Ashford Meadow lay behind you now, a sprawl of trampled grass and splintered lances, but its ghosts followed you here—to this dim chamber above the common room, where the clamor of drunken revelers below rose in muffled waves, punctuated by the clink of tankards and the occasional burst of coarse laughter.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, the wooden frame rough under your palm, splintered like everything else in this godforsaken place. The room was sparse: a sagging bed with linens that smelled faintly of mildew, a basin of water on a rickety table, a flickering tallow candle casting long shadows.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, his massive frame somehow diminished, as if the weight of the day had carved hollows into him. Ser Duncan the Tall—your Dunk—looked every inch the broken knight. His dark hair matted with dirt and dried blood, his face a map of cuts and bruises: a split lip crusted over, a gash above his brow still weeping slow crimson trails. His armor lay discarded in a heap by the door, dented and smeared, the green oak sigil on his shield mocking him now. He hadn't spoken much since the trial's end, that brutal farce of justice where steel had sung and men had fallen, and his regret had poured out in silent, shuddering waves.

You watched him, your chest tightening like a fist around your heart. He'd cried earlier, out there in the mud, tears cutting clean paths through the grime on his cheeks; big, silent sobs that shook his broad shoulders. Not the tears of a child, but of a man who'd seen too much, done too much, and wondered if any of it was worth the price. Gods, it had gutted you. Dunk, who always stood like a mountain between you and the world's cruelties, now crumbling under his own honor.

"Dunk," you said softly, stepping closer, the floorboards creaking under your boots.

He lifted his head slowly, those deep blue eyes meeting yours, red-rimmed and raw. No armor in them now, just vulnerability that made your stomach twist. "I'm alright," he muttered, voice rough as gravel, but the lie hung heavy, unspoken regrets pulling at the corners of his mouth. He shifted, wincing, one hand pressing to his side where a lance had glanced him hard enough to crack ribs. Blood flecked his tunic, dark and sticky, and the metallic taste of it lingered on your tongue from when you'd kissed him quick after the fight, just to remind him he was alive.

"Bullshit," you replied, as you knelt before him, the rushes on the floor prickling your knees through your skirts, and reached for the basin. The water was cool now, rippling as you dipped a cloth in, wringing it out with deliberate slowness. "You're a mess, my sweet giant. Let me see to you."

He huffed a weak laugh, more breath than sound, but his gaze lingered on your face, as if memorizing the curve of your cheek or the way your hair fell loose from its braid. "You don't have to fuss, love. I've had worse."

But he didn't pull away when you brought the cloth to his brow, dabbing gently at the gash. The fabric came away red, and you felt the warmth of his skin beneath, the faint tremor in his jaw as he clenched it against the sting. He closed his eyes as you worked, a single tear escaping to trace down his cheek. It caught you off guard, that quiet admission of pain—not just the physical kind.

"I didn't mean for it to go like that," he whispered, voice cracking. "Aerion... the boy... all that blood. What kind of knight am I, if I bring more harm than good?"