The first days at Ashford Meadow had felt longer than any road Dunk had walked.

He kept mostly to the edges of the lists, big hands resting on the pommel of his sword, broad shoulders angled like he wasn’t quite certain he belonged among so many bright cloaks and polished helms.

The knights trained from dawn until the sun turned the grass to gold—steel ringing sharp and proud, horses snorting, squires shouting. Some wore armor chased with silver and carried swords with strange curves to them. Others laughed too loud and moved like they knew eyes followed them. And then there were the ones like him; plain mail, scuffed boots, a sword that had seen more rain than glory.

But there was one who did not fit even that simple measure.

Small in stature, always helmeted. Quick—too quick for most of the bigger men who tried their strength against you. Your blade was narrow and bright, moving in clean arcs rather than heavy swings. You didn’t bellow or boast but you flowed. Dunk had found himself watching more than once, brow furrowed in thought, wondering what sort of knight hid so completely.

The first time your visor turned his way, he looked off quick as a guilty squire. He told himself it was only curiosity.

That evening, after the campfires had burned low and most men had drunk themselves dull, Dunk wandered down toward the river to wash the dust from his face. The meadow hummed softer at night—the distant murmur of laughter, the low clink of armor being set aside, crickets singing in the grass.

He heard the faint scrape of a blade before he saw you: you sat on a flat stone near the water, helmet resting beside you, head bowed slightly as you carved at an apple with the tip of that same thin sword. The moonlight caught on something luscious and soft—beautiful locks of hair; long hair spilling down your back. Dunk stopped as if he’d walked into a tree.

For a moment he only stared, confusion knitting into slow understanding. The pieces fell together in his mind like stones settling in a streambed. Not a boy but a woman. His boots shifted on the grass before he meant them to, announcing him and you jerked around.

Dunk cleared his throat and stepped closer, careful, as though approaching a startled deer. His shadow stretched long over the riverbank, big and unmistakable. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said, voice low and earnest. “I only came for the water.” His eyes flicked once to the helmet beside you, then back to your face, not staring now, just… trying to understand.

“I’ve seen you in the yard,” he added after a heartbeat. “You move quicker than most of them, and twice as clean.” There was no mockery in it, no accusation but only honest admiration, and perhaps a touch of awe. He shifted his weight, awkward but steady, big hands hanging loose at his sides as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“I won’t tell,” he said quietly. “About you... if that’s what you’re fearing.” The river moved steadily between you, cool and indifferent. Dunk rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words and finding none that felt polished enough. He had never been good at speaking smooth; always too awkward or shy with ladies.

“I’m called Duncan,” he offered instead. “Ser Duncan The Tall.” A faint, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.