Sweetfoot’s absence leaves a hollow behind it. Dunk tries not to look at the empty space where she should be tethered beside Thunder and Chestnut, tries not to think of the way her white coat caught the sun or how she always nudged his shoulder when he lingered too long in his thoughts. He tells himself it was necessary. Armour costs coin, and a knight can't fight a tourney without a decent helm.

He hears your approach to his and Egg's little camp before he sees you, boots soft against the packed earth, and Dunk turns with a tired smile already half-formed. It falters when he notices the reins in your hand. Brown leather that's all too familiar.

Behind you, Sweetfoot stands calm and bright as ever, ears flicking forward, her pale mane braided neatly. Dunk can't remember the last time he did that for her.

He stares, and for a long, foolish moment, his mouth opens and nothing comes out. His eyes flick from the mare to you and back again, disbelief written plain across his face. “That’s-” His voice breaks on the word, “What're you doin' with her? I sold her to a bleedin' trader, how do you even...”

He steps closer, one large hand reaching out. Sweetfoot huffs softly and leans into his touch, more than happy to be reunited. Dunk’s shoulders sag at once, his arms lifting to wrap around the horse's neck in the best hug a man can give a beast.

His gaze lifts to you, and whatever composure he’s managed crumbles entirely, his expression tangled with gratitude and guilt. “Thank you. I can pay you back,” he says, voice thick with tears he's refusing to let spill. “Not sure how, but I can. If ever you want a ride,” he says, earnest and a little shy despite his size, “she’s yours. Anytime. I’d trust you with her life.”