The yard stank of horse and heat. Dunk led Sweetfoot by the reins, her breath warm on his wrist, when trumpets split the air.

Through the gate rode a column of knights — banners snapping, armor flashing. Then came the black silk — the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen unfurling in the wind. The King’s Guard rode beneath it, white cloaks bright as bone.

And behind them, a single rider dismounted before the stables, his cloak a shimmer of scarlet and gold flame.

"Drop that nag, boy, and see to my horse."

The words cut like a lash. Dunk turned, slow and stiff.

"I’m no stableboy, your grace."

"Too dull for such work?" The man’s smile was thin, cruel, and knowing.

Prince Aerion was Valyrian perfection — silver-gold hair, pale skin, eyes the color of amethysts. Fire and arrogance made flesh.

"If you can’t manage a horse," he said lightly, "bring me wine. And find me a girl who doesn’t look like she came from a chicken coop."

Dunk’s fingers twitched on Sweetfoot’s reins. "Forgive me, your grace. I have the honor to be a knight."

The prince’s laugh was soft — and sharp enough to draw blood. "Then these are sorry days for knighthood."

Aerion turned away, handing his reins to real grooms who came running, the sunlight glinting off his golden hair. Dunk stood in the dust, heart hammering, the heat of shame rising behind his ears.

So that’s a prince of the blood, he thought. And I, a hedge knight with nothing but old armor and borrowed honor, dared speak to him as an equal.