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They had come to a fork in the road – or rather, a fork in the narrow, horse shit-strewn track which they had been following.
“Oh,” Dunk said vaguely, “well. The southern path is best for us. Onwards, let us away.”
“Not the easterly? Storm’s End seems the most logical destination, ser,” Egg piped up. “We would surely arrive before nightfall, and we have friends there who would not begrudge us a roof over our heads.”
For a change, he didn’t need to say. It had been a few nights of sleeping rough. On this part of the coast the soil was rocky and thin, and the scant few trees on hand to provide shelter from wind and rain consisted primarily of crooked little conifers that at the slightest provocation hurtled pinecones down upon uncomfortable sleepers as though to rebuke them for seeking succor beneath their spiky boughs.
Still, it might be better than Storm’s End. Dunk mumbled that he shouldn’t be too certain of their reception in that particular hall, and wildly fired off a hopeful prayer to the Seven that for once Egg might simply nod in humble squirely acceptance of his master’s whims and not pursue the matter further.
Not so lucky. Egg cocked his head curiously, like a large, plucked bird. “I thought you liked Ser Lyonel. You feasted with him. He fought for you at the trial. I thought you were great brothers-in-arms.”
Dunk winced. “Ah. Erm.”
“I know he likes you. I heard him say he wanted to use you as a battering ram to break through the Wall and charge into the north, to fight ghosts and all manner of evil beasts.”
“We didn’t really leave off in Ashford on the best of terms,” said Dunk, scratching his neck uncomfortably. Or rather, the terms had been unclear and would certainly have become dire once Lyonel had realized – Then I’ll hate you like a brother he had said with a shrug, his tone as light and flippant as it ever was. But there had been a real thread of disappointment there. Dunk hated disappointing people. He just seemed to do it so often.
“Why?” said Egg, fixing Dunk with his stare.
“I didn’t want to go charging about the Stormlands with him as his sworn sword.” And he had taken offence to a few cold things Lyonel had said about Egg’s late uncle, but Dunk didn’t want to remember that. Lyonel during their brief acquaintanceship had been riotous and exuberant, sometimes too much so, and Dunk had been delighted, irritated, and confused by him in rotation. But that had been the first time that he had been genuinely furious with the man. What did he know of risk and sacrifice, draped as he was with cloth-of-gold and irreverence in equal measure? What right did he have to speak so callously of Baelor-
No, Dunk didn’t want to remember that. Instead he said, “I let him think I would be going with him, and then I didn’t. He told me he’d hate me if I didn’t take him up on the offer.”
“Are you certain he’ll even remember that?” Egg said skeptically. “It’s been a while since Ashford. It was after the heat of battle. People say mad things, don’t they? And Ser Lyonel was often drinking.”
Yes, Dunk agreed, Ser Lyonel was indeed often drinking. But even drinking he couldn’t imagine that Lyonel would take kindly to having been passed over. In favor of House Targaryen, at that. “Seems to me,” he said gloomily, “he’ll either have forgotten the whole thing and will welcome me with unseemly quantities of wine and dancing, or he’ll skewer me on first sight as repayment for his wounded pride.”
“Ah.” Egg looked solemn. “Those usually are the two options with high lords.” Either all crimes were forgiven, or blood debts were enacted.
They stared at the diverging paths for a moment longer. Beneath him, Thunder swayed restlessly and bent his great head to nose at some clover growing by the side of the road. Chestnut nickered softly.
“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t judge Ser Lyonel to be the vengeful type,” Egg offered. “I’ve met plenty of those. You remember my family.”
It would have been difficult to forget Egg’s family.
“House Baratheon, lords paramount of the Stormlands, are a proud house who have long shared in the blood of old Valyria,” Egg continued in the tones of one reciting something learned by rote. “Ever have they been generous and great-hearted with their friends, and fearsome to their foes.”
“Thanks, Maester Aegon.” Dunk eyed the sky. Off in the distance clouds were gathering idly, whistling and looking about innocently as if to say who, us? Us, rainclouds? Begging your lordship’s pardon but we’re never rainclouds.
“I suppose it looks like it might rain tonight.”
“Probably.”
“I suppose I never really promised Lyonel anything. So I never broke any promise, either.”
“You’ll never know unless you see him, ser. Isn’t it better to meet again under your own terms? Else you might run across him unexpectedly one day and never be ready. If he is out for vengeance, I mean. Ser.”
Dunk grunted. It was an unpleasant thought, that one sunny day he might turn a corner to see an armored, antlered figure charging him down. Egg was likely right: Lyonel wasn’t the vengeful type, was he? They hadn’t known each other for very long at all but Dunk had liked Lyonel. Oh, he’d been awfully lordly and demanding and presumptuous, and never thought a second if he was inconveniencing anyone with his whims – but that had been part of his mad appeal; Dunk was forever worrying if he was being an inconvenience by being too tall, too stupid, too in the way, and letting himself get caught up in the whirlwind had been thrilling. It helped that Lyonel had enjoyed being challenged and hadn’t stood on ceremony. Generous and great-hearted. His wild gleeful grin when Dunk had stomped on his foot. That probably wasn’t a man who would have Dunk’s head off for slipping quietly from the tourney grounds with his squire rather than coming to his castle for a life of, of wine and women, or whatever he’d had in mind. Probably.
He heaved a sigh and tugged the reins to haul Thunder away from the clover buffet. “Storm’s End, then.”
Egg made a triumphant motion with his fist and muttered yes! under his breath.
“I hope the soft bed is worth it, when Lyonel puts my head on a spike,” said Dunk darkly.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that, ser,” said Egg with a blitheness towards his master’s health and wellbeing that was most unsquirely.
They trotted east. The sun was past its highest point by then, and as the dry heat of the day subsided, a damp sniff of oncoming rain swelled the air. The sky was still a clear blue field above them, but out to sea the clouds had put off all pretense and were assembling like chargers in a row.
“Are you truly so worried about having made an enemy of Lord Baratheon, ser?” Egg asked once they had crested a little hill and come in full view of the coast. Off in the distance, the doughty crenelated tower of Storm’s End could be seen rising up from the cliff upon which the fortress had kept weather watch since time immemorial. “If all that transpired between you was that he wished for you to come to Storm’s End and you wished to continue your travels, surely your arriving now to his keep can only please him?”
“I suppose,” said Dunk uneasily. He couldn’t precisely say why he was so worried that Lyonel would be angry. It was just a feeling he had. Somehow Lyonel’s careless offer – you could come with me – hadn’t been so careless.
The looming outer wall and iron portcullis of Storm’s End was accompanied by a narrow guard tower crouched on a small rise, and as they approached a planked hatch was pushed open and two suspicious faces squabbled for priority peering out. “Who goes there?”
“Um, Ser Duncan the Tall.” Dunk glanced over at Egg. “And his squire. I am a friend of Ser Lyonel Baratheon and have come to seek his hospitality this eve.”
The guard on the left squinted at him. “You don’t look like much of a knight. A bit ratty, you are.”
Dunk could sense Egg opening his mouth, likely on the cusp of saying something rude about the guards’ own state of dress, when the man on the right cut him off by laughing. “No, come then. Welcome, Ser Duncan. What?” He looked over at his companion defensively. “You want to be the one to tell Lord Baratheon we’ve turned away a ten-foot-tall man with golden hair what was asking for him personally? Not likely.”
Dunk’s hand went to the side of his head self-consciously. Golden was not among the adjectives he’d previously experienced with regards to his hair. Greasy, he’d heard. Disaster, too. Rat’s nest, often.
Through the gates of Storm’s End they went, the portcullis complaining only softly as it lifted, a well-oiled thing, as was the heavy iron-banded oak door that heaved open to admit them into the inner keep.
The castle presented a stubbornly fearsome face from without but within its sturdy walls all was bright with activity and cheerful shouts from every corner. Women with wooden crates in their arms or clay pots balanced skillfully upon their heads weaved before the hesitant clip of the horses. Children of all shapes and sizes gawked as they darted hither and thither. The sound of laughter and clashing steel increased as Dunk and Egg passed through the low-ceilinged tunnel leading from the outer gate and emerged into a wide courtyard.
Black and gold ribbons rippled from the ramparts. The crowned stag danced triumphantly upon several banners, each larger than the last. Dunk looked about uneasily as he dismounted Thunder. That man’s no friend of mine, off with his head! he imagined Lyonel shouting imperiously from the battlements-
“By all the gods and the stars in the sky,” a voice bellowed from across the yard, “I’d know that towering tree anywhere!” There was a clattering of arms and armor, and almost before Dunk could turn around he found himself with an armful of Lyonel Baratheon come bounding from the far corner of the inner court.
He had clearly been training, clad as he was in scuffed leathers with none of the usual ornamentation in sight, rather sweaty greying hair plastered to his forehead. A blunted sword swung carelessly from his hand. A smile wreathed his familiar face, open and happy, and for a moment Dunk was so simply pleased to see him that he only laughed loudly, surprised, and hugged back, all fretting about their parting swept clean from his head in the moment of reunion.
Then Lyonel stepped back and gave himself a little shake. “But what are you doing here, hedge knight? I hadn’t expected you!”
“No, well, we didn’t send word. It was a bit, um, a decision, we’re not really on the road to anywhere at the moment,” Dunk threw a look to Egg, hoping for rescue.
Egg stepped in gracefully as always. “My lord Baratheon, we were fortunate to stray close to your hall during our travels in the Stormlands.”
Yes, that. “If it’s not too much trouble for you to put us up for the night.”
“I’ll do more than just put you up!” Lyonel cried, “Yes! Be welcome, be welcome.”
He beamed at Dunk, and Dunk beamed back, and for a moment it was just like the instant that they had first come to know each other. Giddy with it, Lyonel spinning him and spinning him and spinning him-
He risked nothing! Memory shrieking. Dunk might have actually flinched, and at almost the exact moment a portcullis of Lyonel’s own dropped heavily down before his eyes, a door swung shut, and the smile took on a wooden aspect.
“I was worried you might be displeased to see me,” Dunk blurted out, unable to hold back the childish admission. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the set of Egg’s shoulders tense.
Lyonel laughed, hah-hah-hah. “Displeased? Whyever so?”
“After Ashford, my lord. You bid me join you. You expected I was coming back with you to Storm’s End and I, I didn’t.”
“What, did I say that? Did we say that?” Lord Baratheon astonished, eyes wide, blinking. “I hardly recall. It’s all water under the bridge, whatever it was.”
“Oh,” said Dunk, feeling wrongfooted.
“If I swore oaths of vengeance on every good fellow I wanted to steal away for my own entourage but who found he had better things to do than entertain the whims of a drunken lord, by the gods I’d have lopped the heads off half the men in the realm,” scoffed Lyonel blithely, and he laughed again, the same repetitive sound.
Dunk laughed as well, but a moment too late. There was a funny little drop in his belly: hah-hah-hah.
“I see you haven’t driven off your boy yet,” said Lyonel, turning his eye to Egg with something like lordly approval. “How’ve the hedges been, boy?”
“Not bad,” said Egg, doggedly.
“Not bad! Well at least you’ve a loyal one. Tonight we’ll get you something a bit more comfortable than a hedgerow. Tonight,” he said, pausing for effect, “we shall feast!”
Dunk was shown to a large chamber outfitted comfortably with a four-poster bed that he could tell at a glance was softer and squishier than anything he’d slept on in recent memory.
Under normal circumstances he would have instantly flopped on the bed, stared up at the thick embroidered drapery, and laughed in delight at his good fortune. A soft mattress. A little green and white ceramic washstand in the corner with a pitcher of fresh cool water. A narrow window looking out over azure waves crashing against the natural rocky parapet upon which the fortress stood. A night of food and drink and comfort ahead.
His fool mind was for some reason instead fixated upon the bland smile Lyonel had given him when snapping his fingers for the servant who had shown Dunk the room. “Make sure Ser Duncan is comfortable,” Lyonel had commanded, taking up his blunted training sword once more and nodding back to the corner where men in padded doublets were slashing at each other. “I must needs beat the shit out of my men at arms there before the day is done, but we will dine together tonight.”
He was still taking stock when the door creaked open and Egg stuck his head in. “It’s a fine chamber,” he said with approval. “I’m in the annex across the hall, and even that has a proper bed. It makes a change from ditches and trees, doesn’t it, ser?” He looked at Dunk, and frowned. “Are you alright, ser?”
“He really didn’t remember,” said Dunk stupidly.
He didn’t elaborate, but Egg seemed to take his meaning nonetheless and perched on the bed next to him. He propped his chin on a small hand. “I thought you didn’t want him to be cross with you. Why are you upset that he isn’t?”
“I’m not upset.”
“You seem upset,” Egg pointed out, entirely and totally unreasonably and incorrectly.
“I’m only – he didn’t remember. It was an important day for me.” It had been the most important day of his short, unimportant life, even if he had spent most of it in tremendous physical pain and not a small amount of anguish. “We were friends there, at the tourney. But I’m not – it was nothing to the likes of a lord. I’m only nobody.”
Egg mulled this over. “It’s better to be nobody,” he said at last. “Being somebody isn’t any fun. When you’re somebody, somebody else is always coming after you to kill you or to want something from you. When you’re nobody, then nobody bothers you.”
Dunk thought that this wasn’t quite true. The smallfolk were all nobodies, and yet that didn’t stop very important, very noble somebodies from making their lives difficult. But it would probably be hard to explain that to Egg, who was such a somebody that anything else likely seemed a better bet. Dunk remembered the feeling well from being on the other side of the scales; from being the nobodiest of all nobodies down in Flea Bottom.
No, there was no sense in trying to say that to Egg. Especially not when all Dunk had were clumsy words and jumbled thoughts, overlaid by guilt and scorched-in memories of Prince Baelor, dying in his numb arms. He mumbled something about Egg not knowing the half of it and tried to turn away. Outside the window the darkening sky stretched into the distance like a rich tapestry picked out in lavender.
“At least you didn’t get your head chopped off, ser,” said Egg. “Surely we should be pleased? I’d not like to see you get in a brawl with Lord Baratheon. I think he’d knock you down.”
“What? No. I could best him. Probably. Don’t make me clout you in the ear.” Dunk was beginning to think that the true reason why hedge knights slept in hedges was that in hedges you could give your disrespectful squire a smack and tell him to go fetch more firewood so you could have time alone to sulk. In a grand hall you had to say something imperious like be off with you, boy, which didn’t come easily from Dunk’s tongue. He couldn’t even sensibly shoo Egg off to care for the horses. Chestnut and Thunder were already being primped and pampered by an army of Baratheon grooms and stableboys.
There was nothing for it. “I’m going for a walk,” said Dunk with dignity, and stood from the edge of the plush (very plush) bed where he had plopped sadly down.
Egg looked at him. “A walk?”
“A walk.” He glared. “You can stay here. Or go, go make trouble in the yard with the other squires. I don’t know. Don’t start any fights.”
“I never start fights, ser,” said Egg, offended as only a Targaryen prince could be, making such a statement.
The curtain wall of Storm’s End was a gargantuan, imposing thing rising up as if it had sprouted from the sea itself. A man could have driven a horse and cart along the top of it and still leave room on either side for anyone going in the opposite direction. It was said that the castle had been built in defiance of gods hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and it was the seat of ancient kings and mighty lords to be sure. The castle’s name was no mere pretty bit of poetry, either. Walking along the top of the wall, Dunk couldn’t imagine what it must be like to shelter here during a proper howling tempest. The evening air was stirred by only a light breeze, but even that was already flicking his ears and nudging his jerkin looking for weaknesses, seeking to snake its way around him and freeze his bones, seize him by the waist and throw him down into the sea. A real gale would be a terror in truth.
It wasn’t something Dunk was eager to see. He imagined that Lyonel loved it when the winds screamed and howled with frustration trying to get their claws into the smooth, implacable walls of Storm’s End. He wouldn’t be much of a Storm Lord, to be afraid of a storm.
The Round Hall was all ablaze with flickering torches, light gleaming from the golden banners draping the walls. True to his word, Lord Baratheon had thrown a feast. Whether this was truly due to the presence of Dunk or simply because Lyonel was always throwing feasts was unclear: certainly no one made Dunk stand up and announce himself, and the bountiful supply of roast meats and golden crusted pies and gleaming cracked oysters begged no question from the denizens of the castle.
Egg was seated some distance away at the opposite side of the hall with a gaggle of other boys who looked to be about his own age. Dunk made sure to keep an eye on him over the course of the meal, but each time he seemed to be getting on well enough. At least his mouth was moving: he might have been arguing finer points of Westerosi geography for all Dunk knew, but no fists or food had been thrown.
Dunk himself was placed at a long table with other knights and men at arms. That was fine by him. He’d worried that Lyonel might insist on dragging him up to the high table and he’d have been forced to stammer his way through conversation with the lords and ladies there. Being settled among other men who were less interested in talking than in their determined devouring of all food in front of them suited him far better.
Then there was dancing, because of course there was. It followed that the court should be peopled by men and women who liked to cheer and stamp as much as their lord did, and Dunk found himself in the middle of a line of dancers, turning and weaving in and out with an opposing line as the musicians steadily increased the tempo. In the center of all, Lyonel Baratheon danced with abandon, tossing his curls and letting out wild whoops, though this night he restrained himself from leaping on a table. The rhythm of the dance kept the partners constantly changing and Dunk was spun into and out of Lyonel’s grasp several times: each time Lyonel grinned at him but quickly his gaze would slide away. A far cry from the intense, prolonged eye contact they had shared in Ashford. Then, Dunk had found it a bit uncomfortable, unsure what this strange lord wanted from him, whether he met his eye in challenge or appraisal; but he would have traded this strange friendly disregard for that intensity in a heartbeat.
It couldn’t be called inhospitality. After the end of a particularly energetic reel Lyonel pulled Dunk away to sit with him, shouting that he was dry as a northwoman’s cunt on her wedding night and demanding wine. Wine had come. Wine had been poured. Exhortations had been made for Dunk to try this sweetmeat or that delicacy.
He was just as extravagant and open-handed as he had been the first night they had met, and that had been extravagance indeed, open-handedness beyond anything Dunk had experienced save for in the highest of the halls where he and Ser Arlan had been received. He couldn’t quite say how things were different now, only that they were, and that the difference was not to his liking. It was as though, he thought, that the Lyonel of Ashford, the Lyonel who had said, hold this would you, before setting his crown crooked upon Dunk’s head, looking at it critically, straightening it, and saying that’s better and wandering off in search of a fresh cask, that Lyonel had drank and danced and supped and shouted because he was a man who liked to spread his gifts about. Generous and great-hearted. Had that Lyonel been a prosperous merchant travelling the roseroad he still would have had a lavish tent overflowing with wine to welcome any who passed by. Had he been a poor fisherman casting his nets in Blackwater Bay he would have thrown a feast to celebrate each bountiful catch. That he had been born Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End simply meant that even more wine could overflow, that the feasts could be even more lavish.
The Lyonel now who smiled close-lipped at Dunk as he refilled his cup from a golden ewer had a colder aspect. Look at all my riches, he seemed to say as he let a few drops of arbor red spill over the lip of the cup, look at how little I care what I give away or waste. Why shouldn’t you take all you desire? I have far more. What you take has all the import of a man drinking his fill from the sea.
So that was that, then. Like a toy, shiny and fascinating when it was new, but quickly boring. Although in all honesty Dunk wouldn’t really know. He’d only ever had one plaything; a wooden clothes peg painted with a face and motley to look like a king’s fool. He couldn’t remember where it had come from. One day he had been making the little fool walk across the cobbles, imagining him singing a song, too close to where some women were hanging up washing to dry. One of the women had seen him, smacked him for playing with the pegs, and taken it from him. Dunk had always been a large child but he’d been too young for it to make a difference: he hadn’t been able to reach the peg, and when the washing was dry his fool had vanished into the pocket of some washerwoman. He had cried, been smacked for crying, and had never had a toy again.
But a lord like Lyonel had probably had a whole army of painted wooden knights as a boy. What was one more to add to the collection, or to discard?
To add insult to injury, it didn’t even rain. Having seen Dunk thoroughly trounced from an unexpected quarter, the clouds headed south to spend their arrows on Dorne. Storm’s End slept through an entirely calm, unremarkable night. Nothing to challenge the ancient hewn stone walls came, and Dunk was forced to sleep peacefully in a soft feather bed, with no bitter winds to match his mood.
But even the sourest, most jumbled of feelings couldn’t entirely withstand the soothing power of a full night’s sleep, uninterrupted by curious foxes sniffing at the remains of the campfire or by acorns falling onto unsuspecting foreheads. Besides, Dunk was not well-versed in the art of holding a grudge. He woke feeling rested and perhaps just a little bit resigned, but otherwise intact.
Egg came in as he was pulling on his cloak. “Will we be leaving directly, ser?”
“Yes. Seems for the best, does it not? We’ll have breakfast, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Wouldn’t do to leave without breakfast.” Dunk handed Egg his small pack. “Here. Go to the stables and have the boys there start preparing the horses, and we’ll take to the road after we’ve had something to eat.”
“Yes, ser.”
“See that they feed the horses as well,” Dunk started to say, but half of the sentence faded: Egg had opened the door to reveal the figure of Lyonel, clad in a black tunic embellished with, by his standards, only minimal decoration picked out in golden thread. His hand was raised as to knock on the door, and he lowered it. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, my lord,” Dunk and Egg chorused in unison, then shot each other a look as if to say, good grief. Who’s the squire here.
“A minute of your time?” said Lyonel.
“See to the horses, Egg,” said Dunk.
Egg left with a single wary glance over his shoulder, but it wasn’t as if Lyonel was here to start a scuffle now. Dunk had surely had enough bread and wine last night to maintain guest right for a decade or so. He bid Lyonel enter. “How fares my-”
“I’ve not been hospitable to you, ser.” In a breach of habit, Lyonel wasn’t looking at him. Instead he was looking out the narrow window, out to sea. “I have been rude, actually. Indirect. Avoidant. Nose in the air. But that’s a cowardly way for a man to get what he wants. House Baratheon has no patience for cowards.” He turned suddenly. “I do remember that last day in Ashford, of course.”
The abrupt broach of the subject took Dunk off-guard. “My lord?”
“I waited for you. I held the caravan back, in fact. I forget what I said, some silly excuse about not being able to find my second-best riding cloak or other such idiot nonsense. But I already knew you weren’t coming. You know, a serving girl in Beesbury’s tent overheard you talking with that Targaryen, the lush, during the funeral. Can’t believe she could hear anything with the racket the fucking bees were making but there’s serving girls for you, sharp-eared little spies, the lot of them-” he said it as though he couldn’t help making the joke but the grin he’d curled onto his mouth vanished as quickly as he’d plastered it there- “so I knew you’d be going off with your lad again.”
Your lad, as if he hadn’t just implied knowing precisely who said lad really was – but wait just a moment. “I never told Daeron I’d take Egg on,” said Dunk. “I didn’t tell Daeron anything.”
Lyonel looked at him with an expression of exaggerated pity, but it slid from his face like dung off a shovel. It was replaced by something much more earnest. “I’ll admit that we are acquainted far less than I’d like, Ser Dunk. But I think I know you well enough. You’re too good a man for- well, for your own good. The girl had a strong memory for all Targaryen said. I knew you’d be away with the boy.”
“I didn’t mean to deceive you,” Dunk tried, but Lyonel scoffed.
“Yes you did. I don’t blame you. I was in a strop, you don’t have to tell me.”
Well, Dunk wanted to say, yes. You were. I wanted to get away. But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t also like to become better acquainted.
“You know the most foolish thing of all?” Lyonel continued, charging onwards without waiting for acknowledgement, though he might have waited forever with the way Dunk was starting to stammer, “I’m waiting for an apology from you! I, Lyonel, Lord Baratheon, waiting about like a spurned maid in a huff for an apology from a hedge knight! Horribly pompous of me. Horribly lordly. All to baby the sort of injury a spoiled little princeling nurses and picks at and eventually he begins beheading the smallfolk for lack of fuck all else to do.” Lyonel flung up his hands in exasperation. “Waiting for an apology!”
“I…apologize?” Dunk’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, the same as when he had once eaten a peach, a special stolen treat snatched from an overflowing cart passing through the Mud Gate. It had been sticky and unbearably sweet, the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He’d still been licking the juice from the rippled pit in the center of the fruit when his tongue and throat had begun itching. The fleshy insides of his cheeks had swelled and complained. He’d stuck a dirty finger into his mouth to scratch at the back of his tongue until he’d nearly gagged but to little relief; for an hour or so he’d breathed thickly through fat, numb lips. Probably a punishment from the Seven, either for stealing the little sunset-colored globe or for desiring something that was clearly intended for a higher realm of society. He should have learned the lesson then. But he’d never been quick on the uptake.
Case in point: now, now again he seemed to have misjudged. He didn’t have a clue what was going on. Lyonel waved dismissively, shook out his slender fingers as though wriggling from a tightly fitted glove. “Don’t be ridiculous. Are you craven, hedge knight? Do you grovel before me?”
“What? Um, no? I mean-”
“No! Precisely not.” Lyonel swung back his hand and clapped Dunk on the shoulder, so hard it sent a jolt down to his elbow. “No. No, by all rights it ought to be the other way round. I believe I ought to apologize to you.”
“Apologize to me? My lord, what for?”
“It was not worthy, what I said to you that day we parted. About your prince. I apologize. It was unfeeling of me to make you hear such things. I was forgetting to whom I spoke. He died for you.”
“Don’t say that,” Dunk mumbled, squirming from the memory.
“But he did,” said Lyonel seriously, and it was true. He had. Baelor had. Died. For Ser Duncan the Tall. For the hedge knight. For Dunk.
Dunk looked away. He didn’t want the apology now. He didn’t want to remember Lyonel spitting and cursing, hobbling with his ridiculous crutch and pissing blood. He didn’t want to remember how he’d felt under that tree, wishing he was dead, his whole body a bruise. His whole soul a bruise. They said no one knew where a man kept his soul: well Dunk had learned that day. It was everywhere that he’d been hurting. And he’d hurt all over.
“It all went so wrong.” He felt like he was pleading with someone or something, he just wasn’t sure who or what. “It was only meant to be a tourney. I was only going to try and win a tilt or two.”
“You’d have been unhorsed at the first pass,” said Lyonel without censure. “You’re a fine knight. A really, truly good man. But let’s not say that you’d have won any honors at Ashford had it all proceeded as expected.”
No, Dunk supposed not.
“I don’t say it to be unkind,” Lyonel added, gently. “Don’t hunch in on yourself, man. What did I tell you before? Be tall!”
So he really did remember. Dunk straightened. “I may not have come to stay,” he said cautiously, “but it has been a fine thing to see your home, Lyonel. I would come again – if you would welcome me. Me and Egg.”
Lyonel blinked at him with his large, expressive eyes, and all of a sudden it was if a veil had been drawn from his face – or perhaps a new veil had swept across it. The change was too quick for Dunk to be certain which it had been. “Of course,” he said emphatically, “Ser Duncan. If there is one thing I want to make abominably clear it is that you will always be welcome in my halls. I hope that you will seek me out more frequently, in fact. Stay nearby. Stay often. Surely the unruly and querulous Stormlanders will make enough trouble for you to throw yourself into head-first. And,” he added with a wink that was almost equal in intensity and challenge to the one he’d flashed after Dunk had crushed his toes back in that darkened, chaotic tent at Ashford, “if I were to be caught in a rainstorm while out hunting and happen to chance upon you taking shelter, I hope you would let me share your tree. Although of course, were it in the Stormlands, it would really be my tree, and you’d have no choice in the matter. But that’s the gist of it anyways.”
“You’d be welcome to share my tree,” said Dunk, overwhelmed by the torrent of words, foolish. “I’d budge over.”
“Excellent,” said Lyonel, beaming widely. His eyes were as deep and dark as the sea. “That’s all I was hoping to hear from you.”