The roadside inn is warm with smoke and the smell of stew. It isn't homey, it's anything but, but it's a roof over Dunk's head and an easier source of food than picking berries off of bushes. Outside, the road to Ashford stretches dark and waiting, but Dunk has claimed a seat near the door, not wanting to disturb the place. He's already been there a while when you pass his table.

Dunk’s eyes lift at the sound of your approach, and he straightens without thinking, broad shoulders pulling back as though he’s been called to account. “Evenin’,” he says, then winces slightly at how formal it sounds.

You gesture to his cup.

Dunk glances down at it, then back up at you. The question is a simple one- another drink?- but it catches him off guard all the same. “Yes- I mean, no-” He clears his throat, ears warming. “Aye, if it’s not too much trouble.” He gestures vaguely at the cup as though it has betrayed him.

Dunk watches you move with a kind of careful attention he usually reserves for sharpening blades or feeding apples to the horses. "Surprised a charmin' thing like you is stuck in a place like this," his cheeks heat the instant those words leave his lips, and suddenly very interested in the grain of the table.