Chapter Text
The inn was quiet, empty save for Dunk, the drunk, and the innkeeper.
"I've dreamed of you," the drunk murmured, squinting.
"Is that so?" Dunk said, humoring the man. His clothes looked of fine quality, as if he was some noble lord. Probably wanted peace from his duties, though Dunk thought it shameful. People relied on their Lords, and here one was, drunker than a skunk.
"Two dragons circle you. They want to swallow you whole," the drunkard murmured, eyes burning with intense. His voice was so grave, so serious, that Dunk felt a cold chill down his spine.
"Will they? Swallow me?" He gulped.
"Couldn't say. The dream ends with their bodies coiling around you, like great big constrictors." The drunk shrugged, as if he was talking about the likelihood of rain next week.
Dunk groaned, shook his head. This was why he never took stock in fortunetellers and witches. What proof did this drunk have that he had ever seen anything in his dreams before it came to pass? It was simply the rumblings of a madman, Dunk decided.
The drunk put a coin down and flounced upstairs, unbalanced. The innkeeper hurried to put it in her pocket, hiding it from Dunk. Dunk wanted to reassure her, promise he'd never steal from her, but she wouldn't believe him.
He kept to himself after that, not that the innkeeper was even around to try to talk to. He rubbed at his wrists, the thin strips of cloth rough under his thumb. He remembered when he'd first covered them. Ser Arlan had laughed at them. He'd been the first literate person he'd ever met, and something about his marks made the old knight laugh.
He'd ripped a strip of his red shirt off, tying it to one wrist, and then tore a similar strip off his black pants, covering the other. He wanted to protect them from scorn, ridicule, for whatever they said upon meeting him. They were his, and no one would laugh at them.
He'd soon discovered it was commonplace among more learned folk to cover theirs up, hide them from prying eyes. Smallfolk, those that were illiterate and nothing to lose, had no need for covering up theirs. Certainly, no one in Flea Bottom was covering up theirs. No one would gain anything from using such information as blackmail.
Dunk hummed, wishing for the billionth time for the ability to read, or at least had been brave enough to ask Ser Arlan what his marks said. Instead, it remained a mystery to him. He didn't dare show anyone else, dreading more laughs at his and his soulmates' expenses. One day, he'd meet them, and he'd just know. Everything would be right the world. They'd be beautiful, sweet. It didn't matter if they were rich or poor, tall or short. They'd be perfect for him, and they'd love him. He let himself imagine for a moment the kind of women his soulmates were. He let himself imagine one as a tall, dark-haired woman with the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, and perhaps the other is a short, blonde-haired beauty with deft hands.
Dunk let the daydream slip away and quickly finished his meal and went to collect his horses, wanted to tell them about the unsettling drunk and the hot meal. They were his only companions now, what with Ser Arlan being dead in the ground now. He liked to talk to them, it calmed him. That was his plan, until he saw the stable boy astride Thunder.
Fear gripped his heart, making him lash out. He spoke harshly, even with empty threats, but gently placed him on the ground. Dunk thought he'd have to reassure him, apologize, maybe dry tears, but the boy fired back with an insult to Dunk's skills. Dunk was shocked at the boy's audacity. "Close your insolent mouth! I'm a knight, I'll have you know."
"You don't look like one."
They kept up their back-and-forth, Dunk missing conversations with someone who could answer him. Until the boy wanted to come with him. Dunk could hardly care for himself, hardly could afford his horses, how could he care for a squire? He was a man of little renown, had not proved his mettle. It wouldn't be right to drag the boy along to uncertainty, so he told the boy as much. He'd be better off finding another knight. After giving the boy a copper, he was back again on the road to Ashford.
When he finally made it to the tourney, he'd immediately come up against an obstacle. The Master of the Games said someone must vouch for him. His troubles didn't end there, of course. Ser Manfred Dondarrion was the first man he thought of, seeing as Ser Arlan worked for his father, once. That, however, resulted in less-than-favorable results. Every other lord or knight he spoke to couldn't seem to remember him either.
Meeting Raymun Fossoway was a high point, to be sure, as it helped Dunk to get supper. Ser Lyonel Baratheon was a hard man to understand, but he seemed to like Dunk all the same. Dunk had the most fun he'd probably ever had in his life. So much of his childhood had been scurrying around Flea Bottom like rats, never safe, always hungry. Then, his life had become Ser Arlan. There'd been laughs, sure, but it had always been momentary. Ser Arlan never wanted to stay to celebrate a victory past a warm meal, always eager to move on. Merriment was scare on the road. To see others so uninhibited was shocking, but it delighted him to no end. He thought if he was chosen by Ser Lyonel to serve House Baratheon, he would see his days happy.
Finding the boy at his camp that night had been unexpected. Maybe if he'd been less drunk, he could've argued better against it. But, to come back to his camp with a fire already made, the horses tended to, and food being cooked? One could hardly blame him for being too weak to refuse such requests, especially this deep into his cups.
On the morrow, he'd have to find someone who remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree, but for now, he could sleep.