Chapter Text
It’s starkly colder outside of the tent. The ale had slowly weened out of Dunk’s blood, leaving him cold under his threadbare cloak and roughspun clothing, and all too aware of the quiet in comparison to the crowds he had just been a part of. Nonetheless, he followed the two women who had dragged Manfred Dondarrion out the Baratheon tent.
He followed quick, afraid that he could lose them. His earlier attempt to speak with the Dondarrion had gone unanswered, the Storm Lord too busy whoring or sleeping. But Dunk needed someone to vouch for him to enter the lists, to remember his ser Arlan of Pennytree and side with Dunk enough that he may ride a course. He crossed the distance with wide steps, managing to meet the lord and his ladies just before the bridge that led to the tent fields.
“My lord!” he called, hoping to catch the Dondarrion’s attention, “Lord Dondarrion, Ser!”
One of the gods must be smiling down at him, because the lord does turn, his arms wrapped drunken and loose around the two by his sides, the ladies' own hands carding through his pretty lordly locks and pinching soft at his neck. The red-haired woman gave him a bright grin, mirth in her eyes.
“Sad knight!” she said brightly, recognising Dunk from earlier in the day.
Manfred Dondarrion gave him an appraising look, a drunken flush marring his cheeks and forehead. His brows developed a furrow as he looked at Dunk, his tongue darting out to roll over his dry lips. “What,” He demanded plainly, having no patience for anything beyond wetting his cock.
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree.” Dunk swallowed nervously, his throat feeling tight. “He—He served your Lord Father to hunt the Vulture King in the Red Mountains. I was only a boy, but—”
Manfred cut him off with word and action, brushing Dunk off to kiss aggressively the women by his sides. Dunk watched on, unsure on how to proceed.
“...Perhaps we would speak on the morn.” Dunk said.
Manfred pulled away, turning his attention back to the hedge knight. “I know your penny knight not. Nor you, brother. Be gone.” He dismissed, physically waving Dunk away with his hand.
Dunk watched Manfred and his ladies turn and begin to walk again. Frustration built in his chest, and his hand tightened around the strap of his shield and the band still in his hand. “But Ser Arlan took a wound in your father’s service.” He protested, taking a step forward, a deep frown pulling his brows together. “How could you have forgotten him?”
Dunk had remembered that wound; a thick arrow lodged in the meat of his stomach, the Maester had Dunk pull it out for him.
The Storm Lord turned back, half turned to Dunk. “My lord father took eight hundred swords into those mountains. We’ve forgotten men who reaped much more than a wound.” He spoke as if ser Arlan’s acts had been insignificant, and maybe they had been in comparison to seven hundred and ninety-eight other men, but it struck Dunk wrong that his Ser would so easily be a ghost.
Dunk wilted, “please, ser, I will not be allowed to challenge unless a knight, or a lord will vouch for me.”
“And what is that to me?” Manfred shook his head almost mockingly, turning his back to Dunk and resuming his walk. “Perhaps ask the drunken Stag, if he does not gut you for your crime first.” He threw over his shoulder before disappearing past the bridge, leaving Dunk feeling foolish and alone.
With the hour late, and nowhere to return to, Dunk sort out his elm. The further he put between himself and the tourney grounds, the quieter it got, and Dunk found his shoulders slowly loosening. Frustration still stiffened his jaw, and he held on tight to his cross strap, letting the river guide him back to the tree.
Though he isn’t greeted by solitary darkness, he’s met instead with a well-lit fire, and a clothesline strung between the tree and a bush, his clothes spread across it. What an odd way to be robbed, he thought as he sped up his walk.
Dunk’s belongings remained as he fixed them, packed against the elm and the horses looked to be tethered where he left them. The only out of place thing was the small boy sitting by the fire—the boy from the tavern, Dunk remembered, his eyes widening.
“You!” Dunk called out, shock in his voice.
The boy turned his head to him, as bald as the day the lad was born probably. He sat still, not rising for the knight, and instead held a fish on a stick over the fire.
“What... what are you doing?” Dunk asked, still astonished that the boy had followed him here.
“Cooking a fish. Do you want some?” The lad asked, plain but earnest and with the stick held out in offering.
“No!” Dunk protested, “I mean, how’d you get here? Did you steal a hose?” he asked.
“I rode in the back of a lamb cart.”
Dunk scoffed in bewilderment, “lamb cart.” He rolled his eyes, settling a look at the boy. He crossed around the fire, settling his shield beside his meagre belongings. “Well, you best find another one.”
The boy stood up. He was a thin thing, dressed in drab brown rags like a monk in training, the cord around his hips doing little to tailor his long tunic. “You can’t make me go.” He said firmly, his voice high and dripping with youth-mixed-cockiness, “I’d had enough of that inn.”
Dunk shot him another look, taken aback by the boy’s arrogance. “Now, listen, I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I should throw you over my horse and take you home.” He pointed a finger at the boy in scolding.
“You’d need to ride all the way to King’s Landing. You’d miss the tourney.”
Dunk thought not that this boy would be of Flea Bottom, he spoke too proper and stood with his back straight and a slight upward tilt of his head like it made him taller. Perhaps the lad was a runaway from a sept, or maybe his father had decent work. And he had a point, if Dunk were to take him home it would take nearly two weeks riding from Ashford Meadows.
“King’s Landing... you’re from Flea Bottom?” He asked, wanting to see if he was wrong.
“No.” The boy retorted.
“Aye.”
Dunk turned away, glancing around the camp. “What are those doing there?” He gestured to his hung clothes.
“I washed them. I made the fire, caught the fish, and groomed the horses. I would have raised your pavilion, but I couldn’t find one.”
The knight put his hands on his hips, looking away in exasperation, then nodded at the elm tree, “there’s my pavilion.” He answered.
“...that’s a tree.”
“Yes, and it’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I’d sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent.”
In the entire time Dunk had travelled with ser Arlan they’d never slept in a tent of their own. Under a tarp, in an encampment maybe, but ser Arlan had little patience to pitching a tent only to pack it back into a saddle bag the next morning. A sleeping mat served them well enough, though only used on colder nights or when the earth was uncomfortably damp, beyond that, they slept in ruins or under a tree.
“What if it rains?” the boy asked.
“The tree’ll shelter me.”
He had picked a good one, Dunk thought, ser Arlan would’ve approved. The base was thick, dotted with knots and golden grain throughout its rough body. The branches fled in thick arms each with its own offspring of smaller hands, and each appendage was coated in thick layers of greenish-yellow leaves. If Dunk stared long enough, he’d spot the wide bird’s nest hidden by the centre, made of sticks and hay and elm leaves.
“Tree’s leak.”
Not this one, Dunk wanted to retort.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked.
“Dunk.”
“Ser Dunk... that’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?”
“Yeah. Yes.” Dunk lied, “Ser Duncan of... Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The boy sat back down, robes swamping around him. “Never heard of him.” He murmured.
Dunk wanted to scoff, perhaps give the boy a clout on the ear. “Do you know every knight in the Seven Kingdoms, then?” He sarcastically asked.
“The good ones.” The younger responded.
Dunk couldn’t be mad; he could tell that the boy’s response was earnest and genuine, a reflection of his beliefs. Dunk wondered how many knights the boy knew, where they were from and how he judged their worth.
“You got a name, thief?” Dunk asked.
“Egg.”
“Egg. Well, Egg, by rights, I should beat you bloody and send you on your way.”
The boy looked up at him, startled and fearful like a spooked fawn. The lack of hair on his head made his eyes seem bigger, like two fat plums sitting in a fruit stall. Guilt bit at Dunk, and all he could see was the wilt growing in Egg’s shoulders.
Dunk sighed, “but you look as though you don’t eat much and if you’ll swear to d as you’re told... I’ll let you serve me for the tourney. After that, well... we’ll see.”
Dunk sank down to his haunches before the fire, softening his expression and rubbing his clammy hands together. “I don’t have much, but if you prove worth your keep, you’ll have clothes on your back and food in your belly. The clothes might be rough-spun and the food, salt beef and salt fish, but you won’t go hungry. I promise not to beat you... except when you deserve it.” Dunk murmured, faintly feeling ill.
“Yes, my lord.” Egg said, soft in the fire light and with a faint glimmer of something mystified in his eye.
Dunk shook his head, “’ser’,” He corrected, “I'm only a hedge knight.”
The night grew older, the wind stirring a gentle breeze across their camp. It smelt of fire smoke and horse, the faint scent of the river and Dunk’s damp clothes accompanying the quiet hooting of an owl.
They had settled down not long after, Dunk already aware that he needed to sleep off the ale and lick his wounds from his exchange with Manfred Dondarrion. The sky was clear tonight, bracketed only by the elm’s leaves. Dunk had pulled the sleeping mat out of Thunder’s saddlebag, laying it on the ground just in front of the elm’s exposed roots, gnarled and thick like an old Septa’s fingers. He gave it to the boy to use for the night, along with ser Arlan’s old blanket.
The boy had turned his nose up slightly at the faint odour of ale and old man, but seeing as he had come with no supplies of his own, Egg would have to make do. But he was now tucked in, sans his shoes but still clad in his tunic and cloak with the blanket thrown over him. Dunk laid next to him, his hands tucked behind his head and his bare on the earth, his own blanket thrown over him as he stared up at the sky.
A star shot past the inky blue darkness, bright and as quick as a whip. “A falling star brings luck to those who see it.” Egg said, cutting through the silence.
“Go to sleep, boy.” Dunk answered.
“All the other knights are in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of sky.”
Dunk turned his head slowly to glance at the boy, his brows raised. “Do you want a clout in the ear?” he murmured.
Egg quieted and rolled over, bundling the blanket around him like a cocoon and turning his back to Dunk.
Dunk let out a quiet sigh. “So, the luck is ours alone?” he threw out, hoping it’d soften whatever the boy thought of him now.
Though Dunk couldn’t see it, a smile creased Egg’s cheeks and he shifted to lay on his side facing the knight. “Ser?” he whispered.
“...what now?”
“Did you kill a stag?” Egg asked.
“What? No, no I didn’t.”
“Oh... then why do you have a crown of antlers?”
Dunk whipped his head to the side, looking at the boy with a baffled expression. He rose half off the ground, leaning on his forearms and looking back to his belongings. Sitting there beside his shield was Lyonel’s headpiece, the copper mockingly dancing in the fight light and the antlers casting a soft shadow across the face of the shield. Dunk could have sworn that Lyonel had taken it from him before the lord wandered off. Oh Gods, he realised, this is what Manfred had meant when he mentioned Dunk’s supposed crime against ‘the Stag’.
“...Shit.”
⸝⸝
Morning comes earlier than Dunk prayed for. He had woken up before the boy, the sun barely over the horizon and only Sweetfoot awake apart from himself. Dunk set about his normal routine, leaving the elm to bathe in the river and wash last night’s sweat out of his clothes, slapping them against the delipidated stone wall to help dry them after he finished washing in the stream. He clothed again and set about seeing to Sweetfoot.
He fed and brushed her down, knowing the routine well. Sweetfoot had been ser Arlan’s horse, his mare that he rode when they travelled. Dunk felt that caring for her was like caring for ser Arlan after his death, he couldn’t honour the man with a proper burial, but perhaps he could do him justice by continuing to care for the horses.
He’d have Egg care for Chestnut when both horse and boy were awake, and he’d see to Thunder’s care himself when he was awake as well. For now, he settled back in his sleeping spot, plagued by nausea as he reached down and curled a hand around the diadem, his thumb smoothing over the river of thorns and antlers embedded in the copper and steel. Lord Lyonel sure had a thing for antlers; Dunk mused to himself.
Honestly, how had he managed to escape with this thing in hand? The tall antlers branched off in a wide ‘u’, their pointed tips a soft ashy blond in comparison to the browns of the rest of the bones. Perhaps Dunk could sneak back into the pavilion and place it someone obscure to make Lyonel think he’d lost it somewhere in his drunken haze, but something told Dunk that Lyonel was smarter than that.
Dunk jumped at the sound of a small, disgruntled grumble beside him, forgetting Egg beside him who woke up groggy and with a faint impression of the straw mat on his cheek.
“Good morrow.” Dunk called quietly, something softening in his chest and a huff of laughter leaving him.
Egg made another petulant noise, wiping at his eyes and shoving the blanket down to his feet.
Despite his waking, Egg was quick to handle Chestnut, brushing the horse down and even weaving a tiny braid into his mane before hand feeding him grass mixed with hay. Grooming the horses seemed to calm the lad, quietening his morning grumble; Dunk contemplated seeing if he could buy a few carrots or apples when they’d leave for the market grounds, Chestnut tended to slobber whenever Dunk hand fed him a treat, he’s sure that it would make the boy smile. But Dunk put it out of his mind for now, rising to his feet after Egg finished with the brown horse and collecting his sword and shield, as well as the diadem.
Dunk gave Egg a moment to collect his shoes, gnaw on a stick of salt beef, and rein Chestnut before they set off for the day. There were other lords in the grounds that Dunk prayed could have remembered his ser, such as House Florent who Arlan had served in his time, and House Hayford who Dunk hoped was in attendance.
“Are we shopping, ser?” Egg asked as they trudged through the riverside back to the bridge.
“No... maybe. I’m to speak with the lord of House Tyrell, and hope that he will remember my ser and vouch for me to enter the lists.” Dunk explained.
“And... the... antlers?”
Dunk winced, looking over and spotting the bulge in Chestnut’s saddle. They couldn’t safely fit the entire headpiece in the bag, so they carefully hid the diadem into the emptied leather bag with the antlers sticking out above. Then they had draped Egg’s blanket over Chestnut’s back and flank to better hide the entire piece, with that done, they set off from their elm.
The market is loud and crowded, dirt road lined with in stalls, tents, and a rough collection of spotted blacksmiths and craftsmen. It made for a chaotic scene, the loud calls of stall owners plaguing the air and the occasional argument when folk brushed too harsh against each other. Dunk had half the mind to let Egg saddle Chestnut so he wouldn’t lose the small boy in the crowds.
They traced their way through the markets are a drunken man’s wobbly pace, the thick crowds making it harder to pass fast, nonetheless, they broke free of the herd and made for the tent fields, a large yard in which houses all the pavilions and yurts of the knights and Lord Houses alike. The field was an extra cost to the tourney, paid for prior or on the spot if space permitted it. Mostly reserved for established Houses and titled knights, the field was an abundance of colours and banners: four-legged animals, birds, weapons and celestial bodies, frankly too many to count without a headache.
House Tyrell, that was Dunk’s aim. A green banner gilded by gold on the bottom and a bloomed golden rosehead in the centre, that was what he was looking for. His eyes roamed over the see of banners as he and Egg threaded through the tent field, his height helping him see the tips of distant banners amongst the tops of tents.
“There ser!” Egg called, spotting the rose banner through a sequence of yurts. He pointed at it with a strong jab of his finger, a pride grin on his face.
“Good spottin’,” Dunk nodded, patting the boy’s bald head, “wait by the bridge with Chestnut, I'll be but a minute... hopefully.”
The hedge knight broke off separately, winding through the field until he was met with house Tyrell’s yurt and the lord sitting outside. Leo Tyrell was a slender man with greying black hair, and a beard that drew attention to the cut of his cheekbones. He chewed closed mouthed on something as he watched Dunk approach, an arch in one of his brows.
“M’lord,” Dunk greeted, already feeling the nerve build in his chest, “if—if I could have a moment of your time?”
Lord Tyrell gave him an appraising look, “...speak,’ he permitted, nodding his head. When he spoke Dunk could see the faint film of red over his teeth—Sourleaf, Dunk thought to himself, recognising the same shine previous knights he and ser Arlan had served with bore when they’d spend the night on watch. Sourleaf numbed the edge of pain to a moderate degree; it filled the mouth with something like waxy tar that tasted so foul that it distracted the mind.
“I’ve come to ask if you might recall a ser Arlan of Pennytree.” Dunk said, finding the courage to steel his shoulders as he spoke. “You might not remember him, but he was a true knight. Different... than other men. He had a peaceful nature, quiet and humble. He fought alongside your house in the Battle of Redgrass Field. This... this is all to say that I’d hoped you’d remember him, and vouch for me to enter the lists. He said it was you, m’lord, who told him that a hedge knight was the bridge between lords and the smallfolk.”
Lord Tyrell sat quiet, chewing his leaves and listening to Dunk pensively. When the younger man was finished, the lord looked away and spat the chewed leaf on to the ground. “I know him not, man.” The lord denied, giving Dunk a firm shake of his head and nodding for him to go on his way.
Put out, Dunk nodded back in thanks and turned on his heel, striding away with shame and grief burning hot in his chest. He was running out of hope, out of patients, and most importantly, out of time.
He left the collection of tents and wagons and yurts alone, retracing his steps back to where he hoped Egg and Chestnut would be, if the boy hadn’t chosen to rob him blind. Dunk was able to spot them once he got closer, Egg waiting with the horse by his side, the boy sitting in a dry patch of grass and plucking strands of green out one by one until a spot beside him was as bald as his own head.
“Up, boy.” Dunk said, “we move on.”
“Did Lord Tyrell say he wouldn’t vouch for you?”
“He doesn’t remember my ser. Nothin’ I can do.”
They walked onwards back toward the markets and tiltyard. “Was he a shit knight?” Egg asked.
Dunk scoffed loudly, frowning down at the boy. “He was not a shit knight.” He denied immediately.
“Well, he can’t have been a very good one if no one remembers him.” Egg seemed to have a loose tongue that was surprising vulgar for how proper he seemed.
Dunk was tempted to cuff the boy around the head and teach him a lesson on manners, instead though he told the younger to quicken his pace.
“This is undignified, ser.” Egg muttered poorly.
Dunk could feel the irritation continue to build—he’d never had been this insolent with ser Arlan. “So, hie back to camp and leave me be, if it please you.” His tone aggrieved.
“I would not leave you, ser. Not while you must suffer your master dying over and over again. Though it does not seem like these lords are even listening to you.”
Dunk sighed, knowing he couldn’t argue with the boy on that. The lords he’d spoken to had not been inviting whatsoever, with the exception of Lyonel, but the context for that mattered greatly.
“Nothing I can do about that.” Dunk voiced, giving a shrug.
They crossed onto the bridge and Egg turned to him, an offended look on his small face. “You are a knight of the realm, ser. You can say fuck their permission. Ride into the lists, call out Longthorn Tyrell, and turn his arsehole into a lance-hole.”
If Dunk were a different man, he should’ve barked out a laugh and maybe even given the boy a drink—that’s what ser Arlan would have done. But Dunk is a man scarcely twenty, and he had to have a good influence on Egg.
Perhaps in another life he’d have taken the boy’s words to heart, donned armour and a helm and ridden out as a mystery knight who spoke little and fought twice as hard as any man—fought as Dunk of Flea Bottom and not ser Duncan the Tall who hadn’t existed until last night, but he felt that he owed this to ser Arlan, to fight as a proper hedge knight.
“That’s enough now.” He told Egg.
Egg frowned, looking down at the stone bridge. “Why do you treat these royal lapdogs like they’re your betters?”
“They are my betters.” Dunk retorted, “You’re too brazen for your own good.”
“...Ser Arlan was a great knight.” The knight continued, “Someone will remember him.”
They had to.
Trumpets sounded from across the bridge, catching the pair’s attention. Folk flocked to the side of the bridge, and Dunk caught the shoulder of a short man to ask who the trumpets were sounded for. The banners of house Targaryen blew past, an entourage of mounted men riding past on the bridge across the river; Dunk knew then who he’d approach next.
“Perhaps I should go back, ser, check on the camp.” Egg said, “Make sure no thieves have been nosing about.”
Dunk nodded, “aye. I have no idea.”
He passed Chestnut’s reins to the small lad, knowing the horse was tempered enough the not be a pain.
“Can I have your sword to run people off with, or a mace?”
“You have a knife, that’s enough.”
Dunk turned as he walked, pointing at the boy. “You’d best be here when I come back.” He said, a small threat lacing his tone, “Rob me, and I'll hunt you down, with dogs.”
“You don’t have dogs!”
“I’ll get some.”
“Where?”
“Wrof!”
Dunk turned and left the bridge, heading for Ashford castle to beg for an audience with the royal family.
⸝⸝
All things considered, Dunk’s encounter with the Targaryen's had not gone as terribly as it could have, and despite his never-ending fumble with Baelor and Maekar Targaryen, Dunk now had a place in the lists provided he changed his shield's device. He deserved a drink, he determined, a big one.
Egg was waiting for him at their camp, shaded under a tree and humming a quiet tune as he whittled a stick with his knife. The boy seemed to light up at the sight of Dunk, giving a little ‘whoop!’ when he heard of Dunk’s success.
Dunk huffed a smile at the lad and beckoned him down from the tree. “A drink to celebrate,” he said, “I’ll buy you a cider.”
“...What if it’s shit?”
“Unless you’re chokin’ on it, you’ll finish it... it’s the polite thing to do.”
Egg descends from the tree, and Dunk took a moment to check on Chestnut. He loosened his straps and murmured a soft praise whilst petting down his nose. And when the lad had recollected his shoes and out them on, they left for the market for the second time that day.
“Can we watch the puppet show?” the boy asked, a twinge of excitement and hope in his voice, “I hear they have a dragon puppet manned by four men!”
“We’ll see.”
Dunk buys himself a cup of ale and Egg a small cup of cider from the ale house, and they do end up watching the puppet show in the same tent Dunk had visited last night. It seemed to be the second part of the tale told last night, a play about ‘Florian the Fool’ who shone to today as one of the legendary heroes of the Riverlands. The children gathered at the front, sat on the grass as the puppet trope with wide eyes and wider mouths, the girls gasping out the costumes and the boys are the play swords, though they all squeal at the mock knights.
Egg had liked the cider enough, having taken two tentative sips before handing it to Dunk to guard whilst he sat with the other younglings. The cider was beginning to warm in his hand, but Dunk conceded and resolved to hold the empty cup as the play went on.
He finds himself not only taken by the play, but also the woman on stilts. Dunk had seen her last night, in a different role. Instead of dressed in mail and murky reds and blues, she was a vision of the Gods, clad in soft golds and whites and balanced on stilts that put her far above the crowd. The sight of her brought a grin to his face and made his hands slick with nerves and his neck feel warm.
When the play closed for the afternoon, Dunk took it upon himself to approach her with his squire by his side and hand over two coins, one for the previous night and another for today’s performance. Their interaction felt like a blur, Egg speaking most of the time. When she, Tanselle, spoke of her painting skills, the thought to commission her for his shield immediately stuck Dunk, and so he handed over his shield with a sputtered request and a rough vision of what he wanted: an elm like the one they’d made their camp under, lush with life and a settling sun behind it, and a shooting star arching over. Luck, Dunk thought as he envisioned the star, he’d need every bit of it.
Shield hastily handed over and their retreat quick, Dunk let the air cool the flush over his cheeks as they spotted for a place to rest.
They found respite in a canopy by the open fields beside the tiltyard. Egg had reclaimed his warmed cider, holding the cup in both hands and sipping lightly from it whilst Dunk agonised beside him.
“Was that ill-handled” The knight begun, “the puppet girl?”
“Oh.” Egg put his cup down on the table beside him, leaning forward on his knees and clasping his hands together. His little face pulled in an odd way as he considered his response. “She is painting your shield,” he said, like the act absolved Dunk’s worries.
Dunk huffed, turning his head to Egg, “yeah, for pay.”
“...You are both gigantic.” Egg wasn’t wrong, Tanselle was a tall woman.
“Is that promising?”
“It’s a... commonality.” Egg nodded.
Dunk gave a hesitant nod and took a drink from his fresh cup, turning his attention to the display in front. A game of tug-o-war was that being grunted and groaned at, men slipping on wet mud and neither side seeming to win.
“Do you think I'll ever make a knight one day?” Egg asked, his bald-looking brow furrowed.
Dunk considered it, “sure, why not? You're a likely lad.”
“I’m a bit puny.”
“You’ll grow.”
“Even for my age. Everyone's always told me so.”
Dunk could understand that. The opinions of others had always weighed on him as well as their stares. “Everyone’s always told me I was stupid.” He said, hoping the settle the lad's mind.
“...And?”
“Hm?”
“What did you do when people said you were stupid, ser?”
Dunk frowned, “what business is that of yours? My problems are my own.”
Egg fussed immediately, turning to him with his fingers splayed in exasperation. “I thought—! aren’t you trying to help me?” he huffed.
“Help you what, grow?”
A voice picked up from the crowd, familiar and unmistakable and suddenly Dunk felt as though his heart had been caught in a steel net. Lyonel approached their bench with a powerful stride, pointing a finger at Dunk. “Yes!” he cheered, “hedge knight, you.”
Just as Dunk was about to choke on his ale, Lyonel took the cup from his hand and sniffed it, his nose immediately curling up. “What is this piss froth? I need muscle!” He tossed the cup to the side, spilling the ale on the grass and clapping his hand on the side of Dunk’s neck, his fingers curling around his nape and jaw.
His palm was warm, rough with the beginnings of rope burn and slightly wet with sweat. “Will you heed my call to war?” He asked, baring his teeth like an excited dog.
Though Dunk didn’t answer immediately, he cuffed Dunk around his ear, cheering like he’d won despite the other’s silent gobsmacked and wide-eyed expression. He took a hold of the younger’s bicep, pulling him off the bench with a grunt and shoving him towards the muddy game of tug-o'-war.
Egg was quick to follow, abandoning his cup to bound after Dunk. Lyonel rallied a few other men to dot the length of the rope, pushing Dunk to the end of the line. The hedge knight plucked the rope off the ground, wrapping his hands around the end and knotting it around his waist. He spat into his hands and gripped the rope, bracing his weight on his heels.
Lyonel took point halfway up the rope, ushering the men and women in front and behind him with a pent-up yell.
Anchored at the back, Dunk spied a heavyset man approach, his chest piece embellished with a large golden rose; more than a few of them were marked by House Tyrell, and their lead man seemed fresh faced and young, though certainly not as young as Egg who took the front position, the small yellow clad boy a nit compared to the grown men and women competing.
When the judge waved his hand down, both sides strained to pull the red flag to them with yells of “pull!”
Dunk dug his heels into the beaten ground, tightening his grip on the ground and leaning his weight back.
“If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!”
The surrounding crowds cheered and hollered as the struggle continued, neither side seeming to give any ground him. Dunk could feel his nails dig into his palms; his grip locked on the rope as his thighs ached from how hard he braced himself. He tried to step back, but the other team’s hold was too strong.
“I’ll be back. I’ll be back! I’ll be back.” Lyonel chanted, ducking under the rope and trudging away with a dismissive wave to the yells that followed him.
Dunk’s eyes tracked as he went, wide eyed and panicked—had he truly abandoned them in this dire time of need, he thought to himself. “Lyonel?!” He called in a panic, feeling his feet slip in the progressively softening earth.
He heard Egg yell and could vaguely see the boy physically lift and wrap his legs around the rope, unable to keep his feet from slipping in the mud.
Dunk could vaguely hear Lyonel’s protests and bickering as he drank from whatever tankard was handed to him, but he could also feel the burn in his hands and the muck dragging up the toes of his boots.
Gathering strength in his core and thighs, Dunk dared to take a step back, and then another, and another until he could hear the other side groan in alarm and he trudged onto harder ground. His line of people groaned and huffed, pulling with him now that they were gaining ground back, and Egg continued to hang like a little stone weight.
“Looking good.”
Lyonel gave a firm thump against Dunk's rear as he passed, ducking back under the rope and taking a hold on it once more just behind Egg. Dunk took a deep breath in, gritting his teeth and edging half a step back further at Lyonel’s “Fucking pull!”
The opposing side’s front fell face first into the mud below with a wet smack and the red flag passed onto their side, though all was drowned out by Lyonel’s victory scream and the crowd’s uproar as they flocked to the win side.
Dunk had never felt so mad with joy, ecstasy and joy lacing him as Egg dropped from the rope and skittered over to him, a wide grin stretching his face. “We won!” He shrieked, wrapping his birdish arms around Dunk’s legs. Dunk chuckled, high and bright and swooped down to the boy into his arms and playfully tossing the boy in the air only to catch him under his arms and settle Egg on his hip.
“Reckon it’s ‘cause of you,” Dunk said, “clung on like a monkey you did.” He teased, warmed by the boy’s smiles and exuberated giggles.
“Hedge Knight!”
The weight of a body hit Dunk’s back, and an arm wrapped around the back of his neck. He’s pulled down sharply into a yellow clad chest, his nose met with the musk of sweat and the sharp heat of spiced ale, both of which Dunk greedily soaks in. Eventually though, Dunk patted Lyonel’s back and the storm lord released him, letting him pull back up into the chilled air.
“You mountainous fuck!” Lyonel crowed, “I knew you’d pull us over.”
His eyes are thick with cheer and pride; his hand still curled around the back of Dunk’s shirt. Dunk huffed a laugh, hiking Egg higher on his hip.
“You left halfway through,” Dunk shook his head, “for ale no less.”
“I was thirsty! Rope pulling is thirsty work.”
Egg hummed and patted Dunk’s chest, wishing to be put down. Dunk lowered the lad back onto his own feet. “You’re like a horse, ser,” the boy cheekily grinned, “ploughing the fields.”
Dunk resisted both the urge to cuff the boy on the ear and laugh at his remark, instead giving him an offended glare, “watch your tongue.”
“You’ve gained a growth,” Lyonel noted, “quite a small one though.” He teased.
Egg huffed an annoyed expression, looking as though he was about to bite back before Dunk gave him a sharp look and a shake of his head, hadn’t he just warned the boy about his cheek? Nonetheless Dunk gestured a hand down to Egg.
“Egg, Lyonel. Lyonel, Egg.” Dunk sighed, “Egg’s to be my squire for the tourney.”
The lord let out a bark of incredulous laughter, more delighted by the notion than mocking, “he looks forty pounds soaking wet! How well can he lift a lance?”
“Well enough I suppose.” Dunk defended
Lyonel shook his head, mirth still marring his face. He clapped Dunk on his shoulder again, “you left last night,” he said, “one moment you were there, the next you weren’t.”
“Oh.” Dunk hadn't thought that Lyonel would register his absence, “I, uh—I went after Lord Dondarrion, needed to speak with him.”
“Ahhh.” Lyonel nodded in understanding, bracing his hands on his hips, “Did you happen to leave with anything of mine?” He asked, already knowing the answer if the smirk on his face said anything.