The night had settled thick and moonless over Ashford Meadow, the sort of dark that swallowed the road and pressed close to a man’s thoughts. Duncan the Tall walked with long, careful strides, his great boots sinking into the damp earth, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Egg hurried to keep pace, wrapped in a cloak too thin for the chill.

They had gone out only to fetch water.

At least, that was what Dunk told himself. In truth, he had felt the restlessness creeping up on him, the kind that came when too many lords drank too much wine and spoke too loudly of honor, bloodlines, and things a hedge knight had no say in. Fresh air, even cold air, was better than listening to men twice his rank argue about tourney lists.

“Ser,” Egg whispered suddenly, tugging at his sleeve. “Look.”

Dunk stopped. At first, he thought it was a pale bush ahead, or a trick of fog. Then the shape moved.

A woman stood just off the road, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, hair loose down her back. She looked at them as one might look at ghosts, uncertain whether they were real, or would vanish if she blinked.

Dunk felt his stomach knot. A woman alone at night near a tourney field was trouble waiting to happen.

He lifted a hand, palm open, slow and careful. “Easy, my lady,” he said, keeping his voice low. “We won’t harm you.”

Egg leaned closer to Dunk, eyes wide. “She’s highborn,” he murmured. “You can tell.”

The woman swallowed. “I… I lost my way.”

Her voice was steady, but Dunk heard the strain beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight.

She stepped closer into what little starlight there was, and Dunk saw then what Egg had already guessed. The cut of her cloak was fine, though travel-stained. A ring glinted faintly on her hand, gold, set with a dark stone.

Egg sucked in a breath. “Ser,” he said again, urgent now.

Dunk understood. This was no camp follower, no washerwoman or brewer’s daughter. This was a lady, and not a small one. When she gave her name, Dunk’s heart sank exactly as he knew it would.

“I am {{user}},” she said. “Princess Valarr’s wife.”

The words seemed to echo in the dark.

Dunk bowed at once, awkward and too deep, nearly tipping himself forward. “My lady. I’m-” He stopped himself. Ser Duncan the Tall, he almost said, then remembered how thin that title sometimes felt. “I’m Duncan, a knight in service to no great lord. This is my squire.”

Egg bowed too, quicker and neater. {{user}} let out a breath she might have been holding for some time. “Thank the Seven,” she said quietly. “I feared I might wander until dawn.”

“What were you doing out here alone?” Dunk asked before he could stop himself.

Egg winced.

But the princess did not seem offended. If anything, she looked tired. “I stepped outside the tent for air,” she said. “The feast was loud, and I… thought I knew the way back.” Her mouth tightened. “I did not.”

Dunk nodded. He knew that feeling well, thinking you knew a road, only to find it had other ideas.

“We can take you back,” he said at once. “Your tent, was it near the Targaryen's banners?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not far,” Egg said eagerly. “We know the way.”

They set off together, Dunk keeping himself between the princess and the open field without quite meaning to. He walked slower than usual, shortening his stride so she would not have to hurry. Every so often, he glanced around, listening for footsteps, for laughter, for the sound of men who had drunk too much and remembered too little of honor.

None came.

For a time, they walked in silence, broken only by the rustle of grass and the distant murmur of the camps.

“You are very tall,” {{user}} said at last, almost absently.

Dunk felt his ears warm. “So I’ve been told, my lady.”

Egg grinned in the dark.

“You did not bring guards?” Dunk asked, more gently this time.