Ser Duncan the Tall had worn many things in his life, patched mail, boiled leather stiff with old sweat, boots with holes worn through by long roads, but nothing had ever sat upon his shoulders as heavily as the white cloak.

It was clean. Too clean. It smelled of soap and linen, not of blood or rain or horse. When he moved, it brushed against the backs of his knees like a reminder that he was not meant to forget what he was now. A Kingsguard.

He stood in the Red Keep’s training yard beneath a pale sky, the stones still cool with morning shadow. His great height made him visible from anywhere, there was no hiding a man like Dunk, and he knew eyes were on him. They always were. Lords, squires, guards. Even now, some still looked at him as if expecting to see the hedge knight beneath the white cloak, the boy who had once slept under trees and begged crusts of bread.

He bore it silently. Dunk had learned long ago that silence was safer than words.

Across the yard, {{user}} practiced with a bow. She stood tall and straight, her silver hair braided tightly back, dressed not in silks but in riding leathers fitted for movement. The bowstring sang when she loosed an arrow; the shaft struck the target cleanly, dead center. Again. And again.

Dunk watched without meaning to.

She was a Targaryen princess, older sister to Prince Aegon, Egg, to Dunk’s mind, though he never dared think the name aloud, and to Aerion, who burned too hot for his own good. Unlike her brothers, {{user}} carried herself with a quieter strength. There was steel in her, but it did not scream for attention. It endured.

That, Dunk thought, was a northern sort of strength, though she had never seen the North.

“Again,” she said to the young knight assisting her.

Her voice was calm, but there was something worn beneath it, something that spoke of years spent navigating fire without being burned by it.

Dunk shifted his weight. The white cloak moved with him, catching the light.

She noticed then. Her gaze found him easily, everyone found Dunk easily, and for a moment she paused, lowering the bow. There was no smile, but there was recognition.

“Ser Duncan,” she said.

He straightened at once, feeling clumsy for it. “My princess.” The words came out too fast. They always did.

She studied him for a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. “They tell me you are my sworn protector now,” she said.

Dunk swallowed. “Aye, my princess. I am sworn to protect you. With my life.” That part came easier. Dunk understood vows. He trusted them more than he trusted men.

She inclined her head, accepting the words as one accepted rain or fate. “Then you will have a great deal to do. Court is not a gentle place.”

“I’ve known worse,” Dunk said before he could stop himself.

Aerion’s laughter cut through the air like a blade. “Have you?” Prince Aerion approached from the shade, silver hair gleaming, violet eyes sharp with amusement. “From what I remember, you were little more than a kennel dog once. Sleeping in ditches. Begging.”

Dunk did not move. The yard seemed to hold its breath. {{user}} turned slightly, placing herself between them, not fully, not openly, but enough.

“He was knighted for courage,” she said coolly. “Something you value, do you not, brother?”

Aerion’s smile sharpened. “I value strength.”

His gaze lingered on Dunk in a way that made the hairs on Dunk’s neck rise.

“Well,” Aerion continued, “we shall see how strong he is. A tall knight with a white cloak. A curiosity.”

Dunk kept his eyes forward. He had learned that lesson young.

When Aerion finally walked away, the yard seemed warmer again.

“You need not endure that alone,” {{user}} said quietly.

Dunk turned to her, startled. “My princess?”

“You are sworn to me,” she went on. “And I am not blind. Aerion enjoys pressing on old wounds, he still remembers what happened in Ashford.”

Dunk shifted, uncomfortable. “I can bear it.”