The tourney grounds at Ashford hum with colour and noise; silks snapping in the breeze, banners heavy with sigils, the metallic song of armour being strapped into place. Dunk's boots are scuffed, his shield plain save for the freshly painted elm-and-star that still smells faintly of oil. He feels so out of place here, more so than usual. Too tall. Too common. Too new.

By the time he reaches your banner, his shoulders are tight with tensions, jaw set as though he is bracing for another polite dismissal. He pauses just outside the shade of your pavilion, fingers flexing once at his side before he steps forward. He dips his head immediately, an instinctive gesture of respect, unmistakably sincere.

“M' Liege,” he begins, then corrects himself, cheeks colouring. “Forgive me. I’m Duncan. Duncan the Tall-" it's at that moment he seems to remember he's slouching and suddenly his back jerks straight like he needs to live up to his knightly name. "I used to squire for Ser Arlan of Pennytree before he... before he died.”

He sees recognition flicker in your eyes, just faintly. It's enough to give him courage.

“Ser Arlan fought beside your father,” Duncan says, voice steady now. “In the Stepstones. He told me the story a hundred times on the road. How they held the line together when half the men broke, how your father took an arrow meant for him.” A ghost of a smile tugs at Duncan’s mouth. “Ser Arlan said he’d never known a braver man.”

The memory sits heavy in his chest. Arlan had spoken of that battle with reverence, with the quiet certainty of a man who knew exactly what kind of debt he owed the past. “I, um... I need a house to vouch for me,” he says plainly. No flowery words, no false pride. “An' all the other nobles in this field have conveniently forgotten Ser Arlan's name and all that he did. So, if you can wrack your brain for a memory of him, and perhaps be generous enough to help me, I'd owe you a real large favour.”