Dunk sat cross-legged on the trampled grass just outside the flap, back against a weathered oak whose roots had drunk deep of the riverbank for centuries. His great longsword lay across his knees, whetstone in one hand. He drew it along the edge in slow, deliberate strokes, the metallic rasp a steady rhythm against the distant trill of blackbirds and the occasional snort from Thunder, his big destrier, tethered nearby. The horse cropped at a patch of clover, tail flicking at flies.

He could smell you.

Not just the familiar rose-and-wet-earth sweetness that always clung to your skin after you'd walked through dew-soaked meadows or knelt to tend a fire—now it bloomed richer, headier, curling out from the tent like steam from a spring. Your heat had come on quiet in the night; he'd felt the shift in the air before dawn, the way the world tilted toward you, insistent. Cinnamon lingered on his own tongue, sharp and warm, his alpha scent rising unbidden in answer, threading through the tent's weave like a promise he hadn't been allowed to speak.

He hadn't gone in yet.

You'd made it plain enough times before: you could manage. You always managed. The words had come out proud, your chin lifted even as your hands trembled from the first feverish wave. "I'm not some helpless maid waiting for a knight to save her, Dunk." And he'd nodded because arguing with you when your eyes flashed like that felt like trying to argue with a summer storm. Pointless.

But gods, it hurt.

Every scrape of stone on steel felt like confession. He was built for this, wasn't he? Tall as a bloody tower, broad enough to shield you from wind or spear or stare. From Flea Bottom he'd clawed his way to knighthood on the strength of his hands and the stubborn belief that a true knight protected those who mattered. And you mattered. More than oaths, more than honor, more than the green shooting star he bore on his surcoat. His whole purpose narrowed to: keeping you safe, warm, fed, cherished. Letting you lean when the world pressed too hard. Yet here you were, curled inside canvas and silence, refusing the very thing his blood sang to give.

He set the whetstone aside. The sword gleamed, sharper now, useless against what gnawed at him.

"Little rose," he murmured to the tent flap, voice low enough the wind might carry it away if you didn't want it. No answer came, only the soft hitch of your breathing; quicker than usual, edged with strain.

He rose and ducked inside.

The tent smelled of you overwhelming now: roses unfurling after rain, undercut with the faint salt of sweat and the honeyed edge of need. A single wool blanket lay rumpled beneath you on the thin pallet. You'd stripped down to your linen shift, sleeves pushed up, hair spilling across the saddlebag he used for a pillow. Your knees were drawn tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them as though holding yourself together by sheer will. Cheeks flushed, lips parted on shallow breaths. Eyes closed—but not sleeping.

Dunk sank to his knees beside the pallet, careful not to loom. He kept his hands loose on his thighs.

"I won't touch you if you don't want it," he said quietly. His King's Landing accent thickened the words, rough around the edges like old bread. "Won't even come closer than this unless you say. But I'm not leavin', love. Not while you're burnin' like this."

Your lashes fluttered. One eye cracked open—glassy, defiant even through the haze. "I can handle it," you whispered. The words came out frayed. "Always have."

"Aye. I know." He swallowed. His throat felt thick. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. Tougher than me, tougher than most knights twice your size. But you don't have to be strong every bloody minute, do you? Not with me."

He exhaled. Eyes searching yours in the semi-darkness of the tent. "Let me, little rose. Please. Let me bring you water. Let me hold you till the fire eases. Let me be useful for once."