Chapter Text
Dunk didn’t know how to dig a grave with a baby on his hip.
The rain was falling on them like sheets of ice, and while Arla would usually be delightedly playing in it, she was seated on the damp ground next to Ser Arlan nudging him over and over with her soft, chubby hands as her golden ringlets hung limp from the rain.
“Arla, Arla” She mournfully intoned, tears welling up in her eyes.
The fever got the old man fast, and for all he complained of the extra strain of another mouth to feed, he always bought Arla soft toys with whatever meager coin they had to spare, and was content to draw letters in the ground for her on his sober days. They came rarely, but he still did it. That was worth something, Dunk guessed. Or maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know anymore.
That’s how he stood for Seven knows how long, watching his child– was she his squire now?– rub mud on Ser Arlan’s stiff face. The body would start to smell soon. He knew that much, from his life in Fleabottom. Soon, it would smell, and animals would come and he’d have to drive them away to prevent them from getting to Arla.
But for now, in this moment that stretched forever, he could imagine everything was normal and eventually the rain would let up and Ser Arlan would open his eyes, and they’d be back to Ashford tourney where maybe the old man would earn enough to buy Arla a proper dress like he always promised he would–
The rain didn’t let up.
He eventually figured out how to dig that hole.
Arla tired herself out crying so he placed her on Thunder, covering her with one of Ser Arlan’s old cloaks. It would keep the rain out at least, and prevent her from catching a chill.
Standing over his makeshift grave, Dunk struggled for the proper words.
“I don’t know the right words. Ought to be a septon here. You were a true knight. You never beat me when I didn’t deserve it.” He stammered out, then reconsidered his words. “Except for that time in Maidenpool, and the other in Parchments.” It was the inn boy’s fault in Maidenpool, and Parchments… maybe that was Dunk’s fault, but he could hardly apologise for it.
It didn’t matter now. None of it did.
“I wish you didn’t die, Ser.” Wasn’t that true? There was plenty Dunk regretted in his life. Plenty he didn’t, too, but wasn’t that the hand life dealt all common folk with? If he were noble, if he had a family to belong to, perhaps his path would’ve been different. That was a smoke dream, the sort he’d share with Rafe on the rare nights they’d go to sleep with their bellies full. But she was dead, and Dunk left living, so he shoved those dreams down as far as they could go. The only question was what to do now.
The morning came with a certain kind of calm, a stillness in the air. Dunk was never the believing sort but something told him as the rain washed away the old, it left room for new. A new dawn, a new day, and a new beginning.
His gaze turned to the horses. “Eat like a king if I sold you three. For a year or two, then what?” Dunk could chance it. There’s all likelihood he would’ve tried it, if not for the child fast asleep on his chest. Arla’s little chest lifted with every small breath, and every so often Dunk would brush his lips against her forehead, feeling the warmth of her body. She was still there. Even though everyone else; Rafe, Arlan, his mother, had crystallised to a vivid sort of memory, Arla was real. Her breaths were real, her body was real, and her very full clout was also real.
Ugh.
He was supposed to change it when they stopped for camp last night, but other events were a little more pressing. As of current, the old rags Dunk used to prevent Arla from soiling herself on the daily were definitely near bursting. He’d do it the second he stood up. Small wonder she hadn’t woken from it.
As if on cue, Arla's eyes popped open. “‘Unk! ‘Unk!” She greeted Dunk, her arms open as she stumbled to her feet. Dunk, still on the ground beneath the tree groaned good naturedly.
“Get back down here, girl.” The young man wrapped a hand around her ankle.
“No!”
Fair enough.Get up, Ser Arlan would say. Dunk tried not to think about his old master, and went about the motions of the morning.
After a meager meal, he shat beneath the tree as Arla looked on. There wasn't much privacy to be had with an inquisitive babe on the road. Dunk lost all shame after the first week he changed Arla's soiled napkins. He handled Arla’s business too, without even a wrinkled nose. To be honest, he got pretty used to the repetitive motion, and he safely deposited the dirty garment in his saddle bag.
“Could become a sellsword, join the city watch. Fits my grip as well as it ever fit his.” Dunk hefted Ser Arlan's sword in one hand. “Stop raping Ser.” Arla's delighted giggle caught off his train of thought. “Alright, alright lass. Enough of that.” He lifted the child onto Sweetfoot, Arla reaching for the start of her saddle with practiced hands. She was used to riding on Chestnut in front of Dunk, so it wasn't too different on the sweet mare.
“Horsey! Horsey.” Arla clapped joyfully, Sweetfoot barely twitching beneath her. There was only one option, one true way to continue with his life. Ser Arlan had knighted him, hadn't he? Not in so many words, but he mentioned Dunk being a true knight before he passed. So, on to Ashford. He’d ride in the lists, maybe even win a joust against some self important lording. Even if he kept his horse and armour, he could sell it to live comfortably for a while, long enough for Arla to grow a little.
Off to Ashford, then.
As night fell, he rode up to an inn to rest for the night, Dunk could hardly feel his feet anymore. They had ridden on Sweetfoot, who was the most even gaited of the horses, but riding the whole day hurt no matter the quality of horse one rode on. He stopped for midday meal and lunch, to use up the last of their salted fish and dried oats for Arla. Thankfully she had grown out of needing goat's milk every handful of hours, but since her teeth hadn’t all come in yet Arla was stuck to porridge and whatever meat Dunk could fish out of the meagre stews they were offered.
“Hello there. Are you the stableboy? I want the palfrey rubbed down. And oats for all three. You tend to them?” Dunk– he was a knight now he guessed– called out to the diminutive boy near the stables, his form hidden by the long cloak he wore.
“I could, if I wanted.” The hedge knight balked at the boy’s dismissive words. If he had tried anything like that Ser Arlan would’ve clouted him to the next town over.
“None of that. See to the horses. You’ll get a copper if you do well, and a clout in the ear if not.“ Not that he could actually hit the boy. Ever since he acquired Arla, he sympathised more with children. Especially the bratty and overzealous type. Even so, it was the principle of the matter. Seriously, Dunk was a knight now. Stable boys couldn’t just talk to him like they were equals.
Smoothly dismounting, he handed the reins to the lad and pulled Arla off. She had been lulled to sleep by Sweetfoot’s smooth gait but now she was wide awake and ready for action. Great, he privately thought. She would stay awake till dawn, and keep Dunk up with her. Entering the small tavern, he placed Ser Arlan’s– his– shield down, and dropped Arla on the sticky tavern floor too. Let her tire herself out running through tables and bothering other patrons. However, the only other people inside were the stout innkeep and a man passed out on a table, a small candle lighting up the contours of his face.
“There’s good lamb roasted with a crust of herbs and some ducks my son shot down. Which will you have?” Dunk’s attention was equally split between the inn woman and Arla, who was making a game running up and down the tavern, giving the first answer that came to mind.
“Both. Anything for the lass?” The hedge knight said, and the inn keep just laughed– not a mean-spirited one.
“You’re big enough for it. We have oats boiled slowly. Could add some honey and berries my girls picked.”
Dunk nodded his thanks, spying Arla from the corner of his eye approaching the drunk with a wide grin as his conversation continued.
“Hi!” The little girl waved enthusiastically at him. The man– boy, really– lifted his head from the table, regarding Arla with a suspicious glare.
“Mmm.. how’d your hair grow back so quickly? …And why aren’t you in your room?” The boy sluggishly groused. Arla blinked at him owlishly.
“Please?” She lifted her arms at him, silently asking to be held. The girl always did that, well past the time she figured out how to walk. Dunk moved to stop her, maybe tell her to leave the poor boy alone, but the inn lady’s words kept him still..
“--a joust to change the price of eggs. Bound for the tourney yourself?”
“Oh… yeah– my girl–” Dunk gestured meaningfully at the drunk boy, who was now holding Arla on his knee with one hand, the other half covering his face.
“Never you mind that one, ser. He’s a quiet lad.” The woman reassured him, shrugging her shoulders as she moved away. But still, was Dunk supposed to leave his kid with an addled stranger, no matter how well meaning?
“...get so small?” The hedge knight only caught the last half of the boy’s statement but he did hear Arla’s joyful response.
“No!”
“I apologise, m’lord.. for my–” What was Arla to him? Dunk couldn’t say she was his daughter, “–my squire’s behaviour.” Coming closer, Dunk could see the fine thread of the drunkard’s clothes, as well as the elegant rings on his skinny fingers. A noble, then. Son of whatever lord was around, wasting his coin on drink and merry. Dunk could never afford such luxuries, not in Fleabottom, and afterwards. He had seen the effect of drink on others, so he never chanced it past watered down ale at inns.
The boy didn’t look up, the flicker of candle light causing his hair to look like flames as a soft smile appeared on his face. “No harm done, Ser. Your girl reminded me of–” His head finally rose, revealing bloodshot eyes that were– beautiful was the only way to describe them. A soft, lilac colour, like the flowers Dunk would pick as a child. For a second the blonde looked kind, impossibly ethereal, a statue in human form, then his eyes hardened.
“I dreamed of you. Stay the fuck away from me. You hear?” He dropped Arla to the floor, ignoring her confused look.
“My lord?” What did he do? The drunk didn’t stop. He pushed his chair out and basically ran up the rickety stairs at the corner of the inn while Dunk stood there, flabbergasted.
“‘Unk?”
Sighing, he picked Arla up and placed her on his hip, blowing a raspberry into her stomach to hear her laugh. “Don’t know what that was about, do you?” The toddler shrugged and the hedge knight sighed again. “Neither do I” Stinking nobles and their problems.
Dunk barely survived his second conversation with the audacious stable boy, but he suffered through it and the ensuing ride to Ashford meadow to finally ride in the lists.
He had put up with a lot of shit the past few days– both figuratively and literally– but standing in front of the master of games for the Ashford tourney with a wriggling child and less sleep than a man of the Night’s Watch, Dunk really wanted to cry. Or shout. Or hit someone. Really, any was a possibility.
First, the death of Ser Arlan, which was bad enough to warrant a good cry. Secondly, Arla had finally realised Ser Arlan was not coming back, and spent the whole night crying for him. He only managed to calm her with the last of the lemon cake he bought from a bakerwoman couple towns back. Add in the audacious stable hand and now, this… man telling him he could not join the lists due to the fact he had never heard of Ser Arlan, and Dunk was just about to start bawling in front of the man.
Would they let him into the lists then? Probably take the opportunity to boot him from Ashford feet first. Arla sniffed pitifully into his shoulder and Dunk raised a tired hand to comfort her, smoothing it up and down her small back. Dunk couldn’t imagine the picture the two of them made. A giant in threadbare cloak and a rope belt holding a child smaller than one of his arms like she were a bag of flour, both sporting red eyes– albeit for very different reasons– and reeking to high heavens. Plummer spat again, but he sighed acquiescingly.
“Your late master. He’ll be known to the true knights here assembled?” The game master asked.
Dunk nodded too quickly, “There was a pavilion flying the banner of House Dondarrion. Ser Manfred will remember us.”
“By scent alone, no doubt. If he’ll speak to your good honor, bring him here with you before the tourney begins on the morrow. Leave your… escort behind.” Plummer gestured meaningfully at Arla. Was he expecting Dunk to bring her to the tilts? Dunk almost scoffed at the idea, but he didn’t wish to chance his luck any further.
“Many thanks.” It shouldn’t be so hard to find Ser Manfred, and even if he wouldn’t vouch for him there were plenty other lords they had served with. The hard part was over, Dunk reassured himself. He could find a good resting spot. Near a river maybe, with good cover. At least the tourney wasn’t in the Stormlands. It was easy to find enough shelter with the Reach’s mild climate. Not too hot like Dorne, or too cold like the North. It was a good place to settle down, start a simple life. Dunk was getting ahead of himself.
Find Ser Manfred, first.
Okay, maybe that was harder than he thought.
The lovely… ladies at Ser Manfred tent instructed them to come back at evenfall. He was walking down the muddy path of the tourney grounds Arla in one hand, reins for his horses in the other. What to do till then? Obviously, find someplace to set up camp, maybe grab a bite to eat? Dunk felt his stomach grumble at the suggestion. Arla tugged on his hair, pointing inquisitively to the dueling grounds. Beside them, two knights were having a right go at it, the taller one beating the other down with heavy, quick swings of his sword.
“Why’d she say that, huh? We’re not sad.“ Dunk told Arla. The babe hummed her agreement, a hand reaching down to pull at Sweetfoot’s mane. The hedge knight carefully redirected it, drawing it away from the poor horse. “When we win our first tilt, we’ll have the loser’s armor and horse, or his gold. Won’t be sad then, huh?”
“‘Unk!” Arla agreed, an easy smile already on her face. Dunk smiled back, already opening his mouth before he witnessed the larger man bitch slap– for lack of a better term– his opponent who was already on the ground.
“What are you gawping at, you blue-eyed cunt? What the fuck are you doing with a babe? And is that a longsword you wear?” The taller man, curly haired and broad with an apple on his chest questioned him, looking more bewildered as he took in Dunk’s sorry appearance.
“Aye, it is mine by right. And this is my… squire?” The hedge knight’s replied, his last words twisting like a question. Arla could be his squire, right?
Probably.
The apple knight scoffed, “Stupidest thing I’ve heard all day. I’m Ser Steffon Fossoway. Come try me, if you truly are a knight.. As you see, me cousin here is not ripe yet.” Dunk barely remembered the Fossoways. They were a smaller house so Ser Arlan never worked for them.
“Do it, ser. I may not be ripe, but my cousin’s rotten to the core. Knock the seeds out of him!” The smaller man called out. Dunk was confused. Did all noble houses align with their sigils so much? He found it ridiculous to imagine a Lannister calling themselves a lion, or a Targaryen thinking themselves a dragon.
Men were men, he reasoned, and there was nothing about the family a man is born into that determines their person. He knew of many with favourable circumstances that turned out rotten, and the kindest folk emerge from the worst conditions.
Which would he be, given the choice? Dunk liked to imagine he would choose rightly if given the opportunity. That he’d strive to protect the weak and innocent like all true knights must. But… looking down at Arla who had gone strangely quiet during his conversation with Ser Steffon, he couldn’t be sure. Dunk was no longer the simple orphan from Fleabottom. Rafe had told him to go find his family and he did.
He would fight tooth and nail to protect her, like he should've protected Rafe. Like he should have saved Ser Arlan. With those thoughts in mind, he continued the rest of his conversation with the younger Fossaway. Raymun was good, if not a little too eager at the prospect of being a knight. Dunk remembered when he was like that, a long time ago. Enthusiasm was never a bad thing, and if he fought half as good on the tourney field the apple boy would be one hell of a challenge. The hedge knight would tell him that later, he decided. When next they met, he would properly sit down with Raymun, probably to get drunk on a cask of cider, and the pair could spill their souls out.
Before any drinking could occur, Dunk needed a proper fucking bath. And he knew just the place to get one.
River water was cold, but it got the job done well enough. While Arla happily splashed about in the thigh-high water, Dunk took to wringing their clothes out on the muddy banks, an eye on his young squire, the other on the truly stinky underclothes he had to clean on his own. It was better than the time after White Harbour where Dunk had to clean Arla’s linens in near freezing waters, but then again anything was better than then.
“Stay close, girl.” The child babbled something unintelligible in response, her eyes fixed on the small fish that swam through the rocks below her. She reached out a small hand to touch one, gasping in delight when she missed and hit the water with a loud smack. Dunk couldn’t contain his smile, striding to the stream to splash water on her giggling form. Laughing, he lifted Arla’s wriggling body on his shoulders and spun around just to hear her delighted shouts. The blonde man’s face split into an easy smile.
“Again! Again!”
Dunk’s worries quieted as he continued spinning the girl around. They would be okay. And even so, what’s the worst that could happen?
Standing in front of Lyonel Baratheon, a saucy drumstick still clutched in Arla’s iron grip, Dunk sorely regretted his earlier thought. If he was being honest, this was the one situation he argued wasn't his fault he landed in. After he had finished all their laundry, it was Raymun that caught them after the puppet show. Arla would’ve normally loved the colorful displays of lights and eloquent speech from the leading lady, but she was fast asleep against his shoulder for the majority of it. Children needed their rest– Dunk knew– but he was always surprised at the speed Arla could go from happily talking to fast asleep against a person (or horse, or table, or chair, or– on a very strange occasion– a wooden pail).
Still, she stayed sleeping for all of the puppet show, all of Raymun’s speech but found the gall to wake at the table of Lyonel freaking Baratheon, the Laughing Storm himself, waving at the man like they were old friends. Which led Dunk to his… current situation.
The storm heir sighed, leaning back in his chair to regard Dunk with a wary eye, “You ever been punched in the face before?”
“No!” Arla shouted, almost hitting Dunk with the large drumstick. The girl didn’t even have all her teeth in yet she always went for the largest cut of meat on a table. He had tried directing her to simpler foods but the girl’s grip was strong as iron. Dunk’s face flushed red with embarrassment.
“ I beg… I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?” And please ignore my overactive squire, she just woke up, Dunk silently added.
“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?” What was this man saying? Dunk blinked owlishly at Lyonel.
“No, but… I believe it.” Dunk stammered out. One of the men at the table chuckled at his answer before he was silenced by a sidelong glare from the Baratheon. When Ser Lyonel looked back at the pair, he visibly startled, almost choking on his ale.
“Did you steal a child while I looked away?” Lyonel questioned harshly, oblivious to Dunk’s frantic head shakes. “Do you mean to steal from me, too? You wish to steal my head, then.” The Storm Lord decided, his hand already creeping to his hilted dagger as Dunk’s stomach dropped to the bottom of his feet. Scratch that, it had fallen so far through the floor it came out on the other side of the continent. Yup, somewhere in Essos some farmer– or whatever people did for money in Essos– was finding a hedge-stomach in the middle of his field.
“WW-What? No! No.” Dunk protested, the arm holding Arla tightening so much she wriggled in discomfort. Seven fucking save him from foolish lordlings. First the boy in the inn, now this.
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
Dunk was internally panicking but all he managed to stutter out was, “S-Supper?”
The table paused for a heart wrenching moment where the hedge knight was certain this crazy man was about to stab his ass, and maybe stab Arla too on his way down (Was he even tall enough for that?) then Lyonel chuckled like Dunk wasn’t just chatting out of his ass. Oh, okay, then.
“What’s your name, man?” The Baratheon questioned indulgently.
“Dunk… Ser Dunk. And this is Arla, my… squire.” Dunk lifted Arla a little higher, smiling when she started waving again at the sound of her name.
“Hi!” Most of the table did some variation of cooing besottedly or asking to hold her– which Dunk pointedly ignored– seriously, fuck those fools.
“That’s ridiculous.” Ser Lyonel scoffed, but he still lazily winked at Arla before continuing with a grin. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk could only shrug sheepishly, “Doesn’t everyone?”
Turns out, the best way to make friends at a party was to have a baby with you. Everyone wanted a turn with Arla– spinning her in a wide circle, dancing with her on their shoulders, dancing with her on their back– even Lyonel took a turn with her on the tops of his boots, coaching her through one of the rare slower songs.
The women in the tent had kidnapped her for a song, braiding small beads into her hair and cleaning her sticky fingers while Dunk danced with Lyonel on his own. Arla had the wondrous ability to get her fingers sticky with something that never failed to reappear regardless of how many times Dunk cleaned it. Perhaps it was a Stormlander thing, but the tent’s energy never lowered. Dunk danced till his feet hurt and his throat was parched, then he danced some more. There were no questions of the jousts, or his life, just the hot heat of another’s body and the darkened gaze of Lyonel.
The girl was having the time of her life, babbling nonsense to whoever dared to listen as she did her best approximation of a dance, blonde hair frizzy and already tangled. She was currently perched on Ser Lyonel’s lap after a man with a truly impressive orange mustache took her for a turn on the cramped dance floor. It was less a dance and more him tossing her in the air to hear her delighted shrieks, but no one was complaining.
“Your lass… is a true Stormlander!” Ser Lyonel slurred, one arm holding Arla, the other gripping to his ale tanker just as tight. “Reminds me of the time… the time I was caught in the eye of a– fucking impressive storm.” The Baratheon swayed precariously in his seat, Dunk dipping forward to catch Arla if need be but Ser Lyonel righted himself with a sharp jerk.
“Weren’t you afraid?” Dunk asked. It felt like he was always afraid. Of the future, the past, if he could feed Arla, if he could give her the life she deserved– if he could afford to, if he would be a good knight like Ser Arlan, if he could even be a knight… The worries piled up like bricks on a wall.
Lyonel hummed, then said something very smart, “Ahh. Within every man, there are many men” before doing something very stupid; dropping his ale to put his antler crown on Arla’s head.
“Ser!” Dunk interrupted him mid-move, Lyonel staring at him with cow eyes like the hedge knight was the one attempting to put on a helm bigger than the child herself. “The crown… may be too large for Arla.” And you’ll break her fucking neck, was unspoken, even though Dunk was thinking it very hard.
Were all nobles like that? Completely uncaring of the well being of others so long they had their merry gay fun? Dunk didn’t wish to meet many more of them. It was the hedges for him, a simple life as any, with no stubborn lords or foolish heirs now trying to feed a babe ale–
“Lyonel.” The hedge knight growled, plucking Arla from his lap into Dunk’s own, silent as Lyonel complained of the spilt ale that had stained his doublet. The heir blubbered some excuse of his own, but Dunk heard none of it. A fine friend Lyonel made, but a poor mentor. He would find no answers here, but as the hedge knight stood to leave he spotted a familiar red haired man exit the tent with two women.
This could be his chance!
Hurriedly slinging Arla over his shoulder, he followed the man out, only pausing to grab another fistful of soft bread from the table. Arla could break her fast with it on the morrow, he reasoned. It was better than the salt beef they had, and easier on her milk teeth too.
Outside, the air smelt faintly of smoke and was illuminated by the torches set up around pavilions. Ser Manfred was near his own, the man’s… companions giggling as the trio stumbled back when Dunk caught up with them.
“Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He… he served your Lord Father to hunt the Vulture King in the Red Mountains. I… I was only a boy, but…” Arla– thank the Seven– stayed quiet through Dunk’s stuttering speech, but she still waved enthusiastically when she recognised Red. Ser Manfred said nothing, so Dunk prompted him, “Perhaps we would speak on the morn?”
“I know your penny knight not. Nor you, brother. Be gone.” Dunk’s breath caught in his throat as panic rose in his chest.
No. It couldn't be.
“Ser Arlan took a wound in your father’s service. How could you have forgotten him?” How could you have forgotten us? Dunk could remember the sting of the Dornish sun like it was the day past. The air had stunk of rot and decay, and before the wound had been cleaned Dunk had been certain it would be Arlan’s end, and that he would be alone once again.
“My lord father took 800 swords into those mountains. We’ve forgotten men who reaped much more than a wound.” Ser Manfred’s eyes– hazy as they were– landed on Arla, and it seemed his next words were directed at her. “And I’ve never heard of a knight carrying a babe around like a simpering woman” One of his companions chuckled, but Red stayed silent, her eyes dark in the flickering candle light. There was something like pity there, or maybe shame, but it disappeared before Dunk could see more of it.
Dunk trudged back to the tent with Arla nearly asleep against his shoulder, walking carefully so as to not disturb her. She always slept easy on the road, but the excitement of the tournament kept her up longer than Dunk preferred. It wouldn’t do for her to accidentally doze off against a poor soul simply because she forwent her daily nap. As he got closer, the hedge knight heard the unfamiliar crackling of a wood before he saw the light of the fire. A small figure was sitting next to it, a stick in his hands as he slowly turned it over the flames.
“You! What are you doing?” And that wasn’t the only thing that was changed. The horses were turned down, comfortably tied against a tree with Dunk’s clothes drying on a flat stone nearby. The lad– the stable boy from the inn– fixed Dunk with the most unimpressed look he’d ever seen on such a small child.
“Cooking a fish.” The stable boy blinked owlishly at him. “Do you want some? And the baby too?” He tacked the last part on after spotting Arla napping against Dunk. She shifted at the hushed conversation. .
“No, she’s sleeping.” Dunk absentmindedly patted her back, soothing her back to sleep. “I mean, how did you get here? Did you steal a horse?”
“Rode in the back of a lamb cart. How old is she?”
“Eighteen moon turns, by my last guess.” Dunk couldn’t help the smile overtaking his face as he spoke of Arla. Damn him, the boy knew the best way to distract him. “Now, listen, I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I should throw you over my horse and take you home.“
“You’d need to ride all the way to King’s Landing. You’d miss the tourney.” The boy shrugged like it was of no use to him, but his eyes tracked the hedge knight warily. Dunk understood with a sobering realisation. The lad was like him, then. Both nobodies with nowhere to go. He thought of putting up some token protest– but what was the point?
From the second he saw the boy so clearly excited about his duties as squire– so much like Dunk from the past– there was nothing changing his mind. Maybe it was his love for Arla, or the life he had prayed she would have, but he could never imagine turning another child into the cold, dark night.
The boy continued, taking Dunk’s silence as acquiescence, “What’s your name?”
“Dunk. And hers is Arla.” He was already moving to place her on the open bed rolls, her head resting firmly on the straw pillows. She only moved to curl into a small ball, one arm outstretched like she was waiting for Dunk’s warmth.
He still remembered the first night he slept beside her, stiff with fear he would roll over and crush her in his sleep. Dunk hardly slept that night, waking up in the wee hours of morning to find Arla tucked firmly on his chest, having moved there in her sleep. Ser Arlan had a right laugh about it, and Dunk spent the rest of the morning flushed red with embarrassment, but that fixed all fears of Arla sleeping beside him.
“Ser Dunk.” The boy didn’t sound impressed. “That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?”
“...Yeah. Yes! Ser Duncan of.. Ser Duncan the Tall.” Dunk declared,, his hands placed on his hips with an air of gravitas. This was an important moment, he decided internally. He was no longer Dunk-from-Fleabottom. He had changed, grown like he had seen silk worms do to enter a new stage of his life–
“Never heard of him.”
…This kid. Dunk fought down the urge to clout him in the ear. “Know every knight in the Seven Kingdoms, then?” His words were supposed to come out like Ser Arlan’s, harsh but stern but all Dunk managed was to sound impossibly fond. After Arla, the hedge knight found it difficult to muster any bad will towards children, especially those staring at him with impossibly round eyes and the shiniest head Dunk had ever seen.
“The good ones. My name’s Egg, by the way.” The boy– Egg– smiled like he knew the battle was already won, and Dunk was too tired to start pretending to object.
“Egg.” The name felt heavy on his tongue. Was this how Ser Arlan felt when he decided to save Dunk? “Well Egg, if you’ll swear to do as you’re told, I’ll let you serve me for the tourney. After… we’ll see. I don’t have much, but you’ll always 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.” No doubt he’d deserve it plenty a time, but Dunk had neither the strength nor the heart to raise a hand to someone who could be Arla’s twin with his endless enthusiasm and curiosity at the world.
With the three of them securely set up on the tent, Arla tucked between Egg’s slender frame and Dunk’s significantly larger one, the man finally allowed his mind to rest. There was no telling what the next morn would bring, if he could find a man to vouch for his claim, if he could win a joust, if he would have to carve off more chunks of himself to simply survive, but those were all problems for tomorrow. Tonight, he was watching the starry sky with a boy named Egg, listening to the soft cadence of Arla’s breathing. A bright streak flashed across the sky.
“A falling star brings luck to those who see it.” Egg sighed, his voice drowsy and slurred.
“Go to sleep, boy.”
“All the other knights are in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of sky.” He continued.
“The luck is ours alone, then.” Dunk breathed back, half asleep himself.
Yeah, they were going to need it.