The halls of Ashford Castle felt suffocating from the sheer weight of everything pressing in on you.

A knight striking a prince — there were no gentle punishments for such a crime. Even your father, just and honorable as he was, could not ignore it. Nor could Maekar, whose fury burned, sharp as steel. And Aerion — Gods curse him — had not even bothered to hide his smirk after the sentence had been announced.

Dunk, stubborn and immovable as a mountain, had chosen Trial of Seven, all for defending your honour.

The corridor you fled to was quiet, dimly lit by narrow windows that let in strips of fading daylight. Your steps echoed against stone, your silks whispering around you like restless ghosts. You barely heard him approach.

“Your Grace,”

Ser Duncan stopped a few paces from you, looking uncertain, for perhaps the first time since you had met him. He looked enormous in the narrow corridor — too large for it, too rough for the polished stone and courtly nuances.

For a moment neither of you spoke, when all of a sudden he crossed the distance between you in three long strides. Before you could say a word, he dropped unceremoniously on one knee, hitting the stone with a dull thud as he lowered himself before you.

And yet, even like that, he was still so tall that his head barely dipped below your waist. It would have been almost absurd, had it not been for the way he looked at you. His eyes — those earnest, painfully honest blue eyes — fixed on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Ser—” you started, startled.

His hands reached for your skirts, gathering the fabric of your gown in his fists as though it were something holy. The fine silks spilled between his large fingers, bunching as he held onto it as though he feared you might step away.

“Your Grace,” he interrupted, voice rough, almost strained. He looked up at you, and Gods, those eyes — wide, unwavering, full of something that made your chest tighten. “I’ll fight,” he said.

“No—”

“Let me fight for you,” he insisted firmly, his grip on your dress tightening. “I’ll stand for you. I do not care what they say.”

“You fool,” you snapped, though it lacked its bite. “You would throw your life away over this?”

His jaw tightened. “Over you, Your Grace” he corrected.

“I saw what he was doing. I won’t stand there and beg forgiveness for what I did,” he added, meaning Aerion. “I’d strike him twice over if it meant he’d keep his hands off you.”

“You don’t even know me,” you said.

Dunk huffed, almost a breath of disbelief. “I know enough.” His hands shifted, still holding onto your skirts, and before you could stop him, he leaned forward, his forehead brushing against the gathered fabric near your hip.

The gesture was clumsy, unpolished, yet it felt almost reverent with the way he was looking up at you. “Your Grace please,” he murmured, pleading, the word muffling into the silks. “Let me fight in your name.”

“I am your man,” he said, the words settled between you like something sacred. “Please.”