Hedge Knight I

The wind howled through the trees, and a soft rain drizzled from the grey sky. Amid the shadows of the woods, a towering figure stood beside the freshly dug grave, his hands trembling as he broke the earth with a spade. Nearby, a corpse was laid upon a tree, thin and old.

Dunk couldn't remember how long he had been digging the grave, nor how much longer he needed to dig. All he knew was that it had to be deep enough to keep dogs and carrion from disturbing it. What a pitiful repayment for a man who had all but raised him, to allow his body to be eaten by scavengers. His thoughts, heavy with regret, were abruptly interrupted by a voice behind his back.

"Who is it that you bury, friend?"

Dunk turned and saw a man standing there. Young, likely around the same age as himself, dressed in a white and blue tunic intricately embroidered on the collar and sleeves. His ruddy hair and amber eyes stood out even in the fading light of the day. The man held the reins of two horses: a large bay palfrey and a beautiful gray courser. Both horses stood calm and silent.

A knight. Dunk thought. And a wealthy one. For a moment, Dunk feared the man might be there to scold him, but he quickly dismissed the thought. He had dug the grave far from the road—why would a knight go out of his way just to reprimand him?

Besides, the knight's expression seemed kind, not stern. So Dunk answered him honestly.

"Ser Arlan of Pennytree, he was my ser." Dunk said. "He caught a chill a few days ago that just wouldn't go away."

The knight stood silently for a moment. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, his voice steady. "He didn't look old enough to die of old age, but death comes when it chooses, and no one can predict when."

Ser Arlan lived longer than most men. Dunk's thoughts drifted. Closer to sixty than fifty. Though he kept those thoughts to himself.

"Let me help you with the grave," the knight offered. "Two pairs of hands will make the work easier."

Dunk felt a flush of shame. "You don't need to, Ser. I was his squire. It's my responsibility."

The man wouldn't hear of it. He retrieved a small shovel hidden beneath the bags strapped to his palfrey and stepped beside Dunk.

"I would be a poor excuse of a knight indeed to leave a fellow's body in this rain," he said, his voice firm as he began to dig. "Best to start quick in case the rain turned heavy."

Both of them worked together, the steady rhythm of his shovel breaking the silence. His hands were raw and tired, but there was no question of stopping until the grave was deep enough. The knight worked closely, as silent as Dunk was. He was right in that two pairs of hands made the job finished earlier.

When the hole was deep enough, the two men lifted Ser Arlan's body with solemn care, laying it gently in the earth. Then, with quiet reverence, they covered him, the sound of dirt falling filling the air as they ensured the grave was properly sealed.

With the task finished, they both stood quietly beside the grave. There was no septon to perform the last rites, no family to offer flowers—only his squire, who knew not any prayer to give, and a stranger who knew nothing about Ser Arlan to speak of him. Dunk considered himself a poor mourner, yet he couldn't bring himself to leave the old man without at least a word of farewell.

"I wish you didn't die, ser." He began. "I still have plenty I need to learn from you. You were a true knight. You never beat me unless I deserved it."

Except for that one time in Maidenpool. But Dunk wouldn't air his master's mistake to another knight.

"The gods keep you, ser."

Dunk watched as the strange knight beside him lifted his head once he was done. The knight had stood solemnly with his head bowed, listening with respect as Dunk spoke his words. Dunk spoke to the knight once more.

"My thanks to you, ser." He said. "May I know your name?"

"Emery Sheperd." The knight replied. "A mere hedge knight. I was on my way to Ashford when I chanced to hear the sound of your digging."

Dunk couldn't say he had ever heard the knight's name before, nor the name of his house, even though he had a lordly name. He couldn't even tell where he hailed from, but he knew better than to voice his ignorance—it might be taken as an insult.

Instead, Dunk introduced himself. "My name's Dunk. Ser Arlan's squire, as I said before."

As he spoke, Dunk walked over to Ser Arlan's horses—the ones he had left behind—while Ser Emery followed, guiding the reins of his own mounts. Dunk's own mind was heavy with thoughts of the future. With Ser Arlan dead, he did not know what he would do. Dunk had been his squire for so long, and the life of a hedge knight was all he knew.

"Were you and your master also riding to Ashford?" Ser Emery asked. His voice pierced through Dunk's mind.

Dunk glanced at Ser Arlan's shield and arms. No. They were riding toward further west, hoping to find employment nearer to Highgarden. The old man hadn't ridden in a joust since he tilted against the Prince of Dragonstone many years ago.

"We were," Dunk answered, "but with him gone, it's now up to me to ride in his stead."

"Lord Ashford's tourney is for knights only." Ser Emery said again. "Did Ser Arlan knight you before he passed, perchance?"

Dunk lifted Ser Arlan's longsword. It fit his grip as perfectly as it had the old knight's.

"He did." Dunk answered.

The inn stood at the edge of the village, its weathered wooden sign swaying gently in the evening breeze. The building itself was sturdy, with a thick wooden wall and a tiled roof. A warm yellow light leaked from the windows, casting an inviting golden hue on the path leading up to the door.

Two knights rode side by side, their horses' hooves drummed on the dirt road. Ser Emery had suggested they travel together to Ashford, as their paths happened to align, and Dunk had readily agreed. After all, both were hedge knights, and Ser Arlan had often ridden alongside his fellow hedge knights, sharing their company on the long roads between towns and castles.

Ser Emery, however, was wealthier than most hedge knights they had ridden with. Dunk had just three silver coins and nineteen copper, left to him by Ser Arlan. It was enough to buy food and ale for months, but Dunk still had to be cautious, as he would eventually need to purchase armor—properly fitted to his body. Ser Emery, on the other hand, had no such concerns. While Dunk was accustomed to sleeping in ditches from his days squiring for Ser Arlan, Ser Emery often saw to their comfort, arranging for them to stay at inns and covering all the costs.

Dunk felt uneasy accepting generosity he couldn't repay, though he couldn't find a good reason to reject it. That was why he swore to return the favor once he won the tournament at Ashford.

As they neared the inn's stable, they spotted a bald boy swimming naked in the nearby stream.

"Lad, are you the stableboy?" Dunk called to him as he swam back to land and took his tunic. "See to our horses. Oats for all of them and rub them clean as well."

The boy, now dressed, simply looked at him in the eye and said, "I could, if I wanted to."

Cheeky boy. Dunk thought. He knew many knights who'd clout him for that insolence. The boy was fortunate Dunk was too chivalrous for that.

Ser Emery seemed to find the boy amusing, at least. "That's no way to speak to your guests, lad," he said, though a smirk tugged at his lips instead of a scowl. "Your parents will be angry if they hear you."

Dunk joined in, his tone more stern. "You're speaking to a pair of knights. Show some respect."

The insolent boy simply raised his eyebrows in response. "Knights? I thought you're his manservant. You wore a rope for a belt."

Dunk shook his head in exasperation. He was too tired to talk with the boy. "Think whatever you want. Just feed the horses and clean them. A copper if you do well, a clout in the ear if not."

They left the boy with the horses and entered the inn. Inside the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the earthy smell of a well-used hearth. The tables were empty, save for one, where a drunken man sprawled across it, asleep or unconscious. The hall was otherwise quiet, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire.

They took a table, and Ser Emery ordered food and ale for both of them. Soon, the matron returned with two tankards of ale and plates of tender lamb and roasted duck. However, just as they began to eat, the drunkard suddenly awoke and glared at the both of them.

"You!" He shouted at them, pointing and glaring. "I've dreamed of you both before. Stay away from me, you louts! Stay well away!"

Dunk glanced at Ser Emery, bewildered, but the knight returned his gaze with equal confusion.

"Don't you mind that man, sers." The matron whispered. "He does nothing but drinking and sleeping all day. No wonder he can't dream right."

Dunk watched as the man mumbled something under his breath, his attention already elsewhere as he climbed the stairs, demanding wine all the way. Dunk scoffed. Drunkards—who could ever make sense of them?

Dunk awoke feeling more refreshed than he had in ages. A straw bed and pillow—simple luxuries for smallfolk—were a rare indulgence for someone like him. And the food and ale had been plentiful, too. As much as he felt a twinge of shame for taking advantage of Ser Emery's generosity, he couldn't deny the pleasure of the past few days.

Good food and ale whenever he desired, and a warm bed each night—that's what it meant to be a knight. Dunk wondered how Ser Emery managed it all. Was his family wealthy, or did he have some other source of income?

On the way down, he found Ser Emery was already seated on the table, breaking his fast. The knight greeted him with a raised hand.

"A pleasant sleep?" Ser Emery asked, placing a slice of meat pie before him. Dunk had to fight the urge to drool.

"Aye, though my eyes are still heavy," Dunk mumbled. He felt a yawn coming. "Some splash of cold water will be good for me."

Ser Emery nodded. "Take your time. We're less than a day ride from Ashford."

Dunk felt better after he washed his face, and even better once he had a slice of mutton pie. They waited for a few minutes for their stomachs to settle before they left for the stable.

Inside, they found their horses—each of the five stabled and well cared for—and the insolent boy from yesterday, now standing close to them.

Dunk cleared his throat. "We'll take our horses and two sacks of oats," he said, tossing the boy a copper coin. "That's for your help."

The boy was silent, unlike yesterday. He filled two sacks with oats wordlessly before handing them each to Dunk and Emery. However, just as they made to leave on their horses, the boy spoke.

"You're riding to Ashford, aren't you?" He asked. "Take me with you, ser."

Ser Emery answered for both of them. "Why's that, lad? Do you want to see the tourney?"

The boy nodded eagerly. "Yes, but I also want to be your squire. Any squire, really. Even to this ser..."

"Dunk." He said, feeling a tad annoyed.

The boy looked puzzled. "What kind of name is that? Is it short for Duncan?"

Dunk hesitated. Was it? He'd been called Dunk for as long as he could remember. Was that really his name?

Though, he had to admit, Ser Duncan had a nicer ring to it.

"Yes," he said finally, "Duncan. Ser Duncan of..." He paused. Of where? Flea Bottom? The Ditch? "...The Tall," he finished. "And this is Ser Emery Shepherd." Of somewhere. Duncan hadn't really asked.

"I know of him. I've seen his shield. White sword on red quartered with grey chain on white." The boy said. "They said he slew two score hillmen in the Vale as he traveled to the Gates of the Moon for the melee, and then he defeated every knight in the Vale who was there."

Duncan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn't realized his traveling companion was so well known. Ser Emery, meanwhile, only frowned.

"I only slew nine hillmen there," he said. "You've heard it wrong. What's your name?"

"... Egg." The boy answered.

Someone with a name like that shouldn't be insulting others, Duncan thought.

"Why do you want to be a squire so much, Egg?" Ser Emery asked again.

"Because I just want to." The boy replied, shuffling his feet.

Ser Emery sighed and shook his head. "The life of a hedge knight is no easy path," he said. "In peacetime, we wander from one lordship to the next, sleeping in ditches or flea-bitten beds along the way. In wartime, we ride the frontlines, facing enemies armed with lances, mauls, and hammers. Both highborn and lowborn mock us as paupers and robbers. Is that what you want?" He put his hand on the egg's shoulder. "You have a good life here. Don't throw it away for a false dream of glory."

The boy listened in silence; his expression showed obvious disagreement, though he seemed unsure how to argue. Not that he could—Emery was right. He had a far better life working in this inn than he ever would squiring for a hedge knight.

Both of them left soon afterward, and Duncan felt the stableboy watching their backs as they headed down.

The Ashford Meadow was a vibrant sea of color.

Brightly hued pavilions of various patterns and fluttering banners adorned with countless symbols: nightingales, crowned stags, huntsmen, purple lightning. Caron, Baratheon, Tarly, Dondarrion, Fossoway, Lannister, Penrose, Marbrand... each house's crest proudly displayed. It seemed every house south of the Neck had sent a knight or ten to represent them.

He knew some of those sigils. The old man had ridden with some of these men. The others he had heard from tales told in campfires and common halls.

Both of them made their way to the castle, searching for Ashford's steward. They found the man sitting in one of the many rooms, writing something on parchment.

"You're the castle steward, aren't you?" At the man's nod, Ser Emery announced. "We've come to enter the lists."

"My lord's tourney is for knights," the steward—Dunk heard the man was called Plummer—replied. "Are both of you knights?"

"Yes," Duncan said, feeling hot in the ears. He wondered if they could see his ears reddening.

Plummer looked up from his parchments. "Any knights with names?"

"I'm Emery Shepherd, and this is Ser Duncan the Tall. I was knighted by the Lord Hightower in Oldtown." Ser Emery introduced them.

"I've heard of you, Ser Emery," Plummer remarked, eyeing Duncan curiously. "But this Ser Duncan—he's an unknown to me. Where are you from, and who gave you your knighthood?"

"From everywhere," Duncan replied. "My master was Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He took me as his squire when I was just a boy and brought me as he traveled the Seven Kingdoms. It was Ser Arlan who knighted me, just before his death."

Plummer turned his gaze to Ser Emery. "Can you vouch for this Ser Duncan's knighthood?"

"I helped bury his master," Ser Emery replied, "though I did not witness his knighting. Ser Arlan had already passed by the time I met him."

Duncan nodded. "We were alone when it happened," he said. "The only witness was a robin in a thorn tree."

"Were you or your late master known to any of the knights present?" Plummer asked once more.

"I saw a Dondarrion banner on my way here. Which Dondarrion is it?" Duncan asked.

"That would be Ser Manfred Dondarrion's," Plummer replied.

"Ser Arlan served his father three years ago."

Plummer returned his attention to his parchments. "I'd advise you to speak with him. Bring him here on the morrow to vouch for you."

"I will," Duncan said, turning on his heel to leave, Ser Emery falling into step behind him.

Once they were outside the room, Ser Emery broke the silence. "He's strict," he remarked. "Most stewards I've met don't bother to scrutinize hedge knights that closely."

Duncan gave a curt nod. While he understood the steward's diligence, it was more of an annoyance than anything else at the moment. Still, it didn't matter. He was confident Ser Manfred's vouching would secure his place in the lists.

"Don't fret so much, Ser Duncan," Emery said, his tone light. "If you can't find another knight to vouch for you, I'll knight you again right in front of that steward."

Duncan thought it was a tempting offer, but he dismissed it with a shake of his head. "Thank you for the offer, but whoever heard of a man who swore his oaths twice? I'm sure Ser Manfred would help me. His father is a man of honor."

On their way across the tourney ground, they came across many sights and sounds. Horses neighing, the clatter of armor, and the murmur of excited voices. Men and women plied their trade, manning stalls or performing in any open space available. Among them, Duncan spotted a tall, beautiful woman who was gracefully moving a set of wooden puppets, performing for a small audience gathered around her.

"Look, those are the Fossoways."

Duncan turned his attention to where Emery pointed and saw men wearing Fossoway's colors surrounding the training ground. Two men were sparring with wooden swords; both wore the Fossoway's apple over their tabards. The larger man seemed delighted in battering his smaller opponent. His attacks were relentless.

"There's an apple that's not ripe yet!" He shouted as he beat the smaller man down. "This will barely count as a practice. I need someone new to cross swords with." His eyes caught to them and called for them.

"Is that longsword you wear?"

"It is," Duncan replied. "I'm Ser Duncan the Tall, and this is my friend, Ser Emery Shepherd. Both of us have the honor to be knights."

The man smiled and nodded. "And I am Ser Steffon Fossoway." His eyes lingered on Emery for a moment, as if trying to place him. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. "Ah, you're the victor of the melee at Lord Harroway's town two years past, aren't you? No wonder your device looks familiar."

Emery gave a modest smile. "That I am," he said. "Though I must apologize. I don't recall you from that tourney. I do remember some Fossoways being present, but I didn't take note of every face."

"No matters. I wasn't participating in the melee." Ser Steffon waved it off. "Now, will any of you exchange a few rounds with me?"

"Do it, sers!" the smaller man shouted, his voice eager and insistent. With his helmet removed, it was clear that he was younger than Duncan, though his square jaw and pug nose gave him a rugged, formidable look—especially when paired with his stocky build. "I may not be ripe, but he's rotten to the core!"

Duncan scratched his chin and glanced at his companion, who simply shrugged and shook his head. It seemed he wasn't in the mood to indulge the braggart, and Duncan was in no hurry to let anyone see him fight before the tilt.

"I thank you, sers, but I have matters to attend to." Duncan said as politely as possible. Ser Steffon merely scoffed at his refusal.

"The hedge knights have matters?" He chuckled at himself before nodding at another onlooker. "Ser Grance, come try me. I tire of my cousin's feeble tricks, and Ser Duncan has matters to attend to."

Lordlings. Who can understand them.

Duncan and Emery made to leave, though the younger Fossoway called up to them.

"Ser Emery, Ser Duncan," he said, his tone apologetic. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have urged you to challenge my cousin. Neither of you were wearing armor, and my cousin has a habit of breaking his opponents in the training yard before the lists—to weaken them."

"He didn't break you." Emery pointed out.

"I am of his own blood, though his branch of the family is the more senior," the man said with a smile, extending his hand to Duncan. "My name is Raymun Fossoway."

"Will you and your cousin be riding in the tilts?" Duncan asked as he shook Raymun's hand.

"He will," Raymun said with a wry smile. "I'm but a squire for now. My cousin insists I'm not 'ripe' yet." He offered a respectful nod. "May the Warrior smile on both of you, sers." With that, he stepped back to the ground.

Duncan and Emery watched the Fossoways for a moment before Duncan broke the silence.

"The cousin doesn't seem all that honorable for a knight." Duncan said.

"I've seen plenty worse knights," Emery replied with a shrug. "Knighthood is just a title. Men of all sorts have borne it, and many care more for the privileges than the vows."

Did I deserve to be a knight? Duncan thought. Was I more honorable than Ser Steffon?

"I'm planning to set up my pavilion before all the good spots are taken. What about you?" Ser Emery asked.

"I need to buy new armor, for one," Duncan replied. He wasn't joking when he said he had matters to attend to—he also needed to sell Sweetfoot. "And I have to speak with Ser Manfred. I suppose we'll see each other on the day of the tourney."

"May fortune favor you, Ser Duncan."

"Aye," Duncan said with a nod. "Best of luck to your arms as well, ser."

With those words, the two men parted ways. Duncan threw one more glance at the gaudy field full of lordly pavilions. There was another reason for him to part ways with Ser Emery. To follow him and set his camp in that field, putting his plain tent among their colorful silks, would invite silent scorn and open mockery both. A hedge knight had little enough, and they must hold tight to their pride.

The other option, staying with Ser Emery for the duration of the tourney, was equally unacceptable. Oh, Ser Emery would undoubtedly accept Duncan, but in a way, that might be worse. Generosity and friendship, Duncan could accept, but pity was something else entirely. He had already burdened Ser Emery enough; any more, and he would be no different from a beggar.

If he wanted a place among lords and knights, he would have to earn it. A strong showing in the lists might attract the attention of a lord, one who would be willing to offer him service—not out of charity but out of respect.

As Duncan walked, a large procession passed by, drawing his attention. He almost asked who they were, but then he spotted their banners—a red dragon on a black field—and the three men armored in white from head to toe. House Targaryen, the royal line of the Seven Kingdoms. With them, the vaunted Kingsguard.

Would he face them on the lists? The Kingsguards were renowned as the most skilled knights in the realm, and Duncan misliked the chance of him having to fight one. He might be able to defeat one of the royals, but would he even be allowed the opportunity to challenge one?

Duncan shook his head, deciding it was best to put the thought of challenging the Kingsguard aside—at least until he had proper armor. Two victories couldn't be too much to hope for, could they?

With that, he continued on his way, while a handsome prince called out for women and wine nearby.

Duncan made his way back to where he had left Thunder and Chestnut. He had found himself a skilled smith called Steely Pate—a short man with arms as thick as tree trunks—who were willing to armor him, though the price still galled Duncan. Six hundred silver coins! And that was after he gave Ser Arlan's old armor too.

His thoughts lingered on Sweetfoot. The mare had been a loyal companion, but parting with her had been a necessary choice. At least he had sold her for a fair price. The money would go toward securing the armor he needed tomorrow.

That, however, was the end of the good news. Ser Manfred Dondarrion flatly refused to vouch for Duncan's knighthood, claiming he didn't recognize either Duncan or Ser Arlan. Despite Duncan's best efforts, Ser Manfred remained unmoved to his pleas, unwilling to relent.

As Duncan approached the horses with a heavy mind, he caught the flicker of firelight in the distance, and his heart skipped. He had left the horses unattended—if a thief spotted them...

Drawing his sword and raising his shield, Duncan sprinted toward the animals, his voice rising in anger.

"Leave them alone, you sons of—"

Duncan froze as he saw the bald stableboy from the inn, crouched beside the fire.

"What? You?!" Duncan shouted, disbelief clear in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

The damned boy just looked up at him, calm as ever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Cooking a fish," he said nonchalantly. "Want some?"

AN: Yeah, this is the best place to end the chapter, believe it or not.

I've had this fic idea stuck in my head for a while now, and when I finally sat down to write it, it wasn't half bad. It's actually been helping me break through my writer's block while I work on my other stories. Now I see why so many writers juggle multiple fics at once.

The original concept was to have Shirou reborn as Aegon IV's bastard son. But after writing that much, I ran into some major roadblocks about where to take the plot, so I decided to shift the timeline a bit.

By the way, anyone want to take a guess as to why I chose Emery Shepherd as Shirou's new name?