Duncan had gone too long without a proper wash.

The road had been cruel that way. Dust clung to him like a second skin, sweat dried stiff beneath his arms and along his back, and his boots, once brown leather, had taken on the permanent color of mud. Even his hair, straw-colored and usually unruly, lay flat with grime. Dunk knew he smelled. He’d known it for days now, ever since a passing septon had wrinkled his nose and offered him a blessing from several steps away.

Ashford Meadow lay green and open beneath a pale sky, the land already stirring with the promise of the coming tourney. Tents had begun to sprout like mushrooms, bright silks for the highborn, rough canvas for hedge knights and squires. Dunk had arrived early, as he always did. Early meant cheaper space, fewer questions, and more time to breathe before pretending he belonged among real knights.

He found the river by chance, winding quietly beyond the meadow, half-hidden by reeds and willow trees. The water ran clear enough to show the stones beneath, smooth and pale as old bones. Dunk stood at its edge for a long moment, listening. No voices. No laughter. No hooves. Just the water, patient and cool.

“Well,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder once more, “no one to offend but the fish.”

He stripped quickly, boots, tunic, hose, folding the clothes with more care than they deserved. His sword belt he placed last, almost reverently. Then, red-faced despite the solitude, he waded into the river.

The cold stole his breath at once.

Dunk gasped, stumbling forward with a curse as the water climbed his thighs, his waist, his chest. Gods, it was cold, but clean. He scrubbed at his arms and shoulders with both hands, dragging dirt and sweat away, dunking his head beneath the surface despite the shock. When he came up sputtering, his hair plastered to his face, he laughed aloud.

That was when he heard the scream. It tore through the quiet like a blade. A woman stood on the riverbank.

Dunk froze.

She was tall, taller than most women he’d seen, wrapped in a simple dress of grey wool, her dark hair loose down her back. Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth still open from the scream that had sent birds bursting from the trees.

She stared at him. He stared back. Seven hells.

Dunk lurched backward in panic, slipped on a stone, and went under with a splash loud enough to shame him twice over. When he surfaced again, coughing and flailing, the woman had already turned and fled, skirts gathered in her hands as she disappeared through the reeds.

“I- wait!” he called after her, horrified. “I wasn’t-!”

But she was gone. Dunk stood there, naked and dripping, the river suddenly far too cold and far too public. His ears burned. His face burned. He scrambled out of the water and dressed in record time, hands shaking as he tugged his tunic over his head.

“Bloody gods,” he muttered. “Why me?”

That night, the meadow was alive with sound. Fires crackled. Meat sizzled. Laughter and song drifted between the tents, mingled with the clang of armor and the whinny of horses. Dunk walked slowly through it all, a heel of bread in his hand, trying not to stare at the knights with their bright banners and polished helms.

That was when he saw her again.

She stood near one of the smaller tents, speaking with an older woman. Even in the low light, Dunk recognized her at once, the tall frame.

His stomach dropped. He turned red from collar to hairline. Before sense could stop him, Dunk changed course and strode toward her. Honor tugged at him harder than fear ever could.

“My lady,” he said quickly, bowing so fast he nearly knocked his own head with his chin. “About earlier- I swear by the Seven, I meant no offense. I was only washing. I hadn’t bathed in weeks.” he scratching the back of his neck, awkward as ever.