"Welcome your grace!"
Daeron waved his hand dismissively. "Aye, aye, and this man is with me. Ser Duncan the Tall."
The title rolled off his tongue with casual ease, even if he don't know I'm knighted or not.
The guards straightened, giving me the kind of look only highborn knights received. The same men who might have ignored or mocked a hedge knight the day before now stepped aside, bowing slightly.
All because of having good set of armor, and a slightly drunk and a bald prince beside him.
Inside, the meadow opened wide, a sea of color and motion—horses trotting, squires shouting, armor clanking, and lords' banners flapping in the warm wind. The scent of roasted meat mingled with sweat and hay. It was alive, loud, real.
And I couldn't help the grin stretching across my face.
I'd read this scene in The Hedge Knight, I knew most of noble house that would soon ride here. But standing in it—feeling the ground shake under the hooves of destriers—was different experience.
Daeron led the way, humming some old song. Egg walked quietly beside me, glancing up from time to time.
When we reached the inner yard, several men turned to look.
A few peasants carrying buckets stopped to stare. One of them nudged his friend, whispering loud enough for me to hear.
"Look at that plate. Must be Lannister work, eh?"
"Never seen steel so smooth. No hammer marks at all."
A pair of serving women carrying bread trays passed by, giggling as they glanced at me. One smiled and dipped her head, cheeks pink.
"Good day, ser," she said softly.
"Good day," I replied, and she nearly dropped her tray.
Being called ser—it still felt strange.
As we rode into the inner bailey of Ashford Castle, where the great lords and high knights stayed. Without Daeron, I would've been turned away before I could blink. But with him, even the steward bowed low.
"His Grace, Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, and his companion Ser Duncan," the steward announced. "Rooms shall be prepared at once."
Our chambers were in the east wing of the castle—stone walls, polished floors, and feather beds. The kind of place Dunk had never even dreamed of sleeping in.
In my room, when I was alone, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the system window in my mind.
Rows of items scrolled by—food, tools, clothing, drinks. I tapped into the "Beverages" tab and nearly laughed. There were hundreds of listings. Wine from Dorne. Whiskey from my world. Meads, ales, even things like rum and champagne.
If Daeron liked the red wine so much, maybe I could use that to tighten the bond. He might drink too much, but he was a Targaryen prince, blood of dragon, so he won't die for over drinking right?
So I spent ten silver stags and bought twenty bottles—ten kinds of wines and liquors in all. They appeared in my inventory with a soft shimmer. Glass bottles, bright labels, and colors ranging from deep crimson to amber gold.
That much wine would cost more than thousand dragons in this world—if such a thing could even be found.
I stepped outside and flagged a servant girl carrying a tray of towels.
"You there," I said softly. "Would you take a message to Prince Daeron's chambers?"
She blinked at me, nervous but curious. "Aye, ser."
"Tell him Ser Duncan has brought the special wine he requested. Twenty bottles. He'll want them before sunset."
She nodded. "Aye."
As she hurried off, I turned back toward my room.
Egg was standing by the door, staring at me with that sharp, too-perceptive gaze of his. "You always have wine with you, ser?"
I smiled faintly. "Let's just say I'm good with trade, boy. I know where to find things others can't."
He tilted his head. "You sound like a merchant."
...
Later that afternoon, as the sound of trumpets echoed from the lists outside, I stood by my window, watching the camp unfold below. Knights were setting up banners, squires polishing armor, and lords strolling through their pavilions.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," I called.
The same servant girl stepped in, curtsying low. "Ser, Prince Daeron sends his compliments. He says the wine is marvelous and bids you join him for supper."
I smiled, leaning against the table. "Tell him I'll come presently."
She nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.
"Come on, lad. Let's go see your brother before he drinks himself into the Stranger's arms."
...
I sat at a long oak table beside Daeron and Egg.
Daeron, looked bit disheveled, his brown hair slightly tousled, his cheeks still red from wine.
I tore a piece of bread and dipped it in gravy as a hush spread across the hall.
From the great doors came the rhythmic sound of boots. A man entered—a tall figure in black and red plate, his cloak fastened with a ruby dragon pin. His face was serious, sharp.
Crown Prince Baelor Breakspear.
Even without the title, I would have known him. His bearing carried the weight of command, yet there was kindness behind his gaze.
Daeron stood hastily, nearly spilling his cup. Egg rose too, bowing low. I followed suit.
"Uncle," Daeron slurred a bit, smiling. "You honor us."
Baelor's eyes softened as he looked at his nephews. "You look well, Daeron. And you, Aegon—what's this?"
Egg grinned faintly. "Daeron shaved my head."
Sigh~
Baelor let out long sigh, He then gaze shifted to me, assessing. "Ser Duncan, is it? The hedge knight my nephew's been speaking of?"
I inclined my head. "Aye, Your Grace."
"May I join you?" he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.
"Of course, my prince," I said, stepping aside as servants hurried to bring a chair.
Baelor sat at the head of our table. The conversation began politely enough—questions of the road, of the lists, of the coming jousts. But soon, Baelor turned his gaze back to me, curious.
"My nephew tells me you met at an inn," he said. "That you shared wine together, and afterward, he swore to vouch for you in the tourney."
I nodded, taking a calm sip of water. "That's right, Your Grace. We met by chance. I was on my way to Ashford, stopped for food and rest. Prince Daeron was there, and after a few bottles of my wine, he was kind enough to offer his support."
Daeron chuckled softly. "Kind enough—or drunk enough."
Baelor's lips curved faintly. "Wine strong enough to make my nephew follow you to tourney, I would like to taste it."
I leaned back slightly, steadying my tone. "It's a trade, Your Grace. I travel with what I can sell—armor, trinkets, sometimes drink. Hedge knights must earn their keep however they can."
Baelor studied me for a long moment.
"You speak plainly," he said at last. "That's rare among those who seek the favor of princes."
"Steel and honesty serve me better."
I said.
That earned a low laugh from Daeron. "Honesty? strange wine, more like."
I signaled to one of the servants standing nearby. "Fetch a bottle from my chambers. The gold one."
The girl curtsied and hurried off.
Daeron smirked, swirling the last of his earlier drink. "Careful, Uncle. You'll end up buying a hundred bottles before the night is done, after all it's way batter then Dornish."
Baelor smiled faintly but said nothing. He sat straight, the very image of royal composure, though I caught a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.
Moments later, the servant girl returned, cradling a heavy glass bottle in both hands. The liquid inside gleamed like molten gold, shimmering under the firelight.
I took it gently, drawing a small knife from my belt to cut the seal.
As I pulled the cork, a faint, sweet aroma filled the air—honey, fruit, and warmth. It was mead, technically, but from my world—a rich, aged wine that could've been brewed by gods.
To show good faith, I poured myself a small cup and drank first. "No poison," I said simply, smiling.
I poured another cup and slid it toward him. The golden liquid shimmered as he lifted it to his lips.
He drank.
A moment passed.
"That," he said quietly, "is the finest wine I have ever tasted."
Daeron grinned. "Told you so."
Baelor set down his cup and looked at me again, his expression thoughtful. "Where does this come from, Ser Duncan? Dorne? The Arbor?"
I hesitated. "Neither, Your Grace. Let's say… it comes through certain trade agreements best left discreet. The men I buy from would prefer their sources stay unnamed."
Baelor studied me for a long moment, weighing that. Then, to my relief, he nodded. " Still, if you can supply such wine, I'd like to place an order."
"An order?" I repeated, blinking.
"Aye," Baelor said. "A thousand bottles. Delivered directly to the royal cellars at King's Landing. My father will want to taste it himself."
A thousand bottles.
I nearly choked on air. That would cost me—what? Few Gold Dragon ?
"I can do that," I said smoothly, forcing calm into my voice. "It'll take time, of course, but I'll have them delivered straight to the capital."
Baelor smiled faintly. "Good. Speak with my steward before you leave Ashford. He'll arrange the details."
Across the table, Daeron gave me a sly grin. "Looks like you've found your fortune, ser."
"Fortune favors those who take chances," I said quietly.
...