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The rain had drizzled all day, soaking their cloaks through, and now night, the mist hung low and cool in the air. Dunk and Egg had struggled to start the fire, most wood nearby too wet to catch flame. It smoldered low, only enough to warm their feet by briefly, before going out.
Oh well.
“I’m sorry, Ser.” Egg said, fingers scratched up from tending to his knight’s mail and striking the flint many times himself.
“Don’t bother. It’s not your fault. Just Stormland's rain.” Dunk unrolled his bedding onto the driest spot of ground he could find. “It’s not too cold to sleep. Finish your supper. Tomorrow should be warmer.”
Egg nodded and bit into his hard salt beef, chewing carefully. The long day of travel through this weather had worn the boy down, not his normal talkative self. If they had crossed an inn, Dunk would have liked to reward the two of them with dinner and a real bed. But his coin was low, and they were almost out of the Stormlands. Doubling back through this mud would have further delayed them on their journey.
Dunk laid back on his bedroll wrapped in his rough wool blanket, still dry for now. It was not the first time Dunk had ever slept without a fire to keep warm, and wouldn’t be the last. He yawned deep and loud, settled his head on a soft piece of grass, and allowed his eyes to close.
He dozed off for some time, his thoughts of today shifting lazily into half-dreams of the adventures ahead of them, but he couldn’t quite fall asleep. Not with Egg’s shivering.
Dunk could hear his squire tossing and turning in his own bedroll, teeth chattering, fabric rustling. The knight opened his eyes, looked over, and saw the young boy curled up and hugging himself for warmth in the low moonlight.
“Are you cold?” Dunk asked.
“Yes. It is rather algid.”
“What?”
“Brisk, ser.”
“Ah.” Dunk nodded. Sometimes he didn’t know the words the young prince said. And sometimes he didn't know if it was because he was dull or the prince too sharp, but neither teased each other for it anymore. “C’mere, then.” Dunk patted the ground beside him, and shifted over in his bedroll.
“...Should I relight the fire?” Egg sat up, confused.
“We’ll run out of kindling. Bring your bedroll over, we’ll share warmth.” Dunk laid back and closed his eyes again, ready to drift off.
“Oh.” Egg said. The prince seemed to hesitate, but not for long. He carried his bedroll and laid it out next to his knight’s, before wrapping himself in his blanket again. The two lay side-by-side, the world quiet except the rustle of leaves above and stream nearby gurgling.
That is, until Egg started shivering once more. Dunk sighed softly, before sitting up and adjusting his own blankets to share with the boy and wrapping an arm around him to tuck him into his side closer. “Is that better?”
Egg nodded. In a few minutes, he was no longer shaking with cold. “Thank you…” he said quietly.
“It’s no fuss. Can’t have you catching cold.” Dunk shrugged. He thought of his and Rafe’s little hole in Flea Bottom, and how they cuddled together for warmth in a place that had so little. He thought of Ser Arlan, and the times when Dunk was still small enough to fit under his cloak (and Ser Arlan was drunk enough to allow it). Inns, when he and strangers shared a bed. In his drowsy thoughts, he thought of Egg, now still beside him, and if he had ever done the same. When he had been under the impression the boy was from Flea Bottom, Dunk had assumed his life was much similar. But a princeling may have never shared a bed, or room, or fire. Not before this life on the road he was quickly growing accustomed to, in small achievements that gave even Dunk a sense of pride.
But had he ever been held?
Beside him, he heard Egg finally yawn, and soon the boy turned and cuddled into Dunk’s side, an arm wrapped over the giant man's torso. Dunk gently patted his back, now rising and falling with sleep’s deep breathing. Assured the boy was warm, the knight drifted off to sleep as well.