Chapter Text
A hummingbird has been pestering Chestnut for the past few minutes. Every moment or so, the horse shakes his head and complains, but the hummingbird perseveres. Holding the reins with a bit too much force, Margelle huffs a laugh.
“We ought to arrive at Ashford any moment now.” Her brother said.
“You’ve said that twice in the past hour.”
Dunk threw her a look.
Truth be told, he hadn’t spoken much since they’d buried Ser Arlan. Not that there wasn’t much to be said, because there were lots of unspoken feelings and worries and questions, but silence had taken hold of both their tongues.
Once, they had been seedlings of Flea Bottom. Motherless children running and hiding through the narrow streets of King’s Landing, eating on scraps and sleeping with the rats– though Margelle had befriended a few of them, and sometimes she wondered about the bloodline of Ser Pip the Grey, the grey spotted rat that often lingered by their arranged ‘home’. Then they became… Well, whatever Ser Arlan considered them to be to him. Duncan had been his squire, and Margelle had loyally followed his shadow– which wasn’t hard, given her stature and his. Though being small helped when it came to stealing.
Thieves no more. Dunk would become a proper knight, and Margelle would make her life as a seamstress. Perhaps she could sell a few of her handmaid scarves and gloves in Ashford.
The peaks of colourful tents peered between the dense bushes and trees.
“I feel bad for that boy.”
Dunk was too focused on the road ahead. “What boy?”
“The one in the tavern,” Margelle recalled the barely contained laugh when she saw that bald boy, sitting on Thunder, pretending to be a knight. She thought of Dunk doing the same once. “So young, to be without his mother.”
“He’ll be alright.” Replied her brother, though he didn’t seem quite certain of his words.
Before their eyes came to stand the Ashford camp in all its glory. Pavilions of yellow, red and blue proudly stood at attention, and carts moved between them, and you could hear the laughter of children in the air. Smoke clouded the skies, and Margelle swore she could smell roasted pig and lamb. Life, simple as it was.
A giddy feeling twisted deep in her belly. She was far too excited for this, more than she should be.
“It’s beautiful,” She beamed, “Oh, so beautiful.”
“It’s just tents.” Replied Dunk with a half-smile of his own.
“Pretty tents!”
The horses were urged along, and Ashford welcomed them with the sound of endless chatter and food. Men showing off their fresh pelts, women carrying baskets of greenery, a group of young girls running with garlands crowning their heads, and people carrying wooden poles on their shoulders.
On the edge of the camp, the tourney camp was being built. Sweetfoot slowed, and Margelle turned to see the look in her brother’s eyes.
“Nervous?”
“What? No, no,” Dunk shook his head, blinking. “‘Course not.”
She shrugged, leaning forward on Chestnut. “I think you’ll do great.”
The sun was high in the sky when her brother returned, having spoken with the master of the games, with a strange look on his face. Margelle didn’t care or understand much of the rules at stake, nor did they make sense to her (she truly believed anyone should be allowed to participate), and it annoyed her greatly that they had to pursue Lord Manfred, in hopes that he’d remember Ser Arlan.
She didn’t think he would. Of course, she bore love for the old knight, after all, he had taken them in and raised them as his own, but he wasn’t the knight in shining armour of the old tales.
“Look, I think that’s his tent!”
A group of men left the folds of the dark tent, clapping each other on the back between drunken laughter.
Dunk cleared his throat, “Pardon, sers, I need to speak with Ser Manfred.”
All they got in response were grumbled words with little to no sense at all.
“He’s napping.” A redhead girl holding her skirts said as she left behind the men, plopping down on a fur-covered seat. “Wake him for a stag.”
“I… I don’t have a stag.”
“What kind of man don’t got a stag?”
Another redhead woman, with shorter hair, was sitting there too, and her eyes ran them up and down. Margelle had to tilt her head down to hide the betraying flush on her cheeks.
“We’re a– well, he’s a knight.” The words tumbled out of her tongue before she could stop them. “Looking to speak to Ser Manfred, about the tourney, that’s all.”
The shorter-haired woman tilted her head. “A hedge knight, isn’t it?”
“What?” Questioned the other woman, confused.
“It’s like a knight but sadder.”
Both blinked. Dunk’s fingers twitched around his sword’s hilt.
“No– I’m, I’m not sad.”
“Gotta sleep in the hedges ‘cuz no lord will have him.” She smiled, petting the furs beneath her, and the other woman gave them a pitiful look.
“Aw, that is sad.”
Margelle pursed her lips.
“And Ser Manfred fucked his wife too.”
“No, I don’t have a wife.”
“Oh!” The woman’s attention flicked to her in realisation. Maybe because they both had the same sad look on their faces. “Well, forgive me, knight. Likes to fuck wives, that one. We usually get angry husbands comin’ around.”
“Not nearly as much as he likes fucking us, I’d wager.” Said the other redhead.
“Told me he’s on a mission to turn the whole world red.”
“Well, we’re already red.”
“So we are.”
At that moment, Margelle felt like a scandalised septa had taken over her skin. Her poor brother had an awkward little smile on his lips, and bless him, he didn’t know where to look, so she spoke up.
“When do you expect Ser Manfred to wake then?”
The woman looked back at the tent, then to them. “It might wanna try back at evenfall.”
“Evenfall.” Both repeated. Dunk assented his head, then froze, as if confused again.
The redheads gave them a look.
“Goodbye,” The second woman waved her hands.
“Right, yeah,” And her brother went the wrong way. Margelle grabbed his arm.
“Dunk! It’s this way.”
Their laugh faded behind them.
It took only a few minutes for Dunk to speak again, with a look of pure indignation on his face.
“Why’d she say that? We’re not sad.”
Perched on Sweetfoot, Margelle gave her brother a shrug. “I think we’re a bit sad.”
Dunk looked back at her, “Certainly not rising-to-the-level-of-a-comment sad.” Perhaps debatable. “And Ser Arlan always said that a hedge knight was the truest kind of knight.”
“So do you plan on remaining a hedge knight forever?” Margelle really couldn’t take another year of sleeping under trees and bathing in cold streams.
“When we win our first tilt, we’ll have the loser’s armour and horse, or his gold.” He looked back at her. “Won’t be sad then.”
A laugh escaped her. “I’ll certainly enjoy seeing my big brother wearing fancy armour. Maybe the helm will come with a fat feather on top!”
The sound of fighting and grunting filled their ears, and they both turned to see men with raised swords and shields eating mud or praising themselves. Practice for the tourney, though, for Margelle, she was sure they were trying to eliminate targets even before the horns sounded.
One man, with a red apple in the middle of his chest, and with a head of curls, beat down another until the fence broke and the younger one fell backwards into the dirt.
“Do not muck about me, Raymun.” Spat the curly one with the ugly face. While Raymun crawled to his sword, the other pointed his own at him. “You’re a good-for-nothing useless rat.”
Besides being ugly, he was also mean. Horrible qualities for an apple.
In time, Raymun caught his sword and thrust it back at the other man. They fought shortly, as a slap sent the younger boy back into the ground– unfortunately, the man’s attention turned to them.
Margelle bit back a wince.
“What are you gawping at?” Before she could reply, Dunk tugged at her sleeve. No mouthing at lordlings. That hadn’t proved to go well in the past. “That's a longsword you wear?”
Hesitating, Dunk’s hand flew to his sword’s pommel. “Yes, it is mine by right.”
The man’s intense gaze never once left them. It was like being stared down by a cat who thought himself a lion. “That’s an odd thing to say.”
Dunk gulped. Raymun spat.
“I’m Ser Steffon Fossoway. Come try me.” He motioned towards Raymun. “As you see, my cousin here is not ripe yet.”
“Do it, ser.” Said Raymun, much to Margelle’s dismay. “I may not be ripe, but my cousin’s rotten to the core. Knock the seeds out of him.”
“Quiet!” Steffon barked.
He would, she thought.
And Steffon waited for his answer.
“I thank you, but I have matters to attend.”
The ugly Fossoway leaned on the fence with a look that Margelle hoped someone would, someday, beat out of him. “Well, matters of the hedge, I have no doubt.” The men behind broke into laughter like chickens, and Steffon went to join them, still going, “Fuckin’ size of ya. Stupid bastard. Ser Grance!”
Apologetic, Raymun gave them a nod, but not without meeting Margelle’s eyes. She returned with a pursed smile and watched as he, too, returned behind the fence.
For a moment, there was only silence.
“Perhaps we should seek quieter accommodations.”
“That smug bastard of an apple–”
“Elle–”
It was near evening when a clearing found them, or rather, they found the clearing just outside Ashford camp. It was perhaps one of the most beautiful she’d seen in their travels, though nothing would beat that one time they slept under tall trees and Margelle befriended a couple of butterflies, and swore she saw a fairy.
In that clearing, they made a small camp, bathed, and ate the last of the salted beef. For today, that would be it. In the morrow, Margelle would have to wash their clothes by the stream, and hopefully get them to smell anything other than dirt, sweat and rain.
When evenfall came, Dunk went again to try for Ser Manfred, but Margelle went to see the puppet show she’d heard some children gossiping about. Her brother would find her later. She hadn’t seen many puppet shows in her short, young life, but she recalled the few ones in her childhood. There was an old man in Flea Bottom who made small wooden puppets of dragons and knights, and told legends of old. Of when dragons roamed the skies.
The thought that dragons once took to the skies of King’s Landing was absurd. Scary, even, for a girl like Margelle– though if the dragons came with a handsome prince…
“Our brave hero forges on, leaving all he knows behind.” Echoed a voice through the small pavilion. “A father and a friend, may seem the world unkind.” A tall girl, almost as tall as her brother, stood on stage before a great dragon. “Fate has set his lonely path through corridors of chance.” She was of great beauty, with an accent that could only belong to Dorne. Margelle had never been to Dorne, but she wondered if all the girls there looked like her. “A boy from nothing risks it all, ignoring looks askance. Perhaps he’s only stupid, holding fast his mirror shield.”
A knight twirled on stage, holding a sword and shield. The audience gasped.
“Great honor his ambition, must keep the truth concealed. For if his humble shape is bared…”
Her voice drifted off as a tall, broad figure came up behind her. Margelle tilted her head up just in time to see her brother.
“Dunk! What did Ser Manfred say?”
Alas, her words fell onto deaf ears, for his brother was suddenly caught by the lady on stage.
“Dunk?”
The darkness of the pavilion was lit up in shades of red and orange as the dragon breathed fire upon the humble knight, and the people erupted in gasps and claps of wonder and surprise. Margelle did too, and gave her brother a nudge.
They left the puppets behind them, but the smile didn’t leave her face as she trailed behind her brother. Oh, it had been wonderful, and she was sure to confront Dunk about it later on. Perhaps over a cup and bread.
Even before that happened, however, someone called out to them amidst the crowd.
“Half-man!”
They both halted in time to see an apple rushing to them. Well, a man. A man whose house’s symbol was an apple. Margelle wouldn’t let go of that anytime soon, it seemed.
Dunk frowned, “Do I look like a half-man to you?”
Boldly looking him up and down, Raymun nodded. “Aye. Half man, half giant.” His eyes found Margelle’s again, and the smile faded from his lips. This time, he spoke to both of them. “Look, I’m sorry. I should not have urged you to try my cousin. He’d have broken your hand or a knee, if he could.”
“Your cousin is quite a mean man, then.” Said Margelle, and somehow Raymun seemed both apologetic and embarrassed when she did.
“He likes to batter men in the yards. You know, in case he meets them in the lists.” They resumed walking, but his eyes found hers now and then, and a boyish smile tilted his lips up.
Holding onto his hilt, Dunk glanced back at the boy. “He did not break you.”
“I’m his blood.” Stated Raymun, “Though he is the senior branch of the apple tree, he never ceases to remind me.”
“Will you and your cousin ride in the tourney?”
“He will!”
“And you won’t?” Peered Margelle from behind Dunk’s arm. She really needed to quicken her step.
Raymun smiled, “I would that I could, but I’m only a squire.”
Oh.
It seemed both she and Dunk held the same thought, for their steps briefly paused, and they faced Raymun with wonder (from her) and confusion (from him).
“Fight well for a squire.” And Raymun seemed to beam at her brother’s comment, so much so that he didn’t hide the grin on his face.
“You have the look of a challenger. Whose shield do you mean to strike?”
Her brother’s face broke into a series of confused twitches, and he shook his head, “Makes no difference.”
Raymun laughed. “That’s what you’re supposed to say!”
They came to a halt on a bridge, and Margelle smiled at her brother. They exchanged a glance when he spoke again.
“Though it makes all the difference in the world.”
For a moment, his words brought her back to an evening in Flea Bottom, when Dunk promised a fevered Margelle that he’d make a name for themselves, and she’d wear pretty gowns and eat only cake. Such an idea didn’t seem so far-fetched now.
The Ashford camp now smelled more of supper and roasted beef than before. Those who still wandered about were making their way into different tents. Raymun must’ve caught the way her gaze drifted past.
“You hungry?”
So it was that the three of them ended up inside the great stag pavilion, where there was no shortage of antlers. Here, laughter reigned and ale and song. Men with swords laughed as they chased one another, women poured into goblets with smiles on their faces, and commoners played new songs every hour or so. It was a sight worthy of Margelle’s dreams.
But she was not used to such sights outside of her sleep, and she held onto her brother’s hand as Raymun navigated them through the crowd.
“How do these people manage to hear themselves? It’s so loud!” She said over the music.
“Aye, reckon they’re just smiling and going along.” Smiled Raymun.
At last, a path was cleared and two chairs emptied so that they could sit. Lordlings and what-not gave them queer little looks, and both Dunk and Elle answered with awkward smiles of their own. They were like the ugly ducklings of the lot, it seemed.
But the table was filled with plates of exotic food, roasted birds and other such animals, and pastries big enough to fill the stomachs of all the children of Flea Bottom. The scent alone made her belly complain. Would they mind if she stole a few scraps to bring home? Surely they wouldn’t notice.
As Raymun filled their cups– although Margelle wasn’t one to drink ale nor wine, she’d always fancied water or the natural juice of fruit– a sound echoed above the laughter and joy of the people. A deep laughter, coming all the way from the head table at the back of the pavilion. She had to crane her neck and swerve left and right just to see the owner of such a sound– and it belonged to the man wearing a crown of tall antlers and a heavy mantle, surrounded by other men dressed in black and yellow clothes.
“Lyonel Baratheon,” Said Raymun, following her gaze. “The Laughing Storm, they call him.”
Baratheon.
Her brother, too, had taken notice of him. “I thought he’d be bigger.”
The music around them only swelled, and their escort– Raymun– briefly stepped away, much to their panic. What were they supposed to do? Just eat? Well, the last time they’d eaten at a table like this…
“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.”
All music stopped, and so did the laughing and merriment of the people. The entire pavilion was silenced with a simple sentence. Almost unconsciously, Margelle straightened in her seat.
“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that big field outside,” Lyonel cleared his throat, “To blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun.” She couldn’t imagine how that could possibly be fun. “And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say…” He set his foot down and leaned forward, eyes on the crowd. Everyone awaited his next words, though they never came.
A brief pause followed.
Lyonel glanced sideways at the other men. “The fuck was I gonna say?” He repeated the words to himself in a mutter, “Ah.” Then he looked back to the crowd with a smile, “Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?”
Confused, everyone exchanged looks. Margelle turned to her brother and him to her, and shrugged.
“Huh? Who was it?” Continued Lyonel, but no one spoke up. He shrugged and gave a little chuckle before grabbing a pouch of coin from the table, “Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best!” The pavilion erupted in cheer, “Now eat your birds so we can dance!”
All around them, the music swelled again, and so did the cheer. More plates of roasted meat and green were brought to the table, and Dunk hesitated before grabbing a lamb leg. Margelle threw him a half-smile before eating herself, tearing through wings and flesh with her fingers (though she still attempted to act like a table, even though no one at the table seemed particularly concerned about such matters, she wanted to cause a good impression on the strangers).
Without Raymun around to guide them again, they decided to wander the pavilion after the tables were discarded aside. Men and women climbed onto them, careless of the plates, and danced and laughed to their heart’s content and Margelle would’ve surely been stomped upon if she wasn’t hiding behind Dunk’s back and eating whatever pastries they could find.
He was smiling. Her brother was smiling for the first time since Ser Arlan’s death, and for that moment alone, she realised she didn’t want the night to end. An endless night of dancing and joy.
That would be perfect.
“These– Oh, seven.” Her mouth was filled with strawberry jam and pie. “They’re so good. Think we can steal some?”
“Steal?” Her brother echoed, smiling.
A man jumped from the nearby table, and she yelped, then laughed again. She swirled around Dunk, and the crowd parted just enough… Just enough to meet a pair of stormy eyes across the pavilion. Margelle froze.
He couldn’t be looking at her, surely.
So she hid behind her brother once more.
“Dunk,” She called, “Duncan.”
He looked around and down, “What? What– What?”
“Look.”
Dunk whipped his head around, and at first, he saw nothing of whatever her sister was warning of, until he saw a white-bearded man beckoning to him with two fingers. Surely not him, he thought, there were a hundred people in this tent! But the man persevered and beckoned again.
“Is he– is that for us?”
Margelle peered around him, “How would I know?”
Pointing to himself with the half-eaten pastry, Dunk hoped to be mistaken. Alas, he was not.
As they made their way across the pavilion like two condemned prisoners (well, mostly Margelle, she often assumed the worst whenever a highborn had their sights on them), the beckoning man from before sat back down, and the other two watched them with an appraisal born of golden cradles, Margelle felt the need to sink even further into her brother’s shadow.
The crowned man– no, the Lord Baratheon didn’t as much as glance at them and instead toyed with the tip of a dagger, leaving them to stand before him like pigs for slaughter nervously. Until he sighed and leaned back, as though bored.
“You ever been punched in the face before?”
Margelle’s heart jumped. The men at the table flickered their eyes back and forth between them.
Her brother slouched slightly forward. “I… I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
Then Baratheon's eyes rose from the dagger, and he met Dunk’s. “Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?”
Dunk gave a little huff of a chuckle. “No, but I believe it.”
“Is that why you slouch?” Lyonel made a little motion with his fist to the face, “So you don’t get punched?”
“I don’t slouch.” Margelle disagreed with him in thought. Her brother did slouch a bit.
Lyonel’s smile grew ever so slightly, “Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” For a terrible second, his eyes found hers, truly cowering behind her brother, and a glint of interest sparked in his face. “Well now, have you brought a bird of your own to my hall?”
At her side, Dunk stiffened. “She’s my sister.”
Seven save her, Margelle felt the eyes of every man at the table look at her up and down, then her brother, then her.
“Gods be damned, they made you this tall–” Lyonel gestured the dagger broadly to her brother. “And her this small?” Margelle had to keep herself from glaring, and it only made the Baratheon’s smile widen. “Look, the Seven above gave you tallness,” Dramatically, he motioned wildly to Dunk. “So be tall, or I’ll name you a heretic and burn you.”
The words left her stunned.
“Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl–” He continued, “I don’t know, what do they do to heretics?”
“Burn them, my lord.” Spoke the man at his right.
Lyonel assented, “Fine.” The dagger dropped onto the table with a small clatter, and he held out his palm, waiting. “What have you two brought me?”
Fuck me, Margelle bit her lip. The other men must’ve noticed the panic etched all over her face, for they smiled at each other.
“Ser, I–” Dunk began, honest. They didn’t know. Surely he’d understand that. “Beg your pardons, we didn’t realise.”
A brief silence settled on the table. Lyonel seemed to be in equal disbelief to them, but for other reasons entirely.
“You wish to curry my favour some, yet you come with an empty hand.” A man at his side snickered and muttered something about Margelle, but no reaction came from Lyonel whatsoever, and he continued, “Lord Cafferen–” They glanced towards a man in red, dancing with another lady. “He is scarce to pay his rent. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this…” Picking up the dagger again, Lyonel gave it an uninterested wave. “Bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.”
Her brother was frozen by her side, and so was she. They felt like children again, being reprimanded for crossing lines they didn’t know shouldn’t be crossed.
Lyonel tilted his head, “You’ve come for my head, then.”
A cough escaped her. Dunk blinked several times. “What? No! No.”
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?”
“For supper!” Margelle jumped, and she wished it had been over a cliff, not before a table of lords and heirs. “We were hungry.”
“Yea,” Dunk motioned to the half-eaten pastry he was still holding and awkwardly smiled. “Supper.”
The entire table blinked at them in silence. Stranger take them already, spare them the humiliation.
Then Lyonel laughed and crossed his leg. The men by his side laughed too.
“Alright,” He granted, glancing towards the others and nodding. “Actually makes sense.” He looked at them again, “What is your name, man?”
“Dunk– Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
You’re ridiculous, antlers, the frown came down on her face.
“And your-” Lyonel motioned to her.
“Elle.” She hated the slight stammer in her voice. “Margelle.”
Their gazes held for a moment too long, and a traitorous little twist in her belly nearly had all the food from earlier coming back up her throat.
Leaning forward on his chair, Lyonel’s grin stretched even more. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk glanced towards her. “Doesn’t everyone?”
And that is how they found themselves pulled into the middle of the pavilion, a wide circle made around them as smallfolk and lordlings alike cheered them on with claps and spilling ale. With their braided hair and gowns of living colours, ladies took her brother’s arm and spun before chasing their next partner.
Poor Duncan awkwardly half-lifted his arms, one foot tapping to the rhythm. He looked to his sister for help but found her equally stunned and attempting to mimic the ladies’ moves– and quietly prayed for…
A yell and a howl, and Lyonel jumped off the table, arms wide open like a bird showing off its feathers. He circled Margelle once and came to stand before Dunk, facing him with parted lips and a narrowed look. Then he stomped forward… and missed. And again, and again, and again, chasing after Dunk’s foot but missing each time.
So Dunk urged forward, and with the forgotten strength of a man his size, kicked down on Lyonel’s foot. The lordling let out a howl of pain and bent forward, one hand on Dunk’s arm for support.
Shit.
Slowly, Lyonel straightened and stared him up… And stuck his tongue out with a crazied look to his face, and laughed, oh, he laughed. The tent smelled of sweat and ale, and surely all of Ashford could hear the clapping and cheer of the Baratheon pavilion.
“You– C’mere!” A pair of hands grabbed her waist and spun her around, and Margelle was met with Lyonel twirling her around them. Her brother laughed, and they intertwined arms and spun around each other, while Lyonel clapped and twirled around them.
Margelle thought him insane. Mad, even. He moved like a mating bird, and his arms were his wings.
Amidst all the commotion, Lyonel’s attentions shifted from her brother to her, and she felt the urgent need to hide back into the crowd– but he was having none of that. One hand twisted around her waist and tugged her close, and he brought her around with him in a series of twirls and quick steps.
And she laughed. She laughed and pushed him away, and Lyonel chased her, howling and shouting nonsense to any sane ear. Her arms stretched out, mimicking wings as she spun, her skirts fluttering about, and the Baratheon’s eyes widened in what could only be described as the look of a stag standing before a fruit he sought to devour.
Urging forward once more, Lyonel met her fluttering, and their faces came a breath too close as they danced around one another, eyes locked on each other. For that moment alone, there was no one else in that tent– no lordlings, no peasants, no Dunk, just her and this mad man.
It was unclear to Margelle (or anyone else, for that matter) how many hours they’d spent like that. In fact, she knew very little right now outside of her cheek resting against Dunk’s shoulder, the fur-coated chair beneath her, and the heavy weight on her head. It couldn’t be the drink, because she had little of it…
It was a crown. A crown of antlers. Lyonel’s crown, which he had placed upon her head sometime during the dance. Margelle couldn’t remember when. And he didn’t seem much concerned about it either, from where he slouched on his own chair.
“You could lick salt from the air,” He mumbled, “But I’d come to find what men do when they die at sea. So, drove I into the storm.” Lyonel leaned towards Dunk as he spoke, but his eyes drifted towards Margelle, so quiet and small by his side. A strange thought whispered in the back of his head.
“Weren’t you afraid?” Asked her brother.
“Ahh,” Lyonel ran a hand down his face as he sank back into the chair. “Within every man, there are many men. Mm. But that I had to do…”
His words fell to her deaf ears as Margelle closed her eyes and thought of pink clouds and jumping stags.
“What chance do I have? Truly?”
“Oh, you have no chance.” His words made her blink herself awake again, but heavy was the cloud hanging over her head. She wished to sleep here, if she could. Whatever her brother and Lyonel were discussing was little to any importance to her tired head.
“So, what should I do?” Dunk asked, and Lyonel clapped his shoulder, as if about to grant him some great wisdom.
“I don’t know.” Said the Baratheon lord, “I’m really quite drunk.”
Then he stood on his chair, and looked around for his crown, but saw it not laying about discarded or on some fool’s head, no. Lyonel tilted down to see his house’s crown on the head of the maiden from before.
“Mm.” Grunting, Lyonel stepped down from the chair and carefully took the crown from her head. Margelle missed seeing his hooded eyes and the way he was perceiving her in that moment, thanks to her sleepiness. “There we go, atta girl.”
And he made off, over the table and into the dispersing crowd (some slow dancing to music long faded, others asleep on chairs or tables), but not without glancing one last time at the peculiar maiden lying fast asleep against the hedge knight.
Interesting.