A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
“Now you mock me. A true knight would never mock his king.” The Fiddler sounded hurt. “I hope you will put more faith in what I tell you when you see the dragon hatch.”
“A dragon will hatch? A living dragon? What, here?”
“I dreamed it. This pale white castle, you, a dragon bursting from an egg, I dreamed it all, just as I once dreamed of my brothers lying dead. They were twelve and I was only seven, so they laughed at me, and died. I am two-and-twenty now, and I trust my dreams.”
Dunk was remembering another tourney, remembering how he had walked through the soft spring rains with another princeling.
I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, Egg’s brother Daeron said to him.
A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow.
It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.
And so he was, poor Baelor. Dreams were a treacherous ground on which to build.
“As you say, m’lord,” he told the Fiddler. “Pray excuse me.”
“Where are you going, ser?”
“To my bed, to sleep. I’m drunk as a dog.”
“Be my dog, ser. The night’s alive with promise. We can howl together and wake the very gods.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Your sword. I would make you mine own man, and raise you high. My dreams do not lie, Ser Duncan. You shall have that white cloak, and I must have the dragon’s egg. I must, my dreams have made that plain. Perhaps the egg will hatch, or else…”
Behind them, the door banged open violently. “There he is, my lord.” A pair of men-at-arms stepped onto the roof. Lord Gormon Peake was just behind them.
“Gormy,” the Fiddler drawled. “Why, what are you doing in my bedchamber, my lord?”
“It is a roof, ser, and you have had too much wine.” Lord Gormon made a sharp gesture, and the guards moved forward. “Allow us to help you to that bed. You are jousting on the morrow, pray recall. Kirby Pimm can prove a dangerous foe.”
“I had hoped to joust with good Ser Duncan here.”
Peake gave Dunk an unsympathetic look. “Later, perhaps. For your first tilt, you have drawn Ser Kirby Pimm.”
“Then Pimm must fall! So must they all! The mystery knight prevails against all challengers, and wonder dances in his wake.” A guardsman took the Fiddler by the arm. “Ser Duncan, it seems that we must part,” he called, as they helped him down the steps.
Only Lord Gormon remained upon the roof with Dunk. “Hedge knight,” he growled, “did your mother never teach you not to reach your hand into the dragon’s mouth?”
“I never knew my mother, m’lord.”
“That would explain it. What did he promise you?”
“A lordship. A white cloak. Big blue wings.”
“Here’s my promise: three feet of cold steel through your belly if you speak a word of what just happened.”
Dunk shook his head to clear his wits. It did not seem to help. He bent double at the waist, and retched.
Some of the vomit spattered Peake’s boots. The lord cursed. “Hedge knights,” he exclaimed in disgust. “You have no place here. No true knight would be so discourteous as to turn up uninvited, but you creatures of the hedge…”
“We are wanted nowhere and turn up everywhere, m’lord.” The wine had made Dunk bold, else he would have held his tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Try and remember what I told you, ser. It will go ill for you if you do not.” Lord Peake shook the vomit off his boot. Then he was gone. Dunk leaned against the parapet again. He wondered who was madder, Lord Gormon or the Fiddler.
By the time he found his way back to the hall, only Maynard Plumm remained of his companions. “Was there any flour on her teats when you got the smallclothes off her?” he wanted to know.
Dunk shook his head, poured himself another cup of wine, tasted it, and decided that he had drunk enough.
Butterwell’s stewards had found rooms in the keep for the lords and ladies, and beds in the barracks for their retinues.
The rest of the guests had their choice between a straw pallet in the cellar or a spot of ground beneath the western walls to raise their pavilions.
The modest sailcloth tent Dunk had acquired in Stoney Sept was no pavilion, but it kept the rain and sun off.
Some of his neighbors were still awake, the silken walls of their pavilions glowing like colored lanterns in the night.
Laughter came from inside a blue pavilion covered with sunflowers, and the sounds of love from one striped in white and purple.
Egg had set up their own tent a bit apart from the others.
Maester and the two horses were hobbled nearby, and Dunk’s arms and armor had been neatly stacked against the castle walls.
When he crept into the tent, he found his squire sitting cross-legged by a candle, his head shining as he peered over a book.
“Reading books by candlelight will make you blind.” Reading remained a mystery to Dunk though the lad had tried to teach him.
“I need the candlelight to see the words, ser.”
“Do you want a clout in the ear? What book is that?” Dunk saw bright colors on the page, little painted shields hiding in amongst the letters.
“A roll of arms, ser.”
“Looking for the Fiddler? You won’t find him. They don’t put hedge knights in those rolls, just lords and champions.”
“I wasn’t looking for him. I saw some other sigils in the yard…Lord Sunderland is here, ser. He bears the heads of three pale ladies, on undy green and blue.”
“A Sisterman? Truly?” The Three Sisters were islands in the Bite. Dunk had heard septons say that the isles were sinks of sin and avarice. Sisterton was the most notorious smugglers’ den in all of Westeros. “He’s come a long way. He must be kin to Butterwell’s new bride.”
“He isn’t, ser.”
“Then he’s here for the feast. They eat fish on the Three Sisters, don’t they? A man gets sick of fish. Did you get enough to eat? I brought you half a capon and some cheese.” Dunk rummaged in the pocket of his cloak.
“They fed us ribs, ser.” Egg’s nose was deep in the book. “Lord Sunderland fought for the black dragon, ser.”
“Like old Ser Eustace? He wasn’t so bad, was he?”
“No, ser,” Egg said, “but…”
“I saw the dragon’s egg.” Dunk squirreled the food away with their hardbread and salt beef. “It was red, mostly. Does Lord Bloodraven own a dragon’s egg as well?”
Egg lowered his book. “Why would he? He’s baseborn.”
“Bastard born, not baseborn.” Bloodraven had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but he was noble on both sides. Dunk was about to tell Egg about the men he’d overheard when he noticed his face. “What happened to your lip?”
“A fight, ser.”
“Let me see it.”
“It only bled a little. I dabbed some wine on it.”
“Who were you fighting?”
“Some other squires. They said—”
“Never mind what they said. What did I tell you?”
“To hold my tongue and make no trouble.” The boy touched his broken lip. “They called my father a kinslayer, though.”
He is, lad, though I do not think he meant it.
Dunk had told Egg half a hundred times not to take such words to heart.
You know the truth. Let that be enough. They had heard such talk before, in winesinks and low taverns, and around campfires in the woods.
The whole realm knew how Prince Maekar’s mace had felled his brother Baelor Breakspear at Ashford Meadow.
Talk of plots was only to be expected. “If they knew Prince Maekar was your father, they would never have said such things.” Behind your back, yes, but never to your face.
“And what did you tell these other squires, instead of holding your tongue?”
Egg looked abashed. “That Prince Baelor’s death was just a mishap. Only when I said Prince Maekar loved his brother Baelor, Ser Addam’s squire said he loved him to death, and Ser Mallor’s squire said he meant to love his brother Aerys the same way. That was when I hit him. I hit him good.”
“I ought to hit you good. A fat ear to go with that fat lip. Your father would do the same if he were here. Do you think Prince Maekar needs a little boy to defend him? What did he tell you when he sent you off with me?”
“To serve you faithfully as your squire and not flinch from any task or hardship.”
“And what else?”
“To obey the king’s laws, the rules of chivalry, and you.”
“And what else?”
“To keep my hair shaven or dyed,” the boy said, with obvious reluctance, “and tell no man my true name.”
Dunk nodded. “How much wine had this boy drunk?”
“He was drinking barley beer.”
“You see? The barley beer was talking. Words are wind, Egg. Just let them blow on past you.”
“Some words are wind.” The boy was nothing if not stubborn. “Some words are treason. This is a traitors’ tourney, ser.”
“What, all of them?” Dunk shook his head. “If it was true, that was a long time ago. The black dragon’s dead, and those who fought with him are fled or pardoned. And it’s not true. Lord Butterwell’s sons fought on both sides.”
“That makes him half a traitor, ser.”
“Sixteen years ago.” Dunk’s mellow, winey haze was gone.
He felt angry, and near sober. “Lord Butterwell’s steward is the master of the games, a man named Cosgrove.
Find him and enter my name for the lists.
No, wait…hold back my name.” With so many lords on hand, one of them might recall Ser Duncan the Tall from Ashford Meadow.
“Enter me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a mystery knight appeared at a tourney.
Egg fingered his fat lip. “The Gallows Knight, ser?”
“For the shield.”
“Yes, but…
“Go do as I said. You have read enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and forefinger.
The sun rose hot and hard, implacable.
Waves of heat rose shimmering off the white stones of the castle. The air smelled of baked earth and torn grass, and no breath of wind stirred the banners that drooped atop the keep and gatehouse, green and white and yellow.