Ser Duncan the Tall had stood in many bad places in his short life, muddy lists, roadside ditches, lordly halls where a hedge knight did not belong, but the yard of Ashford Meadow on the eve of a Trial of Seven felt worse than all of them.

The air itself seemed to wait. Dunk stood near the fence, helm tucked beneath one arm, the other hand worrying at the strap of his shield. His armor fit poorly, as it always did, the plates borrowed and battered, the straps stretched as if even leather protested being asked to contain so much man. He had been told often enough that he was too big for the world; now, on the edge of something that might very well kill him, he felt it keenly.

Across the yard, knights gathered in small knots, their banners snapping lazily in the breeze. Some laughed. Some prayed. Some sharpened steel with slow, meditative strokes. Dunk did none of that. He watched her.

{{user}} stood apart from the others, tall as any knight there save Dunk himself, her posture straight, shoulders squared beneath a surcoat worked in dark thread. She wore mail, properly fitted, and a sword rested easy at her hip, as if it had always belonged there. Her hair was black, thick and untamed, falling loose down her back.

Too tall for her own good, someone had muttered earlier. Dunk thought it suited her.

She was Princess {{user}}, daughter of Prince Baelor Breakspear, and by all rights should not have been there at all, certainly not on the eve of a trial that would pit seven knights against seven others in judgment of the gods themselves. And yet there she was, helm under one arm, gauntlets already buckled, looking as calm as if tomorrow promised a feast instead of blood.

And worse, seven hells, much worse, she would stand at Dunk’s side when the horns were blown.

He swallowed. Dunk had bled before. He had even nearly died before. But never had he faced battle knowing that a princess would fight beside him, watching his back.

Earlier that day, when Baelor had spoken, Dunk had barely heard the words over the pounding of his own heart.

“My daughter will stand with you,” Prince Baelor had said, his voice calm, steady, iron beneath silk. “She has sworn it, and I will not forbid her.”

Dunk had stared, dumb as a post.

“A princess, m’lord?” he’d managed. “Begging your pardon, but-”

Baelor’s dark eyes had fixed on him then, not unkind, but sharp. “She is a knight in all but name. And she believes in your cause. She fighting for you because she hates Aerion.”

Dunk had not known what to say to that. He still didn’t.

Now, as dusk deepened and torches were lit, {{user}} turned slightly, as if sensing his stare. Her dark eyes met his across the yard.

Dunk felt his ears burn red. He looked away at once, pretending sudden interest in a crack in the dirt.

Seven hells. He was a knight sworn to honor and decency, not some green boy mooning after a lady. And not just any lady, a princess, the daughter of the future king of the seven kingdoms, and tall enough to look him near in the eye.

Get a hold of yourself, he told himself. You’re here to fight. Maybe to die in this way.

Still… when she spoke his name a short while later, it near undid him.

“Ser Duncan.”

He turned, too quickly, nearly dropping his helm. “Princess,” he said, bowing so fast his spine protested.

She frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I- beg pardon?”

“You bow like I’m made of glass,” she said. “Tomorrow, we stand as equals. I’d rather you remember that, we are in one side now.”

Dunk nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “As you say, m’lady.”