little weight with him these days. A drunkard woman full of folly, he calls her. Her reputation has run ahead of her for years. They whisper she has not had a maidenhead to lose in some time.” He said it without cruelty, only quiet fact. “Still, Aerion’s tale is convenient. It gives Maekar someone to blame for everything - the missing boy, the shame, the whole sorry mess.”

Dunk’s big hands clenched on the table’s edge. She gave me her favor. She smiled when I tied it on. And now they say I raped her? The anger burned hotter than any tourney wound. “I never touched her that way. Never. She was kind to me.”

“I know,” Baelor said. “As for the matter of these puppeteers, by the time Aerion is done twisting the tale it will be high treason. The dragon is the sigil of the royal House. To portray one being slain, sawdust blood spilling from its neck… well, it was doubtless innocent, but it was far from wise. Aerion calls it a veiled attack on House Targaryen, an incitement to revolt. Maekar will likely agree. My brother has a prickly nature, and he has placed all his best hopes on Aerion.”

Dunk could not speak. The blue favor felt like a burning brand.

“Whatever my brother believes or fails to believe,” Baelor went on, “one truth remains. You laid hands upon the blood of the dragon. For that offense alone you must be tried, judged, and punished.”

“Punished?” The word tasted like ash.

“Aerion would like your head, with or without teeth. He will not have it - I promise you that - but I cannot deny him a trial. As my royal father is hundreds of leagues away, my brother and I must sit in judgment of you, along with Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell of Highgarden. The last time a man was found guilty of striking royal blood, it was decreed he should lose the offending hand.”

“My hand?” Dunk said, aghast.

“And your foot,” Baelor added quietly. “You kicked Aerion as well, did you not? To be sure, I will urge my fellow judges to mercy,” Baelor went on. “I am the King’s Hand and heir to the throne - my word carries weight. But so does my brother’s. The risk is real.”

“I… Your Grace, I…” Dunk’s tongue felt thick. He wanted to shout that the puppeteers had meant no treason, that it was only a wooden dragon with sawdust blood, that none of this was right. But the words would not come. They never did when he needed them most.

Baelor leaned forward, voice dropping. “You have another choice, though. Whether it is better or worse, I cannot say. Any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand trial by combat.” He studied Dunk again, eyes steady. “So I ask you once more, Ser Duncan the Tall - how good a knight are you? Truly?”

“A trial of seven,” he declared. “That is my right, I do believe.”

Prince Baelor drummed his fingers on the table, a slow rhythm that echoed in the heavy silence. To his left, Lord Ashford inclined his head once, ponderous and reluctant.

“Why?” Prince Maekar demanded, leaning forward, voice low and edged with iron. “Are you afraid to face this brutish oaf alone, and let the gods decide the truth of your accusations?”

“Afraid?” Aerion’s laugh drifted through the hall, light and musical, a sound too delicate for the weight it carried. “Of such as this? Don’t be absurd, Father. My thought is for my beloved sister. Daenys has been wronged by this Ser Duncan as well - she claims him innocent, yet we all know how easily a lowborn man can twist a noble woman’s words. Or prey on her… vulnerability.” The last word lingered, soft and venomous. “When we first arrived at the stables, I saw the way this lout leered at her. The perverse hunger in his eyes. A trial of seven allows me to defend her honor alongside my own.”

“I never leered at her,” Dunk said hotly, voice rough with anger. “I never looked at her that way. You twist everything - ”

Aerion smirked, a small, amused curl of the lip that never reached his violet eyes. 

Dunk stood silent, the weight of the accusations pressing on him like a millstone. He tried to keep his face still, but the hall swam a little. 

“Your Grace, my lords,” he said to the dais, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I do not understand. What is this trial of seven?”

Prince Baelor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It is another form of trial by combat. Ancient, seldom invoked. It came across the narrow sea with the Andals and their seven gods. In any trial by combat, the accuser and accused are asking the gods to decide the issue between them. The Andals believed that if the seven champions fought on each side, the gods, being thus honored, would be more like to take a hand and see that a just result was achieved.”

“Or mayhap they simply had a taste for swordplay,” said Lord Leo Tyrell, a cynical smile touching his lips.

“Regardless,” Baelor said, “Ser Aerion is within his rights. A trial of seven it must be.”

“I must fight seven men, then?” Dunk asked hopelessly.The words came out thicker than he meant them to.

“Not alone, ser,” Prince Maekar said impatiently. “Don’t play the fool with me, hedge knight. It will not serve. It must be seven against seven. You must needs find six other knights to fight beside you - or we have your foot and hand. I would have your head as well if I could.”

Six knights, Dunk thought. They might as well have told him to find six thousand. He had no brothers, no cousins, no old comrades who had stood beside him in battle. Why would six strangers risk their own lives to defend a hedge knight against a prince?

“Your Graces, my lords,” he said, “what if no one will take my part?”

Maekar Targaryen looked down on him with open contempt, lip curled in disgust. “If a cause is just, good men will fight for it. If you can find no champions, ser, it will be because you are guilty. Could anything be more plain?”

“Excellent,” declared Ser Steffon, eyes alight with a fierce, eager joy. “If they’re angry, they’ll fight all the fiercer. You may rely on me, Ser Duncan.” He clapped Dunk on the shoulder, then turned to his cousin. “Raymun, if I’m not back by dawn, bring my armor and see Wrath saddled and barded. I’ll meet you in the challengers’ paddock.” His laugh rang out, bright and careless, as he swept out into the night, cloak swirling behind him like a banner.

The tent flap fell shut. For a moment there was only the crackle of the brazier and the steady drum of rain on canvas. Raymun stared after his cousin, jaw tight. “Five knights,” he said at last, voice low. “Duncan, I’m loath to kill your hopes, but…”

“If your cousin can truly bring the men he named - ”

“Leo Longthorn? The Brute of Bracken? The Laughing Storm?” Raymun rubbed a hand over his face. “He knows them, aye. Whether any of them know him is another matter. Steffon sees this as a chance for glory, but it means your life. Find your own champions. I’ll help. Better too many than too few.”

A sudden noise outside made him turn sharply. “Who goes there?”

A small figure ducked through the flap, followed by a thin woman wrapped in a rain-sodden black cloak. Water dripped from the hem in slow, heavy beads.

“Egg?” Dunk rose, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your squire,” the boy said simply. “You’ll need someone to arm you, ser.”

“Does your lord father know you’ve slipped the castle?”

“Gods be good, I hope not.” Princess Daenys Targaryen pushed back her hood. Rain-darkened strands of sandy-blonde hair clung to her pale cheeks, and the faint scent of wet wool and myrrh drifted with her into the close air of the tent. She looked weary to the bone, yet her violet eyes found Dunk’s at once.

“You came,” he said.

“I had to.” Daenys sat on the nearest stool without asking, hands folded tight in her lap to hide their tremor. “My father is gathering the seven accusers. He means to ride with them himself.”

Egg stepped closer, small and urgent. “I begged him not to. He says it’s the only way to redeem Aerion’s honor… and yours, Daenys.”

Daenys gave a small, tired shake of her head. “I never asked anyone to redeem my honor. Whoever has it may keep it.  Aerion insisted, as though I were some maiden stolen from a song.”

Dunk looked at her - really looked. Exhaustion bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She had tried to shield them both, and still the noose tightened. Rain had darkened her hair to the color of wet sand. She had come through the storm anyway, risking Maekar’s temper and Aerion’s notice both

“Why come now?” he asked.

“To warn you.” She glanced at Egg, then back. “My father has called his Kingsguard. Four of them, not three.”

Egg supplied the names in a hushed voice. “Ser Roland Crakehall. Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Ser Willem Wylde. And Ser Loras of Kingswood.” Raymun swore under his breath.

“They have no choice,” Daenys said. “They are sworn to protect the king and royal blood. My brothers and I are blood of the dragon, gods help us.”

Dunk counted them off on thick fingers. Each name dropped like a stone into a well. “That makes six. Who is the seventh?”

Daenys shrugged, a small helpless motion. “Aerion will find someone. If he must, he’ll buy one. Gold he has in plenty.”

“Who do you have?” Egg asked.

“Raymun’s cousin Ser Steffon,” Dunk said.

Daenys winced. “Only one?”

“I can bring people,” Egg said quickly. “Knights. I can - ”

“Egg,” Dunk cut in, gentle but firm. “I will be fighting your own brother.”

“Aerion…” The boy’s voice dropped. He swallowed hard. “When I was little… he used to come into my bedchamber at night with a knife…” The boy glanced at his sister. “He said - he said I was in the way, that Daenys -  and - between my legs, he - ”

Daenys reached for him at once, one thin hand closing around his shoulder. “That’s enough, Egg,” she said, exhausted, the words worn thin.

“He threw my cat in the well too,” Egg said sternly. “He says he didn’t, but he always lies.”

Daenys looked down at her joined hands with a sigh. “Egg has the truth of it. Aerion’s quite the monster. Thinks he’s a dragon in human skin. That’s why he was so wroth at that puppet show. Pity he wasn’t born a Fossoway - then he’d think himself an apple and we’d all sleep safer.” A wry little smile touched her mouth. It faded almost at once. “He wants to make this about me. Speaks of my honor as though it is his to defend. As though I am his to… protect.” The last word came out flat, almost dull.

Dunk’s hand drifted to the favor again. The silk was damp from the rain that had blown in with her, yet the knot held fast. He remembered how she had smiled when he tied it there. Aerion would never have that smile.

Egg pressed closer to Daenys’s side. “You don’t have to - ”

“I cannot stop it,” she said softly. “But I can tell you what you face. And I can ask you to be careful.”

Dunk met her eyes for a long moment. 

“I’ll be careful,” he said. “And I’ll wear your favor. As I promised.”

A faint flush touched her cheeks, fragile as the first light of dawn. She nodded once

“I must return before they miss me,” she said. “But before I go… would you walk with me a moment, Ser Duncan? For a  private word?”

Dunk glanced at Raymun and Egg. “As you wish, Your Grace.” To Raymun he added, “I need to fetch my shield.”

“Egg and I will look for knights,” Raymun promised.

Daenys drew the wet cloak around her shoulders once more. Dunk followed her out into the rain. Whatever she meant to say in the dark, he would hear it. And whatever came at the trial of seven, he would stand - for Egg, for Tanselle, and for the sad princess who had believed in a hedge knight as her champion.

The rain had gentled to a soft, clinging mist that veiled the world in silver-gray, turning every sound distant and every shadow soft-edged. Dunk walked beside Princess Daenys toward the line of merchants’ wagons, their boots sinking into wet grass with quiet, sucking sounds. She kept her hood raised, but the wind toyed with it, lifting the edge to reveal fleeting glimpses of her pale face and the faint, rain-darkened gold in her hair. Neither spoke until they had passed beyond the tent’s faint glow, beyond the reach of braziers, into a pocket of stillness where only the mist and their breathing filled the night.

“I dreamed of you,” she said at last, her voice so low it seemed borrowed from the wind itself.

“You said that at the inn.”

“Did I?” A small, weary laugh escaped her. “Well. It’s true. My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine come true.”

She stopped beside a wagon heaped with barrels, its bulk offering a shallow shelter of shadow. Dunk halted with her. The blue favor at his belt was sodden now, silk clinging to his tunic like a second skin, the clumsy dragon stitches blackened by rain.

“I saw a great dragon,” she continued, words measured as though she feared they might shatter. “Huge beyond measure, wings spread so wide they swallowed the meadow whole. It had fallen and you were beneath it. Alive. The dragon was dead, but you stood.”

Dunk’s throat tightened, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. “Did I kill it?”

“I could not see that part. Only that you lived, and the dragon did not.” She turned to him then, violet eyes catching the last faint light. “There was a maiden too. In the distance. Watching. When the dream first came to me, I thought… I thought she was me. That you would save me. From the dragon. From everything.”

Her voice fell to a whisper, barely louder than the mist settling on canvas. “I thought you would be the knight who stood when the dragon fell. That you would take me away from...”

She shook her head, a pained smile touching her lips as she stared down at the rain-puddled ground. “A selfish notion. I am no maiden. It was the puppet girl - an innocent, and you the knight who defended her. It could not be clearer.” Relief and melancholy twined in her sigh, twin threads pulled taut.

Dunk remembered the inn: the way she had stared across the dim common room, pointed a trembling finger, and told him to stay away. “Then why warn me off?” he asked quietly. “If you thought I was meant to save you?”

“Because I was afraid.” She looked down at her hands, twisting them together until the knuckles showed white. “The dragon in the dream was dead, but it had to die first. And I did not know who it would be. My father? He is hard, but he is my father. Aegon - my little brother? Gods, no. Or Aerion…” Her voice faltered, a crack in stone. “When you had come seeking to enter the lists, I wanted to believe the dragon was Aerion. I still believe it. I must believe it.”

She lifted her eyes to his again. “I know you will win, Ser Duncan. I have seen it. You will stand when the dragon falls.”

His heart beat hard against his ribs, a steady, painful drum. Tiny diamonds clung to her lashes; a drop of rain slid down her cheek like an unshed tear. His hand twitched toward her face, wanting to brush it away, but stayed at his side. He was a hedge knight; she was blood of the dragon. Yet here they stood, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath in the cold air, close enough that the space between them hummed with something unspoken.

“Why would you want a dragon dead?” he asked, voice rough with the weight of it. “Even if it is Aerion. He’s still your brother.”

“He terrifies me,” she said simply. “They all do. All of them. My brother, with his smiles and his knives and his talk of Valyria. My father and his voice - hammering me on his anvil whether I form or break. My dreams that show me things I cannot change. And maybe…” She hesitated, the words so soft he almost lost them to the rain. “Maybe even you, a little. Because you make me hope. And hope hurts worse than fear when it is taken away.”

They stood in the rain-mist silence. No words now, only the steady patter on canvas roofs and the distant murmur of the camp winding down. Her eyes held his - longing, fearful, steady all at once - and something pulled tight in his chest, a thread stretched to breaking, a longing with no name and no place to go. He wanted to speak - to promise he would stand between her and whatever dragon came, to swear he would carry her hope like the favor at his belt. But the words caught in his throat. He was no prince, no savior from a song. He was only Dunk.

Daenys broke the gaze first. She stepped back, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders as though to shield herself from more than the rain.

“I must go,” she whispered. “Before they miss me.”

She turned and walked away into the mist, small and straight-backed, vanishing between the wagons like a shadow swallowed by gray. Dunk stood there a long time, the mist settling on his face like tears he had not shed.

He touched the silk once, lightly, then turned back toward the tent. Whatever tomorrow brought - lances, swords, dragons dead or living - he would carry her hope with him. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

The rain had ceased before first light, leaving the meadow sodden and gleaming under a low gray sky. Every blade of grass bowed beneath silver beads of water, and the air smelled thick with wet earth and bruised turf.  Dunk stood now beside Thunder, fingers working the girth one last time. The leather was cool and damp beneath his palms, and his body throbbed from every blow given and taken. Egg was already astride the palfrey Raymun had lent them, bald head gleaming like pale marble in the weak morning light, eyes wide with a bright, unsteady mix of fear and exhilaration. 

Around them the camp was dissolving - pavilions folding like weary wings, horses stamping restless in the mud, voices calling low and urgent - but Dunk felt none of it. His mind still echoed with the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd. Beneath it all lay the memory of Daenys in the stands - pale as moonlight, utterly still - watching him rise when the dragon fell.

Footsteps whispered across the wet grass. He turned.

She came down the hill alone. No escort shadowed her, no cloak shielded her from the chill. Her black gown was mud-spattered at the hem, heavy with dew; her hair hung loose and tangled, wind-whipped strands clinging to her cheeks. Without guards or family she seemed smaller, yet her violet eyes found his across the distance and held.

“Ser Duncan,” she said, voice soft as mist.

“Your Grace.” He bowed awkwardly, hand still on Thunder’s reins, the motion stiff. “I… I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I could not let you leave without saying farewell.” She stopped a few paces away, close enough that he could see the faint violet shadows beneath her eyes and the way her hands twisted together to keep them from trembling. “My father will have me return to Summerhall with him. But I wanted to see you one last time.”

Dunk swallowed, throat tight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For your uncle. For… everything. He fought for me, and - ”

She shook her head quickly, the motion small but fierce. “Do not apologize for that. He died as he lived - honorably.” A tired, wry smile touched her lips. “And you… you were exactly as gallant as you were in my dream. Quite the song, really.”

Heat climbed his ears. No one had ever called him anything like that. “I don’t know about songs,” he said roughly. “I just didn’t want to die.”

She stepped closer. Mist clung to her lashes. Then she lifted her hand and brushed her fingers - light, cool, trembling - over the bruises along his cheek and jaw. The touch was so gentle it stole the breath from his lungs. Her fingertips lingered a moment on the worst of the swelling, tracing the damage as though she could wipe it away.

Dunk’s hand moved without thought. He untied the knot with clumsy fingers, the blue silk coming away damp and worn, fragile in his palm. He held it out to her.

“You should take it back,” he said. “It’s yours. I’ve no right to - ”

“I want you to have it.” She closed the last small distance between them, small hands rising to press his fingers closed around the cloth. Their hands brushed - hers cold from the morning, his rough and warm - and neither drew away at once. The touch lingered, a quiet shock of warmth against the chill. “To remember me by. When you ride the roads and joust in small tourneys and find some lord’s keep to serve - please, ser, remember me.”

Dunk looked down at her. She was so close he could see the faint gold specks in her eyes and the way her lips parted slightly, as though she wished to say more but could not find the breath. The pull in his chest was sudden and fierce - something vast and nameless that made him lean forward without thinking, awkward and uncertain, meaning to kiss her cheek or her forehead or any small part of her that would let him hold this moment a heartbeat longer.

She lifted her face. Their breath mingled in the cold air, warm and unsteady.

But before his lips could find hers, she rose on her toes - tall as she was for a woman, she still had to stretch -  and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek instead. Her mouth was cool, her breath a warm sigh against his skin. She lingered there a single heartbeat - long enough for him to feel the tremor that ran through her - then stepped back, eyes bright and shining.

“Farewell, Ser Duncan,” she whispered. 

She turned and walked back up the hill, small and straight-backed, the hem of her gown trailing through the wet grass like a fading banner. Dunk watched until she crested the rise and vanished.

Hooves splashed softly in the wet grass behind him. Egg came riding up on the borrowed palfrey, looking a little flushed and out of breath.

“Ser?” the boy said, reining in beside Thunder.

Dunk blinked, shook himself like a man waking from deep water. “Aye, Egg. Let’s go.”

He tied the favor back to his belt - tight this time, so it would not slip again - and swung up into Thunder’s saddle. The horse snorted, impatient, eager to move. Dunk glanced once more toward the hill, but she was gone.

He touched the silk with his fingertips, the damp fabric cool against rough skin, then turned Thunder’s head toward the road.

“Come on, lad,” he said to Egg. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

They rode down from Ashford Meadow together, the mist rising slowly around them like smoke from a dying fire, the favor at Dunk’s belt fluttering faintly - like a promise he meant to keep, a hope he carried into whatever lay beyond the next hill.