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On the eve of what would be remembered as The Hedge Knight, while Lord Beron Stark lay dying of wounds that would not close—
There was Dunk.
A bastard son, born of a woman long forgotten. Tall from the first, broad and solemn, he had been called “Dunk the Tall” in rough jest before ever his blood was set to parchment. The jest faded. The name endured.
Now he was simply Dunk.
The old gods had given him back—not as a shadow in the wolfswood, but in flesh and breath. Stark blood ran cold in his veins. Within him lingered the memories of another life: Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight, bearer of battered honor.
And deeper still lay knowledge.
He knew what was coming.
Dunk of Winterfell.
Bastard.
Stark.
Reborn beneath the silent gaze of the old gods—who do not forget, and do not forgive.
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