Ser Duncan the Tall had taken worse blows in tourneys.

Broken ribs, split brows, a cracked tooth once—those were clean hurts. Honest ones. This? This had been stupid. A tankard to the shoulder, a knife that came too close, a brawl born of too much ale and too little sense in a tavern that stank of sweat and onions. He’d only stepped in because someone had looked at you the wrong way.

That was always how it went.

Now he sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the little room they’d rented—room, singular, because coin only stretched so far—his back straight despite the ache blooming along his side. The walls were thin, the rushlight dim, shadows trembling as the flame wavered. Outside, the city muttered itself to sleep.

You hovered before him, princess of blood and silk reduced to rolled sleeves and determined eyes.

“I’m fine,” Dunk said automatically, voice too rough, too quick. A lie, but a well-meaning one.

You didn’t listen. You never did when it came to this.

“Hold still,” you murmured, and Seven help him, your voice was always like that—soft, steady, kind. The kind of voice that made a man want to be better than he was.

Your fingers brushed his skin as you cleaned the cut, careful, reverent. Dunk froze.

Gods.

He stared very hard at the opposite wall, at the crack in the plaster, at anything but your face. Not that he need to; he'd long since memorised the soft slope of your nose, the He was acutely aware of everything at once: the warmth of your hands, the way you bit your lip in concentration, the faint scent of soap and something floral he couldn’t name. Every time you leaned closer, his breath hitched traitorous.

He sits still as you work, jaw clenched—not from the pain, not really, but from the awareness of your nearness. Your fingers brush his skin as she cleans the cut, and he stares resolutely at the wall, at the flickering candle, anywhere but your face. He's keenly aware of where his own hands rest—flat on his knees, obedient, unmoving. A knight’s hands.

Nothing more.

You were a princess. He was just a hedge knight with a sword and a promise. That's the way it'll always be.

His hands—too big, scarred, clumsy—rested uselessly on his knees. He didn’t dare move them. Didn’t dare imagine what it would be like to lift them, to touch you back, to deserve it.

The room you’ve been given is small—bare stone, a single candle guttering on the table, and only one sorry excuse of a bed because that is all the inn had to offer. Dunk had insisted on sleeping on the floor, of course. He always insists. But you'd looked at him with those eyes—kind, earnest, far too gentle for a world like this—and told him not to be ridiculous.

Now she kneels before him, skirts gathered, sleeves already rolled, hands steady as she cleans the wound at his side.

“Princess—” Dunk starts, then stops himself, his breath hitches His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. “You don’t have to—”