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THE SPRING RAINS have not let up for nigh on a week, nor has the last grasp of a short winter let up over the Westerlands. It makes for a miserable time on the River Road toward the seat of House Tully and beyond toward the North. As if the wet clothes, mud, and chill of the nights without a proper fire to warm the camp and cook aren’t enough, poor Egg begins falling behind on his mule, Maester—a bit farther than you would have liked—complaining about a sore throat and aches in his little bones.
You offer the little prince a hunk of mallow root to chew from your satchel, telling him it’ll help with the scratch in his throat. He pulls a face at the taste and texture—like slimy tree bark—but does as he’s told; else he risks receiving a clout in the ear from Ser Duncan.
By midday, you know it’s a fever that’s got hold of Egg. His skin is clammy, warm, and paler than usual when you press the back of your fingers to his forehead, and his wide violet eyes are glassy and tired, looking up at you from under the brim of his straw hat. Even his usual chatter along the path fades to silence.
It’s enough for Dunk to say you’ll stop at the next inn along the road. It should be the Inn of the Kneeling Man, near Stone Hedge, where there’ll be a proper maester, if it comes to needing one. Though you think two or three nights with a warm bed and hearth and a soft pillow will set the little prince right again.
And so, the three of you press on.
The road winds past sodden fields, swollen streams, and bare-branched trees that should be budding with flowers and leaves by now. All day, the sky stays a dull grey, but the rain softens to a drizzle in the afternoon, even if the bitter chill never leaves.
Come evenfall, the Inn of the Kneeling Man is just around the bend in the road—just as Dunk said it would be—with smoke rising from the chimneys and a warm glow in the windows from flickering candles.
Veering off the road, you head to the stables, leaving Thunder, Storm, and Maester to be tended to for the night. Dunk gives the stableboy a copper, and you give him a few more—with how the roads have been, they’ll all need an extra brushing or two—before following after your two companions and over to the inn.
The innkeep wipes his hands on his apron as he takes in the sight of the three of you when you enter—travel-worn and carrying a sick child between you. The largest of the rooms is taken, but there are two rooms available in its place, a small one for the boy and another for you and Dunk. Before turning in for the evening, though, you all need a warm meal—and just about anything sounds better than hard cheese and salt beef.
The common room smells of woodsmoke and stew, and there are benches and tables aplenty. Only merchants and other hedge knights are traveling about the realm these days, and they mostly keep to themselves, though a few curious eyes follow the three of you. By now, you’re used to the attention. Dunk is likely to be the tallest man in all nine kingdoms—certainly, the biggest man you and most others will ever see—and wandering about the realm with a small, bald boy for his squire certainly doesn’t help.
You and Egg take the bench nearest to the fire, hanging your cloaks to start drying. Almost as soon as you all sit, a serving girl brings a tray of food over. Bowls of hot stew with venison and root vegetables, and sage. A loaf of brown bread, freshly baked before dawn. And a pitcher of ale for you and Dunk, and watered wine for the boy.
Egg picks up his bowl, drinking some of the broth—it feels good to his scratchy throat and warms his belly. The three of you eat in near silence, listening to the conversations scattered around: The Red Fork’s flooded. None of the ferries are running. It’s the worst rains many can remember, right on the heels of a summer-long drought. One of Lord Reyne of Castamere’s daughters had run off with one of Lord Lydden’s sons. There’s a new tax on the Myrish lace and samite. Dunk takes a quaff of his ale, gaze lingering on Egg when he goes to refill the cup.
He’s leaned against your side, eyes half open—fighting to stay awake after finishing his bowl of stew and hunk of bread, his lashes drooping lower with every slow blink. You smile, nudging him gently. “Come on,” you tell the little prince. “That’s enough for today.”
“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, head tipping farther against your side.
Dunk snorts. “You’re half asleep on your feet, Egg.”
“I am not, ser,” Egg insists, his protest lacking its usual fire.
You rise from the bench, easing Egg upright with you. He sways a little, and your hand finds his shoulder. “I’ll see Egg to bed,” you tell Dunk as he looks up at you, the firelight catching in his bright blue eyes. There’s worry there, plain as anything, though he tries to hide it with a steady nod.
Egg’s steps drag, head dipping forward, as you guide him up the stairs and to a small room. It’s just big enough for a narrow bed tucked into the corner and a short bedside table behind the door. But the hearth is warm and chases the chill from the air.
You help Egg out of his boots, setting them and his cloak aside near the fire to finish drying, and the little prince crawls beneath the blankets with a sigh as you draw the covers up to his chin, smoothing them down. If someone had told you a few years ago that you’d be tucking a Targaryen Prince into bed, you would’ve laughed and called them mad.
And yet, here you are.
Egg looks up at you with those wide, violet eyes—heavy with sleep, but there’s a twinkle of mischief in them, too. He may only be a boy, but he’s been on the road long enough with you and Dunk to know. And in the past few weeks, ever since leaving Standfast, he’s become determined to make something more come out of your and Dunk’s friendship.
Friends don’t look at each other the way you and Dunk do, especially when you both think no one else is looking—all longing and loving, as though you’re the only two people who can ever make each other laugh and smile. You lift a brow in question, knowing the boy wants to say something. “He’s not going to say anything,” Egg says quietly, like he’s giving away a deep and dark secret.
Your hand stills on the quilted blanket. “What are you going on about, Egg?”
“Ser Duncan,” the little prince says. “He worries he’ll ruin it.” He pauses, blinking, and yawns. “Our little family, of sorts.” It’s the only way Egg can think to describe it—you all look after one another. That’s what families do. He doesn’t remember much of his mother, Lady Dyanna Dayne, but he remembers how she’d tuck him in at night at Summerhall and tell him stories of Starfall, just like you do now. “If he tells you.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you search his young face. “And what is it you think he wants to tell me, Your Grace?” You ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your heart.
Egg’s mouth twists just a little, sleep tugging at him again—he’s fighting a losing battle. “You know,” he says simply. “You’re just waiting for him to be brave enough to say it first.”
For a moment, you can’t find any words to say. Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers lightly over Egg’s forehead—still warmer than normal. “Go to sleep, little dragon,” you murmur, maybe trying to convince yourself he’s speaking nonsense because of the fever.
“M’not little,” he grumbles—but the words slur together as sleep takes him.
You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets as Egg sleeps, listening to the crackle of the hearth and the rain against the roof. He worries it’ll ruin it—you hear the muffled voices from the common room below, hear Dunk’s voice above them all—our little family, of sorts. You close your eyes. The steps and wooden floorboards outside creak and groan with heavy footfalls. Dunk. You know. And maybe you’ve known longer than either of them realizes. It’s always been the little things he does.
Making sure you have the drier blanket, the softer spot in the grass under the trees and stars.
He’ll shorten his long strides to match yours without thinking when you’re in a market together or strolling through some lordling’s great hall.
Dunk always finds you, even in crowds, and even when he’s the center of attention.
It’s the gentleness of his hands whenever he helps you on and off your horse or when you fall asleep on his shoulder, and he decides he can go without so as not to disturb you.
And maybe it’s always been there, low and simmering. But even so, you cannot deny it’s been different since the Tourney at Ashford. “Brave enough,” you repeat under your breath, shaking your head with a little smile. There’s no one in the realm braver than Ser Duncan the Tall.
YOU PUSH THE door open to the room across the hall—Dunk is sitting at the end of the bed, just starting to work on a patch for his cloak. You’ve been meaning to do it for him, but with the rains, it was hard to focus on much else except staying dry and warm. “Egg’s asleep,” you tell him, going to sit at his side. And usually you would stay with Egg, not out of a want to be apart from Dunk, but because few road inns and taverns have beds large enough for both of you.
Dunk lets out a long, slow breath, shoulders falling just a little. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” Rest is the best medicine, or so that’s what you’ve always told him after patching him up all these years without nary a complaint. And despite his stubbornness, he knows this little break from the road will do you all good.
He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the fire. Half in front of the stone hearth is a wooden tub filled with water. “Had ‘em draw a bath for you,” he says, nodding in the tub's direction. You always liked having a proper bath whenever you stayed at an inn or tavern. It’ll certainly be a welcome one with the mud splotches on your face and bits stuck in your hair. Giving Dunk your thanks, you stand, hands going to unbind your hair and brush through the knots. He clears his throat and rises from the bed, headed toward the door. “I’ll–,” he stammers, “I’ll go see to the horses.”
“Gave the stable boy a few extra coppers to do that tonight,” you note before he can reach for the doorknob—no point in going out in this weather again when his tunic and britches have only just dried. “And asked for a farrier to see to Thunder on the morrow.” They all needed a good brushing after the last few days, and Thunder needed one of his shoes repaired.
Dunk stands there a moment longer than he means to, big hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if he might yet find some task to busy them with. And maybe if it weren’t a cold and rainy night, he would’ve. “Then I’ll–” There’s nowhere left to go, no excuse left to reach for. The bath is already drawn, and it’s been weeks since either of you had a proper wash.
“Dunk” —you pull at a knot in your hair, and he can’t help but think he’d be gentler than you are now, given the chance— “you don’t have to go.” His brows knit together. Thick as a castle wall, but by the Old Gods and the New, you love him for it. “It’s just skin. Just a bath,” you tell him. “Like when we were younger.” Propriety never stopped the two of you from sharing a tub or stream when you were children; why should now, after a week in the cold rain, when you’re both weary, be any different?
“Aye,” he says, voice tighter than usual, a far-off look in his blue eyes, “but we’re not children anymore.” It’s a dawning realization over the years that the girl he half-grew up beside is now the woman he wants.
Your eyes flit over him quickly, from head to toe. “No,” you agree. Boys didn’t have shoulders so broad, jaws so strong, or hands so callous. “We’re not.” And even so, he’s still just Dunk. Your Dunk. “But there’s enough room for both of us, and the warm water will do you good.” He tries to feign indifference, and you see the cogs of his mind turning again, trying to find an excuse.
Brave enough, Egg said. You’ve never known Dunk to back away from a challenge or deny a softly spoken request from you. You could ask him to carry you all the way to the Wall, and he would do so without a quibble, because he’s your man, your Dunk.
“Egg and I can’t haul you around so easily if you catch a fever.” He grunts his agreement as you dip your fingers into the water. The surface ripples, catching the candle and firelight. “Come on, then,” you tell him, looking back—he’s standing still as a statue with a knot in his throat, “before it goes cold.”
You hear him let out a resigned sigh, and then the rustle of cloth as he shrugs off his vest. Your own fingers begin loosening the ties of your bodice, though not as deft as usual—it must be Egg’s words causing the butterflies to flap around in your belly. He worries it’ll ruin it. Lying the dusty blue kirtle aside, you slip off your shoes and stockings and spare a glance over your shoulder.
Dunk’s half-turned away, unlacing the neck of his tunic, broad shoulders tight with a restraint you’ve never seen, or maybe you just haven’t noticed before. You’ve seen him bloodied, bruised, drunk, laughing, crying, furious, but this cautiousness is new—odd. Brave enough. You turn to the bath before he can catch you looking and shrug off a nigh threadbare linen shift, tossing it aside with the rest of your garments.
The night air in the room nips at your skin, especially when you step into the hot water and ease yourself down. Warmth surrounds your legs, hips, and waist, and it chases the chill from your bones. Dunk doesn’t miss your quiet sigh—it sends a shiver down his spine—when you sink back against the side of the tub, head leaned back and eyes shut.
Keeping your eyes closed, you wait for him to join, and he’s thankful for it; else you’d see the war he’s waging against himself. The water sloshes, spilling over the sides a little as Dunk settles opposite you. It’s close quarters, but he keeps a chivalrous distance, long legs drawn in, arms braced awkwardly on his knees. You open one eye to steal a look at him. His cheek is turned toward you, and you can make out the scars there from Flea Bottom brawls, the tourney at Ashford, and a new one from his service to Lord Eustace Osgrey.
Dunk keeps his eyes trained on the fire. He doesn’t trust himself not to look at you, really look—he’s only a man, after all. He’s caught glimpses, not meaning to, when you’d wander from camp looking for herbs and mushrooms, but decide instead to go headfirst and nude into a river or pond. And the Seven above know Dunk never meant to commit the swell of your breasts or backside to memory, but he had.
You weren’t children anymore, and he’s seen how other men look at you in towns and at tourneys. It always stirs something deep—primal—in his gut, and then his self-doubt and anxiety creep in. Those nagging little voices in the back of his mind that say she can do better than you. Always reminding him that those closest to him end up getting hurt. Dunk’s jaw clenches tight.
“Reckon it’s been a while since we’ve had a bath that wasn’t in a river or a rainstorm,” he finally says, breaking the silence, but his voice is unnaturally stiff for how long you’ve known one another.
“I like this better,” you tell him, reaching for a cake of soap and one of the washcloths hanging over the edge. A dip in a cool river on a hot summer day was one thing, but soaking in warm water after an endless week of cold spring rain makes you wish for a hot bath every night.
“Course you do,” he grumbles, teasing—hand running through his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. You flick water in his direction, and that finally cracks him. Dunk’s mouth twists into a smile, and his eyes finally shift to meet yours again. Brave enough, Egg had said. What secrets could you possibly keep from one another like this? Your heart gives a small flutter.
Dunk reaches for the other washcloth, soaking it before dragging it over his face. He scrubs hard, the stubble on his cheek and jaw rasps beneath the cloth. Next to him, you do the same, washing away the muck—and you both fall into an easy rhythm.
Rinsing the cloth, Dunk scrubs along the back of his neck, then down one thick arm. You glimpse the way his muscles move and flex—feel warmth rush to your cheeks. He switches hands awkwardly to scrub the other arm, nearly sloshing water over the edge of the tub. You bite back a smile and finish rinsing the soap from yourself.
“Turn around,” you say quietly, before you can think better of it. “I’ll get your back.” Dunk blinks, caught off guard, as if the thought of needing to wash his back hadn’t occurred to him, or maybe he tried avoiding it. His eyes flit to your face—blue mixed with gold flecks—careful to keep his gaze from drifting any lower. “You’ll miss half of it otherwise,” you tell him. It’s the first proper bath he’s had in at least two moons, and there’s no sense in doing a half-arsed job. Dunk’s lips part, the first words of protest on them. “You can’t reach the middle,” you interrupt with a small, knowing kink in your lips. “You never could.”
That earns you a huff that almost passes for a laugh. He shifts, twisting around in the small space so his back faces you. You take him in—broad and strong—selfishly. Ser Arlan liked to say he was as slow as an aurochs, but he’s as strong as one, too. The firelight and shadow trace every line and ridge of muscle, every scar. Some are thin as thread, some jagged and pale, and one or two still carry a faint, angry tint even though it’s been moons since they healed.
Your throat tightens, heart aching, seeing them all. You’ve tended to what feels like most of them over the years. What we deserve and what we get is never in balance. You press the soapy cloth to his shoulder—the one he’s been favoring for the last few days—and feel him melding into your hands. Then, quietly, Dunk says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know,” you answer, dragging the washcloth across his freckled shoulders, then down toward the center of his back, scrubbing away the road grime, “but I want to.” There’s nothing but doting affection in your voice, and he goes quiet at that—mind and heart racing. Tell her you big oaf, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he just sits there, falling further in love with his best friend like a damn fool.
Your fingers trace the edge of a scar near his shoulder blade. He clears his throat. “Wasn’t even a proper fight,” he mutters, feeling like he needs to explain it, but you remember him stumbling back from the town to camp that evening, all bruised and bloodied. “Bloke tripped over his own feet.” Big men get punched more than little men. You let out a quiet laugh, working the cloth lower along the broad stretch of his back to wash the suds away.
He hasn’t cut his hair in some time, and his dirty red-blond locks hang to his shoulders in damp clumps. Mindlessly, you run a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a little knot—the muscles in his back tighten and his breath hitches. Dipping a wooden tankard into the tub, you pour water over his head. Dunk grumbles, and you almost laugh at the churlish protest. But he doesn’t protest when your soapy fingers sink into his hair, brushing against his scalp.
The water laps at the sides when he moves, and your knee slides against his hip. He stiffens—afraid you’d be skittish—and you pretend not to notice the way the tips of his ears go red. Instead, you gather his hair at the nape of his neck, squeezing the suds through it. “Tilt your head back.” He obeys, almost too quickly, nearly knocking the back of his head into your chin. A small laugh escapes you, and he smiles too, boyish and sweet.
You finish rinsing the soap from his hair, and in a moment of boldness and bravery, you half-lean over his shoulder to press an innocent enough kiss to his cheek or temple—and then his head turns.
It’s not the first time you’ve kissed him. There have been times like this before, when you meant only to peck his cheek, but he’s shifted at the last second, and you’ve caught the corner of his mouth—always quick to pull away, flushed, flustered, and most of the time laughing at how clumsy you both can be. As graceful as an aurochs and a newborn foal, the two of you.
But this time is different.
You don’t pull away, and neither does Dunk.
A heartbeat longer, and you lift your hand to his jaw, fingers brushing the familiar line of it and all the little scars you’ve traced a hundred times over with your eyes over a campfire, but never your hands. Dunk makes a soft, surprised sound against your mouth—one that turns into a half groan when your lips press more firmly to his and when he feels how close you are to him. And that flutter in your chest and stomach comes back.
The stubble on his cheek and jaw grazes your skin when he shifts closer, not realizing he’s doing it. When you part, it’s only for the need of breath. He whispers your name, low and uncertain, his brows furrowing, trying to make sense of something that’s been gnawing at his heart for years now. Wanted to do that for a long time, he thinks, but saying it aloud will make him feel a fool.
Dunk turns around in the tub to face you properly, hands seeking out your waist, settling there, warm and rough and gentle—like how they always have been when he helps you on and off Storm—and draws you to him, half into his lap. Only now his thumbs stroke over your ribs, right under the soft swells of your breasts, mindless. His breath is slow and uneven against your cheek, and suddenly, he’s unsure what to do with his hands, with you, with the way your bodies have come so close together.
Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, and his lips part slightly beneath the touch. His eyes flick down for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re staring,” you whisper, though your gaze hasn’t left him either.
He lets out a soft, nervous breath. “Can’t help it.” His honesty makes warmth bloom in your chest, a flush creeping up to your neck and face. Your hand drifts from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp curls there, and Dunk’s grip tightens.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he finally admits quietly, almost embarrassed to say so. “For–for a long while.” Gods, he’s lost track of all the nights and days he’s thought about hauling you to him—bending down or lifting you—and kissing you, often and well. You’ve thought the same, especially when you’d find little things to bicker harmlessly over, about grabbing into his tunic and hauling him down.
You twist his hair through your fingers—half smiling with a hazy look in your eyes. And Seven Hells, it’s not the first time he’s seen you look at him like that. Dunk, you fool. Thick as a castle wall. “Will you kiss me again, Ser Duncan?” You ask. One corner of his mouth lifts sheepishly, a combination of his title and your request.
He cranes his neck to the side, lips finding the spot where your ear and jaw meet. “As often as you’d like, m’lady.” Dunk murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine.
Then he pulls back enough and something in his expression falters. The playful edge fading. His bright blue eyes search yours, weighing whether he ought to say what it is he’s thinking. He worries it’ll ruin it. “Only ever been you,” he finally says. Brave enough. “From the start.” He swallows, gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “Didn’t know what to call it at first, but” —a crooked smile tugs at his mouth— “was you all the same.”
Only ever been you. The hand still tangled in his damp hair slips down, grazing his neck before stopping over one of his pectorals. You feel the warmth of him and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. Dunk looks uneasy after saying it, as though he expects you to laugh it off the way you’ve both laughed off a hundred other almost-moments. You don’t. “From the start?” you ask softly.
Dunk gives a loud breath through his nose—embarrassment and fondness. “Near enough.” His gaze drifts briefly to your mouth before he catches himself and looks back up. “First time you patched me up, reckon that might’ve been it.” It was how gentle you were, even as you were cursing him and telling him to be more careful, paired with a quick peck of the lips to his forehead. Didn’t much matter how any other woman looked at him after that—he only wanted you.
Your lips kink upward. “You were half-delirious with fever,” you remind him.
“Aye,” Dunk admits. “Still knew it was you.”
You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His hands shift, sliding around to your back. “Good,” you whisper. “Because it’s only ever been you for me, too.” My missing piece.
Dunk just stares at you for a moment, earnest and stunned. Then relief washes across his face, and he grins. “Good,” he says, echoing you, a little breathless, ears still burning red. “Else I’d have to win you over proper, and I’ve never been much good at clever words.” And before you can answer, he leans down, kissing you again. It’s slow and warm and nigh bittersweet for all the things neither of you had managed the courage to say for all those years.
He keeps one arm loosely around your waist, foreheads bumping once or twice when one of you shifts, small things that would have sent you both scrambling away even hours earlier. It only makes you smile now. Eventually, Dunk clears his throat. “Turn around,” he tells you. Your brows knit slightly. “I’ll get your back,” he echoes. You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you.
Then his fingers touch your back, ghosting over your spine. You suck in a small breath. His hands are warm, calloused, and careful. The washcloth drags over your skin as he scrubs and wipes away the last of the soap and grit. When he reaches the small of your back, his hand pauses, like he’s deciding just how far he intends to go. You lean forward just a little, encouragement. Dunk’s hand lingers, but then he finishes, draping the cloth over the tub’s side again, but he’s not done. You washed more than just his back.
He reaches for the tankard, dips it into the water, and carefully pours the warm water over your head. Dunk gathers your hair, working the soap into it, fingers dragging softly against your scalp, clumsy at first with his big hands, then steadier as he realizes you’re leaning back, pressing into his touch. You hum, content, as he works the lather through the length of your hair, the same way you did for him. Now and then, his fingers catch a tangle. He mutters an apology, carefully easing it loose. When he’s satisfied, Dunk reaches for the tankard again, rinsing away the suds.
After, neither of you rush to get out—the water is still warm enough. You lean back against Dunk, head pillowed on his shoulder, and he lets his head rest against the edge of the tub. One of his hands drifts to your belly, absently tracing circles. “Egg’s going to be insufferable, you know,” you tell him.
Dunk’s thumb pauses its slow circle. He breathes out a quiet laugh. You tilt your chin so you can glance up at him. His head is still tipped back against the rim of the tub, but there’s that familiar crooked smile pulling at his mouth. The thought of that sharp-eyed little prince looking between the two of you with that knowing grin of his settles between dread and reluctant amusement in Dunk’s mind. He shifts slightly beneath you, water lapping against the sides of the tub. “So,” he starts, “what do we tell him?”
You blink at him, then snort. “Oh, nothing.” Dunk lifts a brow. “No need.” You settle back against him again, stealing his warmth. “He already thinks he’s arranged the whole thing.” You rest your hand over his on your stomach, fingers threading together.
Dunk laughs—a hearty one that rumbles through his chest and into your back. “That sounds like him,” he says, his arm tightening around you, holding you a little closer. “Seven help us if he decides he’s our matchmaker,” Dunk adds, half-amused and half-resigned as he leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your temple—unthinking this time as if it’s only natural. Then his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours again, arms tightening around your middle, savoring everything about this moment before the water goes cold.