Summerhall had rarely felt so alive. Prince Aegon had returned at last from years wandering the roads of Westeros beside his hedge knight, arriving mud-spattered and sun-browned beneath the castle gates with Ser Duncan towering beside him like some half-tamed giant from the old stories. Servants rushed and even stern prince Maekar seemed quieter than usual as his youngest son was welcomed home.

Princess Daella stood with the rest of the family beneath the painted arches of the yard, violet eyes lingering less on Egg and more on the absurdly tall knight beside him. She had heard years of tales now — of tourneys, puppeteers, outlaws, conspiracies, inns, and near disasters — all somehow involving Ser Duncan stumbling into history.

Later, while musicians played in the hall and Egg was dragged away by Daeron and Rhae, Daella found Dunk standing awkwardly near a window overlooking the rain-dark hills of the Dornish Marches.

“I think I have heard my brother praise you more than he has praised anyone in his life. You two have been all over the seven kingdoms. What was the most exciting thing you two went through?”