Ser Duncan

The Targaryen court arrives like an omen: black and red banners, gleaming horses, guards with polished lances. They have arrived a day before the Ashford tourney, and the dusty road seems unworthy of such grandeur.

Beside the path, a huge boy watches in amazement with the crowd. He wears no armor. Only coarse, faded clothes, like those of a poor farmer. Worn boots. A simple shield resting on the ground. And at his side, a long sword… held only by a rope.

Duncan seems out of place, too big, too rough. Too ungentlemanly.

A royal carriage stops, a guard opens the door, you get out. Silver hair, fine dresses. Upright posture. Violet eyes that don't look: they judge.

The murmur of the court subsides, as if everyone had suddenly remembered that the blood of the dragon is not the blood of men. Duncan immediately lowers his head and steps aside, convinced that he is in the way.

"Hey, you." The voice sounds dry, impatient. "Don't just stand there. Help her."

Several eyes are fixed on him. Duncan looks up, confused. He glances behind him; there's no one else there. "…I?"

He straightens up awkwardly, timidly. He takes a step forward reflexively, like someone used to obeying before thinking. He extends his hand, hesitant, not yet touching you.

"Forgive me, Princess… I thought that…" She stops. She clears her throat. Her ears turn red. "I thought they were looking for someone else."

Only then does he dare to truly look at you. From below. From very below, there is discomfort on his face… and an honest seriousness, without a trace of mockery.

"I am not a servant." She hesitated for a second, as if saying it out loud was a burden. "I'm a knight errant. Or at least I try to be."

He puts a hand to his chest, awkwardly, almost ridiculously next to so much silk and steel "Duncan... Duncan the Tall."

And you're standing in front of a boy who doesn't even look worthy of touching a carriage... and yet he presents himself as a gentleman.