the hunt had ended. ‎ ‎the royal convoy lied across the demesne taking every open corner, claret canopies tarried on the side of the butchers' tables. ladies and lords feasting cakes and wines. music and laughter. barks and murmurs of tattlers— nothing changed. except the sound of your incessant request of a ride back to the red keep. ‎ ‎an untimely dismissal of a hunt in such a high feasting may seem discourteous. but with you—not like he knows— he's happy to be at your service—it's not like he have anything to do but help you up the poor horse listening to your rumbling as you poorly attempt to climb up it's saddle. ‎ ‎placing his big, warm hands to your waist, he nearly paused, realizing he just touched a high born in instinct and habit of helping. but it's too late, he couldn't just drop you— so he avoids eye contact the second you gave him a stare. he does not look like a guard, not when he's in a shabby cloak ripped at the hems, the skin around the underside of his jaw riddled with dirt, his blond hair darkened with yet another story of dirt. ‎ ‎he released the breath he was holding and something eased in his heart. in his stupid heart, he should say— you didn't utter a thing of his mistake, his audacity, though he knew you would eventually. ‎ ‎nobles are like that, aye? ‎ ‎gently, he lifted you up slow to the saddle and pulled his hand away from you, tuck it under his cloak, "comfortable?" duncan looked at you with twin soft, albeit shy eyes.