Chapter Text
♜ Dunk ♜
The sun had set an hour past, and King’s Landing had settled into its nightly rhythm. The stench of fish and waste from the river mingled with the smoke of a thousand cookfires, creating a haze that hung in the streets like a second skin.
Dunk walked with his head down. He’d spent the day hauling broken timbers from a collapsed building nearby, work that had earned him a few coins and a bowl of thin stew from a widow who had nothing else to give. He’d taken the stew and the money both, because a knight without coin was a knight who starved, and Ser Arlan had taught him that a knight who starved was a knight who could help no one.
Ser Arlan. The thought of him still sent a pang through Dunk’s chest, even after all these months. He’d found him in Flea Bottom when he was a boy not much older than six, had pulled him from the mud and the shit and given him a purpose. And now Dunk was back where he started, walking the same streets, except this time he had a sword at his hip, a dead man’s armor on his back, and no idea what he was meant to do with either of them.
The rumors had started two weeks ago. Prince Daeron and Aegon, missing from the Red Keep. The smallfolk whispered about it in the taverns and alehouses, their voices low and fearful. Princes didn’t just vanish, they said.
And today, the whispers had turned to something worse.
Dunk had heard it first from a baker near the Street of Flour. Prince Aerion, the last of Maekar’s sons, had gone missing too. Three princes, all gone.
They said Prince Maekar was in a fury such as had not been seen since the first Blackfyre Rebellion. They said he’d turned the Red Keep upside down, had sent men into every corner of the city, had offered rewards so large they could buy a lordship. He was half-mad with grief and rage, that no one dared speak to him, even his beloved brother, Prince Baelor.
Dunk had listened to the rumors and felt a strange kinship with a man he’d never met. He knew what it was to lose everyone you loved, and to be left behind with nothing but the memory of voices that should still be there.
He was two streets away from his home when he heard the commotion.
It came from an alley to his left, a narrow passage that ran between two rows of leaning buildings. Dunk knew this alley. It led to the back entrance of Chataya’s, one of the more expensive brothels in the city. He’d never been inside. Brothels were places he avoided, both because he had no interest in such things and because Ser Arlan had taught him that a knight’s honor was worth more than a few moments of pleasure. But everyone in King’s Landing knew of it.
The sounds coming from the alley were wrong, though. Not those of pleasure but the opposite.
And then he heard a man’s voice, saying words that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“No. No, don’t touch me. I’ll—I’ll have your head for this.”
There was something in that voice that cut through Dunk’s exhaustion and that made his hand go to his sword of its own accord. He’d heard fear before; in the cries of women in the street, or in the whimpers of children hiding from their fathers. But this was different. This was the sound of someone who knew exactly what was coming and knew there was nothing they could do to stop it.
Dunk told himself it was none of his business. That whatever was happening in that alley, it was between the whores and their customers, and a hedge knight who could barely afford bread had no business interfering.
Just keep walking and pretend you never heard anything, he told himself.
But nevertheless, he kept walking towards the alley.
As he got closer, he noticed something strange. Chataya’s was known throughout the city for its beautiful women. From what Dunk had heard—which wasn’t much—the brothel catered to lords, wealthy merchants, and men who wanted pleasure without the risk of disease or scandal.
It was not the sort of place where men were dragged into alleys against their will.
But this was a man’s voice he was hearing. And Chataya’s, from what Dunk knew, only had female whores.
It wasn’t that men didn’t sell themselves in King’s Landing. Of course they did. There were brothels that catered to every taste, but Chataya’s wasn’t one of them… or it hadn’t been, the last Dunk had heard.
Something was wrong here.
He rounded the corner into the alley and stopped.
There were three women, all of them dressed in the silks and linens that marked them as Chataya’s girls. One was tall and dark-skinned, with her hair bound up in a silk scarf and a knife in her hand. Another was younger, pale-skinned, with features as delicate as spun glass. The third was a bit older, red-haired falling in luxurious curls down, and she was the one who held the man.
He was wearing a cloak, one that hung from his shoulders to his knees, but it had been thrown back slightly in the struggle.
Dunk could see that the man was significantly shorter than him and only taller than one of the women, but had the kind of build that spoke of swordplay and hard training. But he wasn’t using any of it now. He was swaying on his feet, his head lolling, and his arms bound in front of him with a length of rope that the red-haired woman was using as a leash.
“No,” he was saying, his voice slurred. “No, no, no. Don’t—don’t touch me. I’m a dra—”
“You’re no one.” The older one yanked on the rope, and the man stumbled, nearly falling.
“Get him inside before someone sees,” the dark-skinned woman said, her voice flat.
Dunk stepped forward before he could stop himself. “What are you doing?”
They all turned to look at him.
“This doesn’t concern you,” the red-haired woman said. “Move along.”
Dunk looked past her, at the man in the cloak. He was shaking his head, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood, but Dunk could see the line of his jaw, his pale skin, and the way his lips moved soundlessly.
Something about him tugged at Dunk’s memory. Something about his voice… Dunk had heard that voice before. Only where?
“He’s drunk,” Dunk finally said, because it was the first thing that came to mind. “He’s clearly drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
The older woman laughed, a humorless sound. “He’ll know soon enough. Now fuck off.”
“He isn’t consenting to this.” Dunk’s voice came out harder than he intended. “I heard him say no. He said not to touch him.”
The pale one exchanged a glance with the other women. The dark-skinned one shrugged, her knife still steady. The red-haired woman’s face hardened further, if that was possible. “What’s it to you?” she demanded. “You know him? He your friend? Your lover?”
Dunk shook his head. “I’ve never… I’ve never seen him before.”
“Then it’s none of your fucking business, is it?” She yanked on the rope again, and the man in the cloak stumbled forward, his bound hands catching himself against the wall. “He owes us. He came to us looking for something, and he couldn’t pay, so now he works for us. That’s how it’s done in this city. Or are you too high and mighty to know how things work down here?”
“He came to you?” Dunk looked at the man, who was still leaning against the wall, his hooded head bowed. “He came to your brothel?”
“He came for something we had.” The woman’s voice was practiced now. “He couldn’t pay the price, so he agreed to work it off. That’s the arrangement. He’s not being forced. He’s paying a debt.”
“He’s saying no,” Dunk said. “He’s saying no right now.”
“He’s drunk.” The pale-skinned woman waved her hand dismissively. “Men say all kinds of things when they’re drunk. He’ll feel different in the morning. He’ll feel very different once we’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
The man in the cloak made a sound then, something between a moan and a word, and tried to push himself off the wall. His legs buckled, and he would have fallen if the dark-skinned woman hadn’t caught him by the arm, her knife pressing against his ribs in a way that made Dunk’s blood run cold.
“Careful,” she said mockingly. “We don’t want to have to cut you up.”
Dunk moved before he could think about it. He stepped between them and the man, his hand on his sword. “No.”
The older woman’s eyes went wide, then narrowed to slits. “Are you threatening us?”
“I’m asking you to let him go.”
“And I’m telling you to fuck off.” She stepped closer, close enough that Dunk could smell the perfume on her skin and the wine on her breath. “You think you’re a knight, do you? You think chivalry means something here? There’s no honor here, boy. There’s only what you can take and what you can keep. Now fuck off before we decide to take what you’ve got.”
Dunk didn’t move. “Let him go.”
The woman studied him for a long moment, her eyes moving over his face, his armor, and then his sword. She laughed. “Or what? You’ll fight us? A big, strong knight like you, going to fight a few women over a whore?” She gestured at the man in the cloak, who had slumped against the wall again. “That’s what he is, you know. A whore. Or he will be, once we’re done with him. You want to fight us for a whore?”
He’s not a whore.
The man in the cloak mumbled something. Dunk couldn’t make out the words, but the pale-skinned one heard, and her face twisted with anger. She stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. The sound echoed off the walls of the alley.
The man’s head snapped to the side, and he went down, his bound hands unable to catch himself, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
“I said don’t mark him,” the dark-skinned woman hissed, but she was looking at Dunk, not at the woman who’d struck the blow.
“He was talking,” the other one said. “He was talking about—”
“Shut up.” The red-haired woman turned back to Dunk, her face settling into something that might have been patience. “Listen to me. I don’t know what you think you saw here, but this doesn’t concern you. This man owes us. He came to us. He asked for something we have, and he couldn’t pay, so we made an arrangement. He’s not being kidnapped. He’s not being forced. He’s paying a debt. That’s the way of the world. You understand? That’s the way it works.”
Dunk looked past her, at the man on the ground. He was trying to get up, his bound hands scrabbling at the cobblestones. His hood had fallen back just enough for Dunk to see his bone structure in more detail. There was something about him, something that made Dunk’s chest tighten. He’d seen this man before—maybe even without knowing it. But then again, he’d interacted with hundreds of people every day.
“Just let him go,” he said, and he heard the pleading in his own voice and hated it. “Come on. Just let him go. Whatever he owes you, I’ll—I’ll see that it’s paid. Just let him go.”
The older woman laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “You? Look at you. You’ve got nothing. You’re wearing a dead man’s armor and a sword that’s seen better days. You’re sleeping in a shithole in Flea Bottom and calling yourself a knight because there’s no one to tell you otherwise. You’ve got nothing. You are nothing. Now fuck off before we decide to teach you a lesson.”
The dark-skinned woman waved her hand. “Enough. Get him up and inside. Now.”
The pale-skinned woman bent down and grabbed the man by the arm. He tried to pull away, saying something, but she yanked him to his feet with a strength that belied her slender frame. The red-haired one came around to the other side, and together they started dragging him towards the back door of the brothel.
Dunk watched them go, his hands clenched at his sides, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to stop them. He wanted to draw his sword, cut them down, and carry the man away to somewhere safe. But he couldn’t. They were women. Ser Arlan had taught him that a knight never raised his hand against a woman, no matter what.
So he stood there, frozen, as they dragged the man to the door. The man was struggling now, or trying to, his bound hands twisting against the ropes, his head turning from side to side. And when they were at the door, and the man stumbled, something fell from his hands.
A sword.
The pale-skinned woman cursed and bent to pick it up, but the red-haired one grabbed her arm. “Leave it. Just get him inside.”
They shoved the man through the door, closing it behind them with a thud. And then Dunk was alone in the alley with the sound of his own breathing and the thing that lay on the ground at his feet.
He bent down and picked up the sword.
The metal of the hilt was cool against his palm. He drew it halfway out of the scabbard, and the blade caught the light, rippling with patterns that spoke of Valyrian steel. The hilt was worked with gold, and set into the pommel was a deep red ruby.
Dunk stood in that alley, holding a sword that was worth more than everything he’d ever owned in his life, and tried to make sense of what he’d just seen.
That man.
That man had been no whore.
That man had carried a sword of Valyrian steel and had worn a cloak that would have fed Dunk for a year.
That man was a lord. Or a knight. Or—
Don’t be stupid, Dunk, his mind whispered. This isn’t a fairytale. This is reality. That man most likely stole that sword, which used to belong to someone of importance.
But for some reason, he still had his doubts.
Dunk sheathed the sword and tucked it into his rope belt next to Ser Arlan’s old blade.
He turned away from the door of Chataya’s and walked back towards his home, his boots echoing on the cobblestones, and the unfamiliar weight of the Valyrian sword bumping against his hip with every step.
He’d have to return it. That was the first thing. The man would need his sword. Whatever was happening in that brothel, whatever they were going to do to him, he’d need his sword when it was over.
Dunk would return it. And when he did, he’d find out who the man really was.
“Where did you get that sword?” said a small voice from behind him.
Dunk flinched, his hand immediately settling on the new sword. His heart hammered against his ribs, and for a moment he thought one of the women had followed him, had come to finish what they started.
A boy was standing at the mouth of the alley. He was dressed in filthy rags, his face covered in dirt, and his head bald. His eyes were sharp, too sharp for a street rat, and they were fixed on the sword at Dunk's hip with an intensity that made Dunk's skin prickle.
“I found it,” Dunk said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, still tight from what he’d seen in the alley. He let his hand fall away from the sword, but he did not move it far.
The boy took a step closer and his eyes did not leave the sword. “It's not yours, though, is it?”
Dunk frowned. “What's that to you?”
The boy shrugged. His shoulders moved beneath the rags, thin as twigs. “Nothing, I suppose. Just seems rude, is all. Taking something that doesn't belong to you. Stealing.”
“I'm not stealing it.” Dunk’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to. “I'm keeping it safe for the man it belongs to.”
The boy tilted his head. “The man it belongs to.”
“Yes.”
“And where is this man? The one who owns a sword like that?”
Dunk thought back to the man who begged and said no, but was taken anyway. “That's none of your concern.”
The boy considered this. His head was still tilted, his eyes still too sharp, and Dunk felt like a rabbit being watched by something that had no business being that small and that knowing. “When are you going to give it back?” he asked.
"Tomorrow.”
Dunk started walking. He didn’t want to stand in this alley anymore or think about what was happening behind that door. The boy fell into step beside him, his bare feet slapping against the stones, keeping pace easily despite his short legs.
“And why do you even care? What do you want?” Dunk asked after a moment of silence.
The boy didn’t answer immediately. He was looking at the sword again. “I'm just curious,” he said finally. “That's all. It's just—it's going to be obvious, isn't it? That sword doesn't belong to you. Walking around with two swords, one of them fine as that—people are going to notice. They're going to ask questions. And besides, that's not going to turn you into a real knight, you know. Carrying around a sword you found in an alley.”
Dunk stopped walking. He turned to face the boy, and for a moment he was too stunned to speak. “I am a real knight, I’ll have you know," he finally said. The words came out defensive and higher than he wanted. “…Technically.”
“Right,” the boy said. “Right. Technically.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” The boy's face was innocent, too innocent. “Just that most knights I've seen have more than one horse and armor that fits. And a coat of arms, maybe. Something to show who they are.” He looked at Dunk's tunic, at the plain wool stained with sweat and dust. “You don't really look like a knight. No offense.”
Dunk's ears burned. He opened his mouth to say something—he was not sure what—and then closed it again. The boy was not wrong. He’d been a knight for less than a year, and he had nothing to show for it but a dead man's sword, a horse that was too old to ride into battle, and a suit of armor that clanked when he walked because the pieces did not quite fit together. He was a knight in name only, and everyone in this city seemed to know it.
“What do you want?” he asked instead. “I don't have any food or coin. If you're looking for someone to beg from, you've picked the wrong man.”
The boy was silent for a moment. He looked at Dunk's face, at the swords at his hip, and then back at Dunk again. “What's your name?” he asked.
Dunk blinked. “What?”
“Your name. What is it?”
Dunk stared at him. The boy was strange, there was no denying that. Too bold for a street rat and too clean in his speech despite the dirt on his face. But there was something in his eyes that made Dunk think of Ser Arlan, of the way the old knight used to look at him when he was trying to decide whether Dunk was worth the trouble of teaching.
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” Dunk answered. He straightened his shoulders, trying to stand the way a knight should stand, trying to look like someone who deserved the title. “Of—” He stopped and sighed. “Ser Duncan the Tall,” he finished lamely.
The boy's lips twitched. “Ser Duncan the Tall,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that might have been amusement. “Is that really your name?”
Dunk frowned. “Yes. What's wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” The boy's face was serious now. “It's a good name. A knight's name.”
Dunk wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked. “What's your name, then?” he asked. “If you're so interested in names.”
“Egg,” he answered proudly.
Dunk stared at him. “Egg.”
“Yes.”
“That's not a real name.”
“It's the name I have.”
Dunk waited for the boy to say something else, to laugh and tell him the truth, but the boy only stood there patiently, and after a moment Dunk realized he was not joking.
“Fine,” he said. “Egg. What do you want?”
Egg took a step closer. His eyes went to the swords again. “Well,” he said, and now there was something in his voice that Dunk had not heard before. “You have two swords now. And you're going to find the man who owns the second one, aren't you? Give it back to him.”
“I told you I was.”
“Right. Right.” Egg nodded, as if this was exactly what he had expected. “So you'll need someone to help you, won't you? Someone to watch your back. To keep an eye out while you're asking questions. Someone who knows this city.”
Dunk's frown deepened. “I don't need help. I'm a knight.”
“Knights get stabbed in alleys all the time,” Egg said, trying to reason with him. “I've seen it happen. You walk into the wrong place, ask the wrong questions, and you end up face-down in a gutter with your coin gone and your sword stolen. But if you had someone with you...”
Dunk looked down at the boy, at the desperation and hope in his eyes. “You want to squire for me,” he said slowly.
Egg's face lit up. “Yes.”
“No.”
The word came out before Dunk could stop it, and he saw the light in Egg's face dim. He felt a pang of guilt—the boy was just a child, alone in the city, looking for someone to follow—but he pushed it down. He didn’t have room for a squire. He could barely feed himself.
“If this is some scheme to get me to give you the sword,” Dunk said, gesturing at the blade at his hip, “You're mistaken. I'm not giving it to anyone but the man it belongs to.”
Egg shook his head quickly. “No, no, I don't want the sword. I don't—I just—”
“I don't need a squire.” Dunk started walking again, faster this time. His home—room, really—was not far. He could be there in a few minutes, behind a locked door, away from this strange boy, his strange questions, and the way he looked at the sword like he knew something Dunk didn’t.
He was too tired to handle this on top of everything else.
“I could help you,” Egg said, walking faster to catch up. “You said you were going back tomorrow to find the man and give him back his sword. I could come with you. I'm quiet. No one notices me. I could—”
Dunk stopped walking. He turned, and this time he did not try to soften his face. He was tired. His back hurt. His hands were raw from hauling stone, his stomach was empty, and he had just watched a man being dragged into a brothel against his will, and he did not have the patience for this.
“No,” he said, harsher than he’d spoken all day. “I don't need a squire. I don't need help. I don't need a strange boy following me around asking questions about swords that don't belong to him. So just… run along. Go find someone else to bother.”
Egg's face went still. The hope drained out of it, leaving something that resembled loss. He opened his mouth, and for a moment Dunk thought he was going to argue, but then he closed it again and took a step back.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Right. Sorry. I just—” He paused, and Dunk saw that he was shaking, just a little. “Never mind.”
Dunk stared at him for a moment. The guilt was back, twisting in his chest, but he pushed it down. The boy was nothing to him. A stranger. There were a hundred boys like him in Flea Bottom, a thousand, all of them hungry, desperate, and looking for someone to latch onto. Dunk couldn’t save all of them.
So he turned away.
And this time, Egg didn’t follow.