Work Text:
Where has he got to, he thinks, twisting his neck sharply. Ser Arlan'd never had this trouble with him, but Egg's a wee thing even for his age and the crowd's swallowed him up quick as anything. Bet the bugger darted off as soon as I wasn't looking, he grumbles to himself, but he's careful to keep it off his face. Big lad like him, looking furious in a crowd can bring him more trouble than it's worth.
He makes his way down the row, trying not to push. There's an old woman selling hand pies, the smell so good it'd made his mouth water from outside the market, a stall full of wool and leather, and his squire's not in the gaps between the stalls and he can't see him when he reaches the end of the row either. There's no high-pitched voice calling for his Ser, and stomach rumbling, he turns back for one of those hand pies. He'll have to find the boy while he eats. Just for this I won't get him one neither, he thinks mulishly, knowing full well he'll walk away with two.
His hand doesn't stop where he expects it to, settles on the strained roughspun of his breeches rather than the leather coinpurse, and he frowns absently before hauling the knapsack off his shoulder and reaching in. He swore he'd set his coinpurse to his belt this morn, where it usually rested against his hip and hidden by the heavy folds of his cloak, necessary now in this misty run of days now autumn's properly set in. His hand scrapes against the sides, finding many things but not the familiar plain leather, and he has a moment of dawning realisation, glancing between his open sack and the tantalising pies with their flaky pastry.
"All well, ser?" calls the old woman, a hint of concern on her face. "Here, never say you've been thieved - the boys on guard here are usually well alive to that!"
She turns to hail one of the village boys drafted as guards for the market, and Dunk intervenes hastily.
"No, no, goodwife - it's no matter. I remember now. My squire has it. Wee thing, bald pate, fast as anything - don't suppose you've seen him?"
"Aye," she says, "went that-a-way -"
He nods hastily to her and tears off in that direction before the words have finished leaving her mouth.
The little sod has his coinpurse!
"It's your own fault, ser," he's informed blithely, once he's ran his squire to ground near the market walls. "I was only practising the skills you've taught me!"
"Skills!" he blusters. "I've never taught you to be a damned thief!"
He pauses, as Egg eyes him cannily, and puts his hands on his hips, looming over his minuscule squire. Two years since they left Ashford, and Egg's not hit his growing years yet - but it'll come soon, he's sure.
"That," he grits out, "is to be done only in times of need!"
Cause he had taught him. Near a moon back, as they travelled one of the endless quiet stretches of road, having the sennight previous apprehended a no-good brigand who'd stole silver and purses and the food out of a widow's larder, and Egg had asked him if he'd ever stole, growing up in Flea Bottom, and he'd been honest with the boy. No point taking him to the road, showing him how folk lived, if he was to lie to him. Besides, there's no shame in stealing if it's that or dying, he's always thought, as long as who you're taking from can do well enough without it. And even sometimes then…well, he might not for himself. But he would for Egg.
But this is far from any of that. And he'd only taught Egg to lift purses as a last resort, if he were, gods forbid, alone and in need, couldn't trust anyone with the ring in his boot. Only then.
"Did quite good to get it off of you, ser," Egg grins at him, utterly unafraid. He narrows his eyes.
A muffled squeak, and Egg glances to the left of him, behind the wall.
"It's okay!" he says hastily. "He's not really mad, are you, ser?"
Dunk makes an effort to relax his face, and a young girl - mayhap only a few years older than Egg - peeps round the wall at him.
"Hello, miss," he says awkwardly, taking a step back, trying to slouch, and she smiles timidly, fussing with the pile of fabric in her hands.
"Tall!" she squeaks, and then blushes. "And gods - maybe two and a half - I should go," she blurts, bobbing a curtsey, and she's a blur of apron and fabric past him.
He turns his attention back to his unrepentant squire.
"Well? Hand it back, I'm starving." He holds out a hand for the coin purse.
Egg hands it over without pause, and he's three steps back towards the stalls when the weight of it registers. Or rather - the lack of weight.
"Egg," he growls.
"Ser?"
"What did you spend the coin on?"
"Oh!" His squire beams. "I got us some pies, ser!"
Try as he might, Egg refuses to provide any other answer. The pies had been very good - flaky pastry, tender meat that fell apart in the mouth, chunks of potato and and carrot in well-spiced gravy - but not enough to drown out the suspicion. No two pies cost that much in silver.
"I told you, ser!" Egg insists. "Just that and the sweets. Honest," he grumbles, and Dunk bristles at the word. Egg darts off before he can work up another head of steam, muttering something about finishing brushing down Thunder - as though the boy would have left the horse half-done. He's a good squire.
Well. When he's not up to mischief. But his mischiefs are usually small, petty things, not one such as this. It's baffling.
Wasn't as bad as it could have been, he admits, poking the fire. They'd plenty in the purse, after all - Baelor had seen them off handsomely from Summerhall, and had worst come to worst they could have scrounged their way to Oldtown, and gone into the big stone building on the corner of Tower Square. He'd have felt awkward and lumbering, going up to one of the finely dressed men there and showing his device, reciting the phrase Baelor had taught him, but he'd do worse if it meant Egg stayed fed.
His own being fed has been something of a problem, he knows. Old enough to stop growing upwards now, and instead he's been growing outwards, his poor breeches wearing over the thighs and the seams at his shoulders showing the strain. Still, no need for a lowly hedge knight to be wearing anything too fine, and he can mend and patch what's necessary.
He sits before the fire, half an eye on Egg, and thinks of how to handle this. Egg's father seems more inclined to storming and shouting, and Dunk's not got Baelor's stern patience. What had Arlan done, when he'd gotten up to mischief? He racks his brains back. Surely, there'd been a time - not Maidenpool, that hadn't even been him - and a cuff on the head wouldn't make the boy talk, at any rate.
He remembers hay, and an innkeep's daughter, and grins.
"…for 'tis a duty of a knight to be virtuous and chaste, is it not?"
"Yes, ser," Egg mutters, eyes firmly on the fire and cheeks red. "But -"
"Ah!" he warns, wagging a finger, and Egg's mouth slams shut. Every interruption will cost him an evening of service at sept or stables or inn, he's been warned - or he can tell Dunk what he spent the money on.
So far, the little dragon's stubbornness is winning out.
"You're of an age where it's not proper to be spending time with young women unsupervised and without permission," he proclaims cheerfully, and Egg twitches. "Of whatever class, mind you. As your master, your behaviour is my business…"
He keeps going, reciting the talk Arlan had drilled into him for a year straight, and grins as Egg gets redder and redder.
The next night, he's thinking by the fire, and pops one of the sugared rinds in his mouth as he does so. It's been a quiet day, sparring and resting outside the walls of the village as they wait for a dozen small things - repairs to Sweetfoot's tack, a new rim on his shield, so on and so forth. Been a good time to bathe, though, and let their things dry on the rocks. Egg's spent most of the day darting wary glances at him whenever he opens his mouth, fearing a resumption of the evening's lecture - he'd added in a nice bit about the dangers of bastards as surely you'd know all about with your family - remind me of how the Redgrass came about again? and he's feeling well revenged against his princely squire. Even if, he thinks, taking another sugared rind from the bag, he still doesn't bloody know where he spent that coin.
They're nice sweets, but again, that and the pies couldn't have cost more than a few copper stars, and they're missing that and three silver stags.
At least the ale is good. Light and nutty and fresh, bought from the inn this morning, and as he contemplates the bottom of the horn, the fire crackles, almost disguising soft footsteps, padding closer. He whirls - who approaches a campsite outside the village walls at night? - and coming into view is the girl from yesterday, a wrapped cloth in her hands.
"Ser," she says bravely, bobbing a curtsey, and holding out the parcel.
He looks dumbly at her.
"Rosey!" Egg chirps, hurrying over, and she smiles shyly at him. "That was fast! Did it work?"
"Aye," she says, and shakes the parcel gently at Dunk.
He takes it, and at Egg's bright nod, unwraps the twine and shakes out…a tunic?
Dark green, and sturdy like roughspun but finer to the touch, and - he holds it closer to the fire - embroidered round neck and cuff with yellow thread, marking out a diamond pattern between two thick bands. It's good work.
The girl - Rosey - is smiling at him.
"It's good," he says, and the smile widens.
"I showed old Ma Rivers, and she says she'll take me on! When you come back, you'll have to pay me more," she informs Egg, grinning, and then bobs a curtsey at them both before turning back for the village walls.
"So this is what you spent the coin on," he says gruffly, trying to be stern. As if he's any hope of impressing Egg - he's not got a patch on Prince Maekar.
"For your nameday, ser," Egg confirms, smiling shyly. "I did tot up the purse, ser, and it wasn't more than we could afford - and it means Rosey will learn her trade now!"
"…Did she size me up just by looking at me?" he asks, bewildered, and then glares as Egg giggles. "None of that, now!"
His squire darts forward and hugs him, spindly arms reaching round his waist, and he wraps his own round him, squeezing just a little.
The fire crackles, and Egg is asleep. Dunk had been kind and only teased his squire once about Rosey's blush, and Egg had giggled like any other boy of three-and-ten contemplating his first sweetheart.
His nameday. As if the simple issue of knowing when it is was going to stop his squire, who'd that very first year declared it to be a sennight past the seventh month, as it was the one he'd always wanted - he who'd been born on the Feast of the Crone, and always resented having to share the day. Dunk hadn't taken any notice, of course, paying as much attention to this proclamation as he had any of Egg's many proclamations in those first days, but while it never stays in his head - Egg keeps the day, nonetheless.
They'll be on the move on the morrow anyway, he thinks, rubbing his thumb over the embroidery. It's neatly done, and it's good to have a tunic for nicer things. He could wear it when they return to King's Landing, as they're due to in three turns of the moon. It might be nice to wear when Baelor sees him.
He says as much - about King's Landing - to Egg as they ride, and his squire hums.
"It'll do well for that, ser, but no doubt you'll need more wardrobe. And I want no more lectures! Uncle will have to handle your breeches," he sniffs, and spurs his mule on.
