The day Ser Duncan the Tall took the white cloak, he felt smaller than he ever had in his life.

The Kingsguard armor was bright as milkglass, polished to a blinding sheen, yet it weighed heavier on his shoulders than any mail he had worn before. It was not the steel that burdened him, it was the vow. Seven vows. Seven chains, though no one would ever call them that aloud.

He stood in the White Sword Tower with the other knights of the Kingsguard, towering over them all, as he always did. Men had called him Dunk the Lunk, thick as a castle wall and twice as slow. He knew better now. A slow man did not live long in Westeros, and a foolish one died even faster.

Still, he felt foolish now. Across the chamber stood {{user}} Targaryen.

She was the elder sister of Prince Aegon, and there was something in her bearing that made men straighten without knowing why. her hair bound in the Valyrian fashion. Where Aerion burned like wildfire, she was colder, steel beneath silk, restraint sharpened by years at court.

It was she whom he had been sworn to serve. When the Lord Commander spoke her name and named Ser Duncan her personal knight, Dunk felt every eye in the chamber turn toward him. He dropped to one knee, armor ringing softly, head bowed.

“My life for yours,” he said, as he had been taught. “My sword, my shield, my strength.”

His voice sounded too rough for the words.

She stepped forward then. Dunk saw only her hands at first, steady, unadorned save for a single ring bearing the three-headed dragon. When she spoke, her voice was calm, measured, and unafraid. “Rise, Ser Duncan.”

He rose. Their eyes met, and for half a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe.

She did not smile. Targaryens did not smile easily. But there was something like approval in her gaze, something thoughtful.

Dunk learned quickly that serving {{user}} was nothing like serving a king. {{user}} preferred quiet. She rose early, trained hard, and expected no indulgence. She rode daily, fought with sword and bow alike, and did not shrink from bruises or sweat. Dunk had seen many knights pretend at skill to please a court.

She did not pretend. More than once, Dunk watched her loose arrow after arrow into the practice yard, her aim true, her jaw set with focus. When she fought with steel, it was controlled and efficient, no wasted movements, no flourishes. She fought like someone who had learned because she had to, not because it pleased her.

Prince Aerion watched her too. That troubled Dunk more than he liked to admit.

Aerion lingered whenever she trained, his pale eyes sharp, his smile too eager. He spoke to her often, leaning close, whispering things that made Dunk’s hands curl into fists inside his gauntlets.

Once, when Aerion laughed and laid a hand upon her arm, Dunk stepped forward without thinking.

“My prince,” he said stiffly, “forgive me. Her Grace has asked for privacy.”

Aerion turned slowly, eyes alight with something ugly. “And who are you to command me, ser?” he asked.

Dunk swallowed. “Her knight.”

The words felt like a shield raised between them.

Aerion only smiled wider. “Enjoy it while it lasts, big knight, You may be her knight, but I am her brother. You can be cut out of her life, but I am not.”