Chapter Text
After months of endless heat that left the formerly lush fields of the Reach brittle, brown stalks, and its lakes and riverbeds as dry as old parchment, the thunderstorms came with a vengeance. Dunk stood beside the open window in the maester’s tower, looking out over Coldmoat Castle. The moat that surrounded the castle had been near empty the last time Dunk had been here, only a week or so before. Now, there was water enough that it was churning in the cold, harsh wind, fiercely spilling onto the banks like waves crashing into shore. The sky was black and grey, and every so often, the clouds flared blue, purple and white as forked lighting surged between them, closely followed by peals of thunder so loud they made the bottles, earthen vessels, and instruments littering the maester’s table tremble. In the beams overhead, ravens shrieked, flapping their wings in terror, and loosing several black feathers that fell like rain on the Hedge Knight’s sandy blonde head.
Dunk halfheartedly brushed them off, too miserable and sore to care much if there were black feathers on his shoulders or bird faeces on his head. He was a hedge knight, not a lord or merchant or perfumed prince. Besides his plate, he only owned one pair of woolen breeches, one riding tunic, permanently stained with old sweat, and his Dornish tunic, painted with his personal sigil – an elm tree on a sunset field with a falling star streaking above – for formal occasions. And even that was nothing special. Nor was he. One inch shy of seven feet he was, with a broad chest and shoulders, limbs thick like tree trunks, and a tapered torso of pure muscle. There wasn’t a frame in Westeros that wasn’t branded by his forehead.
On the other side of the castle, the high windows radiated with low, orange firelight. Lighthearted music floated over the low thrumming of the rain with bawdy laughter and clinking silverware. Dunk recognized bits of “My Featherbed”, “My Lady Wife”, “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” and “The Maids that Bloom in Spring”. The wedding feast of old Ser Eustace Osgrey and Lady Rohanne Webber had ended several nights past, but many of the couple’s guests remained, stalled by the heavy storms. This was no weather to travel in, thought Dunk. Especially not in the state that he was in. Yet, that was exactly what he meant to do.
“There is no place for me here,” he muttered, leaning on the window frame. The stone was cool to touch, and Dunk’s head was still throbbing from the beating he’d taken from Longinch. His right cheek still stung too, from where he’d sliced his skin open to pay the Red Widow blood for blood. He’d scar, the maester said. But he minded it not; a man should have scars. It proved he'd lived through what might've slain others.
“Ser?” Egg, his squire, had seated himself on the corner of the maester’s table behind him, and fingered some of the man’s papers, skimming their contents curiously with his large, purple eyes. Forks of white lightning flared outside, and Egg’s shaven head shone like moonstone in the flashing light.
“Stop that,” Dunk said with a frown. “It’s rude to nose through people’s things.”
“I’m looking for treason,” Egg replied, his legs swinging back and forth lackadaisically. A lie to be sure. The Webbers were loyalists; Lady Webber’s father, Lord Wyman, fought for Daeron II Targaryen, not the bastard, Daemon Blackfyre. Her first husband, who had only been twelve when he’d passed, had too. Egg was only snooping.
“Keep looking and I’ll clout you on the ear so hard the thunder will be naught but whispers,” Dunk threatened. He probably wouldn’t, but the boy need not know that. He only struck him when he’d no other choice. Hitting a prince was a crime no matter the cause; he’d learned that the hard way in Ashford Meadow. And Egg’s real name was Aegon Targaryen, fourth son of Prince Maekar, the blood of the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria. Besides, Dunk never felt right hitting people, especially not children. Yet, Egg was Dunk’s squire, and a knight was lord over his squire, be he prince or pauper. Besides, boys needed some punishment to curb their base impulses, or in the very least the threat of punishment. Ser Arlan had taught him that.
Egg let the maester’s papers be. If he knew that the Hedge Knight’s threats were empty, he never said so. “Aren’t we having supper, ser?” The princeling’s stomach burbled ravenously. Dunk’s own rumbled in response. When had they last supped so well? Or rather, when had he? Egg had sat in with Ser Eustace for the feast. Surely the boy had had his fill of barley bread, buttered turnips with capers, spiced suckling pig, roasted to a crisp over the fire, kidney pie, and fresh honey cakes topped with blackberries and nuts – the kinds of meals that were common for him when he’d still been “Prince Aegon Targaryen of Summerhall” instead of “Egg”, Ser Duncan’s insolent squire.
But Dunk could count on one hand how many times he’d tasted food so fine. His normal fare was hard salt beef he had to immerse in water for hours, lest he shatter his teeth, or whatever fish he might catch from the common streams, full of tiny bones. It would be some time before he’d the chance to eat well once they were back on the road. Still…He wasn’t sure that he was brave enough to face them, old Ser Eustace with his trembling white mustache or his new lady wife.
“No. See if the kitchen staff has something," he replied. "Something that will keep. Salt beef. Salt pork. Maybe mead if possible. And a few skins of water. Tell them I sent you and I’m sure they will be liberal.” Now that the Osgreys and Webbers had made peace, the castle staff should treat Dunk with far more courtesy than they had when they were enemies. Should…Though, whether they would remained to be seen.
Egg left to tend to his task. Dunk, meanwhile, threw on Ser Eustace’s woolen cloak over his simple tunic. It was old, thin and musty-smelling, the border of chequered gold and green dull and fraying. Ser Eustace had forced it on him, though, in thanks for his loyal service, and Dunk hadn’t the heart to refuse. The very least, the cloak would keep off some of the rain; though likely not for long. And he could not look on it without feeling sad. Still, he pinned it to his shoulder with a brooch wrought in silver. It was Lady Webber’s spider, with crushed garnets scattered across its abdomen for its red spots and fine silver wires for its webs. It likely cost more than everything he owned. Dunk promised himself that he’d never sell it, no matter what happened to his meager coin. He’d sooner resort to begging.
Every step he took from the maester’s tower was agony, and he pressed his teeth together behind his lips to stop himself screaming. His left leg still hurt like mad from when he’d lost his seat in the Chequy Water, having tangled himself in his stirrups. Thunder hadn’t meant to harm him. He was a faithful beast but a beast nonetheless. His instincts had made him startle, and Dunk had simply been misfortunate. His leg wasn’t broken, only sprained, for which he thanked the Seven. The pain would be immeasurable, but he could still ride. That was well enough for him. A knight who could not ride wasn’t a knight. And if he wasn’t a knight, he was nothing.
Septon Sefton, the fat septon and Lady Webber’s brother by law, was waiting when Dunk reached the bailey, hobbling on his short crutch like a cripple. His moon face was flushed pink and even standing still he swayed. Dunk liked the man, though he was fond of prattle and excessively fond of wine. He’d sat with him near every morning, sometimes to pray, sometimes (most times) simply to blather on while Dunk fluttered between sleep and wakefulness.
When he learned of Dunk’s plans to leave, the septon’s skin turned white as clotted milk. “This is folly, ser!” he said. But Dunk simply limped past him, making for the stables where Thunder was being kept. Sefton followed, imploring him not to leave. The septon was old, overweight and half Dunk’s size, and had to sprint to keep up.
But Dunk couldn’t stay. Not now. Not when he knew that they were married, that each night Ser Eustace – Ser Eustace the traitor - who Dunk had served, for whom Dunk had sacrificed his honour, his life, would follow the castle's narrow, winding halls to Lady Rohanne’s bedroom, where she would be combing out that beautiful braid of long red hair with a fine, horsehair brush in front of a mirror ornamented with black and red spiders and silver webs. Where he would climb with her into bed, naked, and fondle her breasts while he kissed her lips and neck, tickling her pretty face with his long mustache. Where he’d slip his old, withered cock inside her, making love to her over and over, while Dunk the lunk slept by himself in the maester’s tower with only the ravens and their runny shit on his sheets for company.
No…There was nothing Septon Sefton could say to change his mind.
Sefton waited outside while Dunk entered the stables, whimpering beneath his shallow breaths. He wrung his meaty hands together worriedly and muttered prayers on the Hedge Knight’s behalf. But the large, wooden doors swung shut with a creak behind him, and Dunk could no longer make out what he said.
It was near pitch black in the stables, thanks to the rain. There were ironworks sconces on the vertical beams between every fourth stall, burning languidly, and it only took a moment for his eyesight to shift. The stables were long, with more than twenty spacious stalls running the length of each wall. And nearly every one had in it a horse or pony. They were beautiful creatures: chargers and coursers and destriers, garrons and grey palfreys, and even a couple sand steeds with black coats smooth as silk. Duncan knew that Thunder was nearer the back where it was darker and quieter and more restful for old beasts like him.
“Ser Duncan,” Lady Rohanne said from where she stood beside the bales of hay, like she had not expected to find him there. But he knew she’d been waiting. There was no other reason for her to be here. Besides, she was wearing an elegant, emerald green dress with belled sleeves made of shimmering silk, trimmed with cloth-of-gold and cinched round her tiny waist with a braided cord. It was not the kind of thing a lady wore out riding in the rain.
She played with her red braid, twisting it through her fingers. “It’s good to see you on your feet.”
Is it? he wondered. And how could she have known what he’d looked like on his back? She had not come to him, not once while he was recovering. The maester said that Egg sat beside him the entire time, leaving only when he was forced out to be present for the wedding feast. Of course; the boy was fiercely loyal and as close to a baby brother as Dunk would ever know.
But she had never visited. Never sat beside his bed. Never changed the towel covering his brow. Never held his hand while he lay there, clinging to his life - or what little of it there was.
“M’lady,” the Hedge Knight replied with a bow of his large head. He still slurred the words, even though Egg had reminded him that only lowborn servants and peasants said it like that. “A knight should speak properly,” the boy had said a hundred times. But Dunk had a tongue as thick and slow as a snail, and stumbled every time. “What brings you here? It’s a bit wet for riding,” he noted, playing the fool.
“I might say the same to you.”
“Egg told you?” Elsewise how could she had known of his plans to leave? The Dragon Prince was smarter than he should be. Likely he suspected that there was reason they were fleeing like thieves in the night, reasons that concerned the Red Widow. But what could he know of Dunk’s feelings? He was only ten, and hated the thought of wedding – he’d said so himself. Give it time, Dunk had thought. The time will come when nothing will matter more than to hold someone close forever.
“Be glad he did, or I would have sent men out after you and dragged you back. It was cruel of you to try and steal away without a farewell.”
Before he could think better of it, he shot her such a fearsome glare that she shrunk back into the long shadows. “Cruel of me?” Was it not cruel of her to speak to him so sweetly, her words laced with hidden meaning and eyes flaring with feminine mischief? Was it not cruel of her to touch his lips when her strike had made them swell, her long, soft fingers full of sorrow? Was it not cruel of her to suggest that there might possibly be something between them – he the baseborn knight from King’s Landing and she a noble lady – only to marry someone else without even seeing him while he lay suffering?
Rohanne took a small step towards him. She was barely five feet, near two shorter than he, slender and pretty. All covered in freckles I bet. But she’d stood before him before like it was she that was an inch shy of seven feet, fierce and proud. To compensate for being small and feminine, he recalled her saying. She’d had to be cruel and frightening or the men would believe her weak.
But now she looked small and frightened and every bit her five and twenty years, younger even. Her fingers swept over the checkered trim of his cloak, like she was scared to touch him. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry that I never came to see you. It was horrible of me not to, I know that. But… I’m four times a widow. And when Egg pulled you from the stream… They said that you had surely drowned. Even when you finally vomited half the bloody river on the bank, Maester Cerrick was certain you’d not survive. And I’ve sat vigil beside too many men. Besides, I could not stomach to see what my stubbornness had wrought.”
It was a fine enough excuse, he supposed. Better than to say that he’d meant nothing to her, or that the thought had not crossed her mind. But words were wind, and nothing she could say would change the fact that she was married now, and his service to Ser Eustace finished. “I’m here for my horse. Then I will be off.” And we will never see each other again…
“There’s a place for you here,” she insisted a hand rising to her throat, “once you have recovered. Captain of my guards or… or something else, perhaps? If that is not enough. I can find something suitable. And Egg can join my other squires. No one will ever know who he is.”
And as your lover, perhaps? he wondered bitterly. I shall become like Longinch, only I will also warm your bed when you are not with your husband, or when he is too frail to please you.
He nearly choked on the words. “Thank you, but no.”
“Please reconsider. These’re perilous times, even for dragons. And elm trees besides… no matter their size, they’re like to be burned.” She fell into step beside him, her red braid swinging. “If not for me, stay for Lord Eustace. He is fond of you.”
Perhaps she thought invoking the man’s name would endear him to her, the way he’d thought to by speaking of Ser Eustace’s son Addam, for whom she had once cared. Like him, however, she’d erred. He would not strike her, like she’d struck him, though neither would it move him. “Yes. He is very fond of me, m’lady,” he replied sourly. “And if his sweet Alysanne was alive, he said, he’d want her to marry me. Then you’d be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother.”
Rohanne pressed her lips together and Dunk half-thought she might slap him. Or perhaps simply kick the crutch out beneath him. Perhaps she should. "What would you have me say, Duncan?"
Say that you love me. Say that you will yield Coldmoat to Ser Eustace, with its lands and titles and wealth, and marry me instead. We can cross the Seven Kingdoms – the three of us. I’ll ride in tourneys and bestow on you every favour, and someday you’ll give me sons and daughters with fiery hair and freckles on their noses. We can sleep together beneath the night sky, tangled in each other’s embrace. We will be poor but happier than the wealthiest Dragon Kings.
But why would she? She was a highborn lady, beautiful, smart and strong of will, with many suitors and more, so many that they'd been held off with rumours of murder and witchcraft by rivals.
And who was he? Some baseborn welp (bastard-born most like too) from the filthy streets of the capital who called himself a knight to hide his shame. A liar he was, and serving her then enemy. They'd only spoken three times, but still he'd the balls to presume she cared for him. So much that he was offended she had not sat by his bed.
"Nothing," he sighed and ran the hand that was not supporting the crutch through his rain-soaked hair. “There is nothing to say.”
“You have the right to be mad. You’ve been nothing but courteous and kind, and I’ve been nothing but cruel and stubborn in return.” She took his one hand, her slender fingers strong, and clasped it tightly. “But we cannot leave things like this between us.”
“You can help me saddle Thunder,” he suggested.
She smiled coltishly, her emerald eyes sparkling in the firelight. “I had something else in mind.”
Deeper into the stables they went, the Red Widow moving slowly, considerate of his injured leg and heavy, limping step. Dunk’s heart raced so hard in his chest he was certain that it would leap out between his ribs. He’d never felt so nervous, not even in on the battlefield of Ashford Meadow for his trial by combat with Baelor Breakspear and his other five knights mounted beside him. She could not mean to lay with him, surely.
She stopped beside the stall that was opposite Thunder’s. Housed inside was a beautiful blood bay, a mare, with a brown coat brushed smooth and a crimson mane. A single strip of white ran the length of her nose, fading into a black muzzle. “What do you know of horses?”
“I ride one,” the Hedge Knight said, concealing his disappointment. He hated himself for what he'd wanted.
“An old destrier.” She took a carrot from the folds of her sleeve. The mare whickered excitedly, her slender head swinging back and forth. Rohanne stroked her snout as she fed her the carrot, careful not to crush her fingers in the bay’s hard teeth. “Bred for battle, slow-footed and ill-tempered. Not a horse to ride from place to place.” He noticed she cast Thunder an apologetic glance as if he understood and might take offense to her insult.
Dunk had owned three horses once. Chestnut, a stot, Sweetfoot, the old man’s palfrey, and Thunder, his warhorse. But he’d sold Sweetfoot to pay Steely Pate for his plate back in Ashford Meadow. He’d planned to buy her back once he’d won his tilt, but he’d hit Prince Aerion the evening prior, and by the time he’d survived his trial of seven, he’d nothing left to bargain with. Chestnut, meanwhile, perished in the Red Dunes of Dorne while they were in service to Lady Vaith later that same year.
“He suits me well enough. If I need to move place to place, there’s either him or these.” He wiggled his toes, but even that was excruciating.
“You have large feet,” Rohanne relented with a chuckle and rolled her shoulders. “And large hands too.” Dunk felt her eyes on him, moving over every inch of his near seven feet, lingering on his scarred face, his broad chest and flat stomach, and lower still. “I think you are large all over,” she purred, sending a crimson flush up his neck. “Too large for most palfreys. Still, a swifter mount would serve you better. One that was bred for beauty and endurance – A horse like her.”
“She’s beautiful,” he agreed, stroking the mare’s white snout. The beast pressed her nose to his palm, soft and warm. “But I cannot take her.”
Rohanne frowned. “Why not?”
“She is too fine for the likes of me.” He smiled, but it was a sad smile. He wasn’t looking at the horse when he said, “Just look at her.”
Rohanne’s face warmed and she held his eyes for several long moments before she turned back to fingering her braid. “I had to marry.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “You know that I was forced to. My noble father’s will… Had I not, I would have lost everything.”
“I know…” And she couldn’t marry a hedge knight of Flea Bottom who knew not even when he was born.
“Don’t be such a fool.” Her eyes sparkled, filling with tears, and her bottom lip trembled.
“What else should I be?” He reached out to caress her cheek the same way he had her mare’s snout. Strokes more tender than expected of a man his size. “I’m thick as a castle wall and bastard-born besides.”
She turned her cheek into his palm and closed her eyes, savouring his touch. His skin was calloused, his fingers rough from holding lance and sword, but his touch was pleasant. She couldn't help imagining what it might be like to feel his hands on other parts. “Please, take the horse. I refuse to let you leave without something to remember me by.”
“I will remember you.” As long as I live… “Have no fear of that, m’lady.”
“Take her!” Rohanne shouted, a few hot tears falling from her eyes.
He caught her braid when it swung towards him. It was as soft as he had imagined it would be, sliding between his fingers like warm water. He held her chin in his other hand, letting the crutch fall with a clatter onto the floor, pulled her in, and pressed his mouth to hers violently. She tensed, but instead of pulling back or pushing him off her with a clout to match the one she had rewarded him with last week, Lady Rohanne returned the kiss. One slender arm coiled itself around his neck. The other she slipped behind his back, pulling him in so close she could feel his heart racing beneath her breast. Her tongue traced his lips softly and he parted them in response.
He’d only ever kissed one woman before, in Lannisport, when he was fifteen or sixteen and had indulged in too much wine. A tavern girl had taught him how to kiss. It wasn’t enough to merely press his mouth to hers, she’d said, showing him how to bite her lip or touch his tongue to hers, or where he ought to touch her to silently tell her when he wanted more. Though it never went past that.
Dunk explored Lady Rohanne’s mouth, relishing in the sweet wetness of her tongue. She tasted like Arbor Red. Rohanne’s hands moved from the back of his neck, where she’d curled her fingers into his loose, messy hair, to his shoulders, lightly pushing him into the stable wall. His leg screamed beneath him, threatening to buckle, but he was far too lost in her to care. The fabric of her skirts swished when she wove her leg round his waist, firmly pressing herself to him. She flexed her hips, kneading her warmth against his stiffening breeches. He wanted nothing more than to lay with her right then, to ease her into the hay, lift her silken skirts over her thighs (and find out if they too were freckled like her nose and neck and hands), and fully sheath himself inside her. He longed to kiss the curve of her neck and shoulders, to lightly nip the flesh of her modest breasts and belly, to hear his name tumble from her lips when he sent her over the edge of her pleasure.
But she was a married woman – married to a man who had shared with him his food, his water, and his roof.
“Stop…” He turned from her, his face flushed pink with arousal and shame. “We can’t….”
Despite herself, Rohanne nodded, wiping her tears with her fingers. She stepped back, her chin trembling, and Dunk fought the impulse to comfort her. “I’m sorry.”
“I started it,” the Hedge Knight said. “I never should have kissed you like that. It was not right.”
“It wasn’t, no.” She smoothed her skirts and licked her lips. She could still taste him. “It was nice though.”
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, he said, “I should be off. But there’s one other thing I should like… to remember you by.” He pulled out the hunting knife he wore strapped to his thigh. Lady Rohanne inhaled sharply. In one swift swing he’d severed her red braid near the nape of her neck.
“Farewell, m’lady,” he said and, climbing onto Thunder’s back, rode out into the rain, the chequy cloak flowing behind him.