“Impossible,” declared the young maester by Lady Rohanne’s side. “Coldmoat supports twenty times as many smallfolk as does Standfast. Her ladyship has fields of wheat and corn and barley, all dying from the drought. She has half a dozen orchards, apples and apricots and three kinds of pears. She has cows about to calf, five hundred head of black-nosed sheep, and she breeds the finest horses in the Reach. We have a dozen mares about to foal.”
“Ser Eustace has sheep too,” Dunk said. “He has melons in the fields, beans and barleycorn, and…”
“You were taking water for the moat!” Egg said loudly.
I was getting to the moat, Dunk thought.
“The moat is essential to Coldmoat’s defenses,” the maester insisted. “Do you suggest that Lady Rohanne leave herself open to attack, in such uncertain times as these?”
“Well,” Dunk said slowly, “a dry moat is still a moat. And m’lady has strong walls, with ample men to defend them.”
“Ser Duncan,” Lady Rohanne said, “I was ten years old when the black dragon rose. I begged my father not to put himself at risk, or at least to leave my husband. Who would protect me, if both my men were gone? So he took me up onto the ramparts, and pointed out Coldmoat’s strong points. ‘Keep them strong,’ he said, ‘and they will keep you safe. If you see to your defenses, no man may do you harm.’ The first thing he pointed at was the moat.” She stroked her cheek with the tail of her braid. “My first husband perished on the Redgrass Field. My father found me others, but the Stranger took them too. I no longer trust in men, no matter how ample they may seem. I trust in stone and steel and water. I trust in moats, ser, and mine will not go dry.”
“What your father said, that’s well and good,” said Dunk, “but it doesn’t give you the right to take Osgrey water.”
She tugged her braid. “I suppose Ser Eustace told you that the stream was his.”
“For a thousand years,” said Dunk. “It’s named the Chequy Water. That’s plain.”
“So it is.” She tugged again; once, twice, thrice. “As the river is called the Mander, though the Manderlys were driven from its banks a thousand years ago. Highgarden is still Highgarden, though the last Gardener died on the Field of Fire. Casterly Rock teems with Lannisters, and nowhere a Casterly to be found. The world changes, ser. This Chequy Water rises in the Horseshoe Hills, which were wholly mine when last I looked. The water is mine as well. Maester Cerrick, show him.”
The maester descended from the dais. He could not have been much older than Dunk, but in his grey robes and chain collar he had an air of somber wisdom that belied his years. In his hands was an old parchment. “See for yourself, ser,” he said as he unrolled it, and offered it to Dunk.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. He felt his cheeks reddening again. Gingerly he took parchment from the maester and scowled at the writing. Not a word of it was intelligible to him, but he knew the wax seal beneath the ornate signature; the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The king’s seal. He was looking at a royal decree of some sort. Dunk moved his head from side to side so they would think that he was reading. “There’s a word here I can’t make out,” he muttered, after a moment. “Egg, come have a look, you have sharper eyes than me.”
The boy darted to his side. “Which word, ser?” Dunk pointed. “That one? Oh.” Egg read quickly, then raised his eyes to Dunk’s and gave a little nod.
It is her stream. She has a paper. Dunk felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. The king’s own seal. “This…there must be some mistake. The old man’s sons died in service to the king. Why would His Grace take his stream away?”
“If King Daeron had been a less forgiving man, he should have lost his head as well.”
For half a heartbeat Dunk was lost. “What do you mean?”
“She means,” said Maester Cerrick, “that Ser Eustace Osgrey is a rebel and a traitor.”
“Ser Eustace chose the black dragon over the red, in hopes that a Blackfyre king might restore the lands and castles that the Osgreys had lost under the Targaryens,” Lady Rohanne said. “Chiefly he wanted Coldmoat. His sons paid for his treason with their life’s blood. When he brought their bones home and delivered his daughter to the king’s men for a hostage, his wife threw herself from the top of Standfast tower. Did Ser Eustace tell you that?” Her smile was sad. “No, I did not think so.”
“The black dragon.” You swore your sword to a traitor, lunk. You ate a traitor’s bread and slept beneath a rebel’s roof. “M’lady,” he said, groping, “the black dragon…that was fifteen years ago. This is now, and there’s a drought. Even if he was a rebel once, Ser Eustace still needs water.”
The Red Widow rose, and smoothed her skirts. “He had best pray for rain, then.”
That was when Dunk recalled Osgrey’s parting words in the wood. “If you will not grant him a share of the water for his own sake, do it for his son.”
“His son?”
“Addam. He served here as your father’s page and squire.”
Lady Rohanne’s face was stone. “Come closer.”
He did not know what else to do, but to obey. The dais added a good foot to her height, yet even so Dunk towered over her. “Kneel,” she said. He did.
The slap she gave him had all her strength behind it, and she was stronger than she looked. His cheek burned, and he could taste blood in his mouth from a broken lip, but she hadn’t truly hurt him. For a moment all Dunk could think of was grabbing her by that long red braid and pulling her across his lap to slap her arse, as you would a spoiled child. If I do, she’ll scream, though, and twenty knights will come bursting in to kill me.
“You dare appeal to me in Addam’s name?” Her nostrils flared. “Remove yourself from Coldmoat, ser. At once.”
“I never meant—”
“Go, or I will find a sack large enough for you if I have to sew one up myself. Tell Ser Eustace to bring me Bennis of the Brown Shield by the morrow, else I will come for him myself with fire and sword. Do you understand me? Fire and sword!”
Septon Sefton took Dunk’s arm and pulled him quickly from the room. Egg followed close behind them. “That was most unwise, ser,” the fat septon whispered, and he led them to the steps. “Most unwise. To mention Addam Osgrey…”
“Ser Eustace told me she was fond of the boy.”
“Fond?” The septon huffed heavily. “She loved the boy, and him her. It never went beyond a kiss or two, but…it was Addam she wept for after the Redgrass Field, not the husband she hardly knew. She blames Ser Eustace for his death, and rightly so. The boy was twelve.”
Dunk knew what it was to bear a wound. Whenever someone spoke of Ashford Meadow, he thought of the three good men who’d died to save his foot, and it never failed to hurt. “Tell m’lady that it was not my wish to hurt her. Beg her pardon.”
“I shall do all I can, ser,” Septon Sefton said, “but tell Ser Eustace to bring her Bennis, and quickly. Elsewise it will go hard on him. It will go very hard.”
Not until the walls and towers of Coldmoat had vanished in the west behind them did Dunk turn to Egg and say, “What words were written on that paper?”
“It was a grant of rights, ser. To Lord Wyman Webber, from the king. For his leal service in the late rebellion, Lord Wyman and his descendants were granted all rights to the Chequy Water, from where it rises in the Horseshoe Hills to the shores of Leafy Lake. It also said that Lord Wyman and his descendants should have the right to take red deer and boar and rabbits in Wat’s Wood when e’er it pleased them, and to cut twenty trees from the wood each year.” The boy cleared his throat. “The grant was only for a time, though. The paper said that if Ser Eustace were to die without a male heir of his body, Standfast would revert to the crown, and Lord Webber’s privileges would end.”
They were the Marshals of the Northmarch for a thousand years. “All they left the old man was a tower to die in.”
“And his head,” said Egg. “His Grace did leave him his head, s
er. Even though he was a rebel.”
Dunk gave the boy a look. “Would you have taken it?”
Egg had to think about it. “Sometimes at court I would serve the king’s small council. They used to fight about it. Uncle Baelor said that clemency was best when dealing with an honorable foe. If a defeated man believes he will be pardoned, he may lay down his sword and bend the knee. Elsewise he will fight on to the death and slay more loyal men and innocents. But Lord Bloodraven said that when you pardon rebels, you only plant the seeds of the next rebellion.” His voice was full of doubts. “Why would Ser Eustace rise against King Daeron? He was a good king, everybody says so. He brought Dorne into the realm and made the Dornishmen our friends.”
“You would have to ask Ser Eustace, Egg.” Dunk thought he knew the answer, but it was not one the boy would want to hear. He wanted a castle with a lion on the gatehouse, but all he got were graves amongst the blackberries. When you swore a man your sword, you promised to serve and obey, to fight for him at need, not to pry into his affairs and question his allegiances…but Ser Eustace had played him for a fool. He said his sons died fighting for the king and let me believe the stream was his.
Night caught them in Wat’s Wood.
That was Dunk’s fault. He should have gone the straight way home, the way they’d gone, but instead he’d taken them north for another look at the dam. He had half a thought to try and tear the thing apart with his bare hands. But the Seven and Ser Lucas Longinch did not prove so obliging. When they reached the dam they found it guarded by a pair of crossbowmen with spider badges sewn on their jerkins. One sat with his bare feet in the stolen water. Dunk could gladly have throttled him for that alone, but the man heard them coming and was quick to snatch up his bow. His fellow, even quicker, had a quarrel nocked and ready. The best that Dunk could do was scowl at them threateningly.
After that, there was naught to do but retrace their steps. Dunk did not know these lands as well as Ser Bennis did; it would have been humiliating to get lost in a wood as small as Wat’s. By the time they splashed across the stream, the sun was low on the horizon and the first stars were coming out, along with clouds of mites. Amongst the tall black trees, Egg found his tongue again. “Ser? That fat septon said my father sulks in Summerhall.”
“Words are wind.”
“My father doesn’t sulk.”
“Well,” said Dunk, “he might. You sulk.”
“I do not. Ser.” He frowned. “Do I?”
“Some. Not too often, though. Elsewise I’d clout you in the ear more than I do.”
“You clouted me in the ear at the gate.”
“That was half a clout at best. If I ever give you a whole clout, you’ll know it.”
“The Red Widow gave you a whole clout.”
Dunk touched his swollen lip. “You don’t need to sound so pleased about it.” No one ever clouted your father in the ear, though. Maybe that’s why Prince Maekar is the way he is. “When the king named Lord Bloodraven his Hand, your lord father refused to be part of his council and departed King’s Landing for his own seat,” he reminded Egg. “He has been at Summerhall for a year, and half of another. What do you call that, if not sulking?”
“I call it being wroth,” Egg declared loftily. “His Grace should have made my father Hand. He’s his brother, and the finest battle commander in the realm since Uncle Baelor died. Lord Bloodraven’s not even a real lord, that’s just some stupid courtesy. He’s a sorcerer, and baseborn besides.”
“Bastard born, not baseborn.” Bloodraven might not be a real lord, but he was noble on both sides. His mother had been one of the many mistresses of King Aegon the Unworthy. Aegon’s bastards had been the bane of the Seven Kingdoms ever since the old king died. He had legitimized the lot upon his deathbed; not only the Great Bastards like Bloodraven, Bittersteel, and Daemon Blackfyre, whose mothers had been ladies, but even the lesser ones he’d fathered on whores and tavern wenches, merchant’s daughters, mummer’s maidens, and every pretty peasant girl who chanced to catch his eye. Fire and Blood were the words of House Targaryen, but Dunk once heard Ser Arlan say that Aegon’s should have been, Wash Her and Bring Her to My Bed.
“King Aegon washed Bloodraven clean of bastardy,” he reminded Egg, “the same as he did the rest of them.”
“The old High Septon told my father that king’s laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another,” the boy said stubbornly. “Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. King Aegon decreed that his bastards were not bastards, but he could not change their nature. The High Septon said all bastards are born to betrayal…Daemon Blackfyre, Bittersteel, even Bloodraven. Lord Rivers was more cunning than the other two, he said, but in the end he would prove himself a traitor too. The High Septon counseled my father never to put any trust in him, nor in any other bastards, great or small.”
Born to betrayal, Dunk thought. Born of lust and weakness. Never to be trusted, great or small. “Egg,” he said, “didn’t you ever think that I might be a bastard?”
“You, ser?” That took the boy aback. “You are not.”
“I might be. I never knew my mother, or what became of her. Maybe I was born too big and killed her. Most like she was some whore or tavern girl. You don’t find highborn ladies down in Flea Bottom. And if she ever wed my father…well, what became of him, then?” Dunk did not like to be reminded of his life before Ser Arlan found him. “There was a pot shop in King’s Landing where I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for the brown. The cook always claimed my father was some thief or cutpurse. ‘Most like I saw him hanged,’ he used to tell me, ‘but maybe they just sent him to the Wall.’ When I was squiring for Ser Arlan, I would ask him if we couldn’t go up that way someday, to take service at Winterfell or some other northern castle. I had this notion that if I could only reach the Wall, might be I’d come on some old man, a real tall man who looked like me. We never went, though. Ser Arlan said there were no hedges in the north, and all the woods were full of wolves.” He shook his head. “The long and short of it is, most like you’re squiring for a bastard.”
For once Egg had nothing to say. The gloom was deepening around them. Lantern bugs moved slowly through the trees, their little lights like so many drifting stars. There were stars in the sky as well, more stars than any man could ever hope to count, even if he lived to be as old as King Jaehaerys. Dunk need only lift his eyes to find familiar friends: the Stallion and the Sow, the King’s Crown and the Crone’s Lantern, the Galley, Ghost, and Moonmaid. But there were clouds to the north, and the blue eye of the Ice Dragon was lost to him, the blue eye that pointed north.
The moon had risen by the time they came to Standfast, standing dark and tall atop its hill. A pale yellow light was spilling from the tower’s upper windows, he saw. Most nights Ser Eustace sought his bed as soon as he had supped, but not tonight, it seemed. He is waiting for us, Dunk knew.
Bennis of the Brown Shield was waiting up as well. They found him sitting on the tower steps, chewing sourleaf and honing his longsword in the moonlight. The slow scrape of stone on steel carried a long way. However much Ser Bennis might neglect his clothes and person, he kept his weapons well.
“The lunk comes back,” Bennis said. “Here I was sharpening my steel to go rescue you from that Red Widow.”
“Where are the men?”
“Treb and Wet Wat are on the roof standing watch, case the widow comes to call. The rest crawled into bed whimpering. Sore as sin, they are. I worked them hard. Drew a little blood off that big lackwit, just to make him mad. He fights better when he’s mad.” He smiled his brown and red smile. “Nice bloody lip you got. Next time, don’t go turning over rocks. What did the woman say?”
“She means to keep the water. And she wants you as well, for cutting that digger by the dam.”
“Thought she might.” Bennis spat. “Lot o’ bother for some peasant. He ought to thank
me. Women like a man with scars.”
“You won’t mind her slitting your nose, then.”
“Bugger that. If I wanted my nose slit, I’d slit it for myself.” He jerked a thumb up. “You’ll find Ser Useless in his chambers, brooding on how great he used to be.”
Egg spoke up. “He fought for the black dragon.”
Dunk could have given the boy a clout, but the brown knight only laughed. “ ’Course he did. Just look at him. He strike you as the kind who picks the winning side?”
“No more than you. Else you wouldn’t be here with us.” Dunk turned to Egg. “Tend to Thunder and Maester, then come up and join us.”
When Dunk came up through the trap, the old knight was sitting by the hearth in his bedrobe, though no fire had been laid. His father’s cup was in his hand, a heavy silver cup that had been made for some Lord Osgrey back before the Conquest. A chequy lion adorned the bowl, done in flakes of jade and gold, though some of the jade flakes had gone missing. At the sound of Dunk’s footsteps, the old knight looked up and blinked like a man waking from a dream. “Ser Duncan. You are back. Did the sight of you give Lucas Inchfield pause, ser?”
“Not as I saw, m’lord. More like, it made him wroth.” Dunk told it all as best he could, though he omitted the part about Lady Helicent, which made him look an utter fool. He would have left out the clout too, but his broken lip had puffed up twice its normal size, and Ser Eustace could not help but notice.
When he did, he frowned. “Your lip…”
Dunk touched it gingerly. “Her ladyship gave me a slap.”
“She struck you?” His mouth opened and closed. “She struck my envoy, who came to her beneath the chequy lion? She dared lay hands upon your person?”
“Only the one hand, ser. It stopped bleeding before we even left the castle.” He made a fist. “She wants Ser Bennis, not your silver, and she won’t take down the dam. She showed me a parchment with some writing on it, and the king’s own seal. It said the stream is hers. And…” He hesitated. “She said that you were…that you had…”
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Page 17