A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

  "The Red Widow gave you a whole clout."

  Dunk touched his swollen lip. "You don't need to sound so pleased about it." No one ever clouted your father in the ear, though. Maybe that's why Prince Maekar is the way he is. "When the king named Lord Bloodraven his Hand, your lord father refused to be part of his council and departed King's Landing for his own seat," he reminded Egg. "He has been at Summerhall for a year, and half of another. What do you call that, if not sulking?"

  "I call it being wroth," Egg declared loftily. "His Grace should have made my father Hand. He's his brother, and the finest battle commander in the realm since Uncle Baelor died. Lord Bloodraven's not even a real lord, that's just some stupid courtesy. He's a sorcerer, and baseborn besides."

  "Bastard born, not baseborn." Bloodraven might not be a real lord, but he was noble on both sides. His mother had been one of the many mistresses of King Aegon the Unworthy. Aegon's bastards had been the bane of the Seven Kingdoms ever since the old king died. He had legitimized the lot upon his deathbed; not only the Great Bastards like Bloodraven, Bittersteel, and Daemon Blackfyre, whose mothers had been ladies, but even the lesser ones he'd fathered on whores and tavern wenches, merchant's daughters, mummer's maidens, and every pretty peasant girl who chanced to catch his eye. Fire and Blood were the words of House Targaryen, but Dunk once heard Ser Arlan say that Aegon's should have been, Wash Her and Bring Her to My Bed.

  "King Aegon washed Bloodraven clean of bastardy," he reminded Egg, "the same as he did the rest of them."

  "The old High Septon told my father that king's laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another," the boy said stubbornly. "Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. King Aegon decreed that his bastards were not bastards, but he could not change their nature. The High Septon said all bastards are born to betrayal...Daemon Blackfyre, Bittersteel, even Bloodraven. Lord Rivers was more cunning than the other two, he said, but in the end he would prove himself a traitor too. The High Septon counseled my father never to put any trust in him, nor in any other bastards, great or small."

  Born to betrayal, Dunk thought. Born of lust and weakness. Never to be trusted, great or small. "Egg," he said, "didn't you ever think that I might be a bastard?"

  "You, ser?" That took the boy aback. "You are not."

  "I might be. I never knew my mother, or what became of her. Maybe I was born too big and killed her. Most like she was some whore or tavern girl. You don't find highborn ladies down in Flea Bottom. And if she ever wed my father...well, what became of him, then?" Dunk did not like to be reminded of his life before Ser Arlan found him. "There was a pot shop in King's Landing where I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for the brown. The cook always claimed my father was some thief or cutpurse. 'Most like I saw him hanged,' he used to tell me, 'but maybe they just sent him to the Wall.' When I was squiring for Ser Arlan, I would ask him if we couldn't go up that way someday, to take service at Winterfell or some other northern castle. I had this notion that if I could only reach the Wall, might be I'd come on some old man, a real tall man who looked like me. We never went, though. Ser Arlan said there were no hedges in the north, and all the woods were full of wolves." He shook his head. "The long and short of it is, most like you're squiring for a bastard."

  For once Egg had nothing to say. The gloom was deepening around them. Lantern bugs moved slowly through the trees, their little lights like so many drifting stars. There were stars in the sky as well, more stars than any man could ever hope to count, even if he lived to be as old as King Jaehaerys. Dunk need only lift his eyes to find familiar friends: the Stallion and the Sow, the King's Crown and the Crone's Lantern, the Galley, Ghost, and Moonmaid. But there were clouds to the north, and the blue eye of the Ice Dragon was lost to him, the blue eye that pointed north.

  The moon had risen by the time they came to Standfast, standing dark and tall atop its hill. A pale yellow light was spilling from the tower's upper windows, he saw. Most nights Ser Eustace sought his bed as soon as he had supped, but not tonight, it seemed. He is waiting for us, Dunk knew.

  Bennis of the Brown Shield was waiting up as well. They found him sitting on the tower steps, chewing sourleaf and honing his longsword in the moonlight. The slow scrape of stone on steel carried a long way. However much Ser Bennis might neglect his clothes and person, he kept his weapons well.

  "The lunk comes back," Bennis said. "Here I was sharpening my steel to go rescue you from that Red Widow."

  "Where are the men?"

  "Treb and Wet Wat are on the roof standing watch, case the widow comes to call. The rest crawled into bed whimpering. Sore as sin, they are. I worked them hard. Drew a little blood off that big lackwit, just to make him mad. He fights better when he's mad." He smiled his brown and red smile. "Nice bloody lip you got. Next time, don't go turning over rocks. What did the woman say?"

  "She means to keep the water. And she wants you as well, for cutting that digger by the dam."

  "Thought she might." Bennis spat. "Lot o' bother for some peasant. He ought to thank me. Women like a man with scars."

  "You won't mind her slitting your nose, then."

  "Bugger that. If I wanted my nose slit, I'd slit it for myself." He jerked a thumb up. "You'll find Ser Useless in his chambers, brooding on how great he used to be."

  Egg spoke up. "He fought for the black dragon."

  Dunk could have given the boy a clout, but the brown knight only laughed. " 'Course he did. Just look at him. He strike you as the kind who picks the winning side?"

  "No more than you. Else you wouldn't be here with us." Dunk turned to Egg. "Tend to Thunder and Maester, then come up and join us."

  When Dunk came up through the trap, the old knight was sitting by the hearth in his bedrobe, though no fire had been laid. His father's cup was in his hand, a heavy silver cup that had been made for some Lord Osgrey back before the Conquest. A chequy lion adorned the bowl, done in flakes of jade and gold, though some of the jade flakes had gone missing. At the sound of Dunk's footsteps, the old knight looked up and blinked like a man waking from a dream. "Ser Duncan. You are back. Did the sight of you give Lucas Inchfield pause, ser?"

  "Not as I saw, m'lord. More like, it made him wroth." Dunk told it all as best he could, though he omitted the part about Lady Helicent, which made him look an utter fool. He would have left out the clout too, but his broken lip had puffed up twice its normal size, and Ser Eustace could not help but notice.

  When he did, he frowned. "Your lip..."

  Dunk touched it gingerly. "Her ladyship gave me a slap."

  "She struck you?" His mouth opened and closed. "She struck my envoy, who came to her beneath the chequy lion? She dared lay hands upon your person?"

  "Only the one hand, ser. It stopped bleeding before we even left the castle." He made a fist. "She wants Ser Bennis, not your silver, and she won't take down the dam. She showed me a parchment with some writing on it, and the king's own seal. It said the stream is hers. And..." He hesitated. "She said that you were...that you had..."

  "...risen with the black dragon?" Ser Eustace seemed to slump. "I feared she might. If you wish to leave my service, I will not stop you." The old knight gazed into his cup though what he might be looking for Dunk could not say.

  "You told me your sons died fighting for the king."

  "And so they did. The rightful king, Daemon Blackfyre. The King Who Bore the Sword." The old man's mustache quivered. "The men of the red dragon call themselves the loyalists, but we who chose the black were just as loyal, once. Though now...all the men who marched beside me to seat Prince Daemon on the Iron Throne have melted away like morning dew. Mayhaps I dreamed them. Or more like, Lord Bloodraven and his Raven's Teeth have put the fear in them. They cannot all be dead."

  Dunk could not deny the truth of that. Until this moment, he had never met a man who'd fought for the Pretender. I must have, though. There were thou
sands of them. Half the realm was for the red dragon, and half was for the black. "Both sides fought valiantly, Ser Arlan always said." He thought the old knight would want to hear that.

  Ser Eustace cradled his wine cup in both hands. "If Daemon had ridden over Gwayne Corbray...if Fireball had not been slain on the eve of battle...if Hightower and Tarbeck and Oakheart and Butter well had lent us their full strength instead of trying to keep one foot in each camp...if Manfred Lothston had proved true instead of treacherous...if storms had not delayed Lord Bracken's sailing with the Myrish crossbowmen...if Quickfinger had not been caught with the stolen dragon's eggs...so many ifs, ser...had any one come out differently, it could all have turned t'other way. Then we would be called the loyalists, and the red dragons would be remembered as men who fought to keep the usurper Daeron the Falseborn upon his stolen throne, and failed."

  "That's as it may be, m'lord," said Dunk, "but things went the way they went. It was all years ago, and you were pardoned."

  "Aye, we were pardoned. So long as we bent the knee and gave him a hostage to ensure our future loyalty, Daeron forgave the traitors and the rebels." His voice was bitter. "I bought my head back with my daughter's life. Alysanne was seven when they took her off to King's Landing and twenty when she died, a silent sister. I went to King's Landing once to see her, and she would not even speak to me, her own father. A king's mercy is a poisoned gift. Daeron Targaryen left me life, but took my pride and dreams and honor." His hand trembled, and wine spilled red upon his lap, but the old man took no notice of it. "I should have gone with Bittersteel into exile, or died beside my sons and my sweet king. That would have been a death worthy of a chequy lion descended from so many proud lords and mighty warriors. Daeron's mercy made me smaller."

  In his heart the black dragon never died, Dunk realized.

  "My lord?"

  It was Egg's voice. The boy had come in as Ser Eustace was speaking of his death. The old knight blinked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. "Yes, lad? What is it?"

  "If it please you...the Red Widow says you rebelled to get her castle. That isn't true, is it?"

  "The castle?" He seemed confused. "Coldmoat...Coldmoat was promised me by Daemon, yes, but...it was not for gain, no..."

  "Then why?" asked Egg.

  "Why?" Ser Eustace frowned.

  "Why were you a traitor? If it wasn't just the castle."

  Ser Eustace looked at Egg a long time before replying. "You are only a young boy. You would not understand."

  "Well," said Egg, "I might."

  "Treason...is only a word. When two princes fight for a chair where only one may sit, great lords and common men alike must choose. And when the battle's done, the victors will be hailed as loyal men and true, whilst those who were defeated will be known forevermore as rebels and traitors. That was my fate."

  Egg thought about it for a time. "Yes, my lord. Only...King Daeron was a good man. Why would you choose Daemon?"

  "Daeron..." Ser Eustace almost slurred the word, and Dunk realized he was half-drunk. "Daeron was spindly and round of shoulder, with a little belly that wobbled when he walked. Daemon stood straight and proud, and his stomach was flat and hard as an oaken shield. And he could fight. With axe or lance or flail, he was as good as any knight I ever saw, but with the sword he was the Warrior himself. When Prince Daemon had Blackfyre in his hand, there was not a man to equal him...not Ulrick Dayne with Dawn, no, nor even the Dragonknight with Dark Sister.

  "You can know a man by his friends, Egg. Daeron surrounded himself with maesters, septons, and singers. Always there were women whispering in his ear, and his court was full of Dornishmen. How not, when he had taken a Dornishwoman into his bed and sold his own sweet sister to the Prince of Dorne, though it was Daemon that she loved? Daeron bore the same name as the Young Dragon, but when his Dornish wife gave him a son he named the child Baelor, after the feeblest king who ever sat the Iron Throne.

  "Daemon, though...Daemon was no more pious than a king need be, and all the great knights of the realm gathered to him. It would suit Lord Bloodraven if their names were all forgotten, so he has forbidden us to sing of them, but I remember. Robb Reyne, Gareth the Grey, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Lord Gormon Peake, Black Byren Flowers, Redtusk, Fireball...Bittersteel! I ask you, has there ever been such a noble company, such a roll of heroes?

  "Why, lad? You ask me why? Because Daemon was the better man. The old king saw it too. He gave the sword to Daemon. Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade that every Targaryen king had wielded since the Conquest...he put that sword in Daemon's hand the day he knighted him, a boy of twelve."

  "My father says that was because Daemon was a swordsman, and Daeron never was," said Egg. "Why give a horse to a man who cannot ride? The sword was not the kingdom, he says."

  The old knight's hand jerked so hard that wine spilled from his silver cup. "Your father is a fool."

  "He is not," the boy said.

  Osgrey's face twisted in anger. "You asked a question and I answered it, but I will not suffer insolence. Ser Duncan, you should beat this boy more often. His courtesy leaves much to be desired. If I must needs do it myself, I will--"

  "No," Dunk broke in. "You won't. Ser." He had made up his mind. "It is dark. We will leave at first light."

  Ser Eustace stared at him, stricken. "Leave?"

  "Standfast. Your service." You lied to us. Call it what you will, there was no honor in it. He unfastened his cloak, rolled it up, and put it in the old man's lap.

  Osgrey's eyes grew narrow. "Did that woman offer to take you into service? Are you leaving me for that whore's bed?"

  "I don't know that she is a whore," Dunk said, "or a witch or a poisoner or none of that. But whatever she may be makes no matter. We're leaving for the hedges, not for Coldmoat."

  "The ditches, you mean. You're leaving me to prowl in the woods like wolves, to waylay honest men upon the roads." His hand was shaking. The cup fell from his fingers, spilling wine as it rolled along the floor. "Go, then. Go. I want none of you. I should never have taken you on. Go!"

  "As you say, ser." Dunk beckoned, and Egg followed.

  That last night Dunk wanted to be as far from Eustace Osgrey as he could, so they slept down in the cellar, amongst the rest of Standfast's meager host. It was a restless night. Lem and red-eyed Pate both snored, the one loudly and the other constantly. Dank vapors filled the cellar, rising through the trap from the deeper vaults below. Dunk tossed and turned on the scratchy bed, drifting off into a half sleep only to wake suddenly in darkness. The bites he'd gotten in the woods were itching fiercely, and there were fleas in the straw as well. I will be well rid of this place, well rid of the old man, and Ser Bennis, and the rest of them. Maybe it was time that he took Egg back to Summerhall to see his father. He would ask the boy about that in the morning, when they were well away.

  Morning seemed a long way off, though. Dunk's head was full of dragons, red and black...full of chequy lions, old shields, battered boots...full of streams and moats and dams, and papers stamped with the king's great seal that he could not read.

  And she was there as well, the Red Widow, Rohanne of the Coldmoat. He could see her freckled face, her slender arms, her long red braid. It made him feel guilty. I should be dreaming of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall, they called her, but she was not too tall for me. She had painted arms upon his shield and he had saved her from the Bright Prince, but she vanished even before the trial of seven. She could not bear to see me die, Dunk often told himself, but what did he know? He was as thick as a castle wall. Just thinking of the Red Widow was proof enough of that. Tanselle smiled at me, but we never held each other, never kissed, not even lips to cheek. Rohanne at least had touched him; he had the swollen lip to prove it. Don't be daft. She's not for the likes of you. She is too small, too clever, and much too dangerous.

  Drowsing at long last, Dunk dreamed. He was running through a glade in the heart of Wat's Wood, running toward Rohanne, and she was sho
oting arrows at him. Each shaft she loosed flew true, and pierced him through the chest, yet the pain was strangely sweet. He should have turned and fled, but he ran toward her instead, running slowly as you always did in dreams, as if the very air had turned to honey. Another arrow came, and yet another. Her quiver seemed to have no end of shafts. Her eyes were grey and green and full of mischief. Your gown brings out the color of your eyes, he meant to say to her, but she was not wearing any gown, or any clothes at all. Across her small breasts was a faint spray of freckles, and her nipples were red and hard as little berries. The arrows made him look like some great porcupine as he went stumbling to her feet, but somehow he still found the strength to grab her braid. With one hard yank he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her.

  He woke suddenly, at the sound of a shout.

  In the darkened cellar, all was confusion. Curses and complaints echoed back and forth, and men were stumbling over one another as they fumbled for their spears or breeches. No one knew what was happening. Egg found the tallow candle and got it lit, to shed some light upon the scene. Dunk was the first one up the steps. He almost collided with Sam Stoops rushing down, puffing like a bellows and babbling incoherently. Dunk had to hold him by both shoulders to keep him from falling. "Sam, what's wrong?"

  "The sky," the old man whimpered. "The sky!" No more sense could be got from him, so they all went up to the roof for a look. Ser Eustace was there before them, standing by the parapets in his bedrobe, staring off into the distance.

  The sun was rising in the west.

  It was a long moment before Dunk realized what that meant. "Wat's Wood is afire," he said in a hushed voice. From down at the base of the tower came the sound of Bennis cursing, a stream of such surpassing filth that it might have made Aegon the Unworthy blush. Sam Stoops began to pray.

  They were too far away to make out flames, but the red glow engulfed half the western horizon, and above the light the stars were vanishing. The King's Crown was half gone already, obscured behind a veil of the rising smoke.