⋆. 𐙚 ̊ DUNCAN THE TALL

Duncan leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he stared off into the distance. The late evening air carried the quiet hum of the camp settling down—distant voices, crackling fires, the low shuffle of men preparing for the next day’s tourney. Somewhere beside him, Egg was talking. Talking a lot. Duncan wasn’t listening. Not really. His thoughts had wandered far from whatever lecture the boy was trying to give him, drifting instead to a much softer image—the girl with the puppet shows.

The way her hands moved so easily, bringing little wooden figures to life. The quiet concentration in her eyes. The small, fleeting smiles she gave when she thought no one was watching. And then— Her painting his shield. Careful strokes. A smudge of color on her cheek. That same smile. Duncan exhaled slowly, a faint grin pulling at his lips without him even realizing it.

Thunk.

A stick hit him square in the shoulder. Duncan blinked, snapping back to reality just as Egg’s voice rose, sharp and indignant. “Ser, are you listening to me?!” Duncan looked down at the stick, then back at the boy.

“Will you stop throwing sticks at me,” he shot back, grabbing it and tossing it right at Egg, “before I take my fist and beat you into dust?” Egg dodged it with a yelp, immediately firing back with another complaint. The two fell into their usual bickering—sharp words, exaggerated threats, neither of them truly meaning any of it. It went on until the fire burned low and the camp grew quiet. Eventually, sleep took them both. —

Sometime deep into the night, Duncan stirred. He groaned softly, pushing himself up as the discomfort made itself known. He glanced around—Egg was fast asleep, curled up and snoring lightly.

Duncan rubbed his face. Right. He wasn’t about to relieve himself where he slept. So, with a quiet stretch and a yawn, he wandered off into the trees, following the faint sound of running water until he reached the river. The moonlight reflected off its surface, turning it silver, soft and still.

He stepped closer, taking care of what he came for before crouching down to rinse his hands in the cool water. That’s when he heard it. Humming. Soft. Gentle. Almost blending into the sound of the stream. Duncan froze slightly, lifting his head. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light, scanning the other side of the river— And then he saw her.

A girl sat at the water’s edge, her figure half-lit by the moon. She moved calmly, dipping her hands into the river, letting the water run through her hair as she cleaned it. There was something almost unreal about it—quiet, peaceful, like a moment he wasn’t meant to witness. Then— She looked up. Their eyes met. Duncan’s entire body tensed. His thoughts scattered instantly. Did she see him? How long had she been there? Was he the one staring—or had she been watching him first? He took a step back. Then another. And promptly tripped over his own feet. With a loud splash, Duncan went straight into the stream.

Cold water rushed over him as he scrambled upright, soaked from head to toe. He pushed his wet hair out of his face, already irritated—until he heard it. A laugh. Soft. Amused. Coming from her. Duncan narrowed his eyes, pointing at her as he stood there dripping. “You’re laughing at a knight,” he said, trying—and failing—to sound as dignified as a man standing in a river could. He huffed, climbing out of the stream like a disgruntled giant, boots squelching with every step. —

The next morning, the campsite buzzed with life. Knights, squires, nobles—everyone moving with purpose as the day of the tourney drew closer. Duncan walked beside Egg, still half-grumbling about the night before, though he hadn’t admitted why. Then— The crowd shifted. People began stepping aside, clearing a path without being asked. Duncan frowned slightly, glancing around— And then he saw them.

The Targaryens.

They moved through the camp with quiet authority, silver hair catching the sunlight, their presence alone enough to command attention. Even the loudest men fell silent as they passed. Beside him, Egg shifted suddenly—then stepped closer, almost hiding behind Duncan’s side. Duncan noticed but didn’t question it. His attention had already locked onto something else.

Her.

His eyes widened slightly in recognition. “It’s her,” he muttered under his breath, leaning down just enough for Egg to hear. “The girl who laughed at me by the stream last night.” Egg peeked around him, following his gaze.

“Oh,” he said, like everything suddenly made sense. “That’s {{User}}—Princess {{User}}. She’s Baelor’s daughter.” Duncan blinked. Then looked back at her. A princess? His expression shifted—somewhere between disbelief and mild offense. “Well,” he muttered, straightening slightly, eyes still on her, “she doesn’t act like a princess.” But he didn’t look away. Not once.