Chapter Text
After midday, the lesser challengers and hedge knights took their turn. No one expected any of them to remain in the lists by nightfall, but Dunk did not allow himself to grow complacent. Not so long ago, he had been one of those nameless knights himself. He watched several tilts before returning to sit with Lyonel in his pavilion. His shoulder still pained him badly. Every time a knight struck the ground—with a crushed leg or a broken arm—Dunk imagined himself falling in his place. So far, I’ve been lucky, he thought. That could change in an instant.
Lyonel declined Baldric Tarth’s invitation to take a light meal in the gallery and instead remained in his pavilion with Dunk and Egg. They were seated there when the tall man from Tyrosh arrived to pay his ransom. He was an imposing figure even without his armor. His hair was black and cropped short, and a thick blue beard framed his face. He wore a long robe of green, sapphire, and gold.
“My lord.” He inclined his head. “I wished to thank you for the bout.”
“You were a worthy foe, Ser Callio,” Lyonel replied, rising to his feet. “How fares your head?”
Ser Callio of Tyrosh had his right eye nearly swollen shut. Lyonel’s blow had dented his helm, and for a moment some had thought him dead. Yet the man had risen again, thanks to the Seven.
“My head?” Callio laughed. “It’s a miracle I’m still carrying it on my shoulders.”
The servant accompanying him set an enormous cask at Lyonel’s feet.
“I can pay the ransom for my horse in gold, if you prefer,” said Callio. “But I have heard that you are a lover of fine wine, and I would dearly like the chance to drink in The Laughing Storm company. I have two more barrels besides this one.”
Lyonel’s eyes brightened at the sight of the cask.
“It’s true that I have no need of more horses or armor. And though gold is always welcome… good wine is as well.”
He turned to look at Dunk.
“Besides, I’ve already won at the betting. What say you, big fellow? Will you join us?”
“Hmm.” Dunk shook his head. “I promised Egg we’d go see the rest of the tourney attractions.”
“They say there are fire-eaters, ser,” the boy said, his eyes shining.
“Oh… in that case…” Lyonel looked back and forth between Dunk and the barrel of wine. “I’ll share a few cups with Ser Callio and then come find you. I shan’t be long, I promise.”
“Sounds fair to me.” Dunk smiled.
Callio let out another booming laugh.
“Splendid! Though I would have liked to drink with both of you. Congratulations on your victory, Ser Duncan.”
“Thank you,” said Dunk. He’s nearly as tall as I am… and twice as broad, he thought.
“I hope to see you again after the tourney and share a few cups.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Dunk and Egg rose to their feet.
“Take care of yourselves,” Lyonel told them. “I’ll join you shortly.”
“Very good, m’lord.” Dunk inclined his head.
“Don’t drink too much,” Egg said.
“Never fear,” Lyonel replied. “Only a few cups.”
Egg narrowed his eyes.
“Hmm. That reminds me of a certain prince…”
Dunk seized him by the arm.
“Come along! You don’t want to miss the fire-eaters.”
Lyonel waved them off.
“I’ll see you soon!”
They had only gone a short distance from the pavilion when Egg spoke in a whisper.
“That knight from Tyrosh is enormous. Almost as big as you, ser.”
“I noticed.” Dunk nodded.
“And he’s rich… and handy with a lance.”
Egg flashed him a mischievous grin.
“If you’re not careful, he might replace you.”
Dunk frowned.
“That’s not possible.”
“Are you certain?” Egg arched an eyebrow. “He’s already won over Ser Lyonel with that wine. We may end up sleeping in the hedges.”
“Do you want a clout in the ear?” Dunk raised a fist, though at the same moment he glanced back toward the pavilion they had left behind. “I’m Ser Lyonel’s knight. That fellow couldn’t replace me.”
“If you say so.”
Dunk was half inclined to return to the pavilion, but Egg tugged at his arm and forced him to walk faster.
“Not possible,” Dunk muttered under his breath.
They went to see the merchants’ stalls set up beyond the tourney grounds. The vendors sold all manner of goods, food, and even live animals, including hawks. The place teemed with singers, sailors, and dockside whores. They bought sausages and cider. Dunk chewed his food in silence, still irritated. I should have stayed, he thought.
“Ser Duncan!”
Hywell was making his way toward them through the crowd. Without his armor, he seemed shorter and thinner. The wind had left his blond hair in disarray.
“I lost in the first round,” he lamented. “Lord Lyonel was kind enough not to take my horse.”
“But you acquitted yourself well,” Dunk replied. “It was a good fight.”
“You are too generous, ser. My performance was nowhere near as fine as yours. You defeated my cousin, a favorite, no less! It’s all anyone can talk about.”
Dunk flushed red.
“It was a close thing. Ser Quentyn is very skilled.”
“He never had a chance,” Egg whispered.
“Be quiet,” Dunk scolded.
Hywell laughed.
“I share your squire’s enthusiasm.”
“At times he’s far too enthusiastic,” Dunk muttered.
“I wouldn’t keep quiet either if I were squire to Ser Duncan the Tall. Please, would you accept a horn of ale? I wish to drink to your victory.”
“Well…” Dunk lowered his eyes. “If you insist.”
Though he was a young nobleman and his clothes fairly shouted wealth, Hywell moved through that rough-and-tumble atmosphere with ease. Dunk supposed he must be accustomed to dealing with all sorts of folk. The young knight went off to fetch the ale while Dunk and Egg watched the jugglers and fire-eaters. Dunk found himself remembering Tanselle’s puppets. There were none here. Instead, his attention was drawn by the beautiful melody of a fiddle. Keeping Egg in sight, he followed the music.
The musician was young and handsome. He wore burgundy hose and a pink tunic cinched with a golden belt. Purple-dyed curls escaped from beneath a hood of matching color adorned with tiny bells. The fiddler looked at Dunk through long lashes and smiled. For some reason, the knight took an immediate dislike to him. Even so, Dunk had enjoyed the music and tossed a coin into the man’s basket.
“Many thanks, my lord,” said the fiddler.
“I’m no lord,” Dunk corrected. “I’m a knight in the service of House Baratheon.”
“Would you tell me your name, ser?”
“Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The fiddler’s eyes—blue so dark they seemed almost violet—widened in surprise.
“Your fame precedes you, ser. Some call you a hero. Others, a murderer.”
Dunk straightened his back.
“I’m neither.”
He glanced around. Hywell was still buying ale, and Egg remained engrossed by the fire-eaters. He thought of joining them, but the fiddler stopped him. Closing the distance between them, he laid a hand upon Dunk’s shoulder. It was a remarkably well-kept hand for a common performer.
“What are you, then, Ser Duncan?” the fiddler asked. “Some might see your deeds as an act of divine justice. Two dragons fallen on the same day.”
“I never meant—” Dunk began.
“Of course you didn’t. You admired him, did you not? Prince Baelor. His death was a tragedy. Across the narrow sea, however, many think otherwise. The black dragons await their hour.”
Dunk frowned and brushed the man’s hand away.
“What dragons? Leave me be.”
“Do not be angry, Ser Duncan,” said the fiddler. “I would like us to be friends.”
“Why me? You don’t know me.”
“But I have seen you in my dreams. I saw you clad in white armor, standing before the Iron Throne. Now…” He tilted his head. “Now my dreams have changed. Why do you wear gold instead of white? Why does the throne rise beside the sea? I do not know what it means.”
“And you expect me to answer that?”
The fiddler smiled.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I hoped that seeing you would clear away all my doubts.”
“And did it?” Dunk asked, trying once more to shake free of the stranger’s touch.
“No… not yet. Come to my tent, Ser Duncan. It is modest, but there will be good wine. We could talk through the night and perhaps discover the answer to the riddle of our futures.”
Dunk seized the man by the wrist and shoved him back.
“I’m not interested in your madness. You’d do better to stick to your fiddle.”
“Perhaps I shall take your advice.” The fiddler rested a hand upon Dunk’s arm. “Truth be told, I prefer music to swords.”
“Then stay with the singers. You’ll live longer and happier for it.”
The fiddler opened his mouth to speak again, but Lyonel’s voice drowned him out.
“Ser Duncan! I’ve been looking for you!”
Dunk saw him approaching through the crowd. The lord halted beside them. His gaze fell upon the fiddler’s hand resting on Dunk’s arm. Lyonel’s smile vanished.
“Will you introduce me to your friend, Ser Duncan?” he asked.
“He’s not my friend,” Dunk replied.
“I had hoped we might become friends,” said the fiddler mournfully.
Lyonel frowned.
“If you’re not friends, then remove that hand, or you’ll lose it.”
The fiddler looked at Lyonel without ceasing to smile.
“So the dog already has a master.”
“Perhaps I’ll cut out your tongue as well,” Lyonel replied.
“What a brute…” The fiddler’s eyes returned to Dunk. “Are you certain you prefer him, Ser Duncan?”
Dunk shoved the hand away.
“Enough of your games. I already told you that I serve House Baratheon. Lyonel is my lord.”
“What a pity,” the fiddler sighed.
He looked at both of them and smiled that strange, knowing smile.
“But I understand now… at last, I understand.”
The fiddler swept into a graceful bow.
“I wish a pleasant afternoon to the great lord and his dog.”
He departed to the cheerful jingling of bells.
“Who the bloody hell was that?” Lyonel asked.
“I’d like to know that myself,” Dunk replied.
“That dyed hair… he must be from Tyrosh.”
Lyonel looked at Dunk.
“Make certain you wash yourself properly. The bastard has left his whore’s perfume all over you.”
Sure enough, the fiddler’s sweet scent clung stubbornly to his clothing.
“You promised no one else would touch you,” Lyonel muttered.
“He kept putting his hands on me,” Dunk explained.
“Then you should’ve cut them off.”
“I’m very sorry, m’lord. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not.”
At last Hywell returned with the ale.
“Forgive me, Ser Duncan. I got distracted speaking with some friends… Oh, my lord, I didn’t see you there. I’ll fetch you a horn at once.”
“No need,” said Lyonel.
He took Dunk’s horn and drained it in a long swallow, leaving only a mouthful at the bottom.
“That’s enough for you.”
Dunk stared mournfully into the horn.
“I’m very sorry, m’lord. I swear next time I’ll cut off the fiddler’s hand.”
“What? What fiddler?” asked Hywell.
Lyonel let out a hiccup. His ears had turned red.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just some fool from Tyrosh.”
“They are a colorful lot,” Hywell remarked. “Their helms are always covered in gold and jewels.”
“This one had no helm. Only a cap with bells. I’ll make him eat it the next time I see him.”
Lyonel seized Hywell’s horn and drained that one as well.
“I’ve changed my mind. Bring more ale, little fish.”
“Must you keep calling me that?” the young man groaned.
“When you unhorse me, I’ll stop. Now fetch the ale.”
“Better not,” Dunk interrupted. “Our lord has had enough.”
Lyonel glared at him but said nothing.
“Ser, would you fetch my squire?” Dunk asked Hywell. “I think it’s time we returned.”
“You’re right,” the young knight agreed. “I’ll go find him.”
“Thank you.”
Once they were alone, Dunk guided Lyonel away from the crowd.
“Why are you so angry?” he asked.
Lyonel lifted his head. His eyes were red, and his lips trembled slightly.
“I wanted to be with you. But that giant from Tyrosh insisted on drinking with me. I couldn’t refuse without offending him.”
“You didn’t seem upset about it,” Dunk replied.
Could he replace me? he wondered. No. The thought was foolish. After everything they had shared, how could he think such a thing?
“I understand,” he hurried on. “Ser Callio is a formidable warrior. I’m sure the two of you have much in common.”
He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. I’ve let myself be provoked by a boy of ten.
“I’ll admit the wine was excellent,” said Lyonel, “but… I missed you.”
He leaned against Dunk’s arm and continued in a wavering voice.
“I’m unfair, I know. I demand that no one touch you, and yet… sooner or later I must have children with Alyne. You must think me a hypocrite.”
“It hurts,” Dunk admitted. “But I understand it’s your duty. I’ll bear it… because I like Alyne, and because I don’t want to become a burden.”
“You’re not,” Lyonel said. “You’re not, and you never will be. But I know how unfair I am, how selfish…” He laughed bitterly. “Gods, how I wish I could marry you instead of Alyne and spare us both this misery. I hurt you, and I suffer too from the uncertainty. You could leave me… you could go at any moment…”
Dunk smiled then, for he understood that Lyonel shared his fears. His lord, stripped of laughter and pretense, baring his soul, was beautiful too.
“I won’t leave you, you great fool,” Dunk assured him. “You’ll do your duty, and I’ll do mine. I’ll always remain at your side.”
Lyonel made as if to embrace him, but seemed to remember where they were and stopped himself. Instead, he let out a soft laugh.
“I think I have had too much wine,” he said. “I’m sorry, big fellow.”
“Do you want me to carry you?” Dunk offered.
“No… but let me lean on you for a moment.”
Dunk wrapped an arm around Lyonel’s waist and held him close. The great lord rested against his chest for a few moments. His breathing was uneven, and perhaps because of the wine, his ears had turned scarlet. Dunk resisted the urge to bite them.
“Dunk, do you think I’m a brute?” Lyonel asked.
“Of course not,” the knight replied.
“You don’t regret choosing me?”
“I asked you the same question not long ago. Do you remember your answer?”
Lyonel placed his hands upon Dunk’s shoulders.
“‘I always knew I had to bring you back to Storm’s End with me.’ And I meant it.”
“And I begged you to let me stay at your side forever,” Dunk reminded him. “I regret nothing, Lyonel.”
Then he added with a smile,
“You’re an adorable drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Lyonel protested, stepping back. “Wait until I’ve rested a bit and you’ll see. I’ll put you on the ground.”
“Ha! We’ll see about that!”
Dunk released him reluctantly. He would have preferred to take Lyonel by the arm and proclaim to the whole world that they belonged to one another. They reunited with Hywell and Egg and returned together to House Baratheon’s pavilion.