Archive of Our Own

The Dragon’s Temper
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Morning came gray and damp, the kind that never truly decided to be day.
Mist clung low over the castle yard, tangled in the posts and practice dummies like old cobwebs. The straw men stood leaning and half-gutted from yesterday’s work, their stuffing darkened by dew. Somewhere above, a raven complained to the sky. The sound carried.
Dunk rolled his shoulders as he crossed the packed earth. His armor was only half-buckled practice steel, not parade leather straps worn pale where his fingers knew them best. The chill had crept through the metal in the night and still held on. He preferred it that way. Cold kept a man honest.

A pair of squires were already at work dragging a water barrel toward the fence. They glanced up at him, then away quickly, whispering behind their hands like boys who’d seen something they meant to retell larger later.
“Morning,” Dunk said.

They answered together, too fast. “Ser.”
He frowned slightly but let it go. Boys were strange creatures at dawn.

Steel rang from the far side of the yard sharp, clean, practiced. Not the sloppy clatter of novices. Dunk turned toward the sound and spotted the circle already formed: three knights, two men-at-arms, and more squires than necessary pretending to tidy gear while watching everything.
And at the center bright even beneath the colorless sky stood Prince Aerion.

He wore black practice leathers chased with red stitching, fitted too well to be accidental. No helm. His pale hair was tied back with a thin cord, not a strand out of place despite the damp. His blade moved quick as thought a waster sword, but he wielded it like something that deserved fear.
His current opponent was Ser Hollis, thick-armed and sweating already. Aerion drove him back step by precise step, not with strength but with timing. Tap turn strike withdraw. Testing. Toying.

Dunk watched a moment, arms folded loose. Aerion fought like a cat played with a trapped bird not cruel exactly, but never forgetting who had the claws.
Ser Hollis overreached. Aerion slid inside his guard and flicked the flat across his ribs with a crack that echoed. Bout done.

“Again?” Hollis asked, breathless.
Aerion stepped away instead, gaze already searching and landing on Dunk.
There it was. That look. Like a torch finding fresh oil.
“Well,” Aerion said lightly, loud enough for the ring to hear. “The tall hedge arrives. I wondered if you trained only in stories.”

A few nervous laughs followed. Dunk scratched the back of his neck.
“I train when asked,” he said. “Or when hit.”
“Then consider this an invitation,” Aerion replied, tossing a practice blade end-over-end.

It spun badly. Dunk caught it anyway, nearly by the guard. The leather grip was slick with someone else’s sweat.
“I didn’t stretch yet,” Dunk said.
“Stretch while defending yourself.”
The circle widened fast. No one wanted to miss a prince’s temper if it decided to show itself.
Dunk stepped in, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He tested the sword’s weight. Too light, but balanced enough. He’d used worse. Used broken, once.
Aerion smiled like he knew exactly what Dunk was thinking and enjoyed it.

“Try not to disappoint me,” the prince said.
“I’ll try not to hit you too hard,” Dunk answered, plain as bread.

The first clash came quick.
Aerion struck high faster than Hollis had and chained the motion into a low cut meant to draw Dunk’s guard down. Dunk blocked the first and turned the second aside with a grunt, wood cracking against wood. The vibration ran up his arm.

Fast, he thought. Too fast to chase. Let him come.
Aerion circled, boots whispering through grit. His eyes never left Dunk’s face not his hands, not the blade his face. Measuring nerves instead of angles.
“You’re watching me wrong,” Aerion said softly as they moved.

“I’m watching you enough,” Dunk replied.
They traded three clean exchanges strike, block, answer none landing true. Aerion’s style was all precision and sting. Dunk’s was weather and wall. He gave ground where needed, held where it mattered, wasted nothing fancy.
A murmur rose from the watchers. Not loud but surprised.
Aerion heard it too.
His next attack came sharper.

He pressed in with a flurry meant to overwhelm shoulder close, elbow tight, blade snapping in short arcs. Dunk retreated two steps, three then planted hard and absorbed the next blow instead of turning it. The impact thudded through both of them.
Aerion blinked just once recalculating.
Dunk moved.

Not fast not pretty but certain. He knocked Aerion’s blade off line with a heavy bind and stepped inside the prince’s reach where quick cuts meant nothing. His free hand caught Aerion’s wrist. Twisted. Not cruel just final.
The wooden sword spun from Aerion’s grip and hit the ground with a flat, lonely sound.
Silence followed it.
No one laughed.

That made it louder.
Dunk released him at once and stepped back, lowering his own blade. He didn’t raise it in victory. Didn’t grin. Didn’t speak.
Aerion stared at his empty hand like it had betrayed him personally.

The yard held its breath.
“Well struck,” Ser Hollis offered carefully.
Aerion did not look at him.
Dunk shifted, uncomfortable. “You nearly had me on the third pass,” he said, meaning to be fair. “Your angle was ”
“I know my angle,” Aerion cut in.
The words were quiet. That was worse than shouting.
Dunk closed his mouth.

The prince bent and picked up his fallen weapon himself. No squire dared move first. When he straightened, the pleasant training-yard smile was gone. What remained was something polished and hot underneath.
“You didn’t press,” Aerion said.
Dunk frowned. “Press?”
“You disarmed me,” Aerion said. “And then you stopped.”
“That’s the bout.”

“That is not the moment,” Aerion replied.
Dunk wasn’t sure what answer was wanted there, so he gave the true one. “Didn’t seem needed.”
A few of the onlookers shifted uneasily.
Aerion studied him searching for mockery, finding none which somehow made the air tighter.
“Again,” the prince said.
“If you like,” Dunk answered.
They reset.

This time Aerion came in hotter pride in every step. But pride burned fast. Twice he overcommitted by a finger’s width. Twice Dunk turned it aside. The third time, the prince tried to change rhythm mid-strike clever but his footing slipped half an inch in the damp.
Half an inch was enough.
Bind. Turn. Strip.

The sword fell again.
No doubt this time. No luck. Clean.
Dunk stepped back immediately and grounded his blade tip-first in the dirt a gesture of finish, not triumph.
He even dipped his head a little.
Respectful. Honest.
It landed like insult.
Color rose along Aerion’s cheekbones, not from exertion. From being witnessed.
“Pick it up,” Aerion told him.

Dunk blinked. “It’s done.”
“Pick. It. Up.”
Slowly, Dunk obeyed.
Aerion did not take his own sword yet. He walked a slow circle instead, boots tracing the scuffed ring their fight had made. The watchers leaned inward without meaning to, drawn by gravity they didn’t like.
“You fight like a gate,” Aerion said. “Unlovely. Effective. Irritating.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Dunk said.
“I’m not finished.”
“I noticed.”
A few nervous chuckles quickly swallowed.
Aerion stopped in front of him again, closer than bout distance now. Close enough that Dunk could see the fine pale scar along the prince’s jaw, thin as fishing line.
“You robbed the yard of its lesson,” Aerion said softly.
“Which was?”

“That princes are not disarmed.”
Dunk considered that. “Seems like they are.”
The mist shifted between them like breath.
For half a heartbeat, something almost like a smile threatened Aerion’s mouth sharp and dangerous and alive.

“Ser Duncan,” he said quietly, “you will attend me later.”
It wasn’t a request.
Dunk scratched his jaw. “Attend you where?”
“You’ll be told.”

Aerion finally retrieved his fallen sword but did not look at it this time.
He looked only at Dunk.
And Dunk, who wasn’t the quickest thinker, felt all at once that winning had been the easy part.
Not gloating had been the mistake.
The yard slowly remembered how to breathe.

The ring broke apart in pieces, not all at once.
Men remembered they had tasks waiting, straps to oil, blades to sand, errands suddenly urgent. No one wished to be caught watching too closely when a prince had been made to look mortal. That was a dangerous kind of memory to be seen keeping.

Dunk wiped his palms on his practice surcoat and only then realized they were damp. Not from fear he didn’t think but from the weight of being looked at. Aerion’s gaze had a way of lingering even after it left you, like heat from a forge door swinging shut.

He returned the borrowed waster to the rack. It clattered louder than he meant it to.
“Ser!” came a familiar voice, breathless and indignant. “Ser, you started without me again and I told you not to ”
Egg burst from the archway with a wrapped bundle tucked under his arm and a heel of bread already in his mouth. He skidded slightly in the damp dirt, recovered with dignity he absolutely did not possess, and marched forward chewing.
His shaved head shone faintly with mist. His boots were mismatched. His expression suggested the world had wronged him personally.

“You missed it,” said one of the squires helpfully.
“I can see that,” Egg snapped around the bread. “Everyone looks like someone swallowed a frog sideways.”
He looked up at Dunk. Narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Dunk said.
Egg swallowed. “That’s never true.”
Dunk tried to think how to explain it and gave up halfway through the effort. “I practiced.”
“With who?”

“The prince.”
Egg stopped chewing.
For a very small boy, he could go very still when he chose.
“Which prince,” Egg asked carefully.
Dunk frowned. “How many you think are down here at this hour?”

Egg closed his eyes briefly, as if asking the gods for patience and receiving none. “What happened?”
“I knocked his sword away.”
There was a pause.

Egg lowered the bundle slowly. “You what.”
“Twice,” Dunk added, because truth didn’t get better with hiding.

Egg made a sound like a kettle starting to scream.
“Ser,” he said, very tight, “please tell me you fell down after.”
“No.”
“Got hit?”
“No.”
“Tripped?”
“No.”
“Pretended to trip?”

Dunk scratched his cheek. “Why would I pretend that?”
Egg stared at him the way scholars probably stared at cracked stones they hoped were books.
“Because,” Egg said slowly, “sometimes survival is more important than accuracy.”

“He asked me to fight,” Dunk said. “So I fought.”
“Yes, well, next time try fighting worse.”
“That seems backward.”
“That seems alive.”

They moved off toward the yard’s low stone wall where the morning fires sometimes warmed the benches. Today only embers remained, breathing faint threads of smoke that smelled of wet ash and old wood. Egg unwrapped the cloth bundle with ceremony: two sausages, one apple, hard cheese, and bread gone slightly stale but still willing.
“I had to argue with the cook,” Egg said. “She said knights can wait. I told her you were a very important hedge knight.”

“That help?”
“No. But I took it anyway.”
Dunk snorted and accepted the sausage. It was lukewarm and too salty perfect.
They ate with the focus of men who had learned not to trust later meals to appear. Grease slicked Dunk’s fingers. The mist thinned slowly, revealing the upper towers in pale slices.

Around them, conversation had restarted careful, shaped like a stream finding new banks after a rockfall.
Egg chewed, watching Dunk over the bread crust. “Did he say anything after?”
“He told me to attend him later.”
Egg stopped mid-bite again. He did that often around princes.

“That’s not good,” Egg said.
“He didn’t shout.”
“That’s worse.”
“He smiled.”
Egg groaned. “That’s worst.”
Dunk considered this. “You’re cheerful company in the mornings.”
“I’m accurate company,” Egg corrected. “There’s a difference.”
A pair of men-at-arms passed close behind them, voices low but not low enough.
“ shouldn’t have let it happen ”
“ no one lets him anything ”
“ Brightflame’s pride ”

Egg heard every word. Of course he did. He heard things like other boys caught frogs.
He leaned closer. “Did you bow after?”
“I dipped my head.”
Egg clutched his own skull like it might escape. “Ser.”
“What?”
“You can’t dip at princes like you’re agreeing on the weather.”
“I wasn’t agreeing. I was being polite.”
“That’s not the same language,” Egg muttered.
Dunk finished the sausage and wiped his hands on his thigh. “You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough. Between us we almost make one sensible person.”
“That’s good, then.”
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know.”
Egg squinted at him suspiciously. “Was it?”
Dunk grinned. That one he understood.

A bell rang somewhere inside the keep not loud, but official. The sound rolled across the yard like a thrown coin.
Egg packed the cloth again, slower now. Thinking.
“Ser,” he said after a moment, tone changed more careful, more precise the way he sounded when he was being more than he looked, “what did he look like after?”
“Like a man who bit a pepper he didn’t see,” Dunk said.
Egg huffed a laugh despite himself. “No I mean it.”
Dunk searched his memory. He wasn’t good at pretty descriptions. He found a true one instead.
“Like he wanted the moment back,” Dunk said. “Not the win. The moment.”

Egg nodded once, satisfied in a way that suggested the answer mattered more than Dunk knew.
“That tracks,” the boy murmured.
“Tracks what?”
“Nothing you should say out loud.”
“You say plenty out loud.”
“Yes, but I’m small and shave my head. People assume I’m foolish.”

“You are foolish.”
Egg pointed the bread at him. “I’m strategically foolish.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is."

They ate in companionable quiet after that, broken only by crows and distant hammering from the far smithy yard. The world had fully decided to be morning at last. Color returned to stone. The mist lifted like a curtain.
Dunk felt the knot in his shoulders loosen then tighten again as he noticed movement at the far balcony above the yard.

A figure stood there still, observing.
Too far for details, but posture carried rank like banners carried wind.
Egg followed his gaze and did not look nearly surprised enough.

“Don’t stare,” the boy said under his breath.
“I’m not.”
“You are with your neck.”
“I only have the one.”
“Use less of it.”
Dunk lowered his chin slightly. “You’re very bossy for someone who steals sausages.”
“I steal wisely.”
“From cooks.”

“The most dangerous enemy.”
Dunk chuckled.
A runner approached then livery colors bright against the damp and stopped before them with a stiff half-bow aimed mostly at Dunk and slightly confused about Egg.
“Ser Duncan,” the boy said, “His Grace requests your presence at second bell. The west solar antechamber.”
“Which grace?” Dunk asked, because there were too many graces in castles.

The runner blinked. “Prince Aerion, ser.”
Egg made a tiny sound like a mouse meeting fate.
“Tell him I’ll come,” Dunk said.
The boy bowed again and fled like a message that didn’t want follow-up questions.
Egg waited three heartbeats after he was gone, then whispered, “Don’t say anything clever.”
“I never do.”

“Don’t say anything honest, either.”
“That’s harder.”
“Then say very little.”
“That I can manage.”
Egg studied him, doubtful. “No you can’t.”
Dunk stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. The day had sharpened while they sat. Edges everywhere now light on spear tips, voices on stone, expectation in the air like a coming storm.
“It’ll be fine,” Dunk said.
Egg looked at him the way men look at bridges made of rope.

“Yes,” Egg sighed. “It never is.”
But he rose too, brushing crumbs from his tunic, and fell into step at Dunk’s side like he always did worried, loyal, far too perceptive for his own safety.
Above them, unseen but not unfelt, the castle watched.
And somewhere inside it, a prince remembered the sound of a sword hitting the ground.

Dunk washed at the yard pump before he went.
The water was iron-cold and tasted faintly of pennies when it splashed his lips. He scrubbed the sweat and grit from his hands and face, watching the brown swirl away between the stones. A knight ought not present himself to princes smelling like damp leather and effort, even if the prince had been the cause of both.
Egg hovered nearby like an anxious ghost with opinions.
“You could pretend you didn’t hear,” Egg suggested.
“I heard.”

“You could pretend you misunderstood.”
“I didn’t.”
“You could fall down some stairs.”
“That seems like a lot of stairs.”
Egg threw up his hands. “You’re determined to walk into this.”

“He asked me.”
“Yes,” Egg said darkly, “that’s what worries me.”
Dunk dried his face on his sleeve and checked his straps. Practice gear would not do for a summons. He went to the armory shed, traded borrowed steel for his own plain harness, the pieces mismatched but honest. No gilding, no brightwork. Just iron that had done its duty and would again.

As he buckled on his sword belt, the old thought surfaced, familiar as an ache:
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
He’d heard it enough times that his own mind used it now.
“Don’t look like that,” Egg said.
“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to apologize to the furniture.”
“I might,” Dunk said. “If it’s expensive.”
“It is,” Egg answered. “Everything in there is.”
They crossed the inner ward together. Morning had burned through the last of the mist, leaving the stones washed pale and clean. Banners hung damp and heavy from their poles, colors deepened by wet. Servants moved briskly with baskets and ledgers. A kennel boy struggled with a hound that had opinions about direction.

Castle life had a rhythm to it ordered, layered like a song Dunk only half knew the words to.
At the steps to the west tower, Egg stopped.
“I’m not invited,” the boy said unnecessarily.
“No,” Dunk agreed.

Egg hesitated then reached out and tugged Dunk’s belt straight, fingers quick and precise.
“Remember,” Egg said quietly, “princes don’t ask questions they don’t already have answers for.”

“That seems unfair.”
“It is.”
“And you know this how?”
Egg gave him a look far too old for his shaved head. “I listen.”
“That you do.”
“And ser?”
“Yes?”
“If he smiles be careful.”
“He smiles a lot.”
“Not like that he doesn’t.”
Dunk nodded once and went in.

The west tower stair curled tight as a snail shell, built for defense, not comfort. Dunk had to turn his shoulders sideways on the narrowest bends. His scabbard tapped stone with each step, counting his progress like a patient knock.

Light fell in slices through arrow slits, dust turning slow in the beams. The air smelled of wax and old parchment the higher he climbed less sweat, more secrets.
A guard stood outside the solar antechamber door red-and-black cloak, halberd upright. He looked Dunk over with professional doubt and knocked once before opening it.
“Ser Duncan, Your Grace.”

The room beyond was smaller than Dunk expected and finer than he liked.

A hearth burned low but steady, perfumed wood instead of common logs. Rugs layered the floor in overlapping colors, too soft for armored boots. A narrow table held a silver pitcher and cut fruit arranged like someone cared how apples died. Windows faced west, catching a pale spill of late-morning sun.

And Prince Aerion stood beside them, unarmored, reading something he did not bother to set down when Dunk entered.
He wore dark silk this time not training leathers black shot through with threads that caught the light red when he moved. A ruby clasp burned at his throat like a captured ember.

Dunk became aware of his size immediately. Of his boots. Of the way his elbow might end a dynasty if he turned too fast.

He bowed properly this time, he hoped. Not a nod. Not weather manners.
“Your Grace.”

Aerion finished the line he was reading before he looked up. It was deliberate. Everything about him tended to be.
“Ser Duncan,” he said mildly. “You found the stairs.”
“Hard to miss when they go up,” Dunk said then wished he hadn’t.

A flicker crossed Aerion’s eyes. Not quite amusement. Not quite irritation. Interest, perhaps edged.
“I prefer men who answer plainly,” the prince said. “It saves time.”

“I’m good at plain,” Dunk said.
“Yes,” Aerion agreed softly. “I noticed.”
He set the parchment aside at last and studied Dunk the way a falcon studies movement in grass not blinking much.
“You are larger in rooms,” Aerion observed.
“Rooms shrink around me,” Dunk said.
“That must be it.”

Silence stretched not empty, but testing.
Aerion moved first, circling once not unlike he had in the yard though now there were no swords between them. Only space and rank and whatever else had followed them up the stairs.

“You embarrassed three men this morning,” Aerion said. “Ser Hollis. My master-at-arms. And me.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass anyone,” Dunk answered.
“I know,” Aerion said. “That is why it worked.”
Dunk frowned at that.

“You did not posture,” the prince continued. “You did not grin. You did not perform humility either. You simply… were.”

“I don’t perform much,” Dunk admitted.
“Yes,” Aerion said again, softer. “I noticed that too.”
He stopped close enough now that Dunk could see the faint gold flecks in his pale eyes. Close enough that it would have been rude not to step back.
Dunk did not step back.

Egg would have kicked him for that.
“Most men,” Aerion said, “try to become larger before princes. Or smaller. You remain exactly the size you are. It is very inconvenient.”

“I don’t know how to be another size,” Dunk said.
“No,” Aerion murmured. “I don’t suppose you do.”
The prince reached for the silver pitcher and poured wine into two cups without asking. The liquid ran dark red, catching fire where the sun struck it.
He offered one.

Dunk hesitated half a heartbeat then accepted. His fingers looked like work tools wrapped around jewelry.
“If you feared punishment,” Aerion said, watching him over the rim of his own cup, “you hide it well.”
“I wasn’t afraid.”

“I believe you.”
Not praise. Not approval. Just fact.
“That is rare,” Aerion added.
Dunk drank. It was too fine for his tongue sour and sweet at once but it warmed his chest.
“Tell me,” the prince said, “why did you stop after the disarm?”

“Because it was done.”
“You could have struck.”
“It was practice.”

“You could have made a point.”
“I didn’t have one to make.”
Aerion smiled then slow, sharp, genuine in a dangerous way.

“That,” he said quietly, “is exactly why you did.”
He set his cup down.
“I am hosting a small dinner tonight,” Aerion went on, tone light as silk over steel. “Select company. Knights who understand contests of skill.”
Dunk waited. He’d learned that much let lords finish their nets before stepping.

“You will attend,” Aerion said.
It landed not as invitation not quite but not command either. Something in between. A hook offered politely.
Dunk blinked. “Me.”
“You,” Aerion confirmed. “Try not to disarm anyone at the table.”
“I don’t bring practice swords to dinner.”
“Bring that honesty,” Aerion said. “It irritates people wonderfully.”

That oddly sounded like approval.
Dunk bowed again, more certain this time.
“I’ll come,” he said.
“I know,” Aerion replied.
And the way he said it made it sound like the bout wasn’t finished after all only moved to a different field.

Dunk left the west tower with the taste of fine wine still sitting strangely on his tongue.
It did not belong there. Wine like that belonged to men with banners and surnames that filled half a page. Not to hedge knights with patched straps and a sword earned by sweat. He felt as if he had swallowed something borrowed and not yet returned it.

The stair seemed narrower going down. Or perhaps he was thinking too loudly. His boots struck each step with care. He tried not to scrape the wall. Tried not to sound like a siege engine descending into polite company.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
He muttered it once under his breath and felt a little steadier for it.

Egg was waiting exactly where he had not been told to wait, perched on the low outer rail like a crow pretending to be a boy. He slid down the moment he saw Dunk and hurried over, eyes searching his face for damage.
“You are not dead,” Egg said. “That is promising.”
“Wasn’t told to die,” Dunk answered.
“What were you told?”

“That I am going to dinner.”
Egg stopped walking.
“Dinner,” he repeated carefully.
“With him.”

“That is not dinner,” Egg said. “That is strategy with plates.”
Dunk scratched his jaw. “He said knights would be there.”
Egg groaned softly into both hands. “Of course they will. The shiny kind. The ones who polish their words.”
“I wash mine,” Dunk said.
“That is not the same.”

They crossed the yard while afternoon settled into gold along the upper stones. Laundry snapped from lines. A groom chased a loose strap across the cobbles. Somewhere a harp was being tuned badly and bravely.
“What kind of dinner?” Egg asked.
“Small. Select.”
“That is worse than large and loud.”
“Why.”

“Because small and select means every eye counts.”
Dunk considered that. It felt true in a way he did not like.
“Did he say what to wear?” Egg asked.
“No.”
Egg spun on him. “Ser.”
“I have clothes.”
“You have armor.”
“That is clothes.”
“That is threat shaped like clothes.”
Dunk looked down at himself. Plain surcoat. Good mail. Clean enough. Honest. He saw no crime in it.
“He might send something,” Egg said. “Or expect you to know better.”

“I don’t,” Dunk said simply.
“Yes,” Egg replied. “I am aware.”
They reached their small quarters off the lesser wall. The room smelled of wool, oil, and yesterday’s bread. Dunk sat on the edge of the cot while Egg began pulling items from their bundle with growing despair.
“This is all wrong,” Egg muttered. “All of it is wrong.”
“It is all I have.”

“Yes. That is the wrong part.”
In the end they compromised with the least worn of Dunk’s tunics, brushed twice, and a belt that did not squeak when bent. Egg cleaned Dunk’s boots himself with fierce concentration, as if shine alone could prevent insult.
“You will let them talk first,” Egg instructed.
“I usually do.”

“You will not answer challenges.”
“I might.”
“You will not.”
“I might,” Dunk repeated.
Egg pointed a finger at him. “You are not in a yard tonight.”
“I know that.”

“You say that now.”
Dunk smiled a little. “You sound like an old man.”
“I listen like one.”

Second bell came clear and round.
The dining chamber was smaller than a hall but larger than a solar. Too fine for comfort. Too intimate for hiding. Candles burned in triple tiers. Their light made the silverware glow like still water. The table held more forks than Dunk thought necessary for any honest meal.
Fruit had been carved into shapes that did not look like fruit anymore. Birds perhaps. Or flowers. Dunk could not tell. He suspected they tasted like apples anyway.
Four knights were already present. All polished. All composed. Cloaks arranged like paintings of cloaks. They looked at Dunk the way men look at weather that tracked mud indoors.

One raised an eyebrow slightly.
Dunk bowed. Not too shallow. Not weather manners.
No one offered a seat yet.

Prince Aerion stood at the head, dressed in dark red tonight, black trim, rubies catching candlelight like watchful eyes. He did not look surprised to see Dunk arrive in plain cloth. If anything he looked entertained.
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion said. “You chose honesty again.”
“It was clean,” Dunk answered.
A corner of the prince’s mouth moved. Approval or amusement. With him they looked alike.
“Sit,” Aerion said.

Dunk sat where indicated and tried not to count forks.
Conversation resumed, smooth as river stones. Names were spoken. Lineages mentioned. Deeds described in careful modest tones that were not modest at all. Dunk recognized none of them. That did not seem to trouble them.

Wine was poured. Dunk copied the knight beside him half a heartbeat late each time. He picked the second fork and hoped it was not a crime.
It was for fish. He learned that too late and kept going anyway.

Questions came like thrown pebbles.
“Where were you knighted, Ser Duncan?”
“On the road.”
“By whom?”
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree.”
A pause. A recalculation.
“I see,” said the knight, which meant he did not.
Aerion watched all of it without rescuing him. That was deliberate too.

A course arrived shaped like art and tasting like butter. Dunk ate carefully and said little. The knights spoke of contests, of form, of measure. One described technique at length without once saying the word hit.
At last Aerion set down his cup.

“Our guest disarmed me twice this morning,” he said lightly.
Silence fell like a dropped cloth.
Every eye turned.
Dunk swallowed what he was chewing because it seemed wise.

“With respect, Your Grace,” said one knight, “surely that is jest.”
Aerion’s gaze never left Dunk. “Do I look like I jest.”
No one answered that.
“Skill,” Aerion continued, “is not always born in castles.”
That was not kindness. It was a blade wrapped in silk and placed carefully on the table.

Dunk understood he was being displayed. He did not know why yet.
“So,” said another knight, smiling without warmth, “perhaps we shall see this road skill demonstrated again soon.”
“Perhaps,” Dunk said.

Under the table, his hands were steady.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
Walls did not worry about forks.
Aerion lifted his cup toward him slightly. Not toast. Not quite challenge. Something in between.
The bout had changed fields again.
And everyone present knew it.

The silence did not break so much as thin.
Conversation returned in careful threads, but the room had shifted. Dunk could feel it in the way the knights looked at him now. Not as mud tracked in from the yard, but as a tool someone had laid on the table to see what it might cut.
The knight seated two places down wore a cloak worked with a red ox stitched in thick thread, each muscle picked out in darker shade. He had the broad chest of a tourney rider grown comfortable with victory. Rings sat heavy on his fingers. He turned his cup slowly as if measuring the wine by color alone.

“Disarmed,” said the ox knight pleasantly. “Twice.”
“Twice,” Aerion confirmed.
“With blunted steel, I trust.”
“With what was at hand.”
The ox knight smiled toward Dunk without showing warmth. “And what was at hand, Ser Duncan.”
“A sword,” Dunk said. “Same as him.”
A few soft laughs moved around the table. Not loud. Not kind.

“You must forgive the curiosity,” said a knight in a silver swan cloak. “Hedge knights grow larger in the telling. It is good to see one grows large in truth as well.”
Dunk looked down at himself, then back up. “I have always been this size.”

More laughter. This time a touch easier. They thought him simple. That was well enough. Simple things broke noses just as quick.
Servants brought the next course. Game bird in plum sauce. The smell was sweet and sharp together. Dunk’s chair gave a small complaint when he shifted forward. He tried not to notice it. Tried not to notice how his hands seemed built for hammers instead of carved bone knives.
He chose the wrong fork again. No one corrected him. That felt worse than correction.

“Ser Arlan of Pennytree,” said the ox knight after a time. “I recall the name faintly. He rode in the Ashford lists years ago. Fell early.”

“He rode well,” Dunk said.
“He fell,” the knight repeated gently.
“All men fall,” Dunk answered. “Some get up.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked with interest.
The ox knight dabbed his lips. “And he knighted you on the road, with no septon, no witnesses of note, and no lord to mark the honor.”

“He was a knight,” Dunk said. “That was enough for him.”
“But enough for the realm.” The swan knight tilted his head. “Forms exist for a reason.”
Dunk searched for the right words and found none that were shaped politely. “Steel does not ask who watched it get made.”
That earned a pause that felt real.
Aerion drank and watched him over the rim of the cup like a man watching a blade hold an edge.

More wine was poured. Dunk noticed his cup never reached empty. He drank because it was there and because refusing felt like a speech he did not know how to give. Warmth gathered behind his ears. The candle flames grew a little softer at the edges.
Talk turned to contests. To form. To measure. To the geometry of strikes. The ox knight described angles with his fingers in the air. He never once said pain. Dunk thought that strange. Pain was most of it.

“Ser Duncan,” said the ox knight at last, “you favor strength over grace, I think.”
“I favor what works.”

“And if grace works better.”
“Then I will use grace,” Dunk said, honest as bread.
“How refreshing,” said the swan knight.
Aerion set down his knife with a soft click that carried. “Ser Duncan favors victory. As do we all. Some simply embroider the path.”
A servant refilled Dunk’s cup again. The wine had grown friendly now. That worried him a little, though he could not say why.

The seating placed Aerion at the head near the salt bowl worked in crystal and gold. Dunk sat well below it. He knew enough of halls to understand that much. Salt told you what you were worth. Tonight he was worth watching.
“Perhaps,” said the ox knight, “after supper we might enjoy a small display. Nothing so vulgar as a duel. A measured exchange. For education.”
Dunk felt the table lean toward him without moving.
“I have eaten,” he said. “I would not want to shame the food.”

That earned a sharper laugh than before.
Aerion smiled faintly. “Another night, perhaps. My morning lesson was sufficient.”
The ox knight bowed his head a fraction. Denied, but not defeated.

Courses ended. Sweet cakes arrived shaped like little towers. Dunk took one and finished it in two bites before realizing it was meant to be admired first.
Chairs scraped back. Cloaks settled. Compliments were offered to the kitchen as if the cooks were nobles themselves.
Aerion rose last. That made everyone else early.
“My thanks, my sers,” he said. “You have improved my evening.”

They bowed. One by one they left, each giving Dunk a final look that weighed and filed him away. The ox knight’s gaze promised a future problem. Dunk recognized that kind.
Soon only candlelight and echoes remained.
Dunk stood because it felt required.
“Sit,” Aerion said quietly.

The word held him more firmly than any hand.
Servants entered, cleared, vanished. The doors closed with padded finality. The room grew larger and smaller at once.
“You drink like a soldier,” Aerion said.
“I am one,” Dunk answered.
“You are something rarer.”

Dunk did not know what to do with that, so he did nothing.
Aerion came down from the high place and walked the length of the table instead of around it. His fingers trailed the wood between the plates, slow, unhurried. Rings whispered against polished grain.
“You did not boast,” Aerion said. “In the yard.”
“No cause.”

“Most men would have found one.”
“I am not most men.”
“No,” Aerion said softly. “You are not.”
He stopped beside Dunk’s chair. Close enough that Dunk could smell him now. Not perfume exactly. Something clean and costly with heat beneath it, like sun on dark cloth.

“Your hands,” Aerion said.
Dunk looked at them. Big. Scarred. Honest tools.
Aerion took one lightly, turning it palm up, studying the calluses as if they were script. His own fingers were smooth by comparison, rings cool against Dunk’s skin.
“Built for work,” the prince said.

“They work,” Dunk replied.
“And yet they took my sword.”
“You held it wrong,” Dunk said, then wondered if that was a hanging offense.
Aerion laughed under his breath. Not anger. Not kindness. Something sharper.

“Stay,” the prince said. “Finish the wine with me. We will speak of how I held it wrong.”
Dunk thought of Egg waiting outside somewhere in the dark, probably scowling at a wall and listening for trouble.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said.
The candles burned lower.
The bout, it seemed, was not finished yet.
And the door was closed.

The door was closed, and with it went the noise of rank and laughter and polished cruelty. What remained was candlelight, wine, and the sound of Dunk’s own breathing, which suddenly seemed too loud for such a fine room.
Aerion still held his hand.
Not tightly. Not gently either. The grip was curious, testing, like a man weighing a blade he might buy or break.
Dunk did not pull away. A prince’s touch was not something a hedge knight was taught how to refuse. No one had ever written that lesson down for the likes of him.

The prince turned his hand slightly, thumb tracing the ridge of an old scar that crossed the base of Dunk’s palm.
“This one,” Aerion said. “Not from tourney work.”
“Cart axle,” Dunk answered. “Split wrong.”
“You lifted it anyway.”
“Yes.”
Aerion glanced up at him, eyes bright in the candle glow. “Of course you did.”

The room smelled of beeswax and spiced meat gone cool. Under it all lingered the red warmth of wine. The long table stood between them and the world like a drawn line. Plates stacked. Fruit half carved. A pear shaped like a swan watched with sugared indifference.
Dunk became aware of his size again. Of the chair creaking under him. Of how his knees nearly brushed the table brace. He felt built for doors, gates, burdens. Not rooms like this. Not moments like this.

Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
The words passed through his head and steadied him.
“You are thinking,” Aerion said.
“I try not to,” Dunk replied.
“Yet you are.”

“I am wondering if I have done something wrong.”
Aerion smiled slightly. “You disarmed a dragon prince before witnesses. Many would call that wrong.”
“You asked me to fight.”
“And you obeyed too well.”

Aerion released his hand at last, but only to move closer, leaning back against the table edge beside him instead of returning to the high seat. The shift lowered the prince from distant fire to something nearer and more dangerous.
“You know why the others laughed,” Aerion said.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“They think I am not fit to sit here.”
“They think you are useful in mud and inconvenient in silk.”
“That sounds right.”
Aerion studied his face as if searching for insult and finding none. “You do not bruise easily.”

“I bruise,” Dunk said. “I just heal slow and ugly.”
A soft breath of amusement left the prince. He reached for the wine and poured again, this time with his own hand. He offered the cup. Dunk took it because not taking it felt like a speech again.
Their fingers brushed. Aerion did not move his away at once.

“You looked at me in the yard,” Aerion said, voice lower now, more private. “Not at my sigil. Not at my name. At me.”
“You were holding the sword.”
“And that is all.”
“It should be.”

“For most men it is not.”
Dunk drank. The wine was dark and thick and tasted of heat. It made his chest feel open and his caution slower to arrive.
Aerion watched his throat work as he swallowed. The attention felt physical, like standing too close to a fire.
“You did not kneel after,” Aerion continued.
“I bowed.”

“Like to an equal.”
“I bowed like to a man I fought.”
“And if I had struck you after.”
“I would have taken it.”
“Would you.”

“Yes.”
No defiance in it. Only truth.
Aerion’s expression sharpened with interest again, the way it had in the yard just before he attacked harder.
“You are either very brave,” the prince said, “or very simple.”
“I have been both before.”
“Which are you now.”

Dunk considered. “Hungry, mostly.”
That earned a real laugh, quick and bright. It changed Aerion’s face more than anger did. Made him look younger and more dangerous both at once.
“Honest to the bone,” Aerion said. “It is a rare flavor here.”
He reached again, this time not for Dunk’s hand but his forearm, fingers circling the thick muscle as if testing the truth of it. The touch was deliberate. Exploratory. Not courtly at all.

Dunk felt heat climb the back of his neck. No one of rank touched him like this. Not without command behind it.
“You are built like a siege ram,” Aerion murmured. “And yet you move cleanly. No wasted motion. That interests me.”
“I try to finish things quick,” Dunk said.
“I noticed.”

Silence settled, but not empty. It pressed close on all sides. Candle flames bent in a draft that did not reach the floor.
Somewhere beyond the walls a door shut far away. The castle went on living without them.
“Do you know,” Aerion said, “what most knights wanted tonight when they looked at you.”
“To see me fail.”

“To see me correct you,” Aerion replied. “Harshly. Publicly. They would have enjoyed that very much.”
“Why did you not.”
“Because I do not share my lessons.”
The words held more than they showed.
Dunk’s pulse beat heavier now. Not from fear alone. From closeness. From the strange gravity of being chosen for attention he did not understand how to carry.
He thought of Egg again. Of the boy’s warning voice. Do not be honest. Say very little.

He realized he had already failed at both.
Aerion stepped closer still. No table between them now. Only air and candle heat and the faint ruby glow at the prince’s throat.

“Look at me,” Aerion said quietly.
Dunk did.
Up close the prince’s eyes were not soft at all. They were bright as polished metal, reflecting flame instead of warming by it.

“You are not afraid of me,” Aerion said.
“I am,” Dunk answered at once.
“Yet you do not act like it.”
“I do not know how I am meant to act.”
“Most men guess. You do not bother.”
“I am bad at guessing.”

“Yes,” Aerion said softly. “You are.”
His hand rose again, this time toward Dunk’s jaw, stopping just short of contact, close enough that Dunk could feel the heat of his skin.
The air between them felt tight as drawn wire.
“Tell me, Ser Duncan,” the prince said, voice nearly a whisper now, “if I give you another lesson tonight, will you obey as well as you did this morning.”

Dunk’s breath slowed. The room, the candles, the carved fruit, the stacked silver all seemed very far away.
“I follow the strike,” he said quietly. “Where it comes from.”
Aerion’s smile returned. Slow. Dangerous. Satisfied.
“Good,” the prince said.
And that is where the moment turns.

As Aerion loomed over Dunk, his lithe silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight, a shiver ran down Dunk's broad spine. The prince was closer now, so near that Dunk could feel the whispered heat radiating from his golden skin, could see the glitter of those piercing eyes that held the cold fire of a dragon's gaze.

Aerion's hand hovered in the air between them, long fingers poised, not quite touching but close enough for Dunk to feel the phantom pressure against his jaw. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat echoing through his body as he stared into those unreadable eyes that seemed to pierce straight through to his very soul.

"Ser Duncan," Aerion breathed, his voice a low rumble that sent a different kind of shiver through Dunk's body, "you are a man of singular... simplicity. A rare quality in the company I keep."

Dunk swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as desert sand. "I mean no disrespect, Your Grace," he rumbled, his gravelly voice a stark contrast to Aerion's smooth, honeyed tone.

Aerion's lips curved in a smile, slow and wicked, promising things Dunk couldn't begin to fathom. "None taken,"

Aerion's gaze raked over Dunk's broad frame, taking in every rigid line and tense muscle. He leaned in closer, until Dunk could feel the whisper of silk brushing against his skin, could smell the heady scent of sandalwood and something darker, more intoxicating. Aerion's breath ghosted over the shell of Dunk's ear, sending a bolt of lightning down his spine.

"I wonder," Aerion murmured, voice low and sinful, "if you would be as... obedient in other matters as you are on the training yard." His fingers, feather-light, trailed down the side of Dunk's neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Dunk's heart hammered against his ribs, blood roaring in his ears. He knew he should step back, should put distance between them, but he found himself rooted to the spot, held captive by the heat in those silver eyes and the dark promise in Aerion's voice.

"In the presence of the prince, I am but a humble knight," Dunk managed to grit out through a tight throat, "ready to serve as duty demands."

Aerion's chuckle was a wicked caress against Dunk's senses. "Is that so?" His hand slid lower

grazing over the crisp linen of Dunk's tunic, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each ragged breath. They danced along his sternum, his ribs, until they reached the waistband of his breeches. Aerion's gaze followed the path of his hand, his eyes darkening as he took in the prominent bulge straining against the fabric.

"Duty demands many things," Aerion murmured, his voice a low, sinful purr. "Loyalty. Obedience." His fingers brushed over the thick length of Dunk's cock, feeling it twitch beneath his touch. "And service."

Dunk's breath caught in his throat, a strangled sound that echoed through the tense air between them. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more of that electric touch, even as his mind screamed at him to maintain control.

​"I am a hedge knight, Your Grace," Dunk managed to grit out. "I'm not... I shouldn't be here." Even as he spoke, he couldn't ignore the way his body reacted to Aerion's proximity, his touch. The way his massive cock throbbed, the way his heavy balls tightened, aching for more.

Aerion's eyes flashed with a wicked gleam as his fingers deftly undid the laces of Dunk's breeches. With a slow, teasing tug, he pulled the fabric aside, revealing the thick, pulsing length of Dunk's cock. It sprang free, the swollen head already glistening with bead of moisture, the shaft veined and throbbing, a testament to his arousal.

"Such a magnificent specimen," Aerion purred, wrapping his long, elegant fingers around Dunk's impressive girth. He could feel the silky heat of the skin, the rigid power beneath. Slowly, he began to stroke, his grip firm and purposeful, savoring the way Dunk's cock jerked and pulsed in his hand.

A low, guttural groan tore from Dunk's throat as sensation exploded through him. The feeling of Aerion's fingers wrapped around his aching flesh was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was electric, consuming, and utterly devastating to his self-control.

Dunk's hips bucked forward, seeking more of that intoxicating friction, more of the prince's skillful touch. The sound of skin against skin, of Aerion's hand gliding along his shaft, filled the room, a crude and carnal symphony

Aerion began to stroke faster, his grip tightening as Dunk's hips jerked and bucked, chasing his touch. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the chamber, a filthy duet to the ragged panting and guttural groans spilling from Dunk's lips.

"You're so hard," Aerion gasped, marveling at the iron-cold heat of Dunk's shaft, at the way it throbbed and jerked in his stroking hand. "So big and thick, like a sword forged in dragonfire."

His thumb swiped over the weeping tip, smearing the bead of moisture, using it as lubricant as he pumped faster, harder. Dunk's cock was so large, so heavy, the head flaring out obscenely, a perfect fit for the tight clutch of Aerion's fist.

Dunk's balls, he could feel them too, swollen and aching, drawn up tight to his body. Aerion's free hand dropped to cup them, rolling them in his palm, feeling their weight, their heat. He could only imagine the load they carried, the seed churning within.

"That's it," Aerion encouraged, voice a sinful rasp, "let me feel you. Let me feel

"Ohhh... fuck..." Dunk groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that seemed to shake the very air around them. His hips bucked wildly, fucking into the tight channel of Aerion's stroking hand, chasing the mind-numbing pleasure that threatened to consume him. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the ragged pants and wanton moans of the two men lost in the throes of lust.

Aerion could feel Dunk's massive cock pulsing and throbbing in his grip, the thick veins along the shaft bulging as his heart hammered with need. He could only imagine the sheer volume of seed churning in Dunk's heavy, swollen balls, the weight of it drawing them up tight to his body. The thought made his own cock twitch and leak in his breeches, a dark stain spreading across the silk.

"That's it, Ser Duncan," Aerion encouraged, his voice a sinful hiss, "give in to it. I want to feel you come undone, to see you lost to pleasure like a man possessed." His strokes became faster, harder, the grip of his fist punishing as he worked Dunk's throbbing flesh with single-minded focus

Dunk's body began to tremble, his muscles quivering with the force of his impending release. Obscene, guttural noises spilled from his lips, his voice pitching higher as the pleasure mounted, building to a fevered crescendo. "Hnnngh... fuck... oh Gods..." he groaned, his hips bucking erratically, fucking desperately into Aerion's hand.

Aerion could feel the change in Dunk's cock, the way it swelled even harder, the pulse pounding like a drum against his stroking fingers. The head flared an angry red, the slit opening and closing as if begging to be filled. Aerion aimed it towards him, wanting to mark himself with Dunk's essence, to claim him in the most primal way.

"That's it, my knight," Aerion urged, his breath coming in ragged gasps, dark eyes wild with lust. "Let it happen. Give me your seed, paint me with it. I want to feel your hot cum on my skin, your thick ropes splattering my face."

Dunk threw his head back with a hoarse cry, his teeth bared and his eyes squeezed shut as the first wave of his climax hit him. "his teeth bared and eyes squeezed shut as the first wave of his climax hit him. 'AHHHH... FUCK!' he cried out, a sound that was half-roar and half-broken whimper, his world narrowed down to the white-hot pulse in the Prince's palm."

As Dunk's climax overtook him, his body shuddered violently, his massive cock erupting like a volcano. Thick, creamy ropes of cum erupted from the tip, painting Aerion's face and chest in a lewd display of his release. Aerion gasped and moaned as the first hot spurt hit him, the sensation of Dunk's seed on his skin sending a jolt through his own aching arousal.

Before Aerion could even begin to process the feeling of being marked so intimately by the hedge knight, Dunk grabbed him roughly, fisting a hand in his white hair and wrenching his head back. Aerion's back arched, his lips parting in surprise as Dunk pinned him firmly against the table, the edge digging into his lower back. His breeches were still around his knees, his own straining erection throbbing and leaking against the fabric.

"Ser Duncan," Aerion gasped, his voice tight with lust and a hint of surprise. "Let me... let me clean you up..." He made a move to reach for his face, to wipe away the pearly essence painting his cheeks, but Dunk brought his other hand up to stop him, loosely gripping his wrist.

"Leave it," Dunk growled, his voice a deep tone.

Dunk's hands trembled with lingering pleasure and urgency as he made quick work of the prince's silk garments. He peeled off Aerion's tunic, revealing the smooth expanse of his toned chest, marred only by the lines of his scars. The sight made Dunk's spent cock twitch valiantly against the prince's stomach, already eager to rise again at the breathtaking image before him.

Throwing the garment aside, Dunk leaned in, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of Aerion's throat, tasting the salt and musk of his skin. He licked and nipped his way downwards, mapping out his collarbone, his sternum, before dipping his tongue teasingly into the divot between his pectorals. Aerion shuddered beneath him, a broken moan escaping his lips as Dunk's mouth worshipped his body with a fervor that set his blood on fire.

As Dunk's kisses lowered, Aerion's own hips began to writhe, pressing his aching erection against Dunk's stomach, seeking any kind of friction. The silk of his breeches was damp with the evidence of his own arousal, the fabric sticking to his heated skin. His fingers tangled in Dunk's hair, gripping tightly as his back arched, pressing

His fingers tangled in Dunk's hair, gripping tightly as his back arched, pressing his clothed erection more insistently against the thick length of Dunk's own, still coated in the remnants of his release. Dunk groaned at the sensation, the heat of Aerion's cock through the damp silk sending a fresh surge of lust crashing through him.

Unable to resist the temptation, Dunk hooked his fingers in the waistband of Aerion's breeches and yanked them down, freeing the prince's swollen member. It sprang up, flushed and leaking, the head angrily red and already glistening with bead of moisture. Aerion gasped at the sudden exposure, his hips jerking as the cool air hit his heated flesh.

You damned brute i-

But his words were belied by the way he bucked into Dunk's touch as he wrapped a large, calloused hand around his straining cock. The contrast of his rough, scarred skin against Aerion's silk smoothness was obscene, delicious.

Dunk's grip was firm, almost punishing as he began to stroke, savoring the silky heat of the prince's shaft, feeling it jerk and throbe

Dunk leaned down, bring his face level with Aerion's straining erection. He could feel the heat radiating off it, could see the way it throbbed with every erratic beat of Aerion's heart. The musky scent filled his nostrils, foreign yet intoxicating, making his mouth water with anticipation. As he gazed upon the thick, pulsing shaft before him, Dunk felt a thrill of primal, almost feral hunger. He had never taken a man's cock into his mouth before, but the urge to taste, to devour, consume, was overwhelming.

Hesitantly at first, Dunk extended his tongue, dragging it along the underside of Aerion's shaft from the base to the tip. The flavor exploded across his taste buds, salty and slightly bitter, with an undercurrent of sweetness that made his head swim. Aerion shuddered above him, a guttural moan tearing from his throat at the first touch of Dunk's tongue.

Emboldened by the prince's response, Dunk wrapped his lips around the swollen head, engulfing it in the wet heat of his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the ridge, tracing the shape of it, before suckling gently. Aerion's fingers tightened in Dunk's hair.

The sensation of Aerion's cock throbbing against his tongue sent a bolt of lust straight to Dunk's groin, his own spent member twitching where it lay heavy against his thigh. He took more of the prince's length into his mouth, an inch at a time, until the head brushed the back of his throat. The sensation was strange, his body instinctively wanting to reject the intrusion, but Dunk fought the urge, relaxing his muscles to take Aerion deeper.

As he began to bob his head, taking Aerion's cock in and out of his mouth, the prince's fingers tightened in his hair, gripping almost painfully as he arched into the sweet suction. Dunk could feel the heat of Aerion's skin, could taste the salty-sweet essence leaking onto his tongue, and it spurred him on. He took the prince deeper still, until the head of his cock pushed past the tight ring of muscle at the back of his throat.

Dunk swallowed around the intrusion, his throat constricting around Aerion's shaft as he held him there, savoring the feeling of the thick length pulsing in the hot, wet clutch of his throat. Aerion's hips jerked uncontrollably, his breathing ragged and shallow as he stared down at Dunk who was still sucking him off

Aerion's moans grew louder, more desperate as Dunk's unskilled mouth worked over his aching cock. The wet heat engulfing him, the slick slide of Dunk's tongue and the occasional graze of his teeth, proved too much to resist. With a hoarse cry, his back arching almost painfully, Aerion found his release. His cock pulsed and jerked, spilling rope after rope of hot, thick seed directly down Dunk's eager throat.

Dunk, determined not to waste a single drop of the prince's essence, swallowed convulsively, working to take every bit of Aerion's load. The taste was strong and slightly bitter, coating his tongue and the back of his throat. It was a taste he knew he would never forget, a flavor that would always remind him of this momentous occasion.

As Aerion slumped back against the table, his chest heaving and skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, Dunk slowly pulled off his softening cock. He licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste, before pressing a final, gentle kiss to the tip in a gesture of reverence and satisfaction.

Dunk stood, towering over Aerion's sprawled form. His own cock, while not fully hard, was still determined

Dunk knew he should capitalise on the prince's sated state and prepare himself for what he hoped would come next. He had seen couplings before, once, and knew the basics of what was required. With a newfound sense of purpose, Dunk reached for the vial of oil he had glimpsed earlier, pushing aside the scattered remnants of their clothing until he located it. He poured a generous amount into his palm, the slick liquid warming as he rubbed his hands together, ensuring an even coating.

Aerion watched through hooded eyes as Dunk positioned himself between his spread thighs, the prince's skin flushed and glowing in the flickering candlelight. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, a musky perfume that made Dunk's head swim with lust all over again. He could feel the heat radiating off Aerion's skin, could see the way his balls, still swollen and heavy with seed, drew up tight to his body.

Dunk tentatively reached out, his slick fingers brushing against Aerion's entrance. The prince tensed for a moment before relaxing, allowing Dunk to circle the furled, pink pucker, feeling it twitch and clench beneath his touch. Dunk had to suppress a groan at the sensation, his own half-hard cock twitching

Dunk tentatively pressed a finger tip against Aerion's entrance, feeling the prince's body resist the intrusion for a moment before yielding with a shudder. He pushed forward slowly, sinking into the tight, silky heat inch by inch until he felt the initial ring of muscle stretch taut around his knuckle. Aerion gasped, his back arching off the table as he struggled to relax, to accept the intrusion.

"That's it," Dunk murmured encouragingly, holding still to allow Aerion to adjust to the foreign sensation. "Just like this." Slowly, carefully, he began to work a second finger into the prince's clutching passage, his movements measured and deliberate. He could feel Aerion's heart pounding beneath his other hand, could hear his ragged breathing as he tried to control his responses.

As Dunk's fingers sank deeper, he rotated and scissored them, gently stretching and preparing Aerion for what was to come. The prince's skin was flushed and heated, slick with sweat and the evidence of his recent release. The scent of their coupling hung heavy in the air, spurring Dunk on as he worked to elicit a new round of pleasure from his prince.

Dunk deemed Aerion ready after several moments of gentle stretching and preparation. His fingers had sink in and out of the prince's now slick and pliant passage with ease. Aerion's breath had evened out, his body surrendering to the pleasure rather than tensing against it. Dunk could feel the prince's desire, his wanton need, radiating off him in waves.

Telling himself to go slow, to let Aerion adjust to each new sensation, Dunk positioned himself at the prince's entrance. The thick head of his cock brushed against the furled, slick flesh, smearing the excess oil he had used on himself. He could feel the heat of Aerion's body, the way it seemed to beckon him in, and he had to take a shuddering breath to maintain his control.

"Your Grace," Dunk murmured, his voice low and rough with barely restrained desire, "I mean to... I'm going to enter you now." He waited for Aerion's acknowledgment, wanting to ensure the prince was ready for this next step.

Aerion's eyes flashed in the dim light, a wicked glint appearing within their depths as he stared up at Dunk. "Well, don't keep me waiting, Ser Knight," he purred, a mischievous curve to his lips. "Or do you need me to beg for it? I thought you wanted to serve your prince so... thoroughly."

He punctuated his words by reaching up, gripping Dunk's wrist and trying to pull him closer, urging him to end the tortuous anticipation. The touch sent a bolt of electricity through Dunk, his heart pounding in his chest as he braced his palm against the table next to Aerion's head.

With a low, almost feral growl, Dunk pressed forward, the thick head of his shaft breaching Aerion's entrance. They both gasped, Aeron's back arching off the table as Dunk's cock sank into the tight, welcoming heat of his body. The sensation was unlike anything Dunk had ever experienced, a silken vice gripping him like a glove, pulling him in deeper.

Aerion let out a low, breathy moan, his fingers digging into Dunk's shoulders as he clung to him. "Gods, you're so big," he gasped out, his hips rolling slightly, working himself down on Dunk's thick shaft. "Don't you dare stop now, Ser Knight. I want to feel every fucking inch of you."

Spurred on by Aerion's bratty command, Dunk began to move, his hips rocking forward in a steady, relentless rhythm. He could feel every clench, every flutter of Aerion's passage around his sensitive flesh, the silken heat engulfing him to the hilt. The table creaked beneath them, a lewd soundtrack to their coupling.

"That's it, just like that," Aerion panted, his voice high and tight with pleasure, "Fuck me harder, Ser Knight. Show me what that big cock can do." He wrapped his legs around Dunk's waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.

Dunk, urged on by Aerion's bratty demands, began to thrust in earnest. The table groaned beneath them, the ancient wood creaking and shuddering with each powerful surge of Dunk's hips. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh, of the table legs scraping against the stone floor, filled the chamber. The candle flames flickered wildly, casting a strobe light effect over their entwined bodies.

"Fuck, yes!" Aerion cried out, his head thrown back, the tendons in his neck straining as Dunk pounded into him. "Harder, damn you! I want to feel this for days." His nails raked down Dunk's back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake. He could feel every inch of Dunk's thick cock splitting him open, stretching him wide, claiming him in the most primal way possible.

Dunk gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow as he gripped the table's edge for leverage. He could feel his release building, the base of his spine tingling, his balls drawing up tight. But he was determined to make Aerion come undone first, to feel him fall apart on his cock.

"That's it, Your Grace," Dunk growled, his breath ragged

Dunk growled, his breath ragged and hot against Aerion's ear, "I want to feel you come apart on my cock, Your Grace. I want you to scream for me." He punctuated each word with a sharp, deep thrust, the force of it shaking the table beneath them and sending the remnants of their plates and glasses crashing to the floor.

Aerion could only moan and writhe beneath him, his body no longer his own, completely under Dunk's thrall. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, his hair damp and clinging to his brow as he lost himself to the pleasure radiating through every nerve ending. He could feel Dunk's breath coming faster, could sense his rhythm faltering, and he knew they were both rapidly approaching the point of no return.

"Please, Ser Duncan" Aerion gasped out, his voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust, "fill me. I need to feel your hot seed inside me, painting my insides with your essence." His nails raked down Dunk's back, leaving angry red lines in their wake, spurring him on, demanding his release.

Dunk could feel his climax building, his vision starting to tunnel as the pressure at the base of his spine reached a fevered pitch.

Dunk's toes curled and clenched, his back arching as his orgasm overtook him. A guttural, animalistic roar tore from his throat as he slammed into Aerion one final time, burying himself to the hilt. His thick shaft pulsed and throbbed, jerking as it unleashed a torrent of hot, thick seed deep into Aerion's spasming passage.

Aerion cried out, a high, keening sound of pure ecstasy as he felt Dunk's release flood his insides. His own cock, trapped between their sweat-slicked bodies, jerked and shuddered, spilling ropes of pearly essence onto their stomachs. The sensation of being filled, claimed so thoroughly, pushed Aerion over the edge, his body convulsing with the force of his climax.

Their combined juices mingled, the slick, hot slide of their releases making their coupling even more debauched, more obscene. The table beneath them groaned and shuddered, the wood slick with the sweat dripping off their bodies, the candlelight flickering wildly in the rarefied air.

Dunk collapsed onto Aerion, his chest heaving, his skin slick and shining with exertion. He could feel Aerion's ragged breaths matching his own.

The table had long since stopped groaning under them, leaving only echoes and the faint scent of wine, wax, and warmed wood. Dunk rose slowly, boots heavy against the stone floor, mail shifting with a clink that reminded him of every yard and forge he had ever known. Candlelight flickered across the high walls, carving shadows that moved with the soft draft, painting the prince’s face in amber and red.

Aerion rose as well, steady, calm, his fingers brushing lightly against Dunk’s arm in a gesture that was neither command nor invitation, but acknowledgment. The room felt suddenly vast and empty, yet the space between them carried weight, full of the lingering heat and exhaustion of effort.

“Come,” Aerion said quietly, motioning toward the adjoining chamber. “The night is long. Water awaits.”
Dunk followed, careful of mail and awkward height. The corridor smelled faintly of herbs and beeswax polish, the stones cool underfoot. Candle sconces lined the walls, the flames reflected in the polished surfaces of brasses and crystal, glinting like distant stars. The quiet made Dunk aware of every breath he drew, every step he took, and how close Aerion’s presence still pressed against him.

The bathing chamber was smaller than the dining room, yet still bright with a single central basin of dark stone, heated from below. Steam rose in gentle curls, curling across the room and dampening the scent of candle wax with water and herbs. Towels, folded with care, sat on a nearby rack, and a small pile of fresh linen awaited. The room smelled faintly of rosewood and lavender, a calm that contrasted sharply with the heat of exertion and adrenaline still coursing through Dunk’s muscles.

Aerion stepped in first, lifting the hem of his tunic to remove it, revealing pale skin brushed with light sweat, the faint scars and marks of a life lived both public and private. Dunk hesitated, aware of the contrast between his rough-hewn frame and the prince’s polished presence, the clean lines of silk and muscle. He followed slowly, shedding tunic and mail, each piece dropping with a soft thud against the stone. He felt every knot in his shoulders, every ache in arms and back, every stubborn knot in his legs from exertion.

Aerion moved to the basin, filling a smaller vessel with water and motioning for Dunk to join him at the edge. “Careful,” the prince said, voice soft, yet carrying command in its quiet. “The water is hotter than you might expect.”
Dunk leaned over the edge, letting the heat reach his skin, soaking away sweat, grit, and the lingering tension. Steam rose around them, curling in soft clouds, dampening the edges of candlelight and turning shadows into gentle silhouettes. He flexed his shoulders, letting warmth ease the knots in his muscles, and felt Aerion’s presence close but not pressing, steady and patient.

“You move as if you carry the weight of walls,” Aerion observed, voice quiet enough to mingle with the hiss of the water. “And yet, you bend where needed.”
“I carry what comes,” Dunk replied simply, letting water run over his scarred palms, tracing the ridge of old wounds. “And I bend where I must.”

Aerion nodded, setting a small towel nearby, his gaze attentive without intrusion. “The yard, the dining hall, the contest this morning,” he said. “You moved through them all as though nothing could break you. Few men have that kind of steadiness. Fewer still in your size.”

Dunk let the warmth seep into his chest, letting his shoulders sag, allowing the exhaustion to settle fully into his bones. “Steadiness is easier than boasting,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Aerion stepped closer, adjusting the water so that it rippled gently. “And yet, there is honesty in your boasting when it matters,” the prince replied. “I saw it. Others did not.”
Dunk glanced up, noticing the way candlelight caught the pale line of Aerion’s jaw, the soft set of his shoulders, the careful watchfulness in his eyes. He realized that the prince’s attention was deliberate, a quiet holding, as if he measured each breath and each gesture not to command but to see and understand.

“You do not need to speak,” Aerion said after a long moment. “The water, the steam, the quiet let it speak for us.”

Dunk let out a low breath, the tension easing slowly as the heat of the water worked into his muscles, the quiet intimacy of the chamber grounding him. The silence was not empty; it was full of attention, care, and the unspoken acknowledgment of exertion shared.

Aerion dipped a hand into the water, brushing lightly along Dunk’s shoulder to rinse sweat and dust away. Dunk flinched slightly at the contact, not from shock, but from the unfamiliarity of care without expectation or instruction. Aerion’s fingers moved deliberately, a gentle contrast to the violence of the yard or the scrutiny of the dining room.
“You carry your work in your hands,” the prince observed softly. “They tell a story I cannot help but read.”
“They tell what is true,” Dunk replied. “Nothing else.”
Aerion nodded, as if confirming an insight, as if the honesty in Dunk’s hands mattered more than any polish or

ceremony. He moved to the basin again, fetching water to pour over Dunk’s shoulders, letting the warmth cascade down and loosen muscles and thought alike. The room smelled of heat, water, candle wax, and the faint tang of herbs, a heady mix that grounded Dunk in the moment.
They worked in companionable quiet. No words carried judgment. No movements demanded performance. Just presence, steady, careful, and intimate in a way that belonged neither to the yard nor the hall. Dunk’s hands found rest on the basin edge, fingers soaking in warmth, muscles slowly unwinding, heart settling into a slower rhythm.

“You are steady,” Aerion said finally. “Even when the world tries to twist you. That steadiness is worth more than skill alone.”
Dunk looked at him, letting the words sink. “I have learned to move through what comes,” he said. “It is all I can do.”
“Then it is enough,” Aerion said, his voice quiet, unhurried. “Here, now, it is more than enough.”

The steam curled between them, thick and soft, carrying warmth and the faint perfume of wax, wood, and herbs. Dunk felt the room close around him without suffocating, felt the prince near without command, and allowed himself to rest in the quiet care that followed exertion. No words were required, and yet each glance, each careful movement, spoke volumes.

For the first time in hours, Dunk let himself breathe fully, muscles unbound, shoulders loose. Aerion’s presence remained close, a quiet companion to exhaustion, observation, and the rare intimacy of trust. And for the first time that day, Dunk felt the safety of being seen, of being allowed to exist in the aftermath of everything that had come before, in warmth, in quiet, and in the soft glow of candlelight and steam.

After a while , Aerion rose from the water like a god emerging from the mist. Rivulets of water cascaded down his glistening skin, tracing the contours of his sculpted physique. He stepped out of the tub, not bothering with a towel, leaving his body on full display for Dunk's appreciative gaze.

Dunk's eyes raked over the prince's form, lingering on the firm globes of his ass, the smooth, rounded cheeks still slick with bathwater. Aerion's skin was flushed a warm, rosy hue from the heat, the sight making Dunk's mouth go dry. He watched, entranced, as Aerion walked towards him, water dripping off his thick, juicy ass, the muscles flexing with each step.

Aerion glanced back over his shoulder, catching Dunk's hungry stare. A smirk played on his kiss-swollen lips as he slowed his pace, putting an extra sway in his hips. "See something you like, Ser Duncan?" he teased, reaching back to squeeze one taut cheek, the flesh jiggling invitingly.

Dunk swallowed hard, his hand twitching with the urge to reach out, to grab that perfect ass and pull Aerion back against him.

Aerion, noticing Dunk's heated gaze fixed on his backside, let out a soft, indulgent chuckle. "Admiring your work, Ser Duncan?" he asked, a playful lilt to his voice. He reached for a towel, shaking out the fabric before turning back towards Dunk and beginning to dry himself off.

As he did, he tossed another towel in Dunk's direction. "Here, you must be needing this after your... vigorous efforts." Aerion's voice held a teasing note, his lips curling into a coy smile.

He made no move to cover his nakedness, instead letting Dunk drink in the sight of his toned body, still flushed and glowing from their earlier coupling. Aerion seemed quite comfortable in his own skin, perhaps even enjoying the effect he had on the hedge knight.

Dunk accepted the towel Aerion tossed him with a clumsy nod, gripping it carefully so that no unnecessary motion would betray his awkwardness. The fabric was soft, still warm from the steam that clung to it, carrying the faint scent of herbs and wax from the bathing chamber. He pressed it to his shoulders first, feeling the dampness on his hair and skin give way to dry warmth. Every movement reminded him of his size, of how his broad frame seemed always too large for the spaces he occupied. The bath had loosened muscles tight from exertion, but he still felt the weight of the day pressing on him.

Aerion moved with practiced ease, drying his own skin with long, deliberate strokes that made Dunk aware of how precise the prince was in everything he did. He moved slowly, deliberately, letting the towel glide across shoulders, chest, and arms, as if each movement had been choreographed for observation rather than necessity. The flickering candlelight highlighted the pale sweep of skin, the subtle play of muscle beneath, and the faint shimmer of heat that lingered from their earlier exertion.

“You have the look of a man who has carried more than he ought,” Aerion said softly, the words low, almost lost in the hiss of water evaporating from the stone floor. “And yet here you stand, steady as ever.”

Dunk swallowed, feeling a heat rising to his own cheeks. “I carry what comes,” he said simply, adjusting the towel around his waist, careful not to wrap too tightly. “I have done worse and lived.”

The prince’s smile was faint but knowing, a subtle curl of amusement and admiration that did not fade with time. “That steadiness is what makes you… remarkable,” he said. “Not strength, not size, but the quiet in the storm. It is rare, Ser Duncan. Even among knights.”

Dunk shifted, the towel awkward under his broad shoulders, but he took a steadying breath. Candlelight flickered over the wet tiles, over the damp stones, catching in the remnants of steam rising from the bath. He could still smell the faint tang of iron from exertion, the subtle perfume of the prince lingering in the air. It made him aware of every inch of the space between them, the quiet intimacy of the chamber after hours of exertion and attention.

Aerion watched him, eyes sharp but patient, and then he stepped closer, tilting his head in consideration. “You must get going soon,” he said, the edge of amusement still in his voice but softened by concern. “It is late. I would not have people see you like this. Rumors travel faster than truths, and I am not so careless as to let the world know what passed in these walls.”

Dunk nodded, understanding more than the words alone conveyed. This was not about shame; it was about projection, about keeping the world’s perception of the hedge knight intact while allowing what had passed between them to remain private. He wrapped the towel tighter, feeling its weight like armor that was both familiar and insufficient against the lingering heat of the prince’s attention.

Aerion gestured to the small pile of fresh clothes set neatly on a nearby bench. “Dress,” he said, “and make haste. Your armor, your surcoat. Let them see the knight they expect.”
Dunk moved to obey, pulling on the tunic first, then the hose and boots, each movement careful, measured. Every motion reminded him of his size, of the broadness of shoulders and chest that seemed always too much for delicate chambers. The silk of the prince’s presence, so close, still lingered in memory, pressing against his awareness even as he dressed.

Aerion did not rush him, watching quietly from the bath’s edge, one towel draped across his lap. Candlelight glinted on the faint rubies at his throat, reflecting fire in slow, measured movements that seemed deliberate for effect. The air smelled faintly of water and herbs, warm stone, and the faint tang of heat from exertion that neither man could entirely shake.

“You will return to your quarters now,” Aerion said, voice soft but firm, a command wrapped in concern. “I trust you to move with care. No unnecessary attention. You leave quietly, and I will see you after dawn.”

Dunk straightened, feeling the tension in shoulders loosen slightly. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. The words were formal, but carried the weight of gratitude for care given and trust maintained.

Aerion stood, towel slipping from his lap, brushing lightly against the stone without hurry. He gave Dunk a long look, the kind that measured not the size of the man but the steadiness within him. “You are… not what I expected,” he said quietly. “Nor should you ever be.”

The room smelled faintly of candle wax and water, of warm stone and lingering heat. Dunk’s pulse was still high, and the quiet intimacy of the chamber pressed in on him, making every movement deliberate, every breath aware. He collected himself, nodded once, and took the prince’s words seriously, knowing they were both reassurance and command.

“You understand,” Aerion said, stepping toward the doorway with Dunk following, “that discretion is necessary. The world cannot know of your presence here, of what passed. Not because of shame, but because the story would overshadow you. And I will not have that.”
“I understand,” Dunk replied. The words carried weight, but also relief. He had feared embarrassment, feared misunderstanding, but now the concern was for safety and projection, and that he could handle.

The stone corridor beyond the bathing chamber smelled of cooling night air, of damp stone, of the faint traces of herbs from the chamber. Candle sconces reflected light unevenly, flickering over polished surfaces and casting shadows that seemed to bend with movement. Dunk kept his steps quiet, careful of armor and boots, aware of every echo.
Aerion walked beside him, towel now draped over one shoulder, relaxed in a way that made Dunk notice the prince’s ease contrasted with his own measured motions. The prince’s presence was constant, near, but unobtrusive, like the warmth of the hearth in the chambers they had left behind.

At the outer door, Aerion paused. “Go,” he said simply. “Return to your quarters, Ser Duncan. Sleep, rest, and carry nothing more of this night into the world than steadiness. That alone is enough for the eyes of the realm.”
Dunk inclined his head, the words sinking in. The warmth of the bath, the quiet attentions, the prince’s calm presence, and the reminder of discretion all combined to leave him grounded, yet aware of how extraordinary the night had been.

He turned toward the stair, boots silent on the stone, mail settled comfortably again, towel tucked safely in his satchel for drying later. Candlelight flickered across his broad back, shadows dancing over his frame, highlighting both his awkwardness and his size. He paused briefly, glancing over his shoulder. Aerion remained at the threshold, still watching, still quiet, eyes like polished metal reflecting both candlelight and the slow fire of curiosity.
Dunk nodded again, a final acknowledgment, and descended into the hall. The castle had settled into late-night quiet, the corridors breathing, alive but muted. Every step he took felt measured, careful, yet steady. His body ached pleasantly from effort and heat, muscles relaxed from the bath and tension unwound slowly. He felt the weight of exhaustion, the warmth of attention, and the calm certainty of trust, all coalescing into a rare, quiet satisfaction.

Outside his door, the faint sound of guards shifting and the wind over the battlements reminded him that the world waited, but he could face it with steady shoulders and steady hands. Dunk paused for a moment, letting the quiet of the night settle around him before he entered his quarters. Candlelight from his small room spilled softly across the stone floor. He shed boots, belt, and remaining gear, allowing the bath’s warmth to linger on skin and mind.
He leaned against the wall, eyes closing briefly, and thought of the prince, of the careful attentions and the soft words, of the warmth and trust in the quiet aftermath. The room was cool, silent, and safe. And for the first time that night, Dunk let himself feel fully the quiet satisfaction of being seen, being acknowledged, and being trusted in a world that rarely allowed either.

He laid down slowly on the cot, the sheets cool against tired skin, and let the night close over him. Candlelight still flickered in corners. Steam from the bath had left a faint scent in the air. Outside, the yard slept, and for a brief moment, the hedge knight could rest, steady as ever, thick as a castle wall, carrying nothing heavier than warmth and memory.

Dunk lay on the cot, letting the cool sheets press against his skin, muscles finally relaxed, breathing deep and even. Candlelight flickered in the corners of the small chamber, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed alive. He let his eyes close, tasting the faint lingering scent of herbs and stone, the warmth of the bath still clinging to him. Sleep teased him at the edges, heavy and welcome. For the first time in hours, he felt the rare satisfaction of a night accomplished, of a body and mind given to exertion and released into quiet.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the quiet, tentative, almost mischievous.
“Ser?” came a voice. One that carried both impatience and suspicion. Egg.

Dunk froze mid-breath. The cot felt suddenly too small. Candlelight seemed harsher, the corners of the room closer.
“I know you were at that dinner,” Egg continued, stepping inside before Dunk could answer, eyes wide and bright. “I know you were there i helped you get dressed by why were you gone for so long!!

Dunk opened one eye slowly, letting it slide over Egg without meeting it fully. “Eating,” he said.
Egg’s brow shot up. “Eating?” His voice climbed an octave in disbelief. “Alone? For hours? You must have eaten every bird in the castle.

“I did not,” Dunk said, voice low, steady. He flexed a hand and watched the faint trace of steam lift from his damp hair, still drying from the bath. “I had several courses. Quite filling.”
Egg’s mouth twitched. “Several courses?” His voice held the absurdity of someone imagining a knight stuffing a banquet into himself with heroic zeal. “Hours? You are exaggerating.”

“I measured each bite carefully,” Dunk said. The words felt absurd even as they left his lips. He shifted, noticing the faint chill in the air, the way the sheets stuck to damp skin at his shoulders, the faint scent of wax and stone, the comforting heaviness of being alone but for Egg. “It is a small dining chamber. Plates were many, but the pace deliberate.”

Egg leaned against the doorframe, one hand on the lintel. “Small chamber, many plates, deliberate pace,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “Sounds like an excuse for taking forever to avoid someone. Who?”

Dunk tilted his head, pretending thoughtfulness. “The cook. I did not wish to offend her by finishing too quickly.”
Egg’s eyes narrowed. “The cook?” His voice held suspicion that might crack mountains. “Did she… talk to you?”
Dunk tried a careful shrug, pulling the sheet over his shoulders slightly. “She asked polite questions. I answered politely.”

Egg leaned forward, tapping a finger against the wall, eyes bright and sharp. “And the prince?” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “You were at a dinner with the prince. Alone at the table with him. Why are you here hours later, not telling me every single detail?”
Dunk’s chest tightened slightly. He tried not to let his pulse betray him. Candlelight glinted off the faint sheen of steam in the air, and the stone floor creaked somewhere beyond the walls. He swallowed. “I told you what I could. I ” He hesitated, thinking of the impossibility of translating what had passed into words fit for Egg’s ears. “I had a long conversation. About contests. About lessons. About steel and skill. About honor.”

Egg frowned, clearly unconvinced, pacing now between the cot and the door. “Lessons,” he repeated, as if tasting each syllable. “Lessons with the prince? Did he teach you something?”

“Yes,” Dunk said cautiously. “But nothing dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Egg stopped, hands on his hips, tilting his head like he was trying to peer through walls. “You mean dangerous like sword, or dangerous like he tricked you?”
Dunk let a faint smile escape. “Dangerous like words,” he said. “Like politeness.”
Egg threw up his hands dramatically. “Politeness? Hours? Alone with him?” He spun to face Dunk, pacing in small arcs like a caged bird. “Ser, you do realize people will start talking? People will assume things! All of them!”

Dunk leaned back against the cot, letting the faint warmth from the bath linger under the sheet, noting the light glinting off Egg’s bald crown, the mischievous energy in his bright eyes. “Then they will assume well,” he said. “Or they will assume nothing. I trust they will assume nothing.”
Egg blinked, caught mid-gesture, the absurdity of the world colliding with his imagination. “Assume nothing?” he said, voice incredulous. “Ser, they will assume everything. A hedge knight, alone with a prince? In a room nobody else sees? Hours gone? And you expect… what?”

“I expect discretion,” Dunk said, firm. “And sleep.” He shifted, letting the cot embrace his broad shoulders. Candlelight pooled over the blankets, warm and steady, and the smell of damp stone and residual bathwater comforted him. “I expect morning. And I expect to rise without rumor following me into it.”

Egg’s mouth quirked, half-amused, half-annoyed. He leaned against the doorframe again, sighing dramatically. “Discretion,” he muttered. “Right. And I am supposed to believe that. I am supposed to lie down and trust you, Ser Duncan. That you were… nothing unusual, nothing remarkable, nothing scandalous. Yes, of course.”
Dunk let a small chuckle escape, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. “I promise,” he said, voice low and steady. “Nothing unusual to report. Not tonight.”

Egg’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, scanning him as though he might detect some hidden truth in the folds of the sheet or the heat in Dunk’s skin. Then he flopped onto the edge of the cot, careful not to touch Dunk, giving a small, resigned groan. “Well,” he said finally, “I suppose I must trust that. But I will tell you, Ser Duncan, if anything… peculiar… happens again, I will know. And I will ask questions.”
Dunk’s lips twitched with the faintest smile. “I trust you will.”

Egg sat back on his heels, arms crossed, studying Dunk as though he might uncover secrets hidden in muscle, in posture, in silence. The candlelight glimmered in his eyes, and the shadows on the walls danced across the cold stone. “You really are impossible,” he muttered finally, shaking his head. “You leave me to imagine things I do not want to imagine.”

Dunk shook his head slightly, letting out a slow breath. “I have done my best,” he said, voice steady. “Sleep now, Egg. The night is quiet, and tomorrow will demand more than this evening did.”

Egg huffed, clearly torn between curiosity and obedience. He finally settled cross-legged on the cot beside Dunk, keeping his distance, and let the quiet settle over the chamber. The smell of candle wax and faint herbs lingered. Steam had left its last trace, leaving the stone walls warm to the touch. The silence was full, not empty. It pressed gently against them, comfortable and yet alive.

Dunk leaned back, head resting on the wall, letting the warmth of the bath and the long day settle into his limbs. Egg’s sharp presence beside him was both comforting and insistent, a reminder of loyalty, care, and mischief. Candlelight danced softly over the blankets, over the damp marks of the night, and over the still-strong echo of trust and understanding.

“Good night, Egg,” Dunk said finally, voice low.
Egg muttered something that sounded like good night, though it was half-protest, half-grumble. He shifted slightly to make more space, careful to respect the small privacy Dunk still commanded in his own quarters.

Dunk closed his eyes fully, letting the quiet wrap around him. The warmth of the bath, the memory of candlelight, the steady presence of Egg, and the calm assurance of discretion all combined into a rare, simple comfort. He let the room carry him into sleep, heavy and exhausted, yet steadied by trust, by care, and by the knowledge that the world beyond the walls would not yet touch the night’s secrets.

Candle flames flickered once more, shadows curling and stretching across stone, and Dunk, thick as a castle wall, finally allowed himself to drift toward the rare peace of slumber, carrying nothing heavier than warmth, memory, and the careful knowledge that he was seen, and yet safe.
The door remained closed, the night silent, and Egg, faithful and inquisitive, stayed at his side, watching quietly over the hedge knight who had faced a prince with more then one sword and returned whole.