Chapter Text
From the history of Archmaester Gyldane:
It is customary for a victorious knight to seize a defeated opponent’s horse and armour but Ser Duncan rarely did so. His needs were modest, even when he became Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and he refused to impoverish some young knight who had just begun to make his name, nor would he humiliate an older man. Yet there was one notable exception…
The journey to Deep Den would always be a happy memory for Dunk. The spring storms were long gone and the roads were dry. There was plenty of company along the way ~ traders crossing the Reach between King’s Landing and Lannisport as well as those bound for the tournament at Deep Den. After some initial caution, travellers were well-pleased with Dunk’s company, guessing rightly that a knight in arms was a powerful deterrent to bandits.
Egg was happy too. He was learning to ride in armour ~ no small matter ~ and handle a cut-down tourney lance. Sometimes there were other children in the party to run about with. He began to tell people that he had taken a vow not to let his hair grow out until he became a knight. In much the same way, Dunk got used to telling anyone who became curious that yes, his squire’s eyes were remarkable ~ very dark grey, and with an odd sheen to them by firelight, quite unusual, yes.
It was not spoken of between them, but knight and squire had begun to think of themselves as older and younger brother. What harm can it do? Dunk thought. After all we’ve been through together, why not have that little bit of comfort? Egg would have to go back to his old life at Summerhall one day but when he spoke of the future it was usually in terms of Dunk knighting him.
“And when you have a son, Ser, he shall squire for me. We shall share whatever we have and I promise not to beat him unless he deserves it.”
Dunk had laughed but the idea took root in him somewhere. To have a son he must first find a wife. Not some lord’s beautiful daughter, not a Jonquil, but a woman like those he saw each day travelling with the traders, working alongside their husbands and keeping the purse-strings. Not high-born, but a partner who would stand with him against the world. And our son will be squire to a Targaryen prince.
Deep Den was no Storm’s End ~ the whole castle would have fit inside Lyonel’s Round Tower, with much room to spare. But Lord Deep, one of the numerous Lannister cousins, had clearly spared no expense in fitting out a tournament. There was a small town of pavilions, market stalls and temporary stables to ride through before Dunk and Egg even reached the jousting grounds.
And they had to get past the steward at the main gate first.
“There are many knights of renown here already,” the man said, not even bothering with a Ser. “We have no need of hedge knights looking to feast at my lord’s expense.”
“Ser Duncan is guest-friend to Ser Lyonel Baratheon,” Egg informed the man loftily. “Here is a letter with his seal, I trust you recognise it.” He produced a roll of parchment from his pack.
“And he’s my good friend too,” said a familiar voice. Raymun Fossoway pushed forward and winked at Dunk. “Ser Duncan is a knight of renown unlike any other, it astonishes me that you do not know of him. Come with me, Ser, we’ll get you a tent and see to your horses.”
“What happened to you?” Dunk asked as soon as they were through the gates. Raymun looked as mischievous as ever but now he had all the confidence of a man grown.
“Oh, the usual. Marriage. Fatherhood. Money. I’m two inches taller than the last time we met ~ Rowan measured me ~ and our business is thriving. Hello Egg, I do believe you’ve grown a bit as well, apart from your hair that is.”
“I am under a vow to keep my head shaved until I become a knight.”
“Squires’ vows, eh? I remember those. I vowed not to drink wine. I was so disappointed the first time I tasted it, I thought it would be really special and it wasn’t half as good as cider.”
As they followed Raymun through the rows of pavilions Dunk murmured to Egg, “Where did you get that letter?”
“From Ser Lyonel, of course. He bade me keep it hidden until we had need of it, said if he tried to give it to you, you’d just get into a fuss and refuse to take it.” The idea of Egg and Lyonel plotting together was so appalling that Dunk immediately dropped the subject.
Behind each row of pavilions was a row of horses, tethered at careful intervals ~ stallions dislike close company. Squires scurried to and fro with trusses of hay and buckets of water.
“Here we are,” Raymun said. “And here’s someone you’ll be glad to see.”
“Sweetfoot!”
Dunk had no idea how old the horse was now but she looked well. Sweetfoot and Thunder recognised each other at once, snorting and whuffling. The palfrey was one of the few living creatures that Thunder actually liked.
“She was well named,” Raymun said fondly, stroking the white neck. “Rowan learned to ride on her and Sweetfoot's still the only horse I trust with her, especially now when she’s in the family way again.”
“Shout a bit louder, Raymun, half the camp didn’t hear you that time.” Rowan stepped around a corner. She too looked well, and prosperous. Her old silks had been discarded for a green velvet dress with an emerald brooch in the shape of an apple, her red hair was woven with green ribbons. There was a slight curve to her belly, not really obvious unless you were looking for it as Dunk, to his embarrassment, realised he was. “Yes, this will be our third. There’s a little girl, Elara, back home with Raymun’s mum and probably being spoilt rotten. And Rylan, our eldest, he’s somewhere about.” She looked up and down the lane between the horses and the pavilions. “There he is. Rylan Fossoway, come here NOW.” A little boy scrambled up from the puddle he’d been floating bits of straw in and ran to his mother.
Not just his mother, Dunk realised. His parents. The child had a mop of black hair and a familiar dimple.
“The heir apparent,” Raymun said, scooping the boy up in his arms, “and just look at the state of him! More mud than child. Late to the feast as well, poor Rowan was carrying for nigh on ten months.”
Dunk looked at the two of them, looked at Rowan (clearly amused by whatever was showing in his face) and finally remembered to say, “A handsome child. Congratulations. It’s good to see you all.”
The Fossoway pavilion was further proof of how well Raymun was doing ~ green canvas walls, floor strewn with sweet herbs as well as straw, a large folding bed piled with sheepskins and Raymun’s armour on a stand.
“I’m entering a couple of things,” Raymun said, “but we’re mostly here to have fun and meet people. And I ended up meeting you! Set yourselves up next door to us, you can hire a tent if you don’t have one of your own. It doesn’t cost much,” he added tactfully. “Are you hungry? There’s bread and cheese, some sausage ~ anything else, love?” to Rowan.
“Not much just now, but they’re having supper with us tonight, aren’t they? Of course you are. Get them a drink, Ray.”
Mugs of cider were handed round and Rylan wonderingly patted Egg’s scalp as the squire drank.
“It’s good,” Egg said approvingly. “No bugs.”
“I should hope not!” Rowan said indignantly, “That’s Fossoway Supreme, our best table cider. Have a sausage.”
That night, as knight and squire were settling down in their hired tent, Dunk saw that Egg was unusually thoughtful. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. “Is it the squires’ contests? You needn’t enter if you don’t feel ready.”
“I feel entirely ready Ser. No, I was contemplating marriage.”
“Aye,” said Dunk uneasily. He hoped the boy wasn’t going to start talking about his sisters again. The Targaryens might think nothing of such things but Dunk would never get used to the notion.
“It was seeing Ser Raymund and Lady Rowan that made me think of it.” Egg turned over on his bedroll and looked earnestly at Dunk. “They make marriage look comfortable. A good place to be.”
Of course, Dunk thought. You grew up hearing of marriage as alliances between great houses. It might be splendid but it hardly sounded comfortable. “I expect they have arguments just like anyone else.”
“Yes Ser, but when Targaryens argue they poison each other or take lovers and then poison each other. I’m not going to have a marriage like that.”
“Won’t they arrange a match for you?”
“I don’t think they’ll bother. I’m the fourth son of a fourth son, I’m nowhere near the Iron Throne. So I’m going to choose for myself. After I fall in love, of course.”
“Of course,” Dunk agreed glumly. It wasn’t my idea! he told an imaginary Prince Maekar. He seemed to be having a lot of imaginary conversations with Egg’s father these days. They didn’t usually go well.
The first day of the tournament was announced as the Day of Swords, although there were to be other events as well. Squires would duel with blunted short-swords (the more dangerous contest for adults would come later). The children would be paired according to height so that no-one would have the advantage in reach. Six matches were to take place at a time, contestants to be judged on points.
“How does this feel?” Dunk asked as he laced up the back of Egg’s padded tunic.
“It’s good, Ser. But I wish I could wear my armour.”
“You won’t need it, not with blunted blades.” I hope. He settled the chainmail coif over Egg’s head and shoulders. Blows to the head were forbidden in this contest but an angry or frightened child might easily lash out.
“All set?” Raymun and Rowan were waiting outside the tent, little Rylan perched on his father’s shoulders.
“Yes. But I still don’t see why I have to fight a girl,” Egg grumbled.
“It’s because of your height, Dunk almost said for the tenth time, but luckily for Egg’s patience, Raymun got in first.
“Don’t underestimate Torvin,” he warned. “She’ll have learned swordplay the way other highborn girls learn embroidery. Bear Island’s a wild place, the Mormont women have always fought beside their menfolk.”
The adults handed Egg over to the master of the squires’ games and took their places in the stands.
“He’s the smallest of all the squires,” Dunk fretted. “It never seemed to bother him so much before, but now ~”
“Now he’s growing up,” Rowan said. “Raymun saw the difference in him right away.”
“Aye,” said her husband, “he’s caught between spring and summer just now, that’s what’s making him fretful. He’ll be all right once they get started, his training will take over.”
The pairs of children moved to the squares marked out on the tourney field and the horn blew for the contest to begin.
It hadn’t occurred to Dunk that fighting in a confined space would suit Egg. As taller children struggled to remain within their squares, Egg and his opponent could give all their attention to fighting. The spectators were noisy at first, not especially interested unless they had some personal involvement with a contestant, but the crowd grew quieter as Egg and Torvin began to draw their attention.
“You’ve trained him well,” Raymun approved.
“And so quick!” Rowan was impressed. “Both of them ~ I can’t follow their moves, they’re so fast!”
The other fights were gradually ended by the judges prowling the field, but the smallest pair were allowed to fight on, neither gaining the advantage, and the crowd began to shout.
“A Mormont! A Mormont!”
“Come on Emmon!”
“Emmon?” Raymun asked.
“Aye, for Aemon.” Egg’s favourite brother. “Egg wasn’t going to have himself announced as Egg and he said Eggon sounded silly. I swear he says That’s just silly, Ser ten times a day now.”
“Told you ~ he’s growing up. COME ON EMMON!”
Finally the children began to stumble with exhaustion and the judges stopped the fight. The crowd cheered as Egg and Torvin left the field to sit down with the other squires and share a flask of water. Any disdain Egg might have felt towards his opponent was clearly gone. He did say that he would choose for himself ~ Seven save me, Egg’s barely dipped his toe in the water and I’m turning into a matchmaking old granny.
“One more set to go,” Raymun said, “and then they’ll announce the winners. But those two will be hard to beat.”
So it proved. Third place, second place ~ “Torvin of House Mormont!” And then, “Emmon of King’s Landing, by two points!”
Little Rylan covered his ears as the three adults yelled and screamed. Egg seemed to be arguing with the judges, much to Dunk’s dismay.
“What is he doing? He won!”
“He wants to share first prize with Torvin! Oh, bless him!”
“That’s all well and good, but we need that money!”
Then a man who looked to be the father or an uncle of Torvin Mormont approached the judges’ stand. It seemed he spoke kindly to Egg, who finally agreed to accept his prize. The children hugged each other ~ delighting the crowd ~ and Egg ran across to his supporters.
“Ser, did you see it? I did the back pass and the short guard, just the way you showed me, did you see? And I won twenty silver stags! I could buy anything! What shall I buy?”
“Come here, Emmon,” and Dunk pulled him into his arms. “You need a good warm surcoat, Lady Rowan will help you pick one out. And you can have two silvers to buy whatever you like from the stalls.”
“And I’ll put the rest into our common purse,” as importantly as if he were some wealthy lord. “But you must still call me Egg.”