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“Please,” a sudden voice ripped him from his thoughts, “Please, could you spare some for my child?”
If there was one thing Fleabottom was prone to with all its filth and misery then it was the spread of sickness. Fevers, pox, consumption, flux, redspots…. even the maesters couldn’t count all the ailments that befell the poor people living in the place. Not that any of them bothered to come here, of course. Either you developed a strong resistance to these types of things or you died, such was the lot of rats and bastards and orphans like himself.
Dunk had a queasy feeling leaving Rafe behind in their small hiding spot. Hot to the touch and barely awake as she was. It wasn’t often that he was grateful for their small hideout below that goat pen, but at least he could be sure no one would find them there. She’d awoken with a chill just yestereve and barely awake since. He could not afford any medicine, even if he’d give it all to get his hands on some. All he could do was stay with her and wet the rag he’d placed on his forehead. And the boy would have stayed with her all day and all night long if hunger hadn’t driven him out.
He clutched the two loaves of bread tightly to his chest and winced when another throbbing wave of pain made its way from his swelling eye. Dunk was sure it must have darkened by now; what small mercy it was to know it didn’t swell shut at least.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall, and slow as an aurochs. Rafe had always been better than him at stealing. But he was better at taking damage. Part of him still felt guilty for the poor baker’s woman who had her wares taken even as she beat him. If she went to report him and the Gold Cloaks found him he’d be hanged as a thief or sent to the wall. Most of the citywatch wouldn’t bother, though. Stealing and trickery were almost as common as sickness, hardly worth the ruckus for people as disposable as those down here.
The child turned a corner down right, shoving past a soup kitchen queue, before descending a tiny flight of stairs. Only a few more minutes and he’d be at the goat pen. If Rafe was even strong enough to eat what he brought? She was barely able to drink the bit of clean water he managed to gather for her. He’d once overheard someone else say that soup helped a chill. Maybe he should’ve tried getting her some brown. Dunk didn’t think it would do her well, though. With seven knows what thrown in there and Rafe already not in the best of shape…..
He shook his head and pressed forth. The boy did not want to think about the possibility of what-ifs. His friend would recover, of that he was sure, and then she’d call him a fucking idiot for worrying so. Rafe would eat the bread and she’d maybe even smile at him. Praise Dunk for how well he’d done and make him feel better. Or she would not and that would be fine too, because a quiet understanding passed between them regardless: ‘You would have done the same for you’
Dunk flinched, pressing the bread closer to his chest as his eyes snapped towards the sound. A woman sat on the ground, feet bare and body dressed in rags even worse than those the child had for clothes.
He blinked.
A babe lay in her arms. Swaddled in dirty fabric with thinning hair. So spindly and frail that one could not possibly say how old it was. Its little face scrunched up in what must have been a restless sleep for the tiny little thing.
The woman looked at him with eyes he could not describe. “Please,” she repeated.
She was not the first beggar Dunk had seen and would not be the last. Fleabottom was filled with them to the brim- old, young, man or woman, some lacking a limb and others a sense. They gathered like a court of grief within every alleyway. Some say that their bodies were sometimes burned for warmth in winter when they inevitably succumbed to the snow. They grew faster than trees and were cheaper than wood. That is if they didn’t end up spirited away by this or that person to use for their own shady purposes.
Perhaps the woman had been a whore who was thrown out after refusing moon tea. Dunk heard of some whores who did that. He wondered if his own mother was amongst them sometimes. If she refused to get rid of him out of some sense of love and chose to carry him under her heart instead. Rafe had of course set the record straight on his fantasy. His mother probably just didn’t have access to anything like that in the first place and was forced to give birth; why else would she abandon him to the streets?
Dunk’s mother abandoned him. Was it cruel to be jealous of the spindly babe because his still held him in her arms?
The boy looked down at his meagre possessions. Two loaves of bread- one slightly bigger, the other a little smaller. Each of them could stretch theirs for three whole days if they were smart about it. Especially if Rafe lacked much of her usual appetite to the chill.
He looked towards the woman’s desperate form. If he ran away without reply, she couldn’t follow him. She was far too weak for any chase, judging by how she looked. Dunk couldn’t ascertain if the babe was weaned or not. If it wasn’t, then it couldn’t have gotten much milk in a long time, seeing how drained its mother was of any nutrition.
No one would blame him for not following the plea. If both mother and child died of starvation, no one would bat an eye.
No one but Dunk.
I can wait for a few more days, he thought, and quickly reached out his hand with the smaller loaf. There wasn’t much to the decision. It was not very heroic. “I’m sorry I can’t give more,” Dunk apologised and felt horrible for his selfishness. But Rafe needed to eat, even if he could go without. He could lie and say he only managed to take one loaf and insist he’d gotten himself something else already when she wanted to share, but she needed to be fed. How long could the bread sustain the beggar and her child? If he’d only had himself to worry about, then at least he could have given her the bigger piece or even both.
The woman smiled at him with too-white teeth. “Thank you, my boy.”
XXX
Ser Arlan had been cross with him for a fortnight already, refusing to speak with him beyond giving orders. Even now, all he offered his squire were grunts and huffs to show his discomfort at Dunk’s ministrations.
“I really didn’t steal it, Ser.” The boy insisted, fiddling with the dressing he wrapped around the older man's head. “It was the inn boy that ate the widow woman’s pie, not me. I promise”
His Ser did not reply to him.
The boy resigned himself to his fate after that, focused on stopping the bleeding from where Ser Arlan had rolled on his dagger in the night. The oppressive silence since they left for Maidenpool was ample punishment for a crime Dunk didn’t commit. But it also meant that he did not answer when the boy asked him for instructions on how to care for his wound properly- stubborn as the knight was -and left him fumbling to get it right.
Still, he tried his best. Cleaned out the wound, pressed down on it with a clean cloth, fiddled for the better dressings they had left in their supplies and attempted to fasten them around the older’s midriff. His own hands were already covered with crimson red. He’d wash them together with the dagger and their clothes the next time they came by a stream to make camp. Until then it would have to do being wiped down on Dunk’s own cloak.
He chewed on his lip as he concentrated. He’d developed the habit over some time now, even if Ser Arlan told him he’d only hurt himself doing so. Dunk tried to focus on the pain so he could avoid thinking about how unfair it all was. It was not his fault that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time! And neither could he be blamed for someone else's crime. But his Ser was convinced of the matter and wouldn’t listen.
A darker, ugly part of Dunk wanted to take revenge. To leave the wound to get infected, just a tiny bit, so his Ser Arlan could feel the discomfort he deserved. He’d gotten drunk and rolled onto the dagger himself. Dunk still felt his clout to the ear if he remembered hard enough. It was only right to pay it back when he got a hit that he didn’t deserve. That’s what Rafe would have told him to do, were she still with him. It’s what she should have done had she been in his place.
But then Ser Arlan winced under his touch, and Dunk startled at his own thoughts. Right, of course. How shameful of him. How detestable. Ser Arlan was hurt on accident and Dunk was thinking about hurting him more. Shame flooded him. “‘m sorry, Ser” The lad mumbled. A good knight didn’t behave himself like this. A good squire even less. Ser Arlan still didn’t offer a reply.
It was a rotten thing to think about.
Out in the field, he could see the wife of some farmer tending to the field with her child strapped to her back. She stared at the odd pair, surely judging them for their sorry state. Dunk’s ears burned red.
XXX
The pavilion’s insides had turned musky some time ago. Filled with the warm breaths of fellow guests, the smell of food, and sweat from dancing meant that most of the good air had been spent already. Not that the inhabitants of it cared much. Alcohol dulled their senses and music distracted them well enough.
Dunk felt a familiar buzz in his limbs that told him he’d had his fill for the night. Years on the road with Ser Arlan taught him restraint well enough. At least one of them needed to be somewhat conscious, usually not his knight master if he had the choice. It meant that his squire learned to stop right when the edges of his world turned fuzzy, and his mind loosened just the tiniest bit. Not enough to make him lose his wits- just enough to make him feel more jolly than he usually was.
Lyonel- as the Lord had insisted Dunk call him a few cups ago -did not make the same considerations as the hedge knight he had invited to his table, however. He squinted his eyes when the other started to tilt and sway. He sighed when he noticed the dull look in his eyes. It was probably more than unbecoming; he wouldn’t have done it had he been sober, but….
Dunk looked around him until he found what he was looking for. Lyonel glanced when he stood up, only to be soothed down by the knight assuring him he’d be right back and only needed to retrieve something quickly. He was allowed to leave unimpeded after that, though still beckoned to ‘make it quick’ and ‘return fast’.
He smiled, nodded, and set out for what he wanted.
Navigating the dance floor turned out harder than navigating rows and rows of filled benches. Even if he just wanted to cross it he found himself being bumped into more often than not, only his large frame and sturdy build prevented him from stumbling. Trying to avoid one swirling lady only meant he’d step into another drunken lord, and vice versa. Dunk thought he’d spent more time apologising to people who hadn’t even noticed his infraction than he spent getting to where he wanted to be.
When he did, however, he tried to give the servant the nicest smile he could offer.
“M’ sorry, good lady.” The hedge knight stuttered, “But- ah- could I have that water you’re carrying?”
The woman stared at him. She surely was a servant, Dunk thought, seeing her dress. He could spot it even across all of the people. And he wasn’t so stupid as to not even be able to recognise the Baratheon colours on her. He rubbed his neck awkwardly at the lack of reply. “I- I would appreciate it much if you could give it to me. A cup of it alone would be fine too.”
She stared more. “You needn’t come to me in person, Ser.” The woman replied, “I could have walked to you and filled your cup with as much water as you’d like. I could have left the jug; you wouldn’t have needed to move at all.”
Now it was Dunk’s turn to stare. This time at her very obvious rounded belly. The woman was with child no doubt; her gaze made him feel like a boy. “I hadn’t- The dance floor is crowded enough. I can walk myself just fine.”
“It is my job as a servant, Ser. It would not have mattered.”
“It would have to me,” Dunk returned. As if realising something else, he quickly added, “Not meaning any offence.”
More stares. She handed the jug of water without another word. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Ser” The woman spoke, “I shall take my leave now.”
He must have drunk more than he assumed he had. For as soon as the servant woman turned around, Dunk found himself unable to remember her face at all. How strange of an occurrence. Yet his mind refused to linger much on it for whatever reason- which meant that the knight returned his focus on the task at hand. Making his way back to the table, he began trying to coax Lyonel into drinking some of the liquid he’d brought. A cup of water to wash down the alcohol, he told the lord.
XXX
The boy had been cold. That was as far as Dunk thought when he decided to hand over his cloak to him. The boy had been cold with only a pallet to sleep upon; he would stop being cold if he had a blanket. He didn’t bring anything of the sort with himself, which meant he only had what Dunk had given him of his Ser’s old things. Those didn’t include the blanket of the man, which he’d already turned into patches for his own clothes. So instead, Dunk gave him his cloak until they could get the boy a proper one.
Despite the chilly spring air causing him goose skin, Dunk could not say he regretted the decision much. Not when he saw how content his new squire slept when he curled into it. Something akin to a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had a squire now- even if he was a little strange -and he managed to not totally mess it up. Bereft of riches as he was, the boy had chosen him against all better judgment.
Dunk looked back up towards the skies.
A squire named Egg with a bald head and an insolent mouth. He wondered what his own Ser would have said about that. Surely nothing good. Or maybe something nice? His mind still felt like reeling from the day. He needed to sleep off the alcohol still in his system.
He was behaving like a green boy.
It was only natural for a knight to have a squire, even if it was just for a time. But it was a responsibility still. He would need to teach the boy and care for him to the best of his ability. Feed him and clothe him on the meagre bit of coin he had. Even if it was just for the duration of the tourney. And he’d need to make sure that the boy was doing well, of course.
The knight turned onto his side. Egg slept on undisturbed, his tiny face completely lax and utterly satisfied at the same time. As if he won a great prize somehow. As though following Dunk and having him as his ser was a great honour.
It was not. The knight was humble enough to know that much about him. Still, he’d do his best.
Because Dunk had a squire now.
XXX
It was dumb of him to have thought he could survive, much less win, in a trial of combat such as this.
A kind, gentle voice cooed at him as she guided her hands through his hair. “My brave knight, my good son, the pride of my heart” The voice turned mournful in its sound. “What troubles you so?”
“I am not!,” Dunk wanted to wail, “I am not brave! I am not good! I am not even a true knight! Do not praise like that. Everything hurts; I can’t feel my body. I will lose the trial and perish, completely powerless to keep my oaths. I think I’m dying.”
“From all the faces, you’ve always favoured mine the most.” She replied, “You’ve always kept to my oaths the strongest. And you’ve always done what I bid the best. Why do you feel the need to refuse my praise so?”
Dunk blinked back tears. “I couldn’t protect anyone. I promised Egg I would return and I will not. I am a liar.”
“You are a knight who remembered his vows” The voice spoke sternly. “And you will be more than you can ever imagine. But for that, you need to stand. Get up.”
Get up, Ser Arlan said.
Get up, his squire screamed.
Get up, the mother repeated.
Dunk wrenched his eyes open.