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“Are those monsters you have attached to your wrists good for anything besides punching princes?” Ayla muttered, looking scornfully down at his woeful attempt at embroidering his own sigil with the thread they had bought at the market in one of the smaller towns they'd passed on their way to the Bone Mountains.
“They're good for makin’ people a bit more respectful courtesy of a clout on the ear,” he said bitterly.
“You're too used to using them for heavy work,” she tutted. “You need to practice finer movements, become more precise and controlled, then you'll be able to embroider . . . is that supposed to be a tree?”
In truth, Dunk’s attempt wasn't so awful; it was perhaps even retrievable. Ayla had learned to excel at embroidery as a girl and hadn't had much of a choice about it.
“Give it to me,” she said, sticking out a hand, “I can fix it.”
He looked affronted. “And how am I meant to get better if I just let you do it?”
“By practicing finer hand movements in some way,” Ayla said airily, snatching the patchwork from Dunk’s great, slow hands and demanding he pass over the needles too. “Have you ever braided hair, Dunk?”
“Do I look like I-” he stopped and seemed to think. “Well, when I was younger, in Fleabottom.”
“Good,” Ayla reached back and pulled her own plait loose, letting her hair all cascade down before sitting herself down between his legs, “you can practice on me, and I'll fix this monstrosity.”
“I- My lady?” he stuttered.
“You heard me,” she said, half-honest in her intentions. “Now, stop wasting time if you don’t want Egg to see you all flustered like this.”
Dunk grumbled wordlessly and, grabbing Ayla by the shoulders, repositioned her before him so she sat a little closer. Her cheeks promptly pinkened, and her heartbeat fluttered a little.
His hands, huge as they were, possessed a gentleness that she sank into immediately, almost forgetting the patchwork in her palms. As Dunk, at her instruction, parted her hair into three even strands, she began to turn her attention to the tree which looked, in all honesty, more like a deformed, discoloured shit.
It was easy enough to correct, though, and Ayla tried her best to keep at her work, ignoring the way her chest tightened as his fingers combed through her hair and brushed the back of her head. Dunk was always easy to fluster; she was supposed to be better than that, more composed and controlled. A noble lady of House Erenford, exiled as she was, ought not blush at the touch of a hedge knight, strong and sure as he was.
But, she’d never been the perfect lady growing up, not compared to her three elder sisters, so why bother trying to be now?
A gentle hum found her lips as she worked away at the patchwork, remembering how the septa had taught her, with sweet treats offered as rewards to encourage her along. It spurred her on and allowed her to find some measure of focus, out of control as her heartbeat was.
Dunk was steady for the most part, though she could hear his breaths came a little quicker than usual. “Egg will be back, soon,” he said quietly.
“Then you’d best be swift,” Ayla replied curtly, “lest he start to get ideas.”
“He’ll be getting no ideas,” Dunk said stiffly, “and if he does, he’ll forget them quick enough after a clout around the ear.”
“Of course, it’s not like he has seen you with your big head upon my lap, murmuring such sweet things to me.”
“That was the milk of the poppy speaking, and you know it.”
“And tell me, dear Ser Dunk, where did the milk of the poppy get it from?”
He had nothing to say to that, though his hold of her hair tightened a touch, which Ayla didn’t entirely find uncomfortable. She simply revelled in her victory, smiling smugly as she neatened up Dunk’s work.
“M’lady,” he eventually said, “I need something to tie it with.”
She absently passed him back the hair tie that had held her braid together before, setting down the embroidery, which was, though improved, far from done. She told him as much, glancing over his shoulder and giggling at the sight of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
“Mayhaps we will have to do this again,” she proposed with a grin.
“If m’lady wishes it,” he returned, red-cheeked.
“She does,” Ayla said. She does very much…