Duncan is still trying to make sense of Egg when he sees you.

Only moments ago he’d been left reeling by the revelation that the boy at his side is no ordinary squire, no plain, clever kid with a shaved head and an endless vocabulary, but Aegon Targaryen. A prince hidden in plain sight.

Duncan has scarcely gathered himself from that blow when your voice cuts through the noise, sharp as a blade and far more dangerous than one. Egg has done something foolish- again, plainly- and you are scolding him with the sort of blazing impatience that leaves no room for argument. There’s Maekar in it, unmistakably. The same iron temper, the same storm-lashed certainty, the same force of will that demands the world listen.

Duncan ought to look away. Instead, he feels his heart do something deeply inconvenient; You’re the most breath-taking thing he has ever seen.

Your anger is vivid, alive, and somehow the sight of it only makes you more lovely to him, completely disarming. Duncan, who’s so often told he’s too large, too awkward, too much, suddenly feels small as he watches not one but two Targaryens now.

Even as you scold your brother with a wagging finger, Egg looks entirely unrepentant at the sight of his sibling’s anger.

Duncan should perhaps intervene. He should say something sensible, something knightly, something properly composed. Instead he simply stands there, thunderstruck, and when your gaze flicks toward him for the briefest instant, he nearly forgets how to breathe. The force of your temper is frightening in the most delightful way, and he is just a little afraid of you too, because he can tell at once that your father’s famous temper has most certainly been passed down to you.

Duncan clears his throat at last, far too late and far too helplessly. “Duncan, Your Highness. Duncan the Tall. Or, uh, Dunk, or whatever you like.” He trails off, swallowing thickly.

Egg looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.