Chapter Text
Ser Arlan’s song was shrill and gargled, thick with the stinging edge of dreamwine as he ends one verse and begins another just as shrill, just as reedy as the last one. Dothraki is a harsh language, it turns vowels guttural and brings words from low in the throat, but Ser Arlan has a drunken talent of squawking and slurring his songs enough that the words become almost as slippery as the mud below their horses' hooves.
The turn of winter had made the Vale of Arryn a hard place. The ground barely yielded, though some may call that a blessing in some respects, and the mountains had trapped the cold in without kindness.
Dunk’s cloaks barely kept the harsh bite of the wind out; the ends tucked into his tightly tied boots and the front closed securely by a plain row of whip stitches that ended just below his elbows. The fur lined hood did little to ward off the chill that nipped his cheeks and nose, patches bloomed a rosy pink by wind whippings that had broken through the rough cloth Ser Arlan had given him to wrap his lower face with.
They had barely made it in time to cross into the Vale, leaving little time to spare to gather provisions and sew the lasts of their cured furs to their cloaks—Dunk’s job, half of which he finished on the road seated atop Chestnut, the horse’s swayback gait leaving him with more than a few needle pricks in his pads. The warnings of winter had reached them late. They had heard of the white raven’s release in the back of an inn at Harroway’s Town, quick to saddle and mount the horses soon after; ser Arlan had found work in the Vale under Lord Grafton of Gulltown, the detailing of which Dunk wasn’t privy to.
Dunk’s breath was the only thing that warmed his face, trapped behind his scarf and creating a pocket of weak heat around his nose and below. Every time he breathed out through his mouth, a thin cloud of misty white blew through his scarf, making him squint. Chestnut’s head bobbled in front; the braids Dunk had nervously woven into the horse’s mane swinging and swaying with his gait.
They had chosen to ride the coast edge of the Vale, bypassing the treachery of the Eyrie’s roads, winter had made travel hard enough, Ser Arlan had sworn loudly that he didn’t need one of the horses snapping a leg on the narrow mountain roads.
The Vale was as far North as Ser Arlan would go, the man making it clear to Dunk that they’d never go further than The Twins—you can go on your own, Arlan grunted years back, but it’ll be without me. Dunk had no interest in heading North himself; Greywater Watch was enough to ward almost all Southern folk away for good.
Swaying back and forth with the motions of Chestnut, the walls of Gulltown slowly came into view.
Thick grey walls that surrounded the town were tall and imposing, compensating for the break in the natural mountains and creating a pocket between land and sea. The town was large and nestled in a crescent around the open sea. The houses and buildings were consistent in being made from grey and white stone, each baring a wooden roof that resembled the wood used for the docks. Gulltown’s economy was built on trade and its harbour, meaning the close waters were flocked by tall, masted ships, and the smell wafting towards them was one of brine and reeds.
Dunk could almost taste the thick scent through his scarf. It made his nose scrunch, but it was certainly not the worst smell that he had suffered through before. He pulled his scarf up further, feeling the fur brush the bottoms of his lower eyelids.
“We’ll find a place to settle before heading for the Wingspire.” Ser Arlan murmured, half muffled from his own face coverings, “Give the horses a break, and find somewhere to warm my prick before it falls off.” He grumbled.
“Aye, ser.” Dunk nodded. The cold had made him miserable, and his face hurt something fierce from the wind lashings. The squire’s grip tightened on Chestnut’s reins, eager to finally reach the walls of Gulltown and silently sulk through the vetting the Salt cloaks would give them at the doors.
“Not long now...” Arlan swore low, no doubt tired himself. He’d drunken the wine in his flagon already, leaving him parched the last stretch of their journey and aching for something that wasn’t water from a half-frozen stream or whatever was left in Dunk’s flagon.
꧁꧂
They had reached the front gates within a cold hour, lowering from the horses to be patted down by Salt cloaks and have their saddle bags inspected. Ser Arlan didn’t grumble as he usually would, baring through the treatment before the two guards cleared them with nary a word more than necessary.
The town was no better than the road. The ground was stiff, hard, and half sludge from hauled water and snow. The people were harder and stiffer, clad in tunics so thick they were almost stiff and solid soled shoes that stomped through the gravel and mud.
The hollers of market prices and complaints filled the streets. The clops of horses and small wheelbarrows struck lines in the earth, puddles of water close by the brick walls of houses. Any patches of grass had been bashed dead long ago, leaving the streets a drab palette of greys, browns, and waxy greenish browns.
Ser Arlan had instructed they disembark from Sweetfoot and Chestnut as soon as they entered the Gulltown’s gate. The street made a distinctive squish as Dunk’s boots met it, one that made him wince and hope that the patch job he’d done on the toe of his shoe would hold through. He held Chestnut’s reins, winding through the street behind his Ser, and Sweetfoot, and Thunder. They’d need to find somewhere to house their horses, and that would no doubt be expressive—a few silver, Dunk thought, more depending on how long Ser Arlan held this contract for.
“Keep an eye out for a boarding stable, boy.” Arlan said, reaching up and pulling his scarf down; despite the smell, the town trapped and generated heat as well as an inn did. He too was wind whipped, a bright reddish-pink flush across his forehead and upper cheeks.
Dunk followed, pulling his scarf down as well and letting it bunch at his neck. Fur tickled his neck as he craned up and tried to spy one. Stables were commonly kept closer to the gates and easy enough to spot with the flow of other horses being fed in. His height—outlandish, as Ser Arlan dubbed it, helped him greatly in seeing over the crowds. Though paired with his thick and layered clothing, it made him stand out like a freefolk.
The boarding stable isn’t too hard to spot; it’s a large structure made of wooden curves and a straw lined roof, open mouthed and just as loud as the rest of the harbour town. Dunk waits outside with the three horses whilst Arlan speaks with the stable manager. When he returns and Dunk asks the older how much it would cost, Arlan waves him off with a hand and tells him not to bother with it.
They board the horses with little fuss. Dunk says a quiet goodbye to each to them, even Thunder who they hadn’t had for as long as they have Chestnut and Sweetfoot. He pets down each of their noses, smoothing down each cold damp snout and reluctantly pulling away when Arlan beckons with a “quit talking to the horses, Lunk.”
The noise and brine return when they leave the stables, a soft sprinkle of snow accompanying it. Dunk pulled his scarf back up, hunching his shoulders as he walked behind Arlan.
“Will you tell me about the job now?” Dunk asked, folding his hands under his armpits below two cloaks; he’d sewn a black pelt to the surface, the scrapes from wool Ser Arlan had brought from the last town they’d rode through. He’d gotten it in exchange for wild wheat they’d picked from a side road, and scraps of tin Dunk had found in the bank of a river.
Ser Arlan gave a vague grunt, “we’ll talk over food,” he said, “I need a drink and somewhere to piss properly.”
꧁꧂
They caught a table at The Charon; a quiet three-story building made of salt smelling oak and dark iron furnishings. It was scarcely populated by folk, but the hearths were lit and the chandeliers were stocked with slow melting candles making it far warmer than outside.
Dunk settled in the seat opposite to the old knight, the chair creaking below the tall boy as he settled on elbows the table. “Now will you tell me?” He murmured, looking at Ser Arlan through his brow, a little furrow to them.
Arlan sucked on his teeth, tapping a nail on the table as he thought about his response. “Stop your badgering, boy.” He scorned, “I’ve half the mind to cuff you ‘round your head.”
Cowed, Dunk retreated and tucked his hands back to himself, slouching back into his chair without another word or look to his master.
“...It’s winter now. Lord Grafton is looking for more men to keep the peace in town, Winter tends to rile folk, make them panic about food and space.” The old man sighed, his tapping halting as their food is brought forward.
Pumpkin soup. It seemed to be the only thing they served during this time, or perhaps they were burdened with a blessed harvest of pumpkin, squash, and whatever other vegetable grew in their family.
But it smelt nice, and Dunk would take anything that wasn’t salted beef or the leather of his own shoes. Steam drifted from the bowls of bright orange, plainly dressed in only matching wooden spoons and two thin slices of buttered bread on the sides of each plate.
The bowls were set on the table with a quiet thud, the young serving girl giving them each a shy smile before hastily scurrying back to the kitchens. Arlan wasted no time in taking his bowl, swirling the spoon around before shoving it in his mouth.
“If we’re lucky,” Arlan garbled through a mouthful of soup and spoon, “this contract’ll last the winter. Then we head south again, walk somewhere we don’t have to choke on furs in.”
Dunk nodded silently, already shovelling down his own mouthful of food. His hands tore his slice of crusted bread in half, butter soaking under his grimy nails. “What should I do?” He asked, soaking the bread in soup.
Arlan pulled a frown, “come with me.” He said, “and if they won’t take another man—or...” He considered, “a boy, then you find work someplace else, stables, forge, the ports... anyplace you can.”
Dunk nodded along. It made sense, he thought, Ser Arlan couldn’t feed them both on coppers for however winter lasted, and the business of being a hedge knight was a fickle thing, it may hold for a month, or it may hold for a day.
“We’ve lodgings above for the night,” The older said, tearing his bread slice in half as well and chucking the larger portion on to Dunk’s plate, “after that, we’ll see.”
Dunk took the slice, knowing better than to argue with the old man’s kindness. They ate silently for the rest of their meal, spooning soup into their mouths like starving men. It was made thick, not perfectly smooth and tasting a little earthier than Dunk expected, but it filled his stomach and what Ser Arlan didn’t finish he handed to Dunk as he always did.
The inn remained quiet, though to the squire that made sense, not many people would choose to travel during the cold months, and no one was ever eager to spend any coin they didn’t have to. As the hour weened down, folk went to bed or headed out of the inn, blowing cold air in once or twice before Dunk and Arlan decided to turn in for the night.
The second level of the building was dedicated to patron lodgings. The floors were stained with mud and general wear and tear. They were plainly dressed and housed six flat oak doors with large circular door handles made from weary metal that creaked when the door open.
Inside was no less plain. They had been given an end room, meaning two of the walls were made of cold grey brick that held no windows. There was a decent straw-stuffed mattress on a short wooden frame in the corner, clad in red bedclothes and two flat pillows. Beside the door was a dark set of chested draws dressed by a single oil lamp.
“Better than the Crossroads.” Arlan mused, inspecting the room he’d paid good coin for.
They’d slept rough since the Crossroads Inn, passing no farm or homes that would let them take shelter in their hayloft or shed. Dunk could understand that to, given the reputation that Hegde Knights had gathered in the recent ages and the way that winter tended to turn folk.
“Aye, ser.” Dunk agreed, remembering the inn. The corner of their room’s roof had collapsed inwards under a thick rainfall—just our luck, Ser Arlan had scoffed at the time. They hadn’t had to pay for the repairs luckily, but it did mean sleeping cold and slightly wet for the night. After that, the knight had sworn off paying for rooms for the next while.
They settle quickly for the night. Ser Arlan takes the bed, and Dunk lays on the floor atop their laid-out cloaks and a pillow from the bed; Dunk doesn’t mind the floor, truly, and if his ser scoffed then Dunk would turn and make a remark about how if Arlan was on the floor then they’d spend the better part of the morning wrestling him back onto old, stiff bones—at the risk of a clout to the ear.
Once the door is shut, the room is enclosed in quiet darkness, nary a sound except Ser Arlan’s harsh breaths.
Dunk folded his hands under his head, staring blindly at the ceiling. The room didn’t stop the cold, and he could still feel the stiffness in his toes, curling them inside his socks and trying to encourage the blood to work a little harder.
Though he cannot see it, Dunk can feel the heat of his breath warm his teeth and upper lip, a soft sound in comparison to Ser Arlan’s wheeze; the youth compared to the old. Dunk had turned seventeen before the set of winter, celebrated in the marshlands of Riverrun with a fresh bruise on his jaw from the old man, his own fault though, deserved for reasons he dares not repeat.
When the squire closes his eyes, he imagines the hopeful coming of summer. It’d be hot once more, and he’d have to unpick the stitches of the furs he’d sewn into his clothes, but he dreamed of the easier paths summer brought with it, the enthusiasm of folk markets.
He cleared the thoughts, closing his eyes instead and trying to let his mind melt like wax. Sleep, he thought, he wanted to sleep now and rest the ache of dry eyes and wind whipped cheeks. Said wind still battered the world, shaking windows and whining like a sword slash. But it couldn’t reach them in here, the room had no glass to shake or shutters to pound, that Dunk was thankful for.
Dunk passes the night half awake and half asleep, unable to rid himself of the strange tingling in the air like lightning was about the strike. It kept his nerves alive with anxiety and an anticipation that things were about to go horribly wrong. He doesn’t know how long he spends in this state, only that he begins to feel nauseous from the lack of sleep and his jaw has begun to hurt from how hard it’s clenching.
“Have you been agonising the whole night again?” A gruff voice asked, rough with sleep and phlegm caught in the back of the throat. Ser Arlan rose slow from the bed, thin blanket pooling in his lap and he straightened with a stiff groan like a rising yak. His back cracked with the new position, one that made Dunk’s lip curl at the sound of it.
“...Not the whole night,” Dunk murmured, trying to defend himself though he knew it’d be useless, the old man would no doubt see the tiredness of his eyes when they stepped out into light.
Arlan gave a grunt, reaching down and blindly patting around for his boots.
Dunk followed the best he could in the darkness, their only light being the thin streams leaking in through the bottom of the door. “The castle now, ser?” Dunk asked.
The knight huffed as he tied his boots, lacing them tight and then buttoning the furred boot covers over the top of them. “Aye, the tower.”
꧁꧂
The streets of Gulltown are no less frigid than when they arrived. The street they walk through his clouded by smoke from alive forges, and sea mist from the harbour. The path is a muddy, stoney thing that hoards thin lines of water between their grooves and muck in its gutters. The buildings are tall things made of thick wood and stone brick, a few connected by cross-wings and others fixed with additional wood. Dunk had been in harbour towns before, but Gulltown was one of the more renown ones, a central point for Westeros trade.
Like Dunk and Arlan, the town had risen with the sun. The market district was loud and filled with conflicting scents. Summer spices had been exchanged for winter roots, though many stalls still sold powders from Dorne and Essos; pumpkin seemed to the favoured vegetable to sell alongside sacks of lentils and hearty brassicas. Furs sold easily—not just the plain fox or elk, but exotic ones as well; shadow cat skins and sand bulls. From stalls caked in furs to steel hooks and ocean crusted artifacts pulled from the bottom of the bay; the market never seemed to run out of oddities and items.
The Wingspire laid further off from the market district, instead the crown of a small hill that gave it a good vantage over the town. Despite being named a ‘spire’, the castle was made up of several brown and grey stone towers piercing through nest of rectangular and square buildings. The spires and triangle shaped roofs were tipped off with dark greyish-blue nips made of shingle tiles and arched windows that looked like a pointed hat.
The whole keep looked as though it didn’t house a single warm bone in its body, as drab as the grey sky above it. There was a path of wide, flat stairs that curled up the side of the hill, leading to the two massive wooden doors with circular iron handles. The doors were bracketed by two men dressed in muted reds and black wool and cotton to combat the cold, a thick cloak thrown over the shoulders lined with sheep pelt and kept close to the neck.
They chatted quietly about something Dunk couldn’t hear, pausing when the two obviously not Grafton men arrived. One chewed as his eyes traced from Ser Arlan’s toes to his top and Dunk could tell right then and there that this man didn’t believe his ser to be anything but muck on the bottom of his shoe.
That may be true in summer or spring, when men and women were free to wear silks and soft linens as the sun shone on the land, and the food was more plentiful. But Dunk believed that winter made everyone equal, the cold could come for anyone no matter how many coins they had in their pockets. It only took one bad draft, one slip in the river, and a rich man would the same as a poor one when the Stranger came.
Now, they wore the same pelts—only difference was that the hedge knight and his squire had earned theirs, and these two had either paid or been supplied the ones they wore and then additionally paid for someone to sew them onto their clothes.
Ser Arlan and Dunk had earned their keep in the world through tricks and trade.
“Stop right there.” The one on the left said, a stout man with small, wide eyes like a rabbit and a face that naturally pulled downwards. “What business d’you have here?” He said, tone thick with animosity.
“...Your lord put out a posting for more swords.” Arlan explained, flat but as cordial as the rough man could be with a dour expression, “we’ve come to offer service in exchange for coin.”
The other one gave a huff of laughter, “an old hedge knight and a boy the size of a tree.” He mused, shaking his head. He was also a stout man and barrel chested; a meaty hand wrapped around the body of his long-tipped spear.
“I’ve heard better jokes before.” The first commented, “Fuck off, we’ve enough mouths to feed.”
Ser Arlan scoffed, the corner of his lip pulling up, “if your lord has no use for good men then I'll hear it from his own mouth if it’s not frozen shut by now.” He denied, “I pulled my arse through your mountains for a posting, and I won’t be leavin’ until I see an end to it.”
The larger of the two stood silently for a moment before grunting, “stubborn prick you are. Have it your way but leave your hedge squire out here, the lord doesn’t do handouts.”
The old man turned to Dunk, his brows drawn together enough a light crease appeared—you’ll be fine on your own? He seemed to ask without words. Dunk took a deep breath in, looking through a fringe of darkened yellow-brown hair before he gave a small but quick nod back. “The docks,” he said, because that was what they agreed on.
“...The docks.” Arlan returned.
The doors of the Wingspire opened inwards, the inside hall significantly warmer than the outside. Dunk turned away, trotting down the long steps and feeling the guard’s eyes the whole way down.
He knew little of Gulltown, and everything he did came from his ser’s own knowledge; a fickle thing seeing as Ser Arlan by his own word had only visited Gulltown once or twice in his lifetime. But despite that, even a blind man would know where the docks were and he made back for the way they’d came, through the market and the centre square.
“Oh!” a cry sounded, “what little life remains under this retched burden?”
The town square wasn’t spared from the pitched stalls or shops either, flocked with just as many people as the streets were and more sellers that overlapped each others shouts and calls with their own. The thing that drew most of Dunk’s attention though was the wooden platform in the centre housing people in bright clothing too thin for winter. One gestured dramatically, throwing his hand out, “hark!” he yelled, “tell me where to go, what decision I should make?”
Dunk stopped to watch, lingering at the back of the crowd with his scarf once again pulled up to his nose. It must have been a play, he concluded, though what about he couldn’t guess.
“I beg thee, show me my path to glory!”
Another man dressed in a yellow tunic and purple cape took focus on the stage, the plumage of his pied piper hat obnoxious but sad looking. The costume was too small, the tunic’s ties undone and the fabric stretched around his stomach. He gave the crowd a sort of startled look like a deer approached in the wood, his brows drawn tight in concern. He licked his lips nervously before sputtering an unpractised line. “Seek not glory!” he cried, his arms spread wide to the audience. “But—” His voice cracked, “Seek not glory,” the man begun again, “but love! Love to guide your hands, your... dreams, your mind—soul!” He corrected.
Dunk watched on, the audience silent as the man continued. He threw out another line with an almost slurred tone, salvia built thick in the corners of his mouth. He wiped once, then continued in such a manner that made someone crowded at the front of the stage wince—if he was an actor, Dunk thought, he must be a shit one.
The story didn’t make to be a very interesting one. From what Dunk was able to gather, it followed a knight persuaded to deliver a letter written by his King’s daughter to a prince of a different land, the letter being a secret admission of love, only the knight was so deeply in love with the Princess, he was troubled by whether or not he should deliver the writings at all despite the reward she had promised him; Dunk had finally had enough of shivering in one spot, moving on towards the wafting smell of brine that was still thick even behind his fur barrier.
The town doesn’t feel as big as it seems, Dunk thought, because it didn’t take him long to cross from The Wingspire to the harbour district. Maybe it was his long legs that ate up the distance, or maybe it was his head being halfway in the clouds as he walked. Either way, his feet eventually change from stomping on stone to stomping on wood.
The harbour was icy, the docks and water alike. It was populated by ships, but not as many as Dunk thought there would be. There were larger ones that bore tall trios of masts, others that were only crowned with one. Most of the sails were white, but Dunk could see a few colours and crests spread amongst the wood and ropes.
It looked miserable and frostbitten, cold air and salt thick in the air. Various gruff yells were shouted across ships and docks, a line of men pulling a sea drenched rope out of the blue with curses spilling from their mouths. The whole place seemed inhospitable and unapproachable, making Dunk hesitant to approach. He palmed the end of his knife’s sheath, the worn leather just as cold as the rest of him.
“Are you going to continue gawking or move out the fuckin’ way?”
Dunk jumped at the rough voice, immediately stumbling to the side to clear the spot he was just standing in. A man passes by with a scoff, twin crab catching pots raised on his shoulders. It’s enough that the boy turned back, powerwalking away from the harbour and back into the town.
꧁꧂
There’s no work in the stables nor in the forges—no one wants to pay or feed more mouths than they already had to, Dunk supposed, but it did make him curse internally and drag his hands down his face. Out of options, he returned to the docks, lingering in one of the many corners to watch the crab pots and fishing net lines bobble in the water while waiting for his master to appear.
“Linger too long and someone’ll think you’re aiming to steal.”
Dunk turned at the sound of Arlan’s voice, grating and lit with heavy breathes that cave his chest in and then swell it back up; the old man looked worse than he did in the morning.
“There’s no work for us here.” Ser Arlan said plainly and bitterly, his mouth curved down in displeasure. Dunk nodded in agreement, his own searching coming up to nothing today. “I went back to the inn, paid for another night. We’ll set off again in the morrow, head south again.”
“Yes, ser.” Dunk croaked.
The old man rubbed a hand down his face, throwing a hand up to beckon Dunk to stand and then turning on foot to start the walk back. The markets are less lively, widdled down to thinner crowds and only a few stalls left open. The play had also vanished, the actors left and only a thin film of frost now occupied the wooden stage.
On the way back to The Charon, Dunk retells his ser about what little he’d seen of the play. A thin rain begins as they walk, dark sky made even darker with a tumble of drab grey clouds. The inn is no busier now than when it was when they arrived yesterday. The hearths burn low and glow on the stone walls, only a table or two occupied and the same stocky lady stationed at the counter.
She barely gives them a look when they pass through the door, her jaw working something inside her mouth and her lips making a soft smacking noise. They took the table by the further back fireplace, sat by the iron gate shielding the charred logs. Their shoulders are lightly sprinkled with rain, their furs wet on the ends. They had avoided the growing downpour, a steady shower beginning outside now.
They don’t get soup this time, just a loaf of hot bread. The top crust breaks with sharp small snaps when they press into it and divide it between themselves, and steam pours out with wisps.
“...They didn’t want another knight?” Dunk asked through a mouthful of hot bread, juggling it from one side of his mouth to the other.
The knight took a moment to respond, “...no. Probably for the best, Grafton’s a cuck.” He huffed out a breath of hot steam and tore another chunk off the load.
Dunk nodded in understanding. He knew nothing about Lord Conall Grafton apart from his name, only that despite having the personality of hardtack, the lord was relatively liked in the Vale. Ser Arlan won’t tell the younger that Lord Conall had taken one look at him and said he wouldn’t waste resources on a dying old man.
“You’ll fetch the horses in the morning, and I'll pay our dues.” Ser Arlan said gruffly whilst chewing.
Dunk swallowed, “isn’t it bad to travel now?” he asked, “the weather’s no good.”
The Vale was never a good place to travel during winter, a lot of the paths closed themselves off and heavy mist made it hard to see the dips and drop offs in the rocks. “Better than being stuck here,” Arlan grunted, “no work, little coin. I’d sooner sleep in the hedges again and still have what little copper we do than waste it all paying for boarding.”
“Aye.” Dunk agreed. They couldn’t settle in Gulltown, not if Lord Conall denied his ser’s service and there was no other work to take up. Beggars cannot be choosers, he supposed, settling with feeding himself another tuff of bread.
The inn’s door opened with a quiet creek and howl of wind, flickering the fire for only a moment before the it closed and trapped the heat once more. Dunk peeked his head up, catching the brimming of hard soled boots. The two men who had come in looked like they had seen better days, their shoulders soaked to the bone and their wet shoes leaving faint footprints behind.
“Oh,” Dunk murmured, feeling his expression turned, “the actor.”
The bigger man he recognised. He looked better without the ugly costume and hat, Dunk thought, though without the hat the squire bore witness to his head of greasy blond hair. He also seemed a lot more comfortable to be off the play stage, though his nerves had traded themselves for anger it would seem: his sparse brows set low on his brow and his weathered wolfish face stiff with a stormy expression.
“Actor?” Arlan asked with a raised brow.
Dunk ducked his head down, “they were doing a play in the square, I saw him in it, but he wasn’t any good, kind of shit honestly.” He admitted.
His ser grunted and didn’t cuff him like Dunk thought he would, only turned his head a little to watch the new man out the corner of his eye, a new rigidity in his shoulders. “Doesn’t look so shit now,” he commented under his breath, eyeing the sure grip the blond had on his sheathed sword.
He was followed by another man, smaller and younger by the look of him with stringy brown hair and birdish eyes. His gaze roved over Dunk and Arlan, but he was quick to look away and tighten his grip on the weight sack draped over his back.
The first man spoke in a hush with the inn lady, leaning forward on the counter. The exchange was short and quiet, the man handing over coin as a key was slid over to him. That was as much as Dunk could see, the two soon disappearing up the stairs.
Arlan took another chunk, then pushed the plate to his squire. “Horses, gate.” He repeated, chewing his last bit before standing from the table. “I’m turning in,” he said, “finish that.”
Dunk nodded, “good night, ser.” He bid.
He watched Ser Arlan leave, the old man moving slow as he trekked up the stairs and down the hall to presumably the same room they had paid for last night. Alone at the table, Dunk picked at the bread like he was deboning a bird.
Gulltown had not gone how they imagined or wanted. Dunk didn’t know how much food they had left, but he knew that it wasn’t much and Winter tended to draw everything thin.
His eyes drew to the fire, watching the autumn colours flicker and rise as the wood crackles again. Dunk finished the end of the loaf and stood from the table, tucking his chair in and brushing his mouth with the back of his hand. The stairs creak as he takes them two at a time.
He takes a left at the top, tracing his way back to the end room. Soft candlelight leaks out from the bottom of the door, in this one and the next. He knocked before he entered the room, giving a quiet “It’s Dunk,” as he entered and closed it behind him.
Ser Arlan had taken the bed once more and laid the furs out for Dunk. He’d striped his boots, weathered hands massaging his still clothed feet. “We’ve got blind hogs for neighbours.” The old man grumbled, “or sellswords from the mountains.”
“What?” Dunk guffawed, taken aback by the absurdity.
As if on cue there came a thud from the next room over, a muffled curse and a high noise that is silenced almost immediately. Dunk nodded, his lips thinning as he listened.
“Lively couple.” Dunk commented, stripping his own boots and working blood back into his toes. The knight let out a snort, and rewarded Dunk with an amused grin—hopefully they finish soon.
꧁꧂
They don’t. The noises continue into the night, stopping and starting at various stages. Dunk’s stuck staring at the ceiling, their candle burning low. Arlan is awake as well, another bang knocking on their connected wall.
“Right,” The old knight rose from the bed, “now it’s just a nuisance.”
The loudest slam of the night comes as Arlan opened their door and stepped out in his tunic and smalls only. Dunk rose with him, peeking around their doorframe as his ser pounded his next on the pair’s door in three solid thumps.
Arlan’s hand quiets the noises and boots stomp to the door. All is silent for a moment, the hair on the back of Dunk’s neck prickling.
“Ser—” he called out.
The door is retched open and out comes a glint of long metal.
Arlan’s hip is pierced through with the long blade of a longsword, the blunt tip forced through off-white cloth and straight through Arlan’s weatherworn muscles. A splash of blood hits the ground, a choked sound leaving the knight that strains until it becomes a thin roar of anger and he lurched to grapple with his attacker.
Dunk chokes on the shock of it all, his blood going cold and his hands developing a shake. But he’d been a fighter long enough that he instinctively turns back and lunged for their gear bags by their bedding. He pulls Arlan’s sword out the sheath and takes his own blade, throwing himself out of their room and into the next.
The struggle endures between Ser Arlan and who Dunk now knows as the shitty blond actor. Ser Arlan is still pierced by the sword, sneering as he handles the younger man’s clothes and threw him against the wall, taking the lantern on the table beside the door and lunging at the man, clobbering him in the head with it.
Dunk moved forward as well, unsheathing his own blade and violently plunging it into the blond’s thigh whilst shoving his ser his penny embellished sword.
“There’s another!” Arlan grunted as he’s pushed back and the man wraps a hand around the embedded sword in his hip and twists. Arlan cried out, clawing at the sellsword’s.
Dunk pulled his blade from the man’s thigh, stopping his assault and turning just in time to lean away from a knife swipe.
His wide eyes flicker to the second man who had come in with the blond. He’s scantily cladded much like Dunk’s ser, his shirt absent and instead wrapped around his bleeding forearm.
Dunk grunted, huffing a harsh breath as his bare feet clopped around and he danced backwards, forcing himself to shift his focus from Arlan to the other man in the room. He’s much smaller than Dunk, looking up at him through a fringe of stringy brown hair with eyes like a shocked rabbit. He holds the knife in his hand with a shaky grip, it’s small and wrapped in leather at the handle, pointed at Dunk with an unsure grip.
Dunk flashed his own, “yield,” he said, giving the other a choice.
“Gods damn it, Dion!” The sellsword cried, “kill him!”
Dion moved forward, but Dunk was faster.
Dunk struck forward, tightening his grip around his blade and reaching a hand out, clamping it on the smaller’s shoulder and holding tight as he stabbed downwards. Dunk could feel the strain in his overturned arm, his bicep twinging as desperation overtakes proper form and his blade finds home in the brunet’s neck.
The blood sprays out and the other gurgled, dropping his knife and scrambling to press both hands to his gushing neck. Dunk’s breath is short and panicked, but he turned to check on his ser.
Arlan and the blond had reserved positions and the later now had his blade back. The knight cradles his hip with one hand his other holding his sword and engaged with the other’s weapon. Dunk lurched forward at the same time the blades slid amongst each other, the sellsword’s blade edge biting into Arlan’s chest as its owner is ripped away by the youngest’s hands.
Dunk tore him away from his sire, throwing the attacker against the bedpost and reaching for Ser Arlan.
“Ser...!” Dunk cried, slapping a hand down on the knight’s weeping chest.
“Finish him.” Ser Arlan commanded, his voice hoarse as he shoved his sword into Dunk’s hand. His head whipped around, finding the blond pulling Dunk’s knife from Dion’s neck and preparing to wield it. The latter's hand wrapped tight around the handle of his master’s sword, the pommel slick with blood but its edge sharp.
Their eyes met for a tense minute, each poised to strike. “...Hedge knight, aren’t you?” the sellsword asked, his weight braced on his uninjured leg, “are you a robber or one of those ones with uppity morals—” he snarked.
“I’m not.” Dunk cut in, “a knight that is.”
Then he lurched forward and the edge of his ser’s sword met the edge of his own blade with a sharp twang sound. “Listen—” the sellsword tried.
“Fuck your attempts at a talk.” Dunk snarled back, raising a foot and slamming it into the man’s healthy knee.
The sellsword fell with a loud cry, cursing as he was forced to both knees, unable to put any weight on the thigh Dunk had stabbed beforehand. Dunk followed, raising the sword.
“Wait! Wait!” the older cried, throwing a hand up and dropping the blade, “there’s money, I-I can make you a very rich man!”
Dunk went to swing the sword down.
“There’s a dragon! I have the dragon!” the sellsword cried, and Dunk’s blade immediately froze.
What did he mean? Dunk thought as his brows drew together in confusion. All the dragons were dead, the last having died when Ser Arlan was but a young man in King’s Landing.
“What dragon—”
“I have the dragon,” the man panted as he stood back up shakily, one hand braced on a bedpost for support and his other recollecting the dropped knife. “We—we were paid to transport the beast to Essos; we stole in from the capital. The... The Blackfyres—”
“He’s a Blackfyre loyalist.” Came Arlan’s sure voice. “Kill him, Dunk.”
Dunk can hear the strain in his ser’s voice, and he becomes incredibly aware that Arlan is no doubt bleeding heavily now from both the stab wound and the line across his chest. He has to bring the sellsword down and quickly.
He lurched forward and swung Arlan’s sword down with a heavy grunt, feeling his shoulder jostle. His attack was avoided and instead the end of the knife scores a deep line up his shoulder. Heat blooms as blood begins to soak through the sleeve of his tunic, but he bears through it with a grunt and pulls back, dancing away a few steps and shifting his grip on Arlan’s sword.
“We don’t have to do this.” The sellsword said, “You killed my cousin and your old man is as good as gone, we’re even. Just leave and I’ll do the same.”
“To hell with your ‘fairness.’" Dunk snarled.
Their blades met and Dunk forced his arms down as hard as he could, pain replaced with anger. His blade caught the face of the knife and pushed down against it until the metal touched the swordsell’s chest, his teeth visibly bared from the strain as he tried to push back. But even at only seventeen, Dunk is clearly stronger.
The knife bites into the swordsell’s collarbone, then the meat of his neck when Dunk directs both blades up. The other chokes and gives a panicked yelp, his eyes wide and wet as fresh blood beads.
“No! No plea—!” His pleads choke off into gargles as the knife drops and the sword slices through half of his thick neck.
Dunk’s chest stutters with half breaths, nausea turning his stomach and his pulls the blade free and then blond folded to his knees and continued to choke. Guilt eats at Dunk for a moment as he freed the sword and then dropped it on ground, brushing off the weight of his actions to instead face Ser Arlan and rush toward him.
“Ser...” He huffed, his eyes tracking down from the old man’s chest to his hip, both heavily bleeding.
Ser Arlan doesn’t say anything, just swallows a shaky inhale as he pressed down on the deep puncture. He looked down at the mess, closing his eyes and squeezing them shut before forcefully peeling them back over.
“A dragon,” he murmured, “what... what was that fool on about?”
“He must’ve been lying to save his arse.” But Dunk’s gaze darted around the room, taking in the torn sheets and the little scratches on the walls, all evidence of a struggle with a small or moderately sized creature.
Arlan grunted, leaning back harder against the wall. “My sword,” he said low, “fetch my sword, boy.”
Dunk picked it up from the ground, heavy in his tired hand and redder than it is silver now. He pressed it into his ser’s limp hand, closing Arlan’s own fingers around the slippery handle.
“Kneel.”
Dunk took a knee, looking up at Arlan with a concerned frown, “we need to find you help—”
The sword touched his right shoulder.
“In the name of the Warrior... I charge you to be brave.” Ser Arlan paused, swallowing thick and catching his breath. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” The sword moved from Dunk’s right shoulder to his left, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.
In the... In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to keep yourself strong, and—and in the name of the crone, I charge you to exercise Wisdom... though...” he huffed a laugh, “a lunk you are... in the name of the Stranger, I charge you to endure.
Head your vows and protect those who need it. Rise a knight, Ser Dunk, a knight of the seven kingdoms.” Arlan rasped.
Dunk cannot breathe, his chest feels like he’d submerged himself in an icy river, the cold steel of his ser’s blade biting through his tunic. He'd imaged this day for years, when his ser would finally knight him, but he’d never thought it’d be like this. “Ser, we—we need to stop the bleeding—”
“I’m finished, boy. I was finished even before this fight. At least I’ll die like this and not... not in my sleep or,” Arlan scoffed, “shitting.”
Dunk can't find it in him to laugh or grin like he usually would, instead his eyes tear up, and he takes a hold of Arlan’s knees. “Ser, please,” he choked out, “you’re all I’ve got.”
“You’re a man now, Dunk.”
Dunk doesn’t feel like a man, still knelt in front of his ser with his forehead pressed to the old man’s shins and biting down hard on his lip. Instead, he feels only dread pull and twist his stomach.
“Boy,” Arlan grit out, “boy.” He called again, demanding Dunk’s attention.
He looked up—Dunk had never been in a sept, but he imaged that this is what it might feel like, praying in front of a bunch of lit candles to an idea of someone greater than yourself.
“I’m listening.”
“You’ll find the dragon and take it back.”
“Ser—”
“Swear this to me. Swear it and give the beast to Baelor Targayren, no one else.”
Dunk could taste iron from his bleeding lip, “...I swear it.” He vowed.
“Good lad. Now check the room.”
Dunk shakily let go of Arlan, turning and scanning the overturned room and ignoring the two bodies of the sellsword and his cousin. He had to be quick; the commotion would have no doubt woken any other guests both downstairs and up, and the inn keeper would also come rushing when the tang of blood soaked into the air downstairs.
There was no other noise in the room apart from Arlan’s swallow breathing and the ringing in Dunk’s ears, but the signs were there: the scratches and mauled bed clothes, the wounds on the cousin’s forearm and the sack he had come in when Dunk first caught sight of the now dead pair.
There weren’t many places to hide in the room, limited to under the bed or under the low table beside the door. It didn’t help that like their room; this one didn’t have any windows either and Arlan had turned the lantern into an improvised weapon.
Using only the light that came from the light from the hall lamps, Dunk crawled on his knees to the table, peeking under it and seeing nothing except dust and darkness.
He moved careful and quick on all fours, prowling over to the bed and peeking nervously under it. He scanned from left to right, instinctively pulling his face back. “Ser—”
Something lunged at him and pushed his face back, thin pricks that felt like fishhooks catching his skin and pulling taut as it crowded close. A loud squawk pierced the quiet, strained and high like an angry bird. Dunk let out his own yell, grabbing the creature latched on his face and tearing it out.
It was a spindly thing, thin and needle-like with long front wings and short back legs. The hatchling’s neck was long and its head reptilian like a crocodile, a pair of stubby horns atop its head like twined jagged rocks.
The tail was curved and bore four thin lines of flared fins dancing down the centre. It was as thick as a snake, curving and wriggling and lashing the blunt spike at ended of it like an agitated cat. The thing’s colouring was motley, packed with rusted browns and charcoal blacks like the edges of burnt parchment. But its face was a stark, cream white, as were the under sides of its wing membranes which arched in ‘U’ shapes between long phalanges’ that pointed like viscous gnarled fingers.
The thing measured to be maybe the size of a small house cat, screeching desperately as Dunk wrangled it off his face and held it away from him.
“Seven hells.” Ser Arlan whispered, his eyes wide as he stared at the thing.
Dunk could feel the sting of the small cuts the beast left on his face, the cut along his shoulder smarting again as it thrashed.
“Gods—” Dunk hissed, trying to contain and hold it better, “stop!”
“Dunk, go.” Arlan urged, kicking his dropped sword over to Dunk.
The younger hesitated, eyes flickering between the dragon, sword, and open door. He didn’t want to leave Ser Arlan.
“You... Gods, you swore an oath, boy! Now go.” The older knight snapped.
He did, Dunk thought, he had sworn an oath in blood to return the hatchling to Baelor Targaryen.
“That’s what you do, that’s your work.” Arlan murmured, “do this by me, boy, do this for me.”
Dunk’s lip quivers, the hatchling squirms and snaps its jaws a few inches away from his forearms. He handles the dragon between the curve of his uninjured arm and his ribs, napping the blanket from the ground and the sack. He forced the yowling beast into the sack and twisted it secure, carrying it over his shoulder and stealing Arlan’s sword from the ground.
“I—” he begins, faced now with the seen before him and the weight of what he knew was going to happen. “Ser, I cannot—”
“Don't say anything, boy.” Arlan cut in, “I know.”
“...I’m glad you found me.”
“I’m glad I found you too. Take care.”
Before Dunk can agonise further, he flees. He took the sword and the sack and swung into their room next door. He wrestled his boots on and stole what furs he could from Arlan’s pack before taking his own. Armed like a travel wagon, he barrelled down the stairs and past the Salt Cloaks congregated by the counter, charging like a blind bull out the inn and into the cold air.