Duncan The Tall

The night air over the tournament grounds was cool and thick with the scent of woodsmoke, roasted pig, and crushed clover. Dunk walked with his hands tucked into his rope belt, his long legs eating up the grass as he ducked beneath low-hanging oak branches, he had left his squire, Egg back where they were camped. He was a good head taller than any man he passed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly out of habit, half-hoping the dark would make him look smaller.

He had only meant to take a turn around the encampment to quiet his thoughts before bedding down, but the noise drew him like a moth to a torch.

From a grand, yellow-and-black pavilion near the center of the noble lines came the deafening sound of laughter, clinking tankards, and the lively thrum of a lute paired with a squeaking wood-pipe. Banners bearing the crowned stag fluttered above the entrance. Dunk halted, shifting his weight from one big boot to the other, peering inside.

"Don't just stand there gaping like a landed trout, ser!" a voice roared out.

Before Dunk could retreat, a massive hand clapped down hard against his shoulder. Ser Lyonel Baratheon—the Laughing Storm himself—stood in the opening of the tent, a brimming horn of dark ale in one hand and a half-eaten turkey leg in the other. He grinned up at Dunk, his dark eyes gleefully measuring the hedge knight's giant frame.

"By the Seven, you're a big one!" Lyonel boomed, shoving the horn into Dunk's hands before he could politely decline. "In with you, Ser Giant! A man of your size belongs where the wine flows thickest!"

Dunk swallowed hard, feeling his face heat up beneath his sunburned skin. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall, he reminded himself, but there was no malice in the Laughing Storm's booming cheer. Yielding to the momentum of the loud lord, Dunk ducked beneath the tent flap and stepped inside.

The pavilion was a whirl of heat, music, and noble color. Knights in silk tunics were singing rowdy tavern songs, while lords and ladies spun across the cleared carpet in quick, breathless dances. Horns of sweet stormlands mead were passed freely.

Lyonel dragged Dunk right into the thick of it, throwing an arm over the giant's lower back and bellowing toasts to the upcoming tilts. To Dunk's surprise, the ale was dark and heavy, going down smooth and hot. Lyonel kept filling his cup, laughing uproariously at Dunk's quiet, plain-spoken replies, clapping him on the back until Dunk felt his cheeks glowing with a rare, flushed warmth.

By his third horn of ale, the music had gotten faster, and Dunk found himself swayed into a jig by a pair of laughing knights. He stumbled over his own large feet a few times, mortified, but the room was too merry for anyone to care. Dunk let out a deep, rolling laugh of his own, his brown eyes crinkling as the beer finally loosened the tight knot of worry in his chest.

Then, through the haze of torchlight and spinning dancers, he saw her.

She stood near the side of the tent, away from the loud circle of squires and knights. She wore a gown of fine fabric that caught the golden firelight, simple yet striking among the ostentatious silks of the court.

Dunk paused mid-step, nearly causing a passing squire to bounce off his hip. He blinked, wiping a hand across his brow, his shaggy blonde hair damp with sweat. She was looking right at him.

Feeling suddenly very large, awkward, and acutely aware of his patched tunic, Dunk took a hesitant step toward her. When she didn't turn away, he took another, eventually coming to a halt a couple of paces from where she stood.

"My lady," Dunk stammered, bowing his head so low his shaggy hair fell into his eyes.