“Blind, not blind, don’t matter. You don’t seem like no beggar to me —- if you say you’re traveling, than a traveler you are.”

Dunk fixed his seated position, flipping some meat. “You hungry?”

A story. Yet it wasn’t. It was real, tangible —- as clear as the trees at his back and the skies above his head.

“Gods.” Duncan said it a gasp. “Is that —- is that? Are they? Is that thing yours?”

He was speechless. And frozen. As if time had stopped, as if the world had stopped. Stories of dragons and Targaryens had ruled this world for centuries if not longer —- and for the last 100, they had all but burnt out.

But here, now, before him, was a creature that should be nothing more than (c)

| giving me a sec to make this fantasy OC using my child Paul Atreides

“Hm? Oh, yes probably. He likes arts. Puppets —- paints, all of em.” Dunk raises with a pile of clothes in his mighty arms, dropping them carefully before the other. “Have your pick, should be enough in there for an outfit.”

| absolutely do not interact with me if you are using AI images, especially AI generated images of CHILDREN

“Well.” Dunk says, turning his back on them —- stirring at the pan that cracked and sizzled. Flipping a piece of meat onto its backside; where fresh skin was met with a searing echo.

“I do cook well. You can take a seat if you’d like. I’m not going anywhere.”

| thinking about Robb Stark…perhaps Robb Stark account…

Ser Duncan says, rummaging through a leather bag just outside said tent. “And they’ll be nice and tidy. Prince clothes ‘n all.”

“Uh huh.” Duncan led the other through the crowd, past a hill, beyond a brush —- and too a small tree. There, was a fire that had been put out this morning, and a test with a large dragon sigil upon its side. Red blood, and sown with precision. “Eggs probably got some clothes you’d fit.” (c)

“That’s —- come on.” Dunk turns, not waiting for her, walking fast and rather taller than the crowd before them.

“When a Lord, or King, fathers a child not of his wife. Or Queen.” Dunk said in a politely manner —- a stranger bumped his shoulder, but not much movement came from him.

“So the last King decided to legitimize a few of em. Caused war. Wars over, for the most part. Now, realms kinda healin.”

“Er.” Dunk rubbed at his neck, shifting his weight into one foot. “Yea.”

“There weren’t any actual dragons!” He says, as if exhausted. “The family used to ride dragons. So they took the dragon as their house. But then the King fathered a few bastards —- decided to make one of em legitimate to the throne. Caused a whole ruckus.”

“No, no.” Duncan shakes his head. “It was their coat of arms. The family sigil. Well they was the same family, but one was a Bastard, claiming the throne. Although the other was the true heir —- but many argued the Bastard was more so. It was a mess.”

There was a moment he thought he should’ve demanded more from Prince Aerion, but freedom was still good.

“Come. I’ve got a fire over by a tree, I can kick back up, cook you something. .and the war of the Dragons. Red and Black. Rightful heirs. You didn’t hear of this?”

“Well that’s not gonna do us any good, aye.” Duncan said with a sigh. Although he had technically “won” the tourney of Ashford —- he hadn’t actually “won” anything. Anything other than his freedom, and his horse back. (c)

“You need coin. Or copper. Look up.” Dunk points to a wooden sign that hangs, black paint marks it with:
Pepper Crush Fish - 3 Silver.

“Silver it is for that then. Of course, things are a little more expensive. On account of the war and all.”

“Dunk.” He says. “Ser Duncan.” He says again. “Ser Duncan The Tall.” He finally says.

“. .If you’d like. She won’t buck you off.”

Dunk, taller than the other, didn’t need to step higher to peer over them. But he bent his neck some to see what food Velle was looking at. “Goose eggs. Very good for the morning, that’s some honey bread there.” He points. “Pepper skinned fish I think that is.”

“Wait that —-“

Dunk is quick to follow. For a second he can’t help but think about Egg and why this feels like an all too familiar situation. Always picking up strays. (c)

“. . .Westeros.”

He repeats, sheepishly, fingers sort of picking at each other. “. .S’what it’s called.”

“I don’t know what that is.” He said bluntly, with a small taste of embarrassment. “And I uh, don’t know why they call it that either. I was just born here, y’know.” With even more embarrassment layered on.

“What ring? Like a diamond ring?”

“You’re in Ashford Meadow. In Westeros —- The Realm. . .” Then he looked at her a little oddly, as if questioned rattled his head that he couldn’t quite boggle down.

“You, uh, keep saying this surviving. .what is it we’re surviving?”

“The rulers of the realm?” He said, in a tone that was masked with a caring ‘you can be serious’ outlook.

“They don’t ride them anymore. Dragons been long dead. Blackfyre rebellion made sure of that.”

“A dragon? So wait —- are you an Targaryen? Only Targaryen’s have well. .all the features you do — and dragons. Although there hasn’t been a dragon in a long time. You keeping it a secret?”

“And not all of em. Just me. Ser Duncan The Tall.”

“Well I’d hope so.” He shot back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Before her stance changed, and so did his. “Aye, don’t worry ‘bout it. My mother never came back for me. I was raised by a Knight. I’m a Knight.”