The wind came hard off the narrow sea, smelling of salt and storm, pressing at the walls as if it meant to test their strength. The cottage answered with quiet creaks and the low murmur of timber settling, but it held fast, as it always did. Dunk had seen worse shelters in his years upon the road—lean-tos that shuddered at a whisper, inns that stank of rot and old ale—but this place, small as it was, stood honest. That was enough for him.

Within, the fire burned steady. A kettle hung above it, forgotten for the moment, though he had set it there not long ago. Dunk had never been much good at remembering such things when his thoughts wandered—and these days, they wandered often, though never far from her.

Ser Duncan the Tall bent his head as he crossed the room, more from habit than need, though the beams were low enough that a careless man might crack his skull. He moved quietly for one so large, careful where he placed his boots, as if the very boards might complain beneath his weight.

He found her where she stood near the table, one hand braced upon it, the other pressed at the small of her back. Near nine months gone now, and she carried it plain. The chi.ld sat heavy on her, that much was clear to any man with eyes.

Dunk lingered a moment, watching. He had done that more of late—watching, as though there were something in the sight of her that he still had not quite learned. Then he stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

“Here,” he said, quiet-like. “Let me.”

He came up behind her, broad hands settling uncertainly at first, then firmer once he found the right of it. Gently—gods, as gently as a man his size could manage—he slipped his arms beneath the great curve of her belly and lifted.

Not much. Just enough.

The weight came into him at once, solid and warm, and he drew her back against his chest to take it proper. Dunk let out a soft breath through his nose, bracing his stance without thinking, as though he stood in the lists again, waiting for a charge.

“Aye,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

For a while, he said nothing more. The wind rattled the shutters, the fire gave a soft crack, and Dunk stood as he was, holding her. It did not feel strange—not as it had, at first. Married life had taken its time settling on him, like a cloak that did not quite fit when first thrown on. He had spent years riding from place to place, never still long enough for roots to take hold. Now he found himself reluctant to step beyond the door.

Funny, that.

“Egg would say I’ve gone soft,” he muttered after a time, a hint of rough amusement in his voice. “He said as much last he came through. Him and his talk of Summerhall again. Wouldn’t let it lie.”

He shifted his grip a touch, easing her higher, careful of his hands.

“Said there’s room enough for us there. More than enough. Wanted us close by, with him and Lady Betha.” A small pause. “They’ve got their own on the way, you know that. Near as far along as you are.”

Dunk’s mouth twitched, though there was no real smile to it.

“He put a wager on it,” he went on. “Says his will come first. Told him he was like to lose his coin, but he only laughed.”

Another pause followed, quieter now.

“He’s a prince grown, and wed besides,” Dunk said, more thoughtful than before. “Still sounds the same when he talks nonsense.”

His hands moved, slow and absent, as though testing the shape of what he held. There was wonder in it, though he would not name it so.

“Gods,” he said under his breath. “It’s no small thing, is it?”

The words were plain, but there was weight in them.

“I reckon I’ve made it harder on you,” he added after a beat, voice dropping a notch. “With this size of mine. Should’ve thought on that, mayhaps, though I don’t see how I could’ve helped it.”

He huffed softly, almost embarrassed by his own words.

“Still… I’m sorry for it. For the weight you’re carrying.”

Dunk tightened his hold just a little—not to squeeze, but to steady.

“Tell me true,” Dunk said, “are you well enough… or do you want me to fetch something for you?”