* * * *
Butterwell’s stewards had found rooms in the keep for the lords and ladies, and beds in the barracks for their retinues. The rest of the guests had their choice between a straw pallet in the cellar, or a spot of ground beneath the western walls to raise their pavilions. The modest sailcloth tent Dunk had acquired in Stoney Sept was no pavilion, but it kept the rain and sun off. Some of his neighbors were still awake, the silken walls of their pavilions glowing like colored lanterns in the night. Laughter came from inside a blue pavilion covered with sunflowers, and the sounds of love from one striped in white and purple. Egg had set up their own tent a bit apart from the others. Maester and the two horses were hobbled nearby, and Dunk’s arms and armor had been neatly stacked against the castle walls. When he crept into the tent, he found his squire sitting cross-legged by a candle, his head shining as he peered over a book.
“Reading books by candlelight will make you blind.” Reading remained a mystery to Dunk, though the lad had tried to teach him.
“I need the candlelight to see the words, ser.”
“Do you want a clout in the ear? What book is that?” Dunk saw bright colors on the page, little painted shields hiding in amongst the letters.
“A roll of arms, ser.”
“Looking for the Fiddler? You won’t find him. They don’t put hedge knights in those rolls, just lords and champions.”
“I wasn’t looking for him. I saw some other sigils in the yard.... Lord Sunderland is here, ser. He bears the heads of three pale ladies, on undy green and blue.”
“A Sisterman? Truly?” The Three Sisters were islands in the Bite. Dunk had heard septon say that the isles were sinks of sin and avarice. Sisterton was the most notorious smuggler’s den in all of Westeros. “He’s come a long way. He must be kin to Butterwell’s new bride.”
“He isn’t, ser.”
“Then he’s here for the feast. They eat fish on the Three Sisters, don’t they? A man gets sick of fish. Did you get enough to eat? I brought you half a capon and some cheese.” Dunk rummaged in the pocket of his cloak.
“They fed us ribs, ser.” Egg’s nose was deep in the book. “Lord Sunderland fought for the Black Dragon, ser.”
“Like old Ser Eustace? He wasn’t so bad, was he?” “No, ser,” Egg said, “but—
“I saw the dragon’s egg.” Dunk squirrled the food away with their hard-bread and salt beef. “It was red, mostly. Does Lord Bloodraven own a dragon’s egg as well?”
Egg lowered his book. “Why would he? He’s baseborn.”
“Bastard born, not baseborn.” Bloodraven had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but he was noble on both sides. Dunk was about to tell Egg about the men he’d overhead when he noticed his face. “What happened to your lip?”
“A fight, ser.”
“Let me see it.”
“It only bled a little. I dabbed some wine on it.”
“Who were you fighting?”
“Some other squires. They said—”
“Never mind what they said. What did I tell you?”
“To hold my tongue and make no trouble.” The boy touched his broken lip. “They called my father a kinslayer, though.”
He is, lad, though I do not think he meant it. Dunk had told Egg half a hundred times not to take such words to heart. You know the truth. Let that be enough. They had heard such talk before, in wine sinks and low taverns, and around campfires in the woods. The whole realm knew how Prince Maekar’s mace had felled his brother Baelor Breakspear at Ashford Meadow. Talk of plots was only to be expected. “If they knew Prince Maekar was your father, they would never have said such things.” Behind your back, yes, but never to your face. “And what did you tell these other squires, instead of holding your tongue?”
Egg looked abashed. “That Prince Baelor’s death was just a mishap. Only when I said Prince Maekar loved his brother Baelor, Ser Addam’s squire said he loved him to death, and Ser Mallor’s squire said he meant to love his brother Aerys the same way. That was when I hit him. I hit him good.”
“I ought to hit you good. A fat ear to go with that fat lip. Your father would do the same if he were here. Do you think Prince Maekar needs a little boy to defend him? What did he tell you when he sent you off with me?”
“To serve you faithfully as your squire, and not flinch from any task or hardship.” “And what else?”
“To obey the king’s laws, the rules of chivalry, and you.” “And what else?”
“To keep my hair shaved or dyed,” the boy said with obvious reluctance, “ and tell no man my true name.”
Dunk nodded. “How much wine had this boy drunk?” “He was drinking barley beer.”
“You see? The barley beer was talking. Words are wind, Egg. Just let them blow on past you.”
“Some words are wind.” The boy was nothing if not stubborn. “Some words are treason. This is a traitor’s tourney, ser.”
“What, all of them?” Dunk shook his head. “If it was true, that was a long time ago. The Black Dragon’s dead, and those who fought with him are fled or pardoned. And it’s not true. Lord Butterwell’s sons fought on both sides.”
“That makes him half a traitor, ser.”
“Sixteen years ago.” Dunk’s mellow winey haze was gone. He felt angry, and near sober. “Lord Butterwell’s steward is the master of the games, a man named Cosgrove. Find him and enter my name for the lists. No, wait ... hold back my name.” With so many lords on hand, one of them might recall Ser Duncan the Tall from Ashford Meadow. “Enter me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a Mystery Knight appeared at a tourney.
Egg fingered his fat lip. “The Gallows Knight, ser?”
“For the shield.”
“Yes, but—”
“Go do as I said. You have read enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and forefinger.