The night at Ashford has loosened its grip on propriety. Music spills from Ser Lyonel’s tent in unruly bursts; fiddles sawing too fast, drums thumping like an overexcited heart. Laughter follows it, loud and unrestrained, the kind that only comes after too much drink. Dunk finds himself there only after the invite of food, how could he possibly refuse a jam pastry?

He's just been pushed onto the dance floor, limbs moving as awkwardly as expected for someone of his height. And that's when Dunk spins into you, your arms linking, bodies spinning out of time with the music.

Dunk laughs, startled himself at the little flutter in his chest at the sight of you, struck by your natural charm. His movements are clumsy, honestly naïve. He spins when spun, stomps when the beat demands it, smiling giddy and unguarded.

He's grinning like a fool, then your cloak swings loose as you turn, the fabric catching the torchlight and something glints at your shoulder. A brooch. Gold, unmistakable, a crowned stag.

He stumbles, grin faltering, surprise cutting clean through the haze of drink. “Oh,” he says, breathless, staring at it as if it might vanish if he looks away. His ears warm. “Seven save me.” A Baratheon. You're a Baratheon.