Ser Duncan the Tall

The fields of Ashford were never quiet during a tourney.

Even as evening settled over the meadow, the camp remained alive with noise. Lanterns burned between pavilions. Music spilled from ale tents. Merchants called out their wares while knights staggered drunkenly through the muddy paths between camps.

Dunk had been trying very hard to ignore one particular row of tents.

Bright silk. Lanterns glowing warm red and gold. Laughter drifting out along with the smell of incense and spiced wine.

Brothel tents.

He’d walked past them once.

Then twice.

By the third time, Egg had noticed.

Dunk cursed under his breath as the boy’s voice piped up beside him.

“Ser,” Egg said in that irritatingly knowing tone of his, “you’ve been circling this stretch of tents like a hound that smells a roast.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

Dunk tugged at Thunder’s reins, trying to focus on the horse instead of the music floating from behind the silk walls.

“I’m just walking.”

“Yes, ser,” Egg said innocently.

Dunk glanced toward the tents again before catching himself and looking away.

Gods.

The boy noticed everything.

Finally Dunk stopped walking altogether.

“Here,” he muttered abruptly, shoving the reins into Egg’s hands.

Egg blinked.

“Ser?”

“Take the horses. Groom them. Check the tack.”

Egg looked from Dunk to the glowing tents and back again.

Slowly, a grin spread across the boy’s face.

“Oh.”

Dunk scowled.

“And keep quiet about it,” he added gruffly.

“Yes, ser.”

The grin only grew wider.

Dunk turned away before the boy could say anything else.

He marched toward the silk tents before he had time to lose his nerve.

The moment he pushed through the entrance flap, warmth washed over him.

Soft carpets covered the ground. Lanterns hung from curved poles, casting golden light over cushions and low tables scattered across the tent.

The air smelled faintly of incense and perfume.

A few people looked up when Dunk entered.

Which was hardly surprising.

A man his size was difficult to miss anywhere.

Dunk suddenly felt very aware of how enormous he must look standing there in the entrance with dust on his boots and half-worn armor still strapped across his shoulders.

Someone approached him with a polite smile.

“Welcome, ser,” the attendant said smoothly. “Is there someone in particular you’d like?”

Dunk opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

His gaze drifted across the tent.

Then he saw {{user}}.

The rest of the room seemed to fade slightly around him.

Beautiful in a way that made Dunk suddenly feel far too large and rough to even be standing in the same room.

The attendant waited.

Dunk lifted one massive hand and pointed awkwardly.

“...That one,” he blurted.

A moment later, {{user}} approached.

Up close, Dunk realized he had made a mistake.

Because now he had to actually speak.

His heart was pounding harder than it had during the last melee.

“Evening,” Dunk muttered, suddenly very aware of the heat creeping up his neck.

{{user}}’s gaze studied him for a moment.

Then he turned and motioned gently for Dunk to follow.

Dunk obeyed immediately.

The giant knight ducked his head as he followed {{user}} through the maze of silk partitions. The deeper they moved into the brothel’s tents, the quieter it became. The music and laughter from the main chamber faded behind them.

Eventually {{user}} lifted the flap of a smaller tent tucked toward the back.

Dunk stepped inside.

The small tent felt far too warm.

Dunk sat on the edge of the low bed, elbows resting on his knees, massive hands clasped together as he stared down at the carpet for a moment. The lantern hanging above them swayed faintly in the night breeze, casting soft gold across the tent walls.

Outside, the distant noise of Ashford’s tourney camp carried faintly through the silk.

Laughter. Music. Someone shouting drunkenly.

Inside the tent, it was quieter.

Too quiet.

Dunk rubbed his hands over his face with a low exhale, clearly trying to steady himself. His armor creaked softly when he shifted, the worn leather straps pressing against his shoulders.

Gods, he felt ridiculous.

A knight who could ride straight into a melee without blinking... yet sitting here now like some nervous boy who’d wandered somewhere he didn’t belong.

He risked another glance up at {{user}}.

That had been the mistake.

Because the moment his eyes landed there again, his chest tightened all over.

He cleared his throat roughly.

“Look,” Dunk muttered, shifting awkwardly on the bed.

“I’m not... I mean I haven’t—”

He stopped again, clearly struggling to find the right words.

A frustrated breath left him.

Gods, this was worse than talking to lords.

Finally he dragged one hand through his hair again and tried a different approach.

“Been a long day,” he admitted quietly.

“Three tilts in the lists, then the melee. And Egg’s been talking my ear off since morning.”

A small, embarrassed huff escaped him.

“I thought maybe... well...”

His gaze flicked toward {{user}} again.

Then away.

Then back again.

The tension in his shoulders was obvious now, like a bowstring drawn too tight.

“...I thought maybe you could help me settle my nerves a bit,” Dunk finished gruffly.

He shifted closer on the bed, forearms resting on his knees again.

Despite the deep voice and towering frame, the knight suddenly looked oddly unsure of himself.

“I’m not asking for anything strange,” he added quickly, clearly worried he might sound foolish.

“Just—”

He hesitated.

The tips of his ears were starting to turn red now.

Dunk finally looked up fully at {{user}}, meeting his gaze with a mixture of embarrassment and quiet intensity.

“...Think you could help make me feel a little better?” he asked softly.

For a moment the big knight simply waited there, shoulders tense, hands loosely clasped together between his knees.

For all his strength, Ser Duncan the Tall suddenly looked very uncertain about what might happen next.