A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

  The rain was lashing down around them, a thousand cold grey whips upon his back. His cloak was already sodden. It was the white wool cloak Ser Eustace had given him, with the green-and-gold-checkered border. The old knight had pressed it on him once again, as a parting gift. "For your courage and leal service, ser," he said. The brooch that pinned the cloak at his shoulder was a gift as well; an ivory spider brooch with silver legs. Clusters of crushed garnets made spots upon its back.

  "I hope this is not some mad quest to hunt down Bennis," Septon Sefton said. "You are so bruised and battered that I would fear for you if that one found you in such a state."

  Bennis, Dunk thought bitterly, bloody Bennis. While Dunk had been making his stand at the stream, Bennis had tied up Sam Stoops and his wife, ransacked Standfast from top to bottom, and made off with every item of value he could find, from candles, clothes, and weaponry to Osgrey's old silver cup and a small cache of coins the old man had hidden in his solar behind a mildewed tapestry. One day Dunk hoped to meet Ser Bennis of the Brown Shield again, and when he did..."Bennis will keep."

  "Where will you go?" The septon was panting heavily. Even with Dunk on a crutch, he was too fat to match his pace.

  "Fair Isle. Harrenhal. The Trident. There are hedges everywhere." He shrugged. "I've always wanted to see the Wall."

  "The Wall?" The septon jerked to a stop. "I despair of you, Ser Duncan!" he shouted, standing in the mud with outspread hands as the rain came down around him. "Pray, ser, pray for the Crone to light your way!" Dunk kept walking.

  She was waiting for him inside the stables, standing by the yellow bales of hay in a gown as green as summer. "Ser Duncan," she said when he came pushing through the door. Her red braid hung down in front, the end of it brushing against her thighs. "It is good to see you on your feet."

  You never saw me on my back, he thought. "M'lady. What brings you to the stables? It's a wet day for a ride."

  "I might say the same to you."

  "Egg told you?" I owe him another clout in the ear.

  "Be glad he did, or I would have sent men after you to drag you back. It was cruel of you to try to steal away without so much as a farewell."

  She had never come to see him while he was in Maester Cerrick's care, not once. "That green becomes you well, m'lady," he said. "It brings out the color of your eyes." He shifted his weight awkwardly on the crutch. "I'm here for my horse."

  "You do not need to go. There is a place for you here, when you're recovered. Captain of my guards. And Egg can join my other squires. No one need ever know who he is."

  "Thank you, m'lady, but no." Thunder was in a stall a dozen places down. Dunk hobbled toward him.

  "Please reconsider, ser. These are perilous times, even for dragons and their friends. Stay until you've healed." She walked along beside him. "It would please Lord Eustace too. He is very fond of you."

  "Very fond," Dunk agreed. "If his daughter wasn't dead, he'd want me to marry her. Then you could be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother."

  For half a heartbeat Lady Rohanne looked as though she was going to slap him again. Maybe she'll just kick my crutch away.

  "You are angry with me, ser," she said instead. "You must let me make amends."

  "Well," he said, "you could help me saddle Thunder."

  "I had something else in mind." She reached out her hand for his, a freckled hand, her fingers strong and slender. I'll bet she's freckled all over. "How well do you know horses?"

  "I ride one."

  "An old destrier bred for battle, slow-footed and ill-tempered. Not a horse to ride from place to place."

  "If I need to get from place to place, it's him or these." Dunk pointed at his feet.

  "You have large feet," she observed. "Large hands as well. I think you must be large all over. Too large for most palfreys. They'd look like ponies with you perched upon their backs. Still, a swifter mount would serve you well. A big courser, with some Dornish sand steed for endurance." She pointed to the stall across from Thunder's. "A horse like her."

  She was a blood bay with a bright eye and a long, fiery mane. Lady Rohanne took a carrot from her sleeve and stroked her head as she took it. "The carrot, not the fingers," she told the horse, before she turned again to Dunk. "I call her Flame, but you may name her as you please. Call her Amends, if you like."

  For a moment he was speechless. He leaned on the crutch and looked at the blood bay with new eyes. She was magnificent. A better mount than any the old man had ever owned. You had only to look at those long, clean limbs to see how swift she'd be.

  "I bred her for beauty and for speed."

  He turned back to Thunder. "I cannot take her."

  "Why not?"

  "She is too good a horse for me. Just look at her."

  A flush crept up Rohanne's face. She clutched her braid, twisting it between her fingers. "I had to marry, you know that. My father's will...oh, don't be such a fool."

  "What else should I be? I'm thick as a castle wall and bastard-born as well."

  "Take the horse. I refuse to let you go without something to remember me by."

  "I will remember you, m'lady. Have no fear of that."

  "Take her!"

  Dunk grabbed her braid and pulled her face to his. It was awkward with the crutch and the difference in their heights. He almost fell before he got his lips on hers. He kissed her hard. One of her hands went round his neck, and one around his chest. He learned more about kissing in a moment than he had ever known from watching. But when they finally broke apart, he drew his dagger. "I know what I want to remember you by, m'lady."

  Egg was waiting for him at the gatehouse, mounted on a handsome new sorrel palfrey and holding Maester's lead. When Dunk trotted up to them on Thunder, the boy looked surprised. "She said she wanted to give you a new horse, ser."

  "Even highborn ladies don't get all they want," Dunk said, as they rode out across the drawbridge. "It wasn't a horse I wanted." The moat was so high it was threatening to overflow its banks. "I took something else to remember her by instead. A lock of that red hair." He reached under his cloak, brought out the braid, and smiled.

  In the iron cage at the crossroads, the corpses still embraced. They looked lonely, forlorn. Even the flies had abandoned them, and the crows as well. Only some scraps of skin and hair remained upon the dead men's bones.

  Dunk halted, frowning. His ankle was hurting from the ride, but it made no matter. Pain was as much a part of knighthood as were swords and shields. "Which way is south?" he asked Egg. It was hard to know, when the world was all rain and mud and the sky was grey as a granite wall.

  "That's south, ser." Egg pointed. "That's north."

  "Summerhall is south. Your father."

  "The Wall is north."

  Dunk looked at him. "That's a long way to ride."

  "I have a new horse, ser."

  "So you do." Dunk had to smile. "And why would you want to see the Wall?"

  "Well," said Egg, "I hear it's tall."

  THE

  MYSTERY KNIGHT

  A light summer rain was falling as Dunk and Egg took their leave of Stoney Sept.

  Dunk rode his old warhorse Thunder, with Egg beside him on the spirited young palfrey he'd named Rain, leading their mule, Maester. On Maester's back were bundled Dunk's armor and Egg's books, their bedrolls, tent, and clothing, several slabs of hard salt beef, half a flagon of mead, and two skins of water. Egg's old straw hat, wide-brimmed and floppy, kept the rain off the mule's head. The boy had cut holes for Maester's ears. Egg's new straw hat was on his own head. Except for the ear holes, the two hats looked much the same to Dunk.

  As they neared the town gates, Egg reined up sharply. Up above the gateway a traitor's head had been impaled upon an iron spike. It was fresh from the look of it, the flesh more pink than green, but the carrion crows had already gone to work on it. The dead man's lips and cheeks were torn and ragged; his eyes were two brown holes weeping slow red tears as rain
drops mingled with the crusted blood. The dead man's mouth sagged open, as if to harangue travelers passing through the gate below.

  Dunk had seen such sights before. "Back in King's Landing when I was a boy, I stole a head right off its spike once," he told Egg. Actually it had been Ferret who scampered up the wall to snatch the head, after Rafe and Pudding said he'd never dare, but when the guards came running he'd tossed it down, and Dunk was the one who'd caught it. "Some rebel lord or robber knight, it was. Or maybe just a common murderer. A head's a head. They all look the same after a few days on a spike." He and his three friends had used the head to terrorize the girls of Flea Bottom. They'd chase them through the alleys and make them give the head a kiss before they'd let them go. That head got kissed a lot, as he recalled. There wasn't a girl in King's Landing who could run as fast as Rafe. Egg was better off not hearing that part, though. Ferret, Rafe, and Pudding. Little monsters, those three, and me the worst of all. His friends and he had kept the head until the flesh turned black and began to slough away. That took the fun out of chasing girls, so one night they burst into a pot shop and tossed what was left into the kettle. "The crows always go for the eyes," he told Egg. "Then the cheeks cave in, the flesh turns green..." He squinted. "Wait. I know that face."

  "You do, ser," said Egg. "Three days ago. The hunchbacked septon we heard preaching against Lord Bloodraven."

  He remembered then. He was a holy man sworn to the Seven, even if he did preach treason. "His hands are scarlet with a brother's blood, and the blood of his young nephews too," the hunchback had declared to the crowd that had gathered in the market square. "A shadow came at his command to strangle brave Prince Valarr's sons in their mother's womb. Where is our Young Prince now? Where is his brother, sweet Matarys? Where has Good King Daeron gone, and fearless Baelor Breakspear? The grave has claimed them, every one, yet he endures, this pale bird with bloody beak who perches on King Aerys's shoulder and caws into his ear. The mark of hell is on his face and in his empty eye, and he has brought us drought and pestilence and murder. Rise up, I say, and remember our true king across the water. Seven gods there are, and seven kingdoms, and the Black Dragon sired seven sons! Rise up, my lords and ladies. Rise up, you brave knights and sturdy yeomen, and cast down Bloodraven, that foul sorcerer, lest your children and your children's children be cursed forevermore."

  Every word was treason. Even so, it was a shock to see him here, with holes where his eyes had been. "That's him, aye," Dunk said, "and another good reason to put this town behind us." He gave Thunder a touch of the spur, and he and Egg rode through the gates of Stoney Sept, listening to the soft sound of the rain.

  How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? the riddle ran. A thousand eyes, and one. Some claimed the King's Hand was a student of the dark arts who could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist. Packs of gaunt grey wolves hunted down his foes, men said, and carrion crows spied for him and whispered secrets in his ear. Most of the tales were only tales, Dunk did not doubt, but no one could doubt that Bloodraven had informers everywhere.

  He had seen the man once with his own two eyes, back in King's Landing. White as bone were the skin and hair of Brynden Rivers, and his eye--he only had the one, the other having been lost to his half brother Bittersteel on the Redgrass Field--was red as blood. On cheek and neck he bore the winestain birthmark that had given him his name.

  When the town was well behind them Dunk cleared his throat, and said, "Bad business, cutting off the heads of septons. All he did was talk. Words are wind."

  "Some words are wind, ser. Some are treason." Egg was skinny as a stick, all ribs and elbows, but he did have a mouth.

  "Now you sound a proper princeling."

  Egg took that for an insult, which it was. "He might have been a septon, but he was preaching lies, ser. The drought wasn't Lord Bloodraven's fault, nor the Great Spring Sickness either."

  "Might be that's so, but if we start cutting off the heads of all the fools and liars, half the towns in the Seven Kingdoms will be empty."

  Six days later, the rain was just a memory.

  Dunk had stripped off his tunic to enjoy the warmth of sunlight on his skin. When a little breeze came up, cool and fresh and fragrant as a maiden's breath, he sighed. "Water," he announced. "Smell it? The lake can't be far now."

  "All I can smell is Maester, ser. He stinks." Egg gave the mule's lead a savage tug. Maester had stopped to crop at the grass beside the road, as he did from time to time.

  "There's an old inn by the lakeshore." Dunk had stopped there once when he was squiring for the old man. "Ser Arlan said they brewed a fine brown ale. Might be we could have a taste while we waited for the ferry."

  Egg gave him a hopeful look. "To wash the food down, ser?"

  "What food would that be?"

  "A slice off the roast?" the boy said. "A bit of duck, a bowl of stew? Whatever they have, ser."

  Their last hot meal had been three days ago. Since then, they had been living on windfalls and strips of old salt beef as hard as wood. It would be good to put some real food in our bellies before we start north. That Wall's a long way off.

  "We could spend the night as well," suggested Egg.

  "Does m'lord want a feather bed?"

  "Straw will serve me well enough, ser," said Egg, offended.

  "We have no coin for beds."

  "We have twenty-two pennies, three stars, one stag, and that old chipped garnet, ser."

  Dunk scratched at his ear. "I thought we had two silvers."

  "We did, until you bought the tent. Now we have the one."

  "We won't have any if we start sleeping at inns. You want to share a bed with some peddler and wake up with his fleas?" Dunk snorted. "Not me. I have my own fleas, and they are not fond of strangers. We'll sleep beneath the stars."

  "The stars are good," Egg allowed, "but the ground is hard, ser, and sometimes it's nice to have a pillow for your head."

  "Pillows are for princes." Egg was as good a squire as a knight could want, but every so often he would get to feeling princely. The lad has dragon blood, never forget. Dunk had beggar's blood himself...or so they used to tell him back in Flea Bottom, when they weren't telling him that he was sure to hang. "Might be we can afford some ale and a hot supper, but I'm not wasting good coin on a bed. We need to save our pennies for the ferryman." The last time he had crossed the lake, the ferry only cost a few coppers, but that had been six years ago, or maybe seven. Everything had grown more costly since then.

  "Well," said Egg, "we could use my boot to get across."

  "We could," said Dunk, "but we won't." Using the boot was dangerous. Word would spread. Word always spreads. His squire was not bald by chance. Egg had the purple eyes of old Valyria, and hair that shone like beaten gold and strands of silver woven together. He had as well wear a three-headed dragon as a brooch as let that hair grow out. These were perilous times in Westeros, and...well, it was best to take no chances. "Another word about your bloody boot, and I'll clout you in the ear so hard you'll fly across the lake."

  "I'd sooner swim, ser." Egg swam well, and Dunk did not. The boy turned in the saddle. "Ser? Someone's coming up the road behind us. Hear the horses?"

  "I'm not deaf." Dunk could see their dust as well. "A large party. And in haste."

  "Do you think they might be outlaws, ser?" Egg rose in the stirrups, more eager than afraid. The boy was like that.

  "Outlaws would be quieter. Only lords make so much noise." Dunk rattled his sword hilt to loosen the blade in its scabbard. "Still, we'll get off the road and let them pass. There are lords and lords." It never hurt to be a little wary. The roads were not as safe as when Good King Daeron sat the Iron Throne.

  He and Egg concealed themselves behind a thornbush. Dunk unslung his shield and slipped it onto his arm. It was an old thing, tall and heavy, kite-shaped, made of pine and rimmed with iron.

  He had bought it in Stoney Sept to replace the shield the Longinch had h
acked to splinters when they fought. Dunk had not had time to have it painted with his elm and shooting star, so it still bore the arms of its last owner: a hanged man swinging grim and grey beneath a gallows tree. It was not a sigil that he would have chosen for himself, but the shield had come cheap.

  The first riders galloped past within moments: two young lordlings mounted on a pair of coursers. The one on the bay wore an open-faced helm of gilded steel with three tall-feathered plumes--one white, one red, one gold. Matching plumes adorned his horse's crinet. The black stallion beside him was barded in blue and gold. His trappings rippled with the wind of his passage as he thundered past. Side by side the riders streaked on by, whooping and laughing, their long cloaks streaming behind.

  A third lord followed more sedately, at the head of a long column. There were two dozen in the party, grooms and cooks and serving men, all to attend three knights, plus men-at-arms and mounted crossbowmen, and a dozen drays heavy laden with their armor, tents, and provisions. Slung from the lord's saddle was his shield, dark orange and charged with three black castles.

  Dunk knew those arms, but from where? The lord who bore them was an older man, sour-mouthed and saturnine, with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard. He might have been at Ashford Meadow, Dunk thought. Or maybe we served at his castle when I was squiring for Ser Arlan. The old hedge knight had done service at so many different keeps and castles through the years that Dunk could not recall the half of them.

  The lord reined up abruptly, scowling at the thornbush. "You. In the bush. Show yourself." Behind him two crossbowmen slipped quarrels into the notch. The rest continued on their way.

  Dunk stepped through the tall grass, his shield upon his arm, his right hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. His face was a red-brown mask from the dust the horses had kicked up, and he was naked from the waist up. He looked a scruffy sight, he knew, though it was like to be the size of him that gave the other pause. "We want no quarrel, m'lord. There's only the two of us, me and my squire." He beckoned Egg forward.

  "Squire? Do you claim to be a knight?"