“…risen with the black dragon?” Ser Eustace seemed to slump. “I feared she might. If you wish to leave my service, I will not stop you.” The old knight gazed into his cup though what he might be looking for Dunk could not say.
“You told me your sons died fighting for the king.”
“And so they did. The rightful king, Daemon Blackfyre. The King Who Bore the Sword.” The old man’s mustache quivered. “The men of the red dragon call themselves the loyalists, but we who chose the black were just as loyal, once. Though now…all the men who marched beside me to seat Prince Daemon on the Iron Throne have melted away like morning dew. Mayhaps I dreamed them. Or more like, Lord Bloodraven and his Raven’s Teeth have put the fear in them. They cannot all be dead.”
Dunk could not deny the truth of that. Until this moment, he had never met a man who’d fought for the Pretender. I must have, though. There were thousands of them. Half the realm was for the red dragon, and half was for the black. “Both sides fought valiantly, Ser Arlan always said.” He thought the old knight would want to hear that.
Ser Eustace cradled his wine cup in both hands. “If Daemon had ridden over Gwayne Corbray…if Fireball had not been slain on the eve of battle…if Hightower and Tarbeck and Oakheart and Butter well had lent us their full strength instead of trying to keep one foot in each camp…if Manfred Lothston had proved true instead of treacherous…if storms had not delayed Lord Bracken’s sailing with the Myrish crossbowmen…if Quickfinger had not been caught with the stolen dragon’s eggs…so many ifs, ser…had any one come out differently, it could all have turned t’other way. Then we would be called the loyalists, and the red dragons would be remembered as men who fought to keep the usurper Daeron the Falseborn upon his stolen throne, and failed.”
“That’s as it may be, m’lord,” said Dunk, “but things went the way they went. It was all years ago, and you were pardoned.”
“Aye, we were pardoned. So long as we bent the knee and gave him a hostage to ensure our future loyalty, Daeron forgave the traitors and the rebels.” His voice was bitter. “I bought my head back with my daughter’s life. Alysanne was seven when they took her off to King’s Landing and twenty when she died, a silent sister. I went to King’s Landing once to see her, and she would not even speak to me, her own father. A king’s mercy is a poisoned gift. Daeron Targaryen left me life, but took my pride and dreams and honor.” His hand trembled, and wine spilled red upon his lap, but the old man took no notice of it. “I should have gone with Bittersteel into exile, or died beside my sons and my sweet king. That would have been a death worthy of a chequy lion descended from so many proud lords and mighty warriors. Daeron’s mercy made me smaller.”
In his heart the black dragon never died, Dunk realized.
“My lord?”
It was Egg’s voice. The boy had come in as Ser Eustace was speaking of his death. The old knight blinked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Yes, lad? What is it?”
“If it please you…the Red Widow says you rebelled to get her castle. That isn’t true, is it?”
“The castle?” He seemed confused. “Coldmoat…Coldmoat was promised me by Daemon, yes, but…it was not for gain, no…”
“Then why?” asked Egg.
“Why?” Ser Eustace frowned.
“Why were you a traitor? If it wasn’t just the castle.”
Ser Eustace looked at Egg a long time before replying. “You are only a young boy. You would not understand.”
“Well,” said Egg, “I might.”
“Treason…is only a word. When two princes fight for a chair where only one may sit, great lords and common men alike must choose. And when the battle’s done, the victors will be hailed as loyal men and true, whilst those who were defeated will be known forevermore as rebels and traitors. That was my fate.”
Egg thought about it for a time. “Yes, my lord. Only…King Daeron was a good man. Why would you choose Daemon?”
“Daeron…” Ser Eustace almost slurred the word, and Dunk realized he was half-drunk. “Daeron was spindly and round of shoulder, with a little belly that wobbled when he walked. Daemon stood straight and proud, and his stomach was flat and hard as an oaken shield. And he could fight. With axe or lance or flail, he was as good as any knight I ever saw, but with the sword he was the Warrior himself. When Prince Daemon had Blackfyre in his hand, there was not a man to equal him…not Ulrick Dayne with Dawn, no, nor even the Dragonknight with Dark Sister.
“You can know a man by his friends, Egg. Daeron surrounded himself with maesters, septons, and singers. Always there were women whispering in his ear, and his court was full of Dornishmen. How not, when he had taken a Dornishwoman into his bed and sold his own sweet sister to the Prince of Dorne, though it was Daemon that she loved? Daeron bore the same name as the Young Dragon, but when his Dornish wife gave him a son he named the child Baelor, after the feeblest king who ever sat the Iron Throne.
“Daemon, though…Daemon was no more pious than a king need be, and all the great knights of the realm gathered to him. It would suit Lord Bloodraven if their names were all forgotten, so he has forbidden us to sing of them, but I remember. Robb Reyne, Gareth the Grey, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Lord Gormon Peake, Black Byren Flowers, Redtusk, Fireball…Bittersteel! I ask you, has there ever been such a noble company, such a roll of heroes?
“Why, lad? You ask me why? Because Daemon was the better man. The old king saw it too. He gave the sword to Daemon. Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade that every Targaryen king had wielded since the Conquest…he put that sword in Daemon’s hand the day he knighted him, a boy of twelve.”
“My father says that was because Daemon was a swordsman, and Daeron never was,” said Egg. “Why give a horse to a man who cannot ride? The sword was not the kingdom, he says.”
The old knight’s hand jerked so hard that wine spilled from his silver cup. “Your father is a fool.”
“He is not,” the boy said.
Osgrey’s face twisted in anger. “You asked a question and I answered it, but I will not suffer insolence. Ser Duncan, you should beat this boy more often. His courtesy leaves much to be desired. If I must needs do it myself, I will—”
“No,” Dunk broke in. “You won’t. Ser.” He had made up his mind. “It is dark. We will leave at first light.”
Ser Eustace stared at him, stricken. “Leave?”
“Standfast. Your service.” You lied to us. Call it what you will, there was no honor in it. He unfastened his cloak, rolled it up, and put it in the old man’s lap.
Osgrey’s eyes grew narrow. “Did that woman offer to take you into service? Are you leaving me for that whore’s bed?”
“I don’t know that she is a whore,” Dunk said, “or a witch or a poisoner or none of that. But whatever she may be makes no matter. We’re leaving for the hedges, not for Coldmoat.”
“The ditches, you mean. You’re leaving me to prowl in the woods like wolves, to waylay honest men upon the roads.” His hand was shaking. The cup fell from his fingers, spilling wine as it rolled along the floor. “Go, then. Go. I want none of you. I should never have taken you on. Go!”
“As you say, ser.” Dunk beckoned, and Egg followed.
That last night Dunk wanted to be as far from Eustace Osgrey as he could, so they slept down in the cellar, amongst the rest of Standfast’s meager host. It was a restless night. Lem and red-eyed Pate both snored, the one loudly and the other constantly. Dank vapors filled the cellar, rising through the trap from the deeper vaults below. Dunk tossed and turned on the scratchy bed, drifting off into a half sleep only to wake suddenly in darkness. The bites he’d gotten in the woods were itching fiercely, and there were fleas in the straw as well. I will be well rid of this place, well rid of the old man, and Ser Bennis, and the rest of them. Maybe it was time that he took Egg back to Summerhall to see his father. He would ask the boy about that in the morning, when they were well away.
Morning seemed a long wa
y off, though. Dunk’s head was full of dragons, red and black…full of chequy lions, old shields, battered boots…full of streams and moats and dams, and papers stamped with the king’s great seal that he could not read.
And she was there as well, the Red Widow, Rohanne of the Coldmoat. He could see her freckled face, her slender arms, her long red braid. It made him feel guilty. I should be dreaming of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall, they called her, but she was not too tall for me. She had painted arms upon his shield and he had saved her from the Bright Prince, but she vanished even before the trial of seven. She could not bear to see me die, Dunk often told himself, but what did he know? He was as thick as a castle wall. Just thinking of the Red Widow was proof enough of that. Tanselle smiled at me, but we never held each other, never kissed, not even lips to cheek. Rohanne at least had touched him; he had the swollen lip to prove it. Don’t be daft. She’s not for the likes of you. She is too small, too clever, and much too dangerous.
Drowsing at long last, Dunk dreamed. He was running through a glade in the heart of Wat’s Wood, running toward Rohanne, and she was shooting arrows at him. Each shaft she loosed flew true, and pierced him through the chest, yet the pain was strangely sweet. He should have turned and fled, but he ran toward her instead, running slowly as you always did in dreams, as if the very air had turned to honey. Another arrow came, and yet another. Her quiver seemed to have no end of shafts. Her eyes were grey and green and full of mischief. Your gown brings out the color of your eyes, he meant to say to her, but she was not wearing any gown, or any clothes at all. Across her small breasts was a faint spray of freckles, and her nipples were red and hard as little berries. The arrows made him look like some great porcupine as he went stumbling to her feet, but somehow he still found the strength to grab her braid. With one hard yank he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her.
He woke suddenly, at the sound of a shout.
In the darkened cellar, all was confusion. Curses and complaints echoed back and forth, and men were stumbling over one another as they fumbled for their spears or breeches. No one knew what was happening. Egg found the tallow candle and got it lit, to shed some light upon the scene. Dunk was the first one up the steps. He almost collided with Sam Stoops rushing down, puffing like a bellows and babbling incoherently. Dunk had to hold him by both shoulders to keep him from falling. “Sam, what’s wrong?”
“The sky,” the old man whimpered. “The sky!” No more sense could be got from him, so they all went up to the roof for a look. Ser Eustace was there before them, standing by the parapets in his bedrobe, staring off into the distance.
The sun was rising in the west.
It was a long moment before Dunk realized what that meant. “Wat’s Wood is afire,” he said in a hushed voice. From down at the base of the tower came the sound of Bennis cursing, a stream of such surpassing filth that it might have made Aegon the Unworthy blush. Sam Stoops began to pray.
They were too far away to make out flames, but the red glow engulfed half the western horizon, and above the light the stars were vanishing. The King’s Crown was half gone already, obscured behind a veil of the rising smoke.
Fire and sword, she said.
The fire burned all through the night. No one in Standfast slept tonight. Before long they could smell the smoke, and see flames dancing in the distance like girls in scarlet skirts. They all wondered if the fire would engulf them. Dunk stood behind the parapets, his eyes burning, watching for riders in the night. “Bennis,” he said, when the brown knight came up, chewing on his sourleaf, “it’s you she wants. Might be you should go.”
“What, run?” He brayed. “On my horse? Might as well try to fly off on one o’ these damn chickens.”
“Then give yourself up. She’ll only slit your nose.”
“I like my nose how it is, lunk. Let her try and take me, we’ll see what gets slit open.” He sat cross-legged with his back against a merlon and took a whetstone from his pouch to sharpen his sword. Ser Eustace stood above him. In low voices, they spoke of how to fight the war. “The Longinch will expect us at the dam,” Dunk heard the old knight say, “so we will burn her crops instead. Fire for fire.” Ser Bennis thought that would be just the thing, only maybe they should put her mill to the torch as well. “It’s six leagues on t’other side o’ the castle, the Longinch won’t be looking for us there. Burn the mill and kill the miller, that’ll cost her dear.”
Egg was listening too. He coughed, and looked at Dunk with wide white eyes. “Ser, you have to stop them.”
“How?” Dunk asked. The Red Widow will stop them. Her, and that Lucas Longinch. “They’re only making noise, Egg. It’s that, or piss their breeches. And it’s naught to do with us now.”
Dawn came with hazy grey skies and air that burned the eyes. Dunk meant to make an early start; though after their sleepless night he did not know how far they’d get. He and Egg broke their fast on boiled eggs while Bennis was rousting the others outside for more drill. They are Osgrey men and we are not, he told himself. He ate four of the eggs. Ser Eustace owed him that much, as he saw it. Egg ate two. They washed them down with ale.
“We could go to Fair Isle, ser,” the boy said, as they were gathering up their things. “If they’re being raided by the ironmen, Lord Farman might be looking for some swords.”
It was a good thought. “Have you ever been to Fair Isle?”
“No, ser,” Egg said, “but they say it’s fair. Lord Farman’s seat is fair too. It’s called Faircastle.”
Dunk laughed. “Faircastle it shall be.” He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I’ll see to the horses,” he said, when he’d tied his armor up in a bundle, secured with hempen rope. “Go to the roof and get our bedrolls, squire.” The last thing he wanted this morning was another confrontation with the chequy lion. “If you see Ser Eustace, let him be.”
“I will, ser.”
Outside, Bennis had his recruits lined up with their spears and shields and was trying to teach them to advance in unison. The brown knight paid Dunk not the slightest heed as he crossed the yard. He will lead the whole lot of them to their deaths. The Red Widow could be here any moment. Egg came bursting from the tower door and clattered down the wooden steps with their bedrolls. Above him, Ser Eustace stood stiffly on the balcony, his hands resting on the parapet. When his eyes met Dunk’s his mustache quivered, and he quickly turned away. The air was hazy with blowing smoke.
Bennis had his shield slung across his back, a tall kite shield of unpainted wood, dark with countless layers of old varnish and girded all about with iron. It bore no blazon, only a center bosse that reminded Dunk of some great eye, shut tight. As blind as he is. “How do you mean to fight her?” Dunk asked.
Ser Bennis looked at his soldiers, his mouth running red with sourleaf. “Can’t hold the hill with so few spears. Got to be the tower. We all hole up inside.” He nodded at the door. “Only one way in. Haul up them wooden steps, and there’s no way they can reach us.”
“Until they build some steps of their own. They might bring ropes and grapnels too, and swarm down on you through the roof. Unless they just stand back with their crossbows and fill you full of quarrels while you’re trying to hold the door.”
The Melons, Beans, and Barleycorns were listening to all they said. All their brave talk had blown away though there was no breath of wind. They stood clutching their sharpened sticks, looking at Dunk and Bennis and each other.
“This lot won’t do you a lick of good,” Dunk said with a nod at the ragged Osgrey army. “The Red Widow’s knights will cut them to pieces if you leave them in the open, and their spears won’t be any use inside that tower.”
“They can chuck things off the roof,” said Bennis. “Treb is good at chucking rocks.”
“He could chuck a rock or two, I suppose,” said Dunk, “until one of the widow’s crossbowmen puts a bolt through him.”
“Ser?” Egg stood beside him. “Ser, if we mean to go, we’
d best be gone, in case the widow comes.”
The boy was right. If we linger, we’ll be trapped here. Yet still Dunk hesitated. “Let them go, Bennis.”
“What, lose our valiant lads?” Bennis looked at the peasants and brayed laughter. “Don’t you lot be getting any notions,” he warned them. “I’ll gut any man who tries to run.”
“Try, and I’ll gut you.” Dunk drew his sword. “Go home, all of you,” he told the smallfolk. “Go back to your villages, and see if the fire’s spared your homes and crops.”
No one moved. The brown knight stared at him, his mouth working. Dunk ignored him. “Go,” he told the smallfolk once again. It was as if some god had put the word into his mouth. Not the Warrior. Is there a god for fools? “GO!” he said again, roaring it this time.
“Take your spears and shields, but go, or you won’t live to see the morrow. Do you want to kiss your wives again? Do you want to hold your children? Go home! Have you all gone deaf?”
They hadn’t. A mad scramble ensued amongst the chickens. Big Rob trod on a hen as he made his dash, and Pate came within half a foot of disemboweling Will Bean when his own spear tripped him up, but off they went, running. The Melons went one way, the Beans another, the Barleycorns a third. Ser Eustace was shouting down at them from above, but no one paid him any mind. They are deaf to him at least, Dunk thought.
By the time the old knight emerged from his tower and came scrambling down the steps, only Dunk and Egg and Bennis remained amongst the chickens. “Come back,” Ser Eustace shouted at his fast-fleeing host. “You do not have my leave to go. You do not have my leave!”
“No use, m’lord,” said Bennis. “They’re gone.”
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Page 18