Chapter Text
Ser Arlan of Pennytree was dead.
It had seemed to come from nowhere.
Only days before, he had been riding straight-backed in the saddle, grumbling at the dust and praising the ale in equal measure. For a man of his years, he had seemed strong enough. He had spent his usual evenings in the brothel, lingering longer than his purse allowed and speaking louder than he should have. He had even taken to sparring with Dunk more often than usual.
That alone had felt strange.
Ser Arlan had allowed him several extra bouts over the past week. Not many. Only a handful. But he had corrected Dunk more carefully than before, shown him how to shift his weight better beneath a shield, how to turn a blade rather than meet it head on. Dunk had noticed the difference. He had treasured it.
The old knight had even offered to pay for Dunk's own turn upstairs at the brothel.
Dunk had known better than to accept. Ser Arlan had been deep in his cups when he made the offer, and likely would not have remembered it come morning. Still, it had been a kindness of sorts.
Dunk believed he knew the reason for his master's brighter mood.
Word had finally reached them of the last Targaryens. Pentos. The young princess, Daenerys, was to be wed.
Ser Arlan had never been a great knight. He had never claimed the highest prizes nor won renown beyond small tourneys and local fields. Yet in his youth he had once earned the favor of Princess Rhaella, long before she had become Queen Rhaella, wife to Aerys.
From that favor he had been granted a small parcel of land in the Crownlands. Not much. A clearing more than a holding. A stand of trees and a narrow stream running through it. But Ser Arlan had treasured the gift beyond measure.
He spoke of it often, though he swore he would never return.
By the time the rebellion broke out, he had saved enough coin to build a small cabin upon that land. He had even found a woman, though Dunk had never heard that tale fully told. Only fragments, muttered into ale cups when Ser Arlan drank too deeply. A laugh here. A sigh there. Never the whole of it.
The rest of the story Dunk had heard many times.
When the King called his banners, Ser Arlan answered.
He rode to the Trident.
He fought. He killed three men by his own telling. Then an arrow struck his helm and cast him into darkness.
When he woke, it was morning.
He had been buried beneath another man's body, heavy and stiff. The corpse above him was pierced through with arrows. Ser Arlan had clawed his way free, pushing aside cold flesh and broken shields, certain he must be wounded himself.
He was not.
All around him lay bodies.
Too many bore the red dragon.
Too few bore the colors of the rebellion.
He moved across the field cautiously, uncertain which side had claimed victory. If he was seen by the wrong men, his loyalties would matter little. As he walked, he began to understand the truth. The dead lay two, perhaps three to one in favor of the rebels.
When he crested a low rise, he saw it plainly.
A banner of the rebellion planted at the center of the field.
His prince had fallen.
Years of scraping by had shaped Ser Arlan into a practical man. He did not leave the field empty-handed.
He spent the remainder of that day reclaiming what he could in the name of the King.
Dunk had always thought it sounded more like looting.
Anything of value, Ser Arlan took. Armor not too badly pierced. Blades that had not chipped. Shields with only shallow dents. He filled a wagon with what he could carry and buried nearly twice as much beneath marked stones and twisted branches.
That had been Ser Arlan's greatest regret.
He had taken rebel armor from a corpse whose face he never saw. The breastplate was dented but whole. The surcoat torn but serviceable. He stripped it from the dead without ceremony. If anyone saw him riding in those colors, they would take him for one of their own.
He found a horse still tied to a tree at the edge of the field. The beast was old and ribbed, its coat dull. No doubt its master had fallen and no one had bothered to claim it. It was not worth the grain it would consume. Ser Arlan cut the reins and claimed it for himself.
He hitched the animal to the wagon heavy with arms and armor. Over the steel he laid branches thick with leaves, arranging them carefully until the wagon looked little more than brush gathered for kindling.
If he could reach his cabin unseen, he told himself, he could pretend he had never ridden to the Trident at all.
He would live quietly. He would use the wealth in the wagon to mend the cabin, to buy seed and tools. He would grow old in his clearing, and no one would know which banner he had once followed.
On the road south his greatest fear was brigands. Or rebel patrols searching wagons. He kept to lesser paths when he could. Slept poorly. Woke at every snapping twig.
None came upon him.
He thought himself fortunate.
How wrong he had been.
When at last he reached the familiar path leading into his clearing, he knew something was wrong before he saw it.
The trees had been cut. Not cleanly, but hacked down in anger.
His cabin was gone.
Not damaged. Not looted.
Gone.
The timbers had been torn apart and burned. What remained stood blackened and collapsed inward. The small garden he had once spoken of tending had been churned into mud. The footprints in the mud had still not hardened. The last of the ashes yet to die out.
Dunk knew Ser Arlan had found her.
He had never heard the words spoken plainly, but he knew.
The woman had not survived, but her blood was not yet dried.
Even in his deepest cups, when Ser Arlan spoke of the clearing, he never described the sight. He would only fall silent, then weep without sound.
It had been the work of Ser Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain Who Rides.
The name had been spoken in taverns and on roads often enough. A giant of a man. Ruthless. Loyal to the Lannisters. He left little standing where he passed.
Ser Arlan had turned to drink after that.
Within ten moons he had squandered most of the gold earned from the wagon of steel, even the horse and wagon itself. What coin remained bought him passage north, toward the Riverlands, and toward the buried caches he had hidden near the Trident.
It was there he dug up what he had concealed and began again.
It was also there he found the brothels.
Years later, in a Riverlands tavern thick with smoke and sour ale, Dunk first met him.
Dunk could not have been more than six or seven at the time, barefoot and already taller than many grown men. He remembered the old knight squinting up at him as though measuring timber.
Dunk understood later why he had been chosen.
Ser Arlan taught him many things. How to clean a blade properly. How to hold a shield steady even when arms shook. How to speak respectfully to lords even if they spat at you. How to stick to his word. Ser Arlan taught him what it meant to be an honourable knight.
But above all else, he taught him to hate the Mountain.
He told Dunk of every cruelty whispered about Ser Gregor. Every village burned. Every man crushed beneath mailed fists. Every woman wronged.
Dunk had listened.
Dunk had hated.
In time, they unearthed the rest of Ser Arlan's buried steel and sold it off piece by piece. With the coin they bought three horses. Sweetfoot, steady and sure. Thunder, broad and strong enough for war. And Chestnut, temperamental but quick.
Ser Arlan commissioned new armor and a serviceable sword. His old helm and blade he gave to Dunk. The helm had been the only piece that fit him at the time. Even that grew tight soon enough as Dunk's head and shoulders broadened.
They lived the life of hedge knights for years after.
Tourney to tourney. Village to village. Sleeping under wagons or in stables when coin ran thin.
As the years passed, Ser Arlan's hope diminished.
Dunk grew until he was near the Mountain's size, perhaps broader in the shoulder. Yet he remained young, unpolished. Strong, but not yet disciplined. And Ser Arlan, for all his experience, was no master of arms capable of forging a legend.
They learned together, in truth.
Word had come eventually that Ser Arlan's parcel of land still belonged to him by right. No decree had stripped it from him.
He refused to return.
It had been a poor season.
No tourneys worth entering. No purses worth the bruises. Coin ran thin, and meals thinner. Ser Arlan had grown quieter in those weeks, staring long into his cups and speaking little of the future.
Then came word of the Targaryen girl's wedding.
That changed everything.
They rode to King's Landing at once. Upon arrival, Ser Arlan sold all three horses. Sweetfoot first. Then Chestnut. Thunder last.
Dunk saw the tightness in the old knight's jaw when Thunder was led away. He felt it himself. Those horses had carried them through rain and mud, through lean seasons and hard roads. Still, neither man spoke of regret. They did not allow themselves more than a breath's hesitation before taking the coin.
Ser Arlan purchased passage on the first ship bound for Pentos.
That night he went to a brothel. He claimed it was celebration. He said he was returning at last to honor his oath as a knight sworn to serve the Targaryens. Dunk wanted to believe that was true. Ser Arlan had always spoken of vows as sacred things.
Yet Dunk had known him long enough to see the other truth. The horses were gone. The life they had built together had shifted again. The brothel was as much farewell as celebration.
Ser Arlan pressed a few coins into Dunk's hand as well.
"For your own sorrows," he had said.
They sailed the next morning.
The sickness began before King's Landing faded fully from sight.
It was Dunk's first time aboard a ship too, but he found his legs steadier than he expected. The deck rolled beneath his boots, and his stomach lurched, but he endured it. Ser Arlan did not.
By midday he had taken to the rail. By evening he could no longer stand without swaying.
The crew laughed at first.
"The hedge knight's no match for the sea," one had said, clapping Dunk on the shoulder. They called him the big little ser and assured him that his master would recover in a day or two.
The second day proved worse.
Ser Arlan was carried below deck, where he lay upon a narrow cot. He rose only to vomit into a bucket or over the side when Dunk managed to haul him up the steps. His skin grew pale and damp. His voice weakened.
On the third day, the laughter stopped.
Even the crew began to cast wary glances below deck.
By the fourth day, the captain himself offered his own cabin. Dunk paid for it with what coin remained readily at hand. The captain slept among his crew without complaint.
Dunk did not leave that small room except to fetch water.
On the fifth day, the old knight's breathing grew shallow and he grew quiet. With each word he spoke, he flinched as though just the expulsion of air from his lungs felt like a stab in the chest.
Around midday, Ser Arlan closed his eyes and did not open them again.
For a long while Dunk sat beside the cot, watching his master's chest. Waiting for it to rise once more. When it did not, he placed his broad hand over the old knight's ribs, as if he might press life back into him.
Nothing changed.
Dunk remained there for nearly an hour.
When he finally stepped onto the deck, the sunlight seemed too bright. The air too sharp. He searched for the captain and found him near the stern.
"Capt'n?" The word felt clumsy on his tongue.
The man turned. "'Es? What is it?"
Dunk tried to speak and found his throat tight. Somewhere behind him a crewman gave a small scoff at the delay. Dunk swallowed hard and forced the words out.
"Ser Arlan's dead."
The noise on deck faded. A few nearby sailors went still. The captain's face shifted, the hardness leaving it for a moment.
"I'm sorry, lad."
Dunk nodded, though he did not trust his voice.
After a pause, the captain spoke again, more gently.
"We'll have to bury him at sea. A body aboard too long brings sickness. It's the way of it."
Dunk understood.
Ser Arlan had never been a devout man. He had rarely spoken of septs or prayers. He had believed in vows and in steel. Dunk could not find cause to argue.
So it was settled.
One of the deckhands helped Dunk prepare the body.
She was known among the crew as the Mother, for she alone knew the words of the Seven. Any death aboard ship fell to her care. Dunk had not expected the ceremony to be so formal, but the sailors treated it with quiet seriousness.
They laid Ser Arlan upon the cot and stripped him of his armor and clothing. What could be sold would be kept aside. What could not be used would go with him.
When they removed the last of his smallclothes, the Mother gave a low whistle beneath her breath.
"Gods," she muttered, staring a moment longer than seemed proper.
Dunk blinked at her, confused.
Ser Arlan had looked as he always had. Old. Lean. Weathered. Nothing about him seemed worthy of surprise. He knew the old knight did not match him in size, but he hardly thought it was small enough to scoff at.
They wrapped Ser Arlan in the blanket he had died in, binding it tightly at the feet and shoulders with stones to weigh him down. Dunk lifted him easily into his arms. The old knight felt lighter than he had in life, even with the added weight.
When Dunk stepped back onto the deck, the entire crew had gathered.
No one spoke.
They had formed a loose line along the railing, leaving a clear path toward a gap near the stern. The sea stretched endless and gray around them. A gull cried somewhere above, its voice thin against the wind.
The Mother stood beside the opening, hands folded.
Dunk walked forward, boots thudding softly against the planks. He felt every eye upon him but did not look up.
When he reached the railing, the Mother began.
"Father Above, judge this man justly. Mother Most Merciful, shelter him in Your arms. Warrior, remember his courage. Smith, weigh the work of his hands. Maiden, keep his heart gentle. Crone, light his path beyond the veil. Stranger, guide him safely from this world to the next."
Her voice carried clean and steady across the deck.
When she finished, all fell silent.
Dunk stepped closer to the rail.
He held Ser Arlan out over the water. The sea rolled beneath them, dark and restless. For a moment he could not speak.
Then he forced the words.
"You were a good knight, ser." His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "You never beat me 'cept when I deserved it. 'Cept that one time. It was the butcher's boy that took the shepherd's pie, not me. I told you."
A tear slipped down his cheek. He did not wipe it away.
"I'll find her for you, ser. The Targaryen girl. I'll find her. And I'll avenge your woman too. I knew about her. Even if you never said it plain."
He had nothing more to give.
Still, he stood there a long moment, unable to release him. The weight in his arms felt final. Once he let go, there would be no taking it back.
At last he loosened his grip.
The blanket-wrapped form slipped from his hands and fell. There was a quiet splash, then only widening ripples. The sea swallowed him quickly.
Dunk remained at the railing.
The crew dispersed slowly, returning to their work. The Mother laid a brief hand against Dunk's arm before leaving him alone.
He watched the water long after the ripples had faded. Long after the gull's cry had passed. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot where he believed Ser Arlan had sunk.
Only when that place disappeared beyond the curve of the horizon did he finally step away.
He walked toward the captain's cabin, intending to gather what little had belonged to Ser Arlan. His armor. His sword. The purse with what coins remained.
His now.
As he crossed the deck, one of the sailors called out.
"'Re we meant to call you ser now?"
Dunk stopped.
The word felt heavy in the air.
He had worn the helm. He had carried the shield. He had trained for years beneath the old knight's guidance. He had worked for it. Yet standing alone on that deck, the title felt too large for him.
He hesitated.
"Aye," he said at last.
The word tasted wrong in his mouth.
A/N:
New story, hope you like it!
I've been writing a chapter of this every other day, interspersed with my other story Waking Stone Dragons (Check it out if you haven't already, nearly 100k words)
Got a long story planned out for this one, with a large amount of that plotted in pretty good detail.
Expect this to be one of those stories you're in for the long run with pretty frequent updates. (I already have 6 chapters done)
Make sure to leave kudos and join the discord for fast updates! Also discord is the best place to get in contact with me for any type of criticism, or suggestions.
I do polls for story ratings and decisions there as well. (For instance, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms story was decided upon by a poll in discord)
Thanks for reading! I really hope you enjoy the story, you guys reading the stories really encourage me to keep writing and keep improving!
Thanks,
JJ
You can go to jgbuch anan.c om (without spaces) for my link tree to find my discord if the link isn't working