Chapter Text
You knew before your father spoke that eventually the peace belonging to the Neck of the North would be a distant and rare comfort. That you would be trading the misty forests and marshes of the old Gods for the foreign courts of King’s Landing. Visions in the dead of night of the warm sun, strange bleached stone, smells and voices unfamiliar to you had become constant. The first time the greensight presented such dreams, you had told your father. There was something in his face you’d never forget, sombre on the edge of panic.
Anguish.
He’d quickly pulled you into his lap, brushing your hair- more so soothing himself than you.
It had been confusing. The dreams weren’t scary, just odd. Still a child- completely ignorant to the pain your father now feared for you. For the dreams would herald more than one soul could bear. Fates designed by powers beyond you now held you in their hands, fingers spinning you into their far-reaching web.
And all you could do was watch and wait.
At age ten and two, you were sent to the Red Keep and in doing so, your destiny was sealed.
-
The telltale scent of heavy clouds hung in the air. The brewing of a downpour closing in. You knew that smell better than most, having spent a childhood where the line between earth and sky was a constant blur of grey. In the Neck, a storm didn't just fall, it rose from the black water to meet the clouds. But the electric buzz skipping under your skin now felt uncomfortably ominous. This wasn't because of the weather. With the dreams that had been clawing at your sleep as of late, the humidity felt like a building drum beat. A warning for what was to come.
You forced yourself to focus. A missing princeling. Aegon Targaryen- the boy who was simultaneously the light of your life and the bane of your existence.
He was supposed to be with Daeron. But the drunken dragon lived up to his title with a tragic consistency. You had arrived to the tourney with Prince Maekar’s vanguard, expecting to find the boys settled. Instead, you found nothing and with it a father whose already thin patience was about to snap like dry kindling.
You were pacing in the stone corridor, the heels of your boots clicking a frantic rhythm. Your thumbnail was bitten down to the quick. You were so deep in your own thoughts that you didn't notice the shadow until a heavy hand settled on your shoulder.
“You’ll burn a hole in that carpet if you keep at it, little reed,” a voice rumbled.
You gasped, spinning around. Baelor stood there, eyes crinkling with a weary but kind smile. Behind him stood Maekar, looking like a statue- rigid, cold, but simmering with rage.
“I- Gods, your Grace.” You exhaled, the shot of adrenaline leaving you lightheaded. Baelor’s chuckle was smooth. He knew without asking why you were running yourself into the ground.
“Steady. The boy is a Targaryen. He has a knack for survival, even if he lacks the sense to use it.” Maekar stepped forward, his face pinched. He didn't share his brother's optimism. You looked at him, your brow furrowing.
“Have they found a trail? Has anyone seen a boy of his description? He’s small, but he... he can be loud when he wants to be.” Maekar exhaled sharply.
“Seven fucks knows.” He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture uncharacteristically tired.
“Ashford is so busy kissing Baelor’s hand he hasn't noticed his own lands are swallowing my sons!” Anger, hot and sudden, pooled in your stomach.
“Now brother-“ you interrupted Baelor with a huff.
“Then why all the fucking merryment?” you snapped, eyes watering as the heat rose to your face.
“Why in the hells haven’t they stopped the tourney? Torn down every silk tent in this gods-forsaken field? Don’t they know how serious this is!? I have half a mind to ring that pompous cunt’s neck-” Baelor cleared his throat loudly. You blanched, the heat in your face turning from rage to embarrassment. You lowered your head instantly.
“I... I apologize. My tongue got away from me.” Maekar didn't scold you. Instead, a grim, tight-lipped ghost of a smile twitched at his mouth. He always did have a soft spot for your outbursts.
“No,” he grunted. “You are right. Bastard should be-”
“If we make this a royal hue and cry, we put a target on their backs,” Baelor countered gently, his hand moving to pat the top of your head. The gesture felt like a warm shield.
“We cannot have the wrong people looking for them. Go, walk the grounds. Keep your eyes sharp. You know Egg better than any of us- you know where a bored boy might hide.”
-
As you wandered the Ashford meadow, a memory of your first meeting with Maekar came to mind.
You had been a ward of only a few moons, a swamp-wildling transplanted into the sandy stone of the Red Keep by your father’s delegation. It was an arrangement born from old ties, and the knowledge that it was always destined. The sight wasn’t exactly something you could go against...
A Northerner in lands that felt too dry, too bright, and far too strange to call home. Being away from your people and their land had only one benefit. With the distance, your dreams weren’t as strong- nor the sickness that could sometimes accompany them. But this also made them fragmented- confusing. Your purpose became cloudy.
When Maekar had summoned you one evening, you walked into his quarters with your head bowed, expecting a scolding for your slow adjustments to the southern court’s culture. Still a feral thing, struggling with the change.
“I’m told you are giving your Septas a run for their coin. They say you are quite clever- when you mind…” he’d said, not looking up from his maps. It was true, that was the one thing that would keep you from sneaking off. A natural ability your Septas loathed. But still, you loved learning above all things, and this land held vast amounts of knowledge.
“I-I enjoy the books, my lord. The Neck has many things, but libraries are not among them.” You shifted on your feet, nerves twisting in your gut.
He looked up then, and for the first time, he really looked at you. The silence stretched until you felt the nervous vibration in your chest reaching your fingertips. Then, his features softened into something almost kind.
“Gods... you really are Elissa’s mirror,” he whispered, voice dripping with strange amusement.
“You knew my mother?” You stepped forward, the nerves forgotten. She had passed when you were still a baby, no memory of her except through the tales of others. Maekar nodded, the barely there smile now dropping.
“Elissa Blackmyre. She was a hell of a woman. Could have easily mistaken her for a Targaryen… Eyes like flame if you managed to piss her off which was an easy thing to do.” He had a far-off look on his face, a ghost of a memory playing behind his eyes.
“How could I ever forget her, standing there before a circle of her own men’s spears to protect a complete stranger.” He let out a chuckle.
Your eyes shone with enraptured attention, and Maekar smiled at your enthusiasm, leaning back in his heavy oak chair. He recounted his youth- of him and his brothers exploring the Great Houses at King Daeron’s encouragement. They had seen tourneys, weddings, and small rebellions, but nothing had prepared them for the North.
The Targaryen hold on the wild region was tense, the alliances frayed. Their father had sent them to bridge the gap, to show the dragon’s face in the mists. That was how they found themselves in the middle of a battle.
They had met your father, Beren Reed, a young man leading a desperate charge against warring factions within the Crannogmen. The insurrection was led by your mother’s people: Blackmyre. For the Princes, it was an opportunity- bring aid to the ruling House, quell the discord, and strengthen a weakening bond to the Iron Throne.
“But the Crannogmen did not fight as other men did. Armour and formation meant little in waters that swallowed horses whole. I led a charge. Young, dumb, and full of arrogance. All shining steel.” He rolled his eyes. “I learned too late how useless that was in a land of mud and water...”
The arrival of the outsiders only worsened the fever of conflict. In an ambush that was more a disappearance than a battle, Prince Maekar was knocked out. The mud swallowed him. By the time Baelor and Beren had cut through to reach the spot, the prince was gone, leaving nothing but churned water and broken rushes.
Maekar had been dragged from the bog half-drowned, his armor weighing him toward a watery grave. To him, the marsh-folk looked like creatures of myth, mud-caked and camouflaged, moving like ghosts through the tall reeds. He was brought before chief Blackmyre, your grandfather, a dragon in chains at the feet of a swamp king. The chief had weighed the life of a prince against the pride of a rebellion. His men surrounded the young man in a circle of pointed spears. But it was Elissa who had stepped into that ring of death, body shielding him defiantly.
She hadn't used tears or soft words, but a logic sharper than any knife. She had stood before her kin, arguing that a dead prince would only bring a downpour of dragonfire and ash. Her fierce words echoed like thunder, striking her father without mercy. She knew that Maekar was more valuable as a bridge than a martyr, and would fight her own blood if it meant saving him.
Her father pulled back his men with a proud smile, and left the young dragon to his daughter without another word.
Elissa brought him to her hut and tended to his wounds. She had saved their people from a bloodbath before it even began. By the time a parley was called, she was the one who emerged from the reeds, guiding the Blackmyre delegation to the meeting place.
“She looked at my brother, the man who would be King, and told him I was a fucking idiot for wearing plate armor in a bog,” Maekar chuckled.
Beren Reed was a man of cold duty until he saw her standing there, looking like a warrior queen of the marsh. Your father had been utterly undone the moment they locked eyes. He was bewitched by that fierce sense of justice she carried, and the way she could stare down a King’s son without blinking. He’d come to negotiate peace for his people, but had ended up finding his own.
Beren was asking for her hand before the ink on the treaty was even dry.
“She sounded amazing…” The words were thick, caught in the back of your throat. He nodded once, a sharp movement.
“She was,” he said, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “I have spent my life surrounded by knights who talk of bravery, but I have seen few men with the courage your mother showed then. She saved my life when she had every reason to let them take me. I was an invader, a damned fool... Yet she saw a man instead of a crown.”
He stood from his chair, the heavy legs scraping harshly against the stone floor, breaking the spell of the memory. He walked toward the window where the warm, dry winds of the keep carried the scent of jasmine and sun-baked stone.
“And if you have any ounce of her blood, any of her fire, I know you will be an asset to this house,” he said, turning his back to you to look out over the training grounds.
“That is why I want you around my children. My boys- they concern me. Daeron is... complicated. And Aerion’s temper… they need good companions.”
He grew quiet then, his broad shoulders tensing.
“But Aegon... he is still a babe. He still has a chance...” The words were a whisper, barely audible over the breeze, but they carried the weight of a father’s desperation.
That was the day your life shifted. You became a dutiful shadow in the Targaryen house. A sibling Egg never truly had among his own kin, and a shield against the rot that seemed to fester within the older branches of the dragon’s tree.
Your devotion to him was fueled by more than just affection. It was fueled by the stark, terrifying contrast of his siblings. And with his brothers…
Daeron was far more complicated than you could’ve imagined. With him, the bond was quieter, forged in the shared exhaustion of dreams that brought little comfort in the warmth of a bed. Though your own greensight was a rare ripple in a pond compared to his drowning ocean, you offered him as much comfort as you could. One of the only people that could truly understand his demons.
And Aerion… Aerion had left you with invisible scars. Ones that would never heal. No amount of influence on your end could repair the rot that had already taken hold in him... Looking into his cold eyes would bring you back to that night. To a darkness that still haunted your memories. A blade against your throat, of the muffled cries of your handmaid- how small she had felt in your arms as she trembled in the aftermath.
You had learned to keep your face a mask of stone in his presence.
Lately, however, your mind had been haunted by something else. Dreams again. You saw dragons clashing in the darkness of thunder and clouds, the flashing of lightning, and the frantic chanting…
“Get up. Get up. Get up.”
You saw a dragon falling, falling…
The chanting turns to screaming, your own voice, as the ground rushes up to meet the beast. You always wake then, your heart hammering against your ribs, skin slick with cold sweat.
You hadn't told Daeron about the dragon yet. You were afraid that if you spoke it out loud, the fall would finally end.
Now, standing in the chaos of the Ashford Tourney grounds, that memory felt heavy. That dark dream kept tugging in your gut, a low-voltage hum beneath your skin that told you the storm was finally coming.
And with Aegon missing, you were really going to struggle to sleep.
The sun was high in the sky, its heat mixed with the increasing humidity making your clothes stick uncomfortable to your skin. You straightened your dress, pulling at the fabric for some relief. You knew Egg. If he was hiding, he wouldn't be near the grand pavilions where the lords boasted and Aerion preened. He would be where the mud was thick and the stories were tall.
-
You weaved between the large pavilions, eyes scanning for a familiar gait or a flash of silver hair. Hope was a waning candle, nearly extinguished by the endless sea of nameless faces you passed.
The sound of laughter stopped you- a bright, genuine sound that cut through your gloom. You followed it toward a puppet show where a young woman’s voice spun a yarn of a foolish knight and a dragon. For a few heartbeats, the tightness in your chest unraveled. The joy was contagious. When the show ended and the crowd dispersed, you turned to resume your grim task- that's when you saw him.
A bald head stood out like a beacon on a foggy coast. Those big, soulful eyes were unmistakable. Aegon.
He was standing next to a mountain of a man, looking up with a grin that rivaled the sun. Relief, hot and violent, surged through you. You didn't think, you ran at full speed. You were a blur of green fabrics. You collided with the mountain of flesh, shoving with a strength born of pure adrenaline to get to the prince.
“Egg, you stupid, stupid boy! By the Old Gods... I should be bending you over my knee, you little lizard!” You caught him in an iron grip, burying your face in his shoulder as fat, hot tears finally broke. You smelled the dirt and horses on him- like the world outside the castle walls.
Dunk stood frozen, blinking down at the person who had nearly upended his six-foot-seven frame. He was used to being the largest thing in any room, yet you had moved through his space like a gale-force wind. Egg let out a strangled wheeze, his ribs groaning under the lung-crushing hug. He flailed a hand toward the giant.
“Help me, Ser!” he gasped. Dunk looked back and forth, his large hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice a deep, cautious rumble.
“Excuse me, m’lady... um, but could you unhand my squire?” You looked up, only now registering the sheer scale of the man beside you. Your face shifted from fury to bewilderment as you slowly released your captive.
“Squire? But he’s-” Aegon’s eyes went wide, a silent panicked plea. He leaned in, whispering frantically into your ear. “Please, Mossy. I’ll tell you later. Just... please.” The use of the nickname made you pause.
You looked from the boy to the knight. He was impressively large, but he held himself unlike men you’ve known before of his size. Not a brute, but gentle- folding in on himself. Someone use to hiding. It made you curious. Nodding slowly, the air left your lungs in a long sigh as you wiped away your tears.
“Ser, this is someone I knew from before,” Egg introduced you as you rose to your full height.
Dunk’s sheepish grin faltered as he took you in. To him, you were a vision of impossible contradictions. Your dress was a deep, forest green, the fabric heavy and fine, pinned by a silver brooch of a lion-lizard. It was a sigil he couldn't name, but something about it felt familiar. He tried to comb through Ser Arlan’s tales… something on the tip of his tongue.
But Dunk was distracted. Past your red rimmed eyes, your face possessed a haunting, fierce beauty that startled him. The kind that came from a lineage of old names and even older blood. The scent of expensive oils wafting from your braided hair made his head swim. Dunk was a man of the streets and the hedges. He had never stood this close to a lady, let alone one like you.
“It’s... it’s lovely to meet you, m’lady,” he stammered, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a Lannister banner. “I’m Ser Dunk- Duncan the Tall.”
“Hello, Ser Duncan,” you said, forcing your voice into the melodic, cool tone.
“Would you kindly allow me a moment with your squire? It has been some time since we’ve last spoken, and I’d be forever in your debt.”
“Of course,” Dunk said, his smile widening despite his nerves. “There be no debt here. Egg, I’ll meet you for lunch.” As soon as the giant was out of earshot, you rounded on the boy, your hands on your hips.
“What is this? And what in the Seven Hells did you do to your head?”
“It was Daeron’s idea,” Egg hissed, rubbing his sore ribs. “We were hiding in an inn when I met Ser. Please, you can’t tell Father. I’m in no danger!”
“No danger? You are a Targaryen prince playing servant to a man who probably doesn't own more than two shirts! Do you know what your father is doing? He’s tearing the Reach apart! I thought you were...” You stopped, the words catching like a thorn in your throat.
“Ser is a good knight,” Egg insisted, his voice softening. “He’s brave. Truly brave- And kind! You’d like him if you got to know him… and I’ll give it up when the tourney is done. I swear on the Starks, the Reeds, and the Dragons!” You threw your hands up at the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Mossy, please.” He deflated your anger. You looked at the boy, then back at the retreating back of the massive knight.
“Your father will have both of our heads for this,” you whispered, grip on his shoulder relaxing. You smoothed the front of your dress, a spark of defiance lighting your eyes. “Fine. But if I’m to be an accomplice to this madness, I need to see what all the fuss is about with your darling hedge knight.”
-
At the tables lined with commoners and men-at-arms, Egg led you back to his master. Dunk was leaning on the wood, his attention caught by the men wrestling in the muck nearby. The moment he spotted you, the giant’s coordination deserted him. He bolted upright so fast his knees caught the table, sending his flagon of ale wobbling before it tipped, spilling a dark amber pool across the surface.
“Shit- I mean, sorry m’lady. Seven hells... wo-would you like something to eat?”
His earnestness was a physical heat you could feel from three paces away. It warmed a part of your heart.
“No, my sweet knight, but thank you for the offer,” you said, your voice softening. You glanced at the boy who was currently trying to hide a smug grin by wiping the table. “Egg was telling me you’ve been taking very good care of him?”
Dunk couldn’t contain a shy, lopsided smile. It was... cute. You’d be lying if you said this awkward, towering man didn’t pique your interest. After years of being surrounded by the silver-tongued vipers of the court and the arrogant oafs of the kingsroad, Dunk was a refreshing variation. He didn't have a double meaning in his words or a hidden cruelty in his eyes. No wonder Aegon liked him. The boy had found the only honest man in the Reach.
Aegon looked between the two of you, his eyes narrowing as the silence stretched. You and Dunk seemed to have momentarily forgotten the boy existed at all.
“Well, he can be a stubborn one,” Dunk said, finally finding his voice. “But he’s a good lad. Works hard for his keep.” You smiled and took a seat on the bench beside the gentle giant. Dunk sat back down, though he remained perched on the edge, his eyes never leaving yours.
He was a little lightheaded with you so close. Here, away from the stink of bodies in the crowded tent, he could smell you stronger- a scent of honeyed warmth and the deep loam of dried herbs. It was an unfamiliar mix, from his Fleabottom squaller to the dirt and horses of the open road, something that rich and clean was almost overwhelmingly at odds. And yet, it tugged at him like a distant memory of a home he’d never actually had.
“I’m surprised you could get him to do anything at all,” you teased, Dunk laughed, the sound deep, but his gaze soon drifted to the black glint on your shoulder.
“M’lady... I hope you don’t find it rude, but I’m not too sure what house you represent. I’ve seen the stags and the lions and the roses, but...” You looked down at the treasured accessory. Your father, Beren Reed, had pressed it into your palm during your last moon in the Neck, his calloused hands trembling slightly.
The brooch was forged from blackened iron, twisted into the coiled, predatory shape of a lizard-lion. The metal was jagged, the "teeth" of the beast acting as the clasp that caught the tip of its arched tail. In the sockets of its eyes sat two small, uncut emeralds that glowed like wildfire against the dark iron.
It was a piece of the North, cold and sharp. It pinned the fine fabrics of your bodice back, pulling the material taut across your chest.
Duncan, however, wasn't just looking at the craftsmanship. From his height, he had a vantage point that made his throat go dry. His eyes lingered on the curve of your collarbone and the soft slope of skin where the silk met the iron of the brooch. He realized he was staring and looked away quickly, his ears turning a bright, violent crimson, but the image remained burned into his mind.
“Lizard-lion, it is the mark of House Reed,” you said softly, unaware of his lingering gaze. “We are people of the marsh, Ser Duncan. We don't often find ourselves in such... sunny company.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen that part of Westeros, bit of a mystery to me.” Dunk said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet interest.
He looked at you then, and you felt like a mystery personified. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see you- a nymph running through the ancient, weirwood-choked wilds, long hair flying like a banner in the wind. Yet, here you were, draped in silks and smelling like the heavens, carrying yourself with the poise of a princess while guarding a secret he couldn't quite grasp.
Ser Arlan had always told Dunk he was annoying as a piss gnat with his constant questions about the world. Now, Dunk found himself falling back into that role, his curiosity piqued not by lands or legends, but by the woman sitting on the bench beside him.
You enjoyed his bright eyed inquisitiveness. Egg was the only one who ever seemed interested in the stories of your homeland. The godswoods, the first men, and children of the forest- all of the magics that made your people scary and uncivilized by high society standards. You felt yourself breath easier around him. He reminded you of home.
“Oh I could tell you many things ser…” Your eyes twinkled with excitement, voice a purr. But the moment was interrupted when a salt and peppered haired lord sauntered up to your table.
“Ah, Hedge Knight!” Lyonel paused, his sharp eyes sweeping over you with a puzzled, appreciative glance before returning to Dunk. He clapped a heavy hand on the back of his neck, grinning.
“Will you heed my call to war?” The war in question was a rowdy game of tug-o-war over a particularly treacherous patch of mud. Dunk looked back and forth between you and Lyonel, his face a mask of confusion. You let out a bright laugh and gave the giant a playful shove.
“Well? Go on my sweet knight. Let’s see what you’ve got aye?” Dunk nodded with a smile. You were harder to say no to. Egg jumped up, giddy with excitement. The stag gave you a conspiratorial wink before dragging Dunk toward the rope.
“Dig your heels in, Duncan! Don’t pussy-foot about now!” you screamed, your voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. Your lady-like visage was quickly slipping at the heat of the battle. He looked back at you, bewildered to hear such an outburst.
Lyonel cackled. “Oh, I like her!” Suddenly, he let go of the rope entirely, leaving Dunk to take the full weight. The Lord sauntered over to you, grabbing a flagon of ale from the table.
“What? I’m thirsty!” he shrugged in response to your indignant look. Dunk groaned, his massive shoulders bunching as he struggled to compensate for the loss of hands.
“You try it in this mud!” Dunk gasped in response to your yelling. You rolled your eyes, stepping closer.
“Pathetic! You think this is bad? This lot wouldn’t last a day in the swamps! You’d be waist-deep in peat before you even felt the tension!” With a flourish, the Laughing Storm finished his drink and rejoined the line. With the stag’s power back in the mix, they finally surged backward, dragging the opposing team face-first into the muck.
You hollered, running up to join in the cheering. Dunk tosses Egg in the air, catching him. When you came up to him, he grabbed your waist- swinging you around in a great circle as if you weighed no more than a sack full of flour.
A squeal of pure, breathless delight escaped you. For a second, your world was nothing but the blue sky spinning above and the strong grip of Dunk’s hands on your hips. It sent a swarm of butterflies through your stomach.
Dunk suddenly realized what he’d done. He set you down instantly, his face turning a shade of scarlet that put the Targaryen sigil to shame.
“M’lady... I—I shouldn’t had done that,” he stammered, his eyes wide with panic. “I’m a fool, a thick-headed-”
“A lady could get used to that,” you blurted out. The words slipped out before you could catch them. You quickly coughed to hide the nervous giggle bubbling in your throat.
“I mean... no harm done, Ser. All in good fun.” Egg watched the exchange with a mischievous, knowing smile that made you want to swat him. Dunk just nodded dumbly, his arms dropping to his sides. His fingers flexed as if he could still feel the warmth of your waist in his palms.
Lyonel stepped up beside you, smacking Dunk on the back with enough force to stagger a horse.
“Now, what do we have here? I didn’t see this enchanting lady with you last night in my pavilion. You holding out on me, eh, giant?”
The Stag Lord took you in, his gaze unashamed and slow. You raised a brow, but as his words processed, your blood turned to ice. You snatched Egg toward you, clapping your hands over his ears so quickly he let out a muffled "Oof!"
You turned daggers on Dunk. “Did you fucking take Egg to one of this man’s notoriously debaucherous parties!?”
Dunk’s jaw dropped. “Deba?-What? No! I-” Lyonel barked a laugh, clutching his sides.
“Oh I really like her. But not to worry, this giant had no bald boy with him.” His gaze shifted over to your sigil, brow raising. You let go of the boy, calming down.
“House Reed? My my, you’re a long way from home…” You narrowed your eyes at him, unimpressed by the flirty lilt to his voice. Lyonel either was oblivious or purposeful in his ignorance of your glare, continuing.
“I’m having another of my debaucherous parties as you so eloquently put it. Wouldn’t mind seeing you there, little blood-bloom.” The nickname, a reference to the fierce red-flowered weeds that grew in the blackest parts of the marsh, shocked you. But you remained firm in your irritation, heat in your eyes no less intense.
“I’d rather see myself in the tent of a Fenna witch before I find myself at one of your frivolities.” You snapped. The stag lord had a shit eating grin.
“Oh how you wound me... Keep an eye on this one, my boy,” he said, giving Dunk a sharp smack on his ass before walking off. “She’ll eat you alive if you aren't careful!” You rolled your eyes with a scoff.
“You keep interesting company, Ser Duncan.” He shook his head letting out a shaky huff.
“I met him by chance, honest! But he’s- lively to be sure… I promise you, nothing untoward happened on my end m’lady. Just some terrible dancing.” He let out a nervous chuckle. You lowered your shoulders, the tension in your frame bleeding out as your eyes softened. Egg chose that moment to pull at your sleeve, drawing your attention downward. He was using his most lethal weapon- his big, soulful eyes wide, his lower lip pouting in full force. It was a look that had gotten him out of trouble more than once.
“Mossy… can I stay with Ser?” You looked at them both, Dunk sheepishly rubbing the back of his head- the boy waiting on your verdict. An amused sigh slipped from your lips. You reached out, patting Egg’s round, bald head.
“Fine… but let me have a word with your knight.” Egg nodded vigorously, scurrying back to the table to finish his barely touched meal before you could change your mind. Dunk felt a fresh wave of nerves wash over him now that he was alone with you. You didn't help matters. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, a little smirk playing on your lips that made his pulse thrum in his ears.
“Ser Duncan?” You leaned into his space, bending slightly with a purposeful swivel of your hips. Dunk’s breath hitched. From his height, the movement offered a tantalizing view of the soft curve of your cleavage peaking from your dress. He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing.
“Yes m’lady?” You hum, reaching out and bringing your hand to the front of his rough-spun tunic. Your fingers danced up the center of his chest playfully, tracing the line of his breastbone. Dunk shivered, his eyes darting around nervously to see if anyone was watching a high-born lady fondle a hedge knight in broad daylight.
An embarrassingly girlish squeak slipped from his lips when your hand suddenly balled into a fist, gripping the front of his collar. With a strength that seemed impossible for your size, you yanked him downward. Now you were face-to-face, your noses nearly touching. Your sweet, playful demeanor dropped instantly. Something scarily intimidating replaced it. Dunk let out a shaky whimper, his eyes going wide.
“If any harm comes to that boy,” you rumbled, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl, “no place in the Seven Kingdoms could keep you safe from the torture I’ll have planned for you… Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear. Ser?” He nodded quickly, cold sweat forming on the back of his neck. His body was going through a conflict of building fear and also concerning attraction. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d either beg for mercy or say something incredibly stupid. Most likely the latter.
Satisfied with the fear in his big blue eyes, you loosened your hold. Your hand transitioned instantly back to a gentle caress, smoothing out the rumpled fabric of his shirt as if you hadn't just threatened his life.
“Good,” you said, your voice returning to its velvety sweetness. “Now- I have other places to be, but... I’ll be seeing you around?”
Again, he could only nod, his voice having failed him completely. You smiled, he really was absolutely adorable, and turned on your heel. You walked away with a rhythmic sway of your skirts, leaving behind a very red-faced, very bewildered hedge knight standing frozen in your wake.
-
The sanctuary of your quarters was a welcome relief from the sweltering heat and the heavy, cloying scent of the tourney grounds. Lord Ashford had lent his guest quarters to the royal family, as expected. You collapsed onto the bed, the silk coverlet cool against your skin as you let out a long dramatic exhale.
Your body was still tingling. You had played the part of intimidation well enough to leave Dunk trembling, but the truth was that the interaction had stirred a low, slow burn in your own gut. You stared at the canopy above, tracing the memory of those vibrant blue eyes… so honest and clear, like a summer sky over the rolling green hills of the North. And that boyish grin…
By the Old Gods, the feeling of him stayed with you. Underneath that rough-spun shirt, you had felt the solid, unyielding heat of muscle. He was built like ox, yet he had looked at you like a skittish foal- long-limbed, wild, and devastatingly gentle. There was a heady, intoxicating power in knowing that a man who could likely snap a spear with his bare hands was so easily undone by your touch.
A giddy, traitorous smile tugged at your lips. But the indulgent daydream was shattered by the sharp creak of your door swinging open. An Ashford maid hurried in, her head bowed as she skirted around your traveling trunk.
"My Lady," she murmured, her voice breathless. "I have prepared a bath for you in the adjoining room. Lord Ashford sends word that the opening spectacle is to begin shortly."
The weight of your reality came crashing back down. The joust. The princes. The dreams... You groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow, before dragging yourself upright.
"Very well," you sighed, smoothing your hair. "If I am to sit among the dragons today, I’d prefer not to smell like a stable."
-
By the time of the first joust of highborns and knights of renown, the festivities were in full swing. The walk to the royal pavilion was a blur of noise and color. The air thick with the smell of roasting meats, trampled grass, and the metallic bite of sharpened steel. You climbed the wooden steps to the shaded dais where the high lords sat.
Maekar’s seat was empty- a cold, silent testament to his mounting desperation. You felt a twinge of guilt. He was out there hunting for sons who were currently playing squire and getting miserably drunk, and you were the only one who knew the truth. But as you caught sight of Baelor already seated, the guilt was momentarily eclipsed by his warm smile.
“You look like a queen of the marshes tonight, little reed,” Baelor said as you approached, his voice soft and grounding. He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. My brother is still playing the part of the tireless hound. I suspect he won't return until he’s personally overturned every stone in the Reach.”
“He worries because he cares, your Grace,” you said softly, taking your seat. “Even if he expresses it with anger.” Baelor’s eyes crinkled.
“True enough. But you look troubled. Is it the heat, or still worrying over Aegon?” You opened your mouth but was cut off with the sound of the horn calling for the first match. The guilt was bubbling up again, you sparing a glance back at the empty seat. Knowing Egg was safe while his father panicked left you deeply conflicted. It’s harmless, you told yourself. Despite Maekar’s intention for you to be a good influence on the boys, in this moment, you were anything but.
Growing up alongside the princes, you had done your best to learn the ways of their courts- how to pretend to be the young lady of Reed who would honor her father. But the North was a different world. Houses in the Neck weren’t fond of the ridiculous, fanciful, and genteel lifestyles of the south. Court was as foreign to you as you were to it, a fact Maekar learned quickly as you spent more time around his sons.
At times, you thought he regretted taking you on as a ward. He felt like a strict uncle, scolding you alongside Egg and Daeron whenever you were caught in a spot of mischief. It was Baelor who would usually come to your aid. He’d remind his brother of your youth and defend your Northern ways, arguing that your presence kept the boys humble by exposing them to a more well-rounded approach to life. Baelor and Maekar spoke a language of their own in that way, and while you always tried to take the brunt of the blame for their antics, it never truly eased the disappointed disdain Maekar showed his own sons.
This felt like all the other times- nothing but harmless fun. Egg would be back soon, and Daeron was obviously hiding on purpose. Nothing nefarious. So why did that lingering dread remain? A whisper of your dreams reminded you: something was coming. But as usual, all you could do was wait.
You squared your shoulders, determined to cool your rising stress.