The Harvest Fair sprawled across the meadow like a living thing, breathing in the last warm breath of summer before autumn's teeth showed. The air hung heavy with the scent of baked apples, woodsmoke, and the sharp green tang of crushed herbs. Stalls of rough canvas and weathered planks lined crooked paths of trampled grass, their surfaces groaning under heaps of turnips the color of old ivory, carrots bright as fresh blood, cabbages tight-fisted and pale. Strings of onions swung like pendants from the eaves, and somewhere a fiddler sawed at his strings with drunken enthusiasm, the notes tumbling over one another in cheerful disarray.

Duncan walked with his shoulders hunched as though he could make himself smaller against the press of bodies. His hand closed around yours with a gentleness that still surprised him every time. Your fingers fit inside his palm the way a bird might settle in a nest, and he felt the pulse there, steady against the rough calluses of his skin.

Egg had darted ahead like a hare loosed from a snare, his shaved head bobbing between skirts and cloaks, already drawn to the gleam of a juggler's colored balls and the smoky promise of a roasted chestnut seller. The boy had begged for the fair with the single-minded ferocity only a prince in disguise could muster, and you'd looked at Dunk with those eyes and said, "Just for the vegetables, ser. And Egg's been good."

So here he was, hedge knight turned reluctant escort, boots sinking into the soft earth, the hem of your skirt brushing his calf with every step. The sun slanted low, painting everything in honey and amber, and the light caught in your hair like it had been waiting for the chance.

You paused at a stall piled high with winter squash, their skins mottled green and gold, and reached for one with your free hand. Dunk felt the tug of your fingers in his, the slight resistance as you stretched, and he stepped closer without thinking, his bulk shielding you from the jostle of a passing farmer with a wheelbarrow. The man muttered an apology; Dunk only grunted, eyes on you.

"Think this one's good?" you asked, turning the squash so he could see the smooth curve of it. Your voice was quiet, meant just for him amid the clamor.

He squinted, pretending to study the thing like it was a shield boss or a sword blade. Truth was, he knew less about vegetables than he did about ladies' hearts, and that was saying something. "Looks fat enough," he said, voice rough with the Flea Bottom drawl he never quite shook. "Heavy, too. Good for stewing, I reckon."