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    Summary

    "Most men only want your help or your head.", Ser Baratheon flared out his scent, the smoke element overpowering petrichor now, and leaned forward, "Have you come for my head?"
    "N-no, milord.", Dunk stammered, beginning to look for an exit, he was big, but he was fast, he could make it to his camp and get all three horses on the road before they grabbed him but then what?
    "Then why the fuck are you in my tent?", Ser Baratheon seemed to enunciate each word with disbelief.

    OR

    Omega!Dunk arrives to a tourney a poor nobody and leaves as legend for the small folk.

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