squirming in his arms. How he kept his
feet was beyond him. The girl would not be still, and the men were all around
them, making ribald japes about flouring her up and kneading her well whilst
they pulled off her clothes. The dwarfs joined in as well. They swarmed around
Dunk’s legs, shouting and laughing and smacking at his calves with their
bladders. It was all he could do not to trip over them.
Dunk had no notion where Lord
Butterwell’s bedchamber was to be found, but the other men pushed and prodded
him until he got there, by which time the bride was red-faced, giggling, and
nearly naked, save for the stocking on her left leg, which had somehow survived
the climb. Dunk was crimson too, and not from exertion. His arousal would have
been obvious if anyone had been looking, but fortunately all eyes were the
bride. Lady Butterwell looked nothing like Tanselle, but having the one
squirming half-naked in his arms had started Dunk thinking about the other. Tanselle Too-Tall, that was her name, but she was not too tall for me. He
wondered if he would ever find her again. There had been some nights when he
thought he must have dreamed her. No, lunk, you only dreamed she liked you.
Lord Butterwell’s bedchamber was
large and lavish, once he found it. Myrish carpets covered the floors, a
hundred scented candles burned in nooks and crannies, and a suit of plate
inlaid with gold and gems stood beside the door. It even had its own privy set
into a small stone alcove in the outer wall.
When Dunk finally plopped the
bride onto her marriage bed, a dwarf leapt in beside her and seized one of her
breasts for a bit of a fondle. The girl let out a squeal, the men roared with
laughter, and Dunk seized the dwarf by his collar and hauled him kicking off
m’lady. He was carrying the little man across the room to chuck him out the
door when he saw the dragon’s egg.
Lord Butterwell had placed it on
a black velvet cushion atop a marble plinth. It was much bigger than a hen’s
egg, though not so big as he’d imagined. Fine red scales covered its surface,
shining bright as jewels by the light of lamps and candles. Dunk dropped the
dwarf and picked up the egg, just to feel it for a moment. It was heavier than
he’d expected. You could smash a man’s head with this, and never crack the
shell. The scales were smooth beneath his fingers, and the deep, rich red
seemed to shimmer as he turned the egg in his hands. Blood and flame, he
thought, but there were gold flecks in it as well, and whorls of midnight
black.
“Here, you! What do you think
you’re doing, ser?” A knight he did not know was glaring at him, a big man with
a coal-black beard and boils, but it was the voice that made him blink; a deep
voice, thick with anger. It was him, the man with Peake, Dunk realized,
as the man said, “Put that down. I’ll thank you to keep your greasy fingers off
His Lordship’s treasures, or by the Seven, you shall wish you had.”
The other knight was not near so
drunk as Dunk, so it seemed wise to do as he said. He put the egg back on its
pillow, very carefully, and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “I meant no harm,
ser.” Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. Then he shoved past the man
with the black beard and out the door.
There were noises in the
stairwell, glad shouts and girlish laughter. The women were bringing Lord
Butterwell to his bride. Dunk had no wish to encounter them, so he went up
instead of down, and found himself on the tower roof beneath the stars, with
the pale castle glimmering in the moonlight all around him.
He was feeling dizzy from the
wine, so he leaned against a parapet. Am I going to be sick? Why did he go
and touch the dragon’s egg? He remembered Tanselle’s puppet show, and the
wooden dragon that had started all the trouble there at Ashford. The memory
made Dunk feel guilty, as it always did. Three good men dead, to save a
hedge knights foot. It made no sense, and never
feet was beyond him. The girl would not be still, and the men were all around
them, making ribald japes about flouring her up and kneading her well whilst
they pulled off her clothes. The dwarfs joined in as well. They swarmed around
Dunk’s legs, shouting and laughing and smacking at his calves with their
bladders. It was all he could do not to trip over them.
Dunk had no notion where Lord
Butterwell’s bedchamber was to be found, but the other men pushed and prodded
him until he got there, by which time the bride was red-faced, giggling, and
nearly naked, save for the stocking on her left leg, which had somehow survived
the climb. Dunk was crimson too, and not from exertion. His arousal would have
been obvious if anyone had been looking, but fortunately all eyes were the
bride. Lady Butterwell looked nothing like Tanselle, but having the one
squirming half-naked in his arms had started Dunk thinking about the other. Tanselle Too-Tall, that was her name, but she was not too tall for me. He
wondered if he would ever find her again. There had been some nights when he
thought he must have dreamed her. No, lunk, you only dreamed she liked you.
Lord Butterwell’s bedchamber was
large and lavish, once he found it. Myrish carpets covered the floors, a
hundred scented candles burned in nooks and crannies, and a suit of plate
inlaid with gold and gems stood beside the door. It even had its own privy set
into a small stone alcove in the outer wall.
When Dunk finally plopped the
bride onto her marriage bed, a dwarf leapt in beside her and seized one of her
breasts for a bit of a fondle. The girl let out a squeal, the men roared with
laughter, and Dunk seized the dwarf by his collar and hauled him kicking off
m’lady. He was carrying the little man across the room to chuck him out the
door when he saw the dragon’s egg.
Lord Butterwell had placed it on
a black velvet cushion atop a marble plinth. It was much bigger than a hen’s
egg, though not so big as he’d imagined. Fine red scales covered its surface,
shining bright as jewels by the light of lamps and candles. Dunk dropped the
dwarf and picked up the egg, just to feel it for a moment. It was heavier than
he’d expected. You could smash a man’s head with this, and never crack the
shell. The scales were smooth beneath his fingers, and the deep, rich red
seemed to shimmer as he turned the egg in his hands. Blood and flame, he
thought, but there were gold flecks in it as well, and whorls of midnight
black.
“Here, you! What do you think
you’re doing, ser?” A knight he did not know was glaring at him, a big man with
a coal-black beard and boils, but it was the voice that made him blink; a deep
voice, thick with anger. It was him, the man with Peake, Dunk realized,
as the man said, “Put that down. I’ll thank you to keep your greasy fingers off
His Lordship’s treasures, or by the Seven, you shall wish you had.”
The other knight was not near so
drunk as Dunk, so it seemed wise to do as he said. He put the egg back on its
pillow, very carefully, and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “I meant no harm,
ser.” Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. Then he shoved past the man
with the black beard and out the door.
There were noises in the
stairwell, glad shouts and girlish laughter. The women were bringing Lord
Butterwell to his bride. Dunk had no wish to encounter them, so he went up
instead of down, and found himself on the tower roof beneath the stars, with
the pale castle glimmering in the moonlight all around him.
He was feeling dizzy from the
wine, so he leaned against a parapet. Am I going to be sick? Why did he go
and touch the dragon’s egg? He remembered Tanselle’s puppet show, and the
wooden dragon that had started all the trouble there at Ashford. The memory
made Dunk feel guilty, as it always did. Three good men dead, to save a
hedge knights foot. It made no sense, and never
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