You still remember the day he almost died. The heat in Ashford Meadow had shimmered like glass, and your brothers’ laughter had echoed above the roar of the crowd. You’d been seated beside your father, Prince Maekar, your skirts heavy with dust and the faint scent of trampled grass, watching the trial unfold with the fascination only danger could inspire.

Duncan the Tall, they called him. A commoner’s name. A hedge knight with neither sigil nor song—just a weather-beaten face and a sense of honor so stubborn it seemed a kind of madness. You remember Aerion’s sneer, Daeron’s slouch, your father’s silence.

And then—steel on steel. Seven against seven. When it was over, and Aerion’s pride had bled into the earth, you saw the look that crossed your father’s face: grim approval, edged with the sharp recognition that this tall fool of a knight was something rarer than gold—honorable, and incorruptible.

You should have known, then, that your life would change because of him. A moon’s turn later, Ser Duncan the Tall was named your sworn shield. At first, it was amusing. The great towering knight who could barely find his words in your father’s presence—yet turned red as a boy when you teased him.

He’d stand at the edge of your solar like a carved statue, too polite to tell you that princesses weren’t meant to climb walls, sneak to the stables, or ride astride instead of sidesaddle. You found his discomfort endearing. He found your energy exasperating. It has been a month now.