The corridors of Lord Ashford’s keep were not built for men such as Ser Duncan the Tall.

They were fashioned for lords of middling height and ladies slim as willow wands, for silk slippers and soft speech—not for a hedge knight in battered mail with shoulders broad as a castle door.

Dunk came striding round a corner with a grin still fresh upon his face, the echo of Prince Baelor’s words ringing brighter in his ears than any tourney trumpet.

“And I told him plain,” he was saying to no one at all, his voice a low, astonished rumble, “Ser Arlan dubbed me proper, with steel and vow both. I’ve no parchment nor lord’s favor, but I’ve the truth of it. That’s what I said. And the prince—Seven save him—he heard me. Said a man’s honor’s not writ in ink alone.”

He turned sharply at the next bend, misjudging the space, his helm tucked beneath one arm, and collided full into a slender shape robed in pale silk and silver thread.

There was a soft gasp—barely more than breath.

Dunk’s reflex was quicker than his wit. One great hand shot out, then the other. He caught her about the waist before she could strike the stone, lifting her clean from her feet as easily as he might a sack of barley.

“Oh—Seven!” he blurted, eyes wide. “My lady—beg pardon—begging it humbly—didn’t see you there.”

For an instant he simply stared.

She was slight as a summer reed, hair pale as beaten gold falling from its pins, eyes startled wide beneath arched brows. A dragon wrought in fine thread curled at her breast. Even a hedge knight knew that sigil.

He set her down at once, as though she burned.

“I meant no harm,” he said quickly, stepping back so abruptly his shoulder struck the wall. “I’m all elbows in these cursed halls. Should’ve known better than to storm about like a destrier loosed from stable.”

She had steadied herself, though her hand still rested lightly against his chest, as if to assure herself he was solid and not some apparition of armor and height.

“I am unhurt, ser.”

Her voice was cool and measured, yet there lingered the faintest tremor of surprise.

Dunk swallowed.

“Ser Duncan, my lady. Of… well.” He hesitated. “Of no great place, truth be told. Hedge knight.”

He bowed then, awkwardly deep, nearly losing his grip upon his helm. When he straightened, the grin returned—shy and incredulous.

“I’ve just come from Prince Baelor. Thought I’d be turned away from the lists, I did. No lord to vouch for me. Ser Arlan’s gone these many days now. But the prince—he spoke for me. Said he’d stand my surety.” He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “Never thought to have a prince speak my name in good faith.”

A pause.

“Didn’t reckon I’d run headlong into a princess neither.”

Color crept up his neck.

“I beg forgiveness again. I should watch where I’m going. Halls twist about like a Dornishman’s tale. I took a wrong turn two corners back. Or three. Truth be told, I’m better with roads than with keeps.”

He shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how he must look looming over her—six foot and more of mail and rough wool and sun-browned skin.

“You near fell. That’s on me. I’d not see harm come to you for all the gold in Casterly Rock.” His brow furrowed, earnest as prayer. “Are you certain you’re unhurt?”