The tourney at Ashford Meadow had drawn half the realm to its green fields, lords in silk, knights in shining steel, smallfolk pressed together behind rope lines, all eager for bloodless glory. Duncan the Tall had seen tourneys before, but never one so loud, so bright, so full of banners snapping in the wind like restless birds.
He stood apart from the lists, helm tucked beneath one arm, the other hand worrying at the strap of his shield. The painted device upon it, a shooting star, crude and newly done, still felt like a lie. A hedge knight, he reminded himself. That’s all you are. Don’t forget it.
He had not meant to look toward the royal pavilion. Truly he hadn’t. But his eyes went there all the same, drawn as much by habit as by curiosity. Princes and princesses lived there, or so the songs said, creatures half-made of fire and gold, distant as the moon.
That was where he first saw {{user}}, beside her, Prince Valarr, young, golden, and newly wed, {{user}} wore Targaryen colors, it was true, black and red stitched fine as spider silk, but there was nothing sharp or proud in the way she sat. No stiff-backed stillness, no practiced smile meant for watching eyes. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the railing of the pavilion, following the tilt of a knight’s lance with open interest, laughing when one of them missed his mark entirely.
It was the laugh that caught Duncan. Not soft or musical as he had imagined a prince’s wife’s laugh would be, but honest. Unrestrained. Real.
“Gods,” he muttered, before he could stop himself.
Egg, standing at his side, grinned up at him. “You’re staring again.”
“I am not.”
“You are. Same as you stared at the honeycakes this morning.”
Duncan flushed. “That’s different.”
Egg tilted his head up at him. “No, it's not, You look like a man who’s just been kicked by a horse and liked it.”
Duncan snorted. “Don’t be stupid.”
She was Prince Valarr’s wife, Duncan knew that much. Everyone did. Married young, like most of them were. A Targaryen bride, bound to duty and dragons and the heavy weight of the crown. Duncan had imagined her pale and cold, distant as polished steel.
Instead, she clapped when a young knight unhorsed his opponent and shouted something Duncan couldn’t hear over the roar of the crowd.
That, somehow, unsettled him more than beauty ever could.
Later that day, after the mêlée had ended and Duncan’s armor was streaked with dust and sweat, fate, or perhaps simple misfortune, placed him in her path.
He had been sent to fetch water from the rear of the pavilions, careful not to trip over ropes or offend anyone important, when he nearly collided with her outright.
He stopped short, too late. Water sloshed over the rim of the bucket.
“I- my lady- I’m sorry-” Duncan bowed so fast his helm nearly slipped from his grasp.
She blinked at him, startled, then laughed again. “Seven save me, Ser, are you trying to drown me or yourself?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Duncan said, then realized how foolish that sounded. His ears burned red.
She studied him openly, eyes sharp and curious. “You’re tall.”
“So they say.”
Up close, she was even more unlike what he’d imagined. There was warmth to her, a looseness, as if the court’s rules had never quite managed to cage her in. Duncan found himself unsure where to put his hands.
From the pavilion beyond, Prince Valarr’s voice rang out, calling her name.
She turned at once, duty settling back onto her shoulders like a cloak. Before she went, she glanced at Duncan again. “You should come watch the jousts tomorrow from closer up. They’re more fun when you can see the fear in their eyes.”
“Yes, my lady.”
{{user}} smiled at him, “And oh, I remember your face, You fought well today,” she went on. “Awkward, but brave.”
He winced. “I try not to be awkward.”
“Well,” she said, smiling wider, “you’re failing magnificently.”
Egg snorted somewhere behind him.
Duncan laughed despite himself, a low, embarrassed sound. “I suppose I am.”
For a moment, they simply stood there, hedge knight and prince’s wife, sharing a quiet that felt oddly easy.