Chapter 1 #4
Ser Eustace was scrubbing the dirt off a ruined shield with a rag when Dunk came up the steps.
Bennis followed fragrant at his heels. The old knight’s eyes seemed to brighten a little at the sight of Dunk.
“My good giant,” he declared, “and brave Ser Bennis. Come have a look at this. I found it in the bottom of that chest. A treasure, though fearfully neglected.”
It was a shield, or what remained of one. That was little enough. Almost half of it had been hacked away, and the rest was grey and splintered. The iron rim was solid rust, and the wood was full of wormholes. A few flakes of paint still clung to it, but too few to suggest a sigil.
“M’lord,” said Dunk. The Osgreys had not been lords for centuries, yet it pleased Ser Eustace to be styled so, echoing as it did the past glories of his house. “What is it?”
“The Little Lion’s shield.” The old man rubbed at the rim, and some flakes of rust came off. “Ser Wilbert Osgrey bore this at the battle where he died. I am sure you know the tale.”
“No, m’lord,” said Bennis. “We don’t, as it happens. The Little Lion, did you say? What, was he a dwarf or some such?”
“Certainly not.” The old knight’s mustache quivered.
“Ser Wilbert was a tall and powerful man, and a great knight. The name was given him in childhood, as the youngest of five brothers. In his day there were still seven kings in the Seven Kingdoms, and Highgarden and the Rock were oft at war. The green kings ruled us then, the Gardeners. They were of the blood of old Garth Greenhand, and a green hand upon a white field was their kingly banner. Gyles the Third took his banners east, to war against the Storm King, and Wilbert’s brothers all went with him, for in those days the chequy lion always flew beside the green hand when the King of the Reach went forth to battle.
“Yet it happened that while King Gyles was away, the King of the Rock saw his chance to tear a bite out of the Reach, so he gathered up a host of westermen and came down upon us. The Osgreys were the Marshals of the Northmarch, so it fell to the Little Lion to meet them. It was the fourth King Lancel who led the Lannisters, it seems to me, or mayhaps the fifth. Ser Wilbert blocked King Lancel’s path, and bid him halt.
‘Come no farther,’ he said. ‘You are not wanted here. I forbid you to set foot upon the Reach.’ But the Lannister ordered all his banners forward.
“They fought for half a day, the gold lion and the chequy. The Lannister was armed with a Valyrian sword that no common steel can match, so the Little Lion was hard-pressed, his shield in ruins. In the end, bleeding from a dozen grievous wounds, with his own blade broken in his hand, he threw himself headlong at his foe. King Lancel cut him near in half, the singers say, but as he died the Little Lion found the gap in the king’s armor beneath his arm and plunged his dagger home.
When their king died, the westermen turned back, and the Reach was saved.
” The old man stroked the broken shield as tenderly as if it had been a child.
“Aye, m’lord,” Bennis croaked, “we could use a man like that today. Dunk and me had a look at your stream, m’lord. Dry as a bone, and not from no drought.”
The old man set the shield aside. “Tell me.” He took a seat and indicated that they should do the same. As the brown knight launched into the tale, he sat listening intently, with his chin up and his shoulders back, as upright as a lance.
In his youth, Ser Eustace Osgrey must have been the very picture of chivalry, tall and broad and handsome.
Time and grief had worked their will on him, but he was still unbent, a big-boned, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man with features as strong and sharp as some old eagle.
His close-cropped hair had gone white as milk, but the thick mustache that hid his mouth remained an ashy grey.
His eyebrows were the same color, the eyes beneath a paler shade of grey, and full of sadness.
They seemed to grow sadder still when Bennis touched upon the dam.
“That stream has been known as the Chequy Water for a thousand years or more,” the old knight said.
“I caught fish there as a boy, and my sons all did the same. Alysanne liked to splash in the shallows on hot summer days like this.” Alysanne had been his daughter, who had perished in the spring.
“It was on the banks of the Chequy Water that I kissed a girl for the first time. A cousin, she was, my uncle’s youngest daughter, of the Osgreys of Leafy Lake.
They are all gone now, even her.” His mustache quivered.
“This cannot be borne, sers. The woman will not have my water. She will not have my chequy water.”
“Dam’s built strong, m’lord,” Ser Bennis warned. “Too strong for me and Ser Dunk to pull down in an hour, even with the baldhead boy to help. We’ll need ropes and picks and axes, and a dozen men. And that’s just for the work, not for the fighting.”
Ser Eustace stared at the Little Lion’s shield. Dunk cleared his throat. “M’lord, as to that, when we came upon the diggers, well…”
“Dunk, don’t trouble m’lord with trifles,” said Bennis. “I taught one fool a lesson, that was all.”
Ser Eustace looked up sharply. “What sort of lesson?”
“With my sword, as it were. A little claret on his cheek, that’s all it were, m’lord.”
The old knight looked long at him. “That…that was ill considered, ser. The woman has a spider’s heart.
She murdered three of her husbands. And all her brothers died in swaddling clothes.
Five, there were. Or six, mayhaps, I don’t recall.
They stood between her and the castle. She would whip the skin off any peasant who displeased her, I do not doubt, but for you to cut one…
no, she will not suffer such an insult. Make no mistake.
She will come for you, as she came for Lem. ”
“Dake, m’lord,” Ser Bennis said. “Begging your lordly pardon, you knew him and I never did, but his name were Dake.”
“If it please m’lord, I could go to Goldengrove and tell Lord Rowan of this dam,” said Dunk. Rowan was the old knight’s liege lord. The Red Widow held her lands of him as well.
“Rowan? No, look for no help there. Lord Rowan’s sister wed Lord Wyman’s cousin Wendell, so he is kin to the Red Widow.
Besides, he loves me not. Ser Duncan, on the morrow you must make the rounds of all my villages and roust out every able-bodied man of fighting age.
I am old, but I am not dead. The woman will soon find that the chequy lion still has claws! ”
Two, Dunk thought glumly, and I am one of them.
Ser Eustace’s lands supported three small villages, none more than a handful of hovels, sheepfolds, and pigs.
The largest boasted a thatched one-room sept with crude pictures of the Seven scratched upon the walls in charcoal.
Mudge, a stoop-backed old swineherd who’d once been to Oldtown, led devotions there every seventh day.
Twice a year a real septon came through to forgive sins in the Mother’s name.
The smallfolk were glad of the forgiveness, but hated the septon’s visits all the same since they were required to feed him.
They seemed no more pleased by the sight of Dunk and Egg.
Dunk was known in the villages, if only as Ser Eustace’s new knight, but not so much as a cup of water was offered him.
Most of the men were in the fields, so it was largely women and children who crept out of the hovels at their coming, along with a few grandfathers too infirm for work.
Egg bore the Osgrey banner, the chequy lion green and gold, rampant upon its field of white.
“We come from Standfast with Ser Eustace’s summons,” Dunk told the villagers.
“Every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and fifty is commanded to assemble at the tower on the morrow.”
“Is it war?” asked one thin woman, with two children hiding behind her skirts and a babe sucking at her breast. “Is the black dragon come again?”
“There are no dragons in this, black or red,” Dunk told her. “This is between the chequy lion and the spiders. The Red Widow has taken your water.”
The woman nodded though she looked askance when Egg took off his hat to fan his face. “That boy got no hair. He sick?”
“It’s shaven,” said Egg. He put the hat back on, turned Maester’s head, and rode off slowly.