Chapter Text
Ser Arlan had made him kill a stag once.
The winter winds had hardened the ground, and they had finally made it out of the Riverlands, where the seasonal change had made the muck seem to be in a constant state of clay-like, half-hardened sludge. Dunk, newly three-and-ten, had never been more grateful for the hardened ground and dry chill as opposed to simmering wet heat, though sweat still dampened the back of his roughspun tunic.
Sludge gave way to solid earth as they crossed into the Westerlands. Hardened ground had always made the ride easier; Chestnut, though consistently swaybacked, bobbled less without mud weighing his hooves down, and the horse seemed to finally move on from his foul temperament, sharing Dunk’s dislike for the Riverland’s almost boggy humidity. And though no better tempered than usual, Dunk was thankful that Chestnut had given up trying to nip at his knees.
They rode quietly along the River Road, the edges of the earth glistening with a sheet of frost that thinned the further they progressed inwards of the Westerlands, the frost most likely beaten off the track more so than having melted away. It was the third day of the fifth moon, and he and Ser had marked his nameday with a shared wineskin full of liquor that tasted as sour as piss and a half-loaf of stale rye bread slathered in a thick layer of applesauce from a jar they had been carrying in Sweetfoot’s saddlebag since Riverrun — “a feast of kings”, Ser Arlan had called it with an overly sarcastic, wheezing laugh.
The problem came when they were between the Westerlands and the Reach, and a loud, outraged cry made Dunk’s shoulders instinctively jump to his ears. It sounded like if a cow cried into a stone tunnel, echoing throughout the quiet night; it read as hurt and sullen, fading out into a hoarse squeal. Ser Arlan pulled the horses to an immediate stop, his hand raised flat in the air to halt Dunk and a trailing Thunder.
The noise came again: loud, strangled, and pained, and Ser Arlan put down his drinking flask.
“Stay there.” The knight says with a certain hardness to his voice that Dunk had learnt early meant that if he didn’t listen, the clout to his ear would hurt twice as hard. So, he listens and leans over to grab hold of Thunder’s reins in case the horse decides to bolt in fear. Ser Arlan listened again, his hand now on the thick, stone-like pommel of his sword and his flask pocketed.
The sword loosened from its sheath with a click and a long whistle, now bare in the cold air. Ser Arlan pulled on Sweetfoot’s reins, tapping her flank with the heel of his shoe and steering her off to the side of the road, sword poised.
Dunk watched tensely, his jaw clenched tight and his own hand still on the handle of his knife, worn leather soft and worn.
Ser Arlan and Sweetfoot stood stiff on the side of the road now, the mare snorting in anticipation and giving the tough ground a dull-sounding stomp. The cry came again, a mixture of what sounded to Dunk like cattle and a flock of sheep kept in the same pen.
Close to a line of bush and foliage, a dark lump twitched and shrieked. Golden brown and sun-touched streaks of straw-blond fur coloured its shaggy but regal pelt, marking it a king of the woods crowned by a pair of astonishingly large dark antlers that twisted and pointed upwards like crooked tree branches, each tipped with a dangerous paler point; evil hands, one might call them, for that’s what the beast’s antlers looked like.
Dunk’s hand curls tighter onto the handle of his knife, because if there was one thing he had learnt, it was that animals were dangerous, wounded ones even more so.
“It’s a stag,” Ser Arlan announced, “or it was.”
Because this beast was surely going to die. Its left hind leg was a ruin of meat and flesh that led up between its pelvis and the belly like a large crevice in the earth. It keened, its great head lifting an inch and one front leg scrapping pathetically at the ground.
“It’s dying,” Dunk said.
Ser Arlan grunted a noise of acknowledgement, unsaddling from Sweetfoot with his sword still unsheathed. “It’s dead already,” he said. “Ain’t no living with a wound like that.” He stood before the dying stag now, an odd look in his eye.
“Come.” He beckoned to Dunk, waving his unoccupied and withered hand to the boy.
Dunk slunk off Chestnut, his boots crunching on the road and the ends of his cloak whispering against the ground. There’s caution in his step when he walks, approaching slowly to both Ser Arlan and the stag.
“Take your knife.”
Dunk unsheathes his knife in an uncertain manner, wielding the blade with a slight tremble as he stands next to his Ser.
“Ser?” he asked, staring down at the moaning beast.
“It’s best to put it out of its misery,” Ser Arlan tells him. “Do it quick, do it fast, boy.”
Dunk is immediately caught in a state of fright, a pulsing heat in his hands as his head whips to Ser Arlan. He shook his head, afraid and with sweat gathering on his brow. “Ser, I can’t—”
“You’d leave it to suffer?”
“No!” Dunk is quick to deny, a wobble to his bottom lip, “No, Ser.”
The burn of anxiety is thick and stubborn, refusing to leave Dunk as he steps forward and overlooks the stag. It’s wrong, he thinks, that this beast is below him and Dunk above it. In his short years with Ser Arlan, Dunk had seen many deer and does, but a stag was a rare sight. Ser Arlan had always called them proud creatures, crowned for a reason. They were the symbol of House Baratheon, he had said one night, and for good reason; bile rises in Dunk’s throat, and he chokes it down with great difficulty.
“Ser, I can’t.” The blade in his hand trembles violently.
The older man sighs in frustration, thumbing across the penny welded into the pommel of his sword. “Seven fucks, boy. Do it!”
Dunk’s eyes prickle with tears, and his chin stutters up and down. He felt as though he was going to retch. He stepped closer to the stag, palming his knife in two sweaty hands and holding it like a pole.
“It’s miserable, Dunk.” Arlan reasons, “Better a quick death than a slow one.”
The king moans, head lifting once more with a grunt before slumping in exhaustion, losing its fight and accepting its fate. Arlan is right; of course he’s right. Why should the stag have to suffer more than it already has?
The knife is taken from Dunk’s hands quickly and replaced with Arlan’s sword just as fast. “Hold it steady,” Arlan’s voice had dimmed to a rare quiet, a low moment of calm in the chaos that is Dunk and the stag, “like a proper knight.”
Ser Arlan’s sword is heavy, the stone-like pommel an odd weight. It doesn’t fit Dunk’s smaller grip as well as it does Arlan's, and the penny gleams oddly under the moonlight like an eye watching the boy. Dunk raised the sword; sharp heat lodged in his chest.
Like a proper knight, he chants internally, like a proper knight.
He swallows down the bile in his mouth, and the sword splits through the thick fat and muscle of the stag’s neck. The beast cries out a final guttural bellow before stilling. It’s hoof scrapes against the earth one more time before its waxy black eyes dull. Dunk turns to the side, and the remnants of bread and applesauce splash onto the grass below him.
Dunk’s mouth tastes foul now, and a line of sick drool crawls down the corner of his lip. He drags the back of his hand across his wet mouth, his other still holding the sword. It's pinched between the fat and flesh of the stag, leaning slightly to the left. Blood bubbles and pools from the killing blow, reeking of iron and guilt.
“Good.” Dunk’s Ser says with a strange lilt of relief that Dunk misses in the moment, “Well done, lad.”
Ser Arlan leaves with the body, dragging it past the treeline until it isn’t visible from the road, and Dunk is left with the sword, the horses, and twin puddles of sick and stag blood. When Arlan returns, they resaddle the horses and trek down the road, leaving behind the corpse.
“...that was a kindness, Dunk. A mercy.”
The older man pursed his lips, letting the moment linger before extending an arm to Dunk with his drinking flask in hand. “Here,” he says, “have a drink.”
Dunk takes the flask and holds it for a few clicks, letting it warm in his hand before handing it back, not a sip taken from it.
“Don’t sulk.”
“Aye, Ser.”
⸝⸝
Ashford Meadows grows louder during the night, filled with drunken and rowdy folk; young girls in silks hoping to earn a copper from knights or lords, brotherhoods formed on liquor and the general talk of crowds.
The puppet show had been its own tourney in terms of entertainment; the manned dragon puppet was truly something otherworldly. When Dunk passes the lists, he sees a mounted knight in red and gold, a lion’s mane sown on to the cape pinned below the man’s shoulder plates—Dunk wonders if they leave the more known lords and knights from regal houses and valiant ‘blanks of blanks’ for the night lists.
“Halfman! Halfman!” a voice calls, male and still on the beginnings of manhood.
Dunk turned his head whilst he walked, half certain that he was the ‘halfman’ in question. The man from before in the training fields approached in a series of lazy hopping steps, grinning as he approached.
“Do I look like a halfman to you?” Dunk asked, a hitch to his voice and his hackles half raised.
“Aye. Half man, half giant.” The stranger answered, giving him a glance from toe to top. Perhaps sensing he struck a nerve, the knight backtracked with an apology, and he joined Dunk on his path away from the puppet tent. He introduced himself as Raymun Fossoway, a squire visiting with his knighted cousin, Steffon Fossoway, whom Dunk had the misfortune of meeting earlier.
“Fight well for a squire.” Dunk said, and he meant it.
Their conversation was pleasant and flowed easily, and Dunk preens internally as he earned a laugh from Raymun.
“Are you hungry?” The Fossoway asked, giving Dunk a grin.
“Always.”
The tent is a loud thing, both in noise and look. The top is black and drips in angular upside-down triangles onto a plain, drab yellow—from a different perspective the yellow would look like a child’s drawing of a yellow pointy crown. Two antlered stag heads proudly sit atop each side of the roof and Dunk distinctly understands that this is the Baratheon pavilion, if the reared stag banners were anything to go off and the overwhelming mass of antlers pinned to the tent’s entrance.
It glows softly from inside, promising warmth and roaring fiercely with the sound of music and rambunctious laughter. Raymun had to beckon him further with a fluttering hand when Dunk lingered, unsure about how welcome he’d be in a space such as this. The two guardsmen outside don’t comment, but they do hold their hands out for both Dunk and Raymun to hand over their blades.
Dunk handed them over reluctantly, not having parted with the sword since he’d buried Ser Arlan. They take his roughspun cloak, but strangely not his shield—Dunk wonders if that means he’ll have to defend himself inside.
The inside is no less antlered than the outside. A multitude of candles by the dozen sprout like flowers in a field, coating the interior in a soft yellow-orange haze. The support posts are covered with antlers as well, the bones sanded and elegantly dulled—Dunk can spot a handful of chandeliers also made from nests of antlers.
Each table is flocked with different types of people, from minor lords to common folk, each drinking and eating without a care in the world. Two men fight with dull steel swords, bantering and laughing like wet dogs. Ale is served without hesitation, and a small band of minstrels play in the corner where Raymun has dragged Dunk to come and sit.
The squire pours him a mug of something, be it ale or cider, and Dunk takes it gladly. He goes to take a drink of it when something else captures his attention. The crowd parts enough for Dunk to get an eyeful of the high table, men whose names he doesn’t know. But the man in the middle—
“Lyonel Baratheon. The Laughing Storm, they call him,” Raymun said.
Dunk wonders what one must do to earn a title such as that, though the man certainly does fit it. The lord’s laughter can be heard loud and clear from across the tent, his lips spread in a wide grin that takes up much of his face. He fiddles with his eating knife, engaged with the older man beside him, and much like his tent, the Baratheon is crowned by two antlers sprouting from a solid diadem, as if the lord were a stag in human disguise.
And all Dunk can muster is an earnest “I thought he’d be bigger,” but then Raymun leaves, and it sets Dunk’s heart off to a new rhythm. He sat alone for a moment in the loud tent, perking his head up to look for the lad’s head of dark curls when a voice cried out.
“I’ve had a profound thought!” the voice yelled, “If anyone would care to listen.” The tent quiets immediately, every head turning to listen to Lord Baratheon speak.
“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust.” The lord tells, having his hand as he spoke and straightening from his slouch, “Well, I say... the fuck was I going to say?”
“First-ever joust...”
Then the lord continued, “Ah,” he sounded shortly, adjusting in his chair. “Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?”
The tent falls into an almost awkward silence, and Dunk takes a drink from his newly refilled cup; he was unsure if the lord had paused for effect or was genuinely asking. But the lord just gave a shrug and a laugh, the lines on his face thick and deep, like he was accustomed to laughing every minute of the day.
“A hundred gold to the man, beast, or God who sticks me best!” he suddenly shouted, tossing a heavy-sounding coin purse on the table before him. “Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”
The tables roar with cheers, and the music plays again, louder than before and with a heavy barrage of drumbeats. Liquor is poured heavy and loose, cups overfilling only to be drunk before even a drop could spill. The dancing begins as well. Folk cheer in delight; men jump from tables while women spin and clap. But Dunk isn’t here to sway or jig; he’s here for food.
He feels like a particularly skittish horse as he makes his way slowly through the thick crowd, an opening in the middle of the tent now dedicated to pushing someone in the middle to dance; at the moment that is a man and a woman who dance a storm of high kicks and low crouches, much to the crowd’s amusement.
It’s then that Dunk feels a burning gaze, charged like the buzz of a storm brewing. The crowd flows with the music, parting enough for him to get an eyeful of the cause. Lord Lyonel Baratheon is staring at him with an intensity that makes Dunk’s neck prickle so fiercely it’s as if he’s laid belly up in a patch of nettles. He’s illuminated in the low glow of the batches of candles beside him, isolated and stark, like he’s one of the forest creatures Ser Arlan whispered about by their fires.
Danish pastry in hand, Dunk has never felt more frightened in his whole life. All he can think is that he hopes his death is swift; better a quick death than a slow one.
Instead of the Gods striking him down, the grey-haired man beside the lord waved a hand to Dunk, beckoning him closer. Dunk’s brows rose, and he pointed an occupied hand at himself whilst praying that the man was miming to someone behind him. Instead, the old man points directly at Dunk and gives another, more aggressive, wave of his hand, and so Dunk makes his way through the crowd with half a mouthful of pastry in one of his cheeks.
He wanders over with his heart beating loud enough to drown out the music, standing before Lord Baratheon and his high table. The lord is slouched in his chair, fiddling with a rather large knife whilst Dunk stands there chewing before him.
Lord Baratheon sighed, “you ever been punched in the face before?”
Dunk paused, confused and feeling as though he shouldn’t have left his shield at the table. “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?” he asked with a furrow between his brows.
“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?”
“No, but I believe it.”
The lord gestured with his knife, “that why you slouch?” he asked, “so you don’t get punched?”
“I... I don't slouch.”
“Oh, you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” The lord drawled out, like he was speaking to a puppy, a low laugh leaving him afterwards.
Dunk flounders for a moment—how was he to respond to that? Surely if he were alive to see it, Ser Arlan would have given him the hardest cuff he had ever given him. His mouth quivers as he debates his response, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t see him dead on this very floor in this very moment.
Despite not having come here to sway or jig, that’s exactly what Dunk finds himself trapped in doing. The crowd is still alight, even into the growing weary hour. The music remains strong as several patrons clap their hands and stomp their feet along to the beat of drums and lutes. Dunk is stiff and unpractised as he danced. He had not danced in Fleabottom, not on the roads with Ser Arlan, and despite his claim that surely everyone liked dancing, he’d yet to decide if he did in fact enjoy what was happening.
A young lady threads her arm through his, spinning them around in a fast circle, and then he’s entangled with another lady, seemingly skipping the crowds like a stone of water.
Lyonel prances above on a cluttered table, his arms spread like a bird in flight with his shoulders jolting with each heavy thump of the music. He seems to thrive off this, having stripped himself of his crown and cape to meander with the crowds. Dunk had tried to envision the lord as a commoner dressed in cool Baratheon blacks and no antlers in sight, but Dunk could not think of him as anything else except uncommon, a crackle to the lord’s air that made him so much more than the average folk.
The storm lord descended from the table, joining the crowd with a high call of enthusiasm, his head tossing back like an animal as he spread his arms and skipped through man and lady alike until he was face-to-face with Dunk.
The lord straightened up, crowding his face into Dunk’s space. Lyonel Baratheon was by no means a small man, frighteningly comparable to Dunk’s striking height, and the hedge knight could tell that Lyonel was not used to being the smaller man; the glint of frustration in his eyes said so.
Lyonel’s jaw tightened, and he chewed on his cheek before lifting a foot and slamming it down on Dunk’s toes, making the latter's shoulders hike to his ears. Dunk held through the blow, and something in Lyonel’s eyes darkens—satisfaction that he had made Dunk flinch. A desire to see it happen again?
The polished leather boot slams against empty ground this time as Dunk skilfully avoids being stamped on again. Dunk would be a fool if he said he didn’t see the growing agitation on Lyonel's face. He looks at Dunk through his brow; nostrils flared in anger. Another stamp misses Dunk entirely. It’s almost like playing a game of tag, Dunk thinks, avoiding the multitude of attempts made on his foot. They wind around in a circle; a wicked sense of fright mixed with thrill lights Dunk’s nerves.
Their strange dance captures the attention of everyone who parts into a wide circle to give the two ample space. They cheer and grin wide as Lyonel pursues and Dunk evades, the music seemingly growing faster and more frantic.
And Dunk, who regarded himself as being as thick as a castle wall, decides to raise his own foot and stomp down on Lyonel’s foot. The lord cried out, and Dunk closed the gap as Lyonel shuddered, curling inwards until his forehead meets Dunk’s bicep. He’d blame instinct, Dunk thought, when he realised that his hand was cupped firmly over one side of Lyonel’s chest, holding the man up as he recovers.
The leather of his doublet was moulded to fit Lyonel firmly, warm from his body heat and now warmer by Dunk’s hand. The muscle against it is firm, the hidden heart beating like a jackrabbit.
Lyonel slowly straightens from his curl, panting open-mouthed, with a new waxy gleam to his eyes that Dunk cannot name but can feel the weight of. Lyonel’s mouth splits open further into an almost mad grin, his tongue swiping over his teeth before sticking out—there’s no anger, no bitterness in the lord’s eyes now. What remains is a hungry thrill that calls out to Dunk.
Dunk grinned back, placing both hands onto Lyonel’s shoulders and giving the man a firm shove back. He and Lyonel fall into a rhythm of dancing around each other: Dunk was spinning in place with his arms out and Lyonel galloping around him whilst clapping to the beat. Dunk felt as though he’d drunk from Ser Arlan’s flask of Dreamwine; perhaps the ale he’d drunk at the table had finally reached his head, perhaps he was feeding off the revelry as much as Lyonel was.
He’s dazed from the spinning, drunk from the ale, and his head has begun to thump angrily from heat, noise, and the tightness of the crowds. The ache in his toes from Lyonel’s stomp is faint now but still present. Between the spinning and swaying, Lyonel had manhandled Dunk back to the high table, except this time Dunk found himself sitting on the same side as the lord.
The table itself is a testament to Lyonel’s lordship. It’s graced with a yellow cloth embellished in winding imagery of grapevines and swirls that swim under a long table runner of golden lace which was ruined by candlewax, and spilt liquor and food. Numerous plates cover the table’s surface, bundles of candles scattered bountifully.
Lyonel tumbled down into his chair, a tall thing of dark wood and lordly plushness, the armrests made of twin antlers instead of wood. He poured Dunk another cup of ale, quick to swallow back his own even though he was still shaking from the thrill of the dance circle.
“Have you... ever sailed to the end of the realm.?” Lyonel murmured, slouching back in his chair in an almost loose and lazy manner. His hand reaches forward, bypassing the long dagger he had been handling during their first meeting to instead curl around the antlered diadem that had been abandoned quite a while ago.
“I meant no disrespect, ser, honest.” Dunk settled on, “Where I grew up, you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”
Lord Lyonel’s brows rose, his knife raised as he spoke. “The Seven above gave you tallness. So be tall.” He spreads his hands and shakes his head with a proud grin, explaining the concept like it was an obvious answer to all of Dunk’s problems. Though his expression soon dropped, and the blade was pointed loosely at Dunk once more. “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you.”
He drops his blade with a loud clatter steel and holds his hand up in exasperation. “What have you brought me?”
“Erm... Ser, I— beggin’ your pardons. I didn’t realise.”
“...You wish to curry my favour some. Yet you come with an empty hand.”
Part of Dunk is viscously cursing Raymund with every curse he had learnt from the streets of Fleabottom and the Dothraki Ser Arlan would spew on a bad night. Dunk is left once again to flounder before the high table; the best he could offer the lord was a half-eaten pastry or his sword, though he doubts the antler crowned man would accept it.
“Lord Cafferen,” Lord Lyonel said, pointing behind Dunk, “the smug cunt in red, he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinnied up this... bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.” He spoke with his hands, spinning sharp-edged poetry with his words and accentuating them with each almost lazy, tilt of his knife occupied hand.
He levels Dunk with a dark, intense look, tilting his head as he spoke. “You’ve come for my head, then.”
Dunk blinked at him in astonishment, wondering where the lord had gathered such an idea. “What?” he sputtered, “No! No.” He denied hastily.
Lord Lyonel rose both hands; fingers pinched like claws. “Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” He said, stressing each word and sounding as if he were one word away from making good use of that blade.
All Dunk can give him is a stuttered “s... supper?” which sounds more like a question than an answer, his pastry half raised as evidence.
The lord blinks, silent and with a high drawn expression. His patrons are just as silent, tense and almost pitying, though they loosen immediately when the Baratheon gave a chuckle, high and taken aback.
“Alright.” The lord accepted, “Actually makes sense.” He murmured.
It does little to loosen the rigidity in Dunk’s shoulders, and even though he gives his own rough but earnest smile, he’s smart enough to recognise that he is still prey, that the figurative noose is still around his neck like a duck hanging in a butcher’s shop.
“What is your name, man?”
“Dunk—Ser Dunk.” He corrected.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Lord Lyonel leaned closer, and Dunk gravitated forward.
“Do you like dancing?” The lord asked, whispering like he was asking a sacred question.
“...Doesn’t everyone?” Dunk gave back.
⸝⸝
Inside the pavilion it had been laid with sanded wooden planks to stabilise the furniture and prevent the chance of mud if someone was to spill their drinks—or their guts. The best use it saw though was the for the dancing crowds, the stomp of boots echoing throughout the space as the music thrived and the folk fed off good spirits and earthly pleasures.
Lyonel lifted it from the table, inspecting the solid band of brass like metal and thumbing over the carved imagery dancing its face. He straightened briefly, lifting an inch off his chair and stretching up to place the crown crookedly on Dunk’s head.
The knight is taken aback by this, his eyes widening as the metal cools his forehead and adds an unfamiliar weight atop him. He went to remove it, but Lyonel slapped his hand away and retook his slouch with his eyes thin, as if daring Dunk to try and remove it.
“My Lord—”
Dunk knew not a lick of what the lord was talking about, but he was captivated, nonetheless—a sea tale, he came to understand.
“The swells heaved. You could lick salt from the air. But I'd come to find what men do when they die at sea.” Lyonel suddenly drawled out. His voice lacked the bite it had when he spoke loud to the crowds, lowered to a whispering rumble like tone that many poets would weep to have. The kind of voice that drew Dunk’s attention immediately, like spotting smoke in open air and understanding that something was afoot. “So, drove I on into the storm.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” Dunk asked, because surely even Lyonel Baratheon knew the cruel touch of fear.
“Ahh.” Lyonel’s head tilted back and he gave an almost weary sigh. “Within every man, there are many men. But that I had to do, Stormlanders had always done. And if they had done it, I could do it, too.”
He gestured loose, his hand meeting his thigh with a dull thud like the night had sucked the energy out of him. “You know, it’s best not to agonise.”
It was sound enough advice, though easier said than done. Lyonel waved a hand to the wine, and it put his empty cup down before Dunk. “I agonise a lot.” Dunk poured whilst he spoke, “Sometimes, I think I agonise too much. And I just end up agonising over that.” The liquor had clearly loosened his tongue.
“I’m quick and strong, sure.” Dunk said, speaking aloud what he had been agonising over since passing by the tiltyard.
“Sure.” Lyonel had stabbed through a square of meat with what looked like an icepick, eating from the tool and not looking awfully engaged with Dunk’s philosophy.
“But so are you.” Dunk continued.
“Sure.”
“Plus, you’ve trained sword and lance with the finest masters-at-arms in the realm.” Dunk’s jaw tightened, and he felt the pit in his stomach grow once more. “I mean, what chance do I have? Truly?”
“Oh, you have no chance.” Lyonel said plain, a wheezed laugh following.
Dunk huffed in disbelief, drinking from his cup and shaking his head.
“But it’s a great honour to test oneself against a worthy foe.” Lyonel rose his hand, clasping Dunk’s shoulder.
“...No disrespect, ser. That’s easy for you to say. You have a name, an inheritance. One loss, and I won't be able to ransom back my own horse.” Dunk told, honest and true—what did Lyonel Baratheon know of poverty? Of plucking teeth out of a dead man’s mouth so he could feed his own?
Lyonel gave him another sharp grin and short breathed laugh. “A knight without a horse is no knight at all.” He said, banter thick in his voice.
Dunk nodded in agreement. “...So, what should I do?” He asked.
“I don’t know.” Lyonel’s hand touched his shoulder again, his grip firm and his voice a soft hush, “I’m really quite drunk.”
He stands from his chair, using Dunk as a crutch and then stepped on to the table. He stepped forward across the table, dropping on the other side and walking off, leaving Dunk alone at the lord’s table.
Dunk has little idea on what to do now, to stay or to leave. That is until he spots red hair, the same woman from when he’d attempted to speak with Ser Manfred. She and another lady tug a man out of the tent, and Dunk pursued after swiping up his shield and swallowing what remained in his cup.