"Their shields are woven wood, ser. A lance could punch right through them, or a crossbow bolt".

"We may find some bits of armor for them, when they're ready". That was the best they could hope for.

"They might be killed, ser. Wet Wat is still half a boy. Will Barleycorn is to be married the next time the septon comes. And Big Rob doesn't even know his left foot from his right".

Dunk let the empty kettle thump down onto the hard-packed earthen floor. "Roger of Pennytree was younger than Wet Wat when he died on the Redgrass Field. There were men in your father's host who'd been just been married, too, and other men who'd never even kissed a girl. There were hundreds who didn't know their left foot from their right, maybe thousands".

"That was different, " Egg insisted. "That was war".

"So is this. The same thing, only smaller".

"Smaller and stupider, ser".

"That's not for you or me to say", Dunk told him. "It's their duty to go to war when Ser Eustace summons them… and to die, if need be".

"Then we shouldn't have named them, ser. It will only make the grief harder for us when they die". He screwed up his face. "If we used my boot-"

"No". Dunk stood on one leg to pull his own boot off.

"Yes, but my father-"

"No". The second boot went the way of the first.

"We– "

"No". Dunk pulled his sweat-stained tunic up over his head and tossed it at Egg. "Ask Sam Stoops' wife to wash that for me".

"I will, ser, but-"

"No, I said. Do you need a clout in the ear to help you hear better?" He unlaced his breeches. Underneath was only him; it was too hot for smallclothes. "It's good that you're concerned for Wat and Wat and Wat and the rest of them, but the boot is only meant for dire need". How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? A thousand eyes, and one. "What did your father tell you, when he sent you off to squire for me?"

"To keep my hair shaved or dyed, and tell no man my true name", the boy said, with obvious reluctance.

Egg had served Dunk for a good year and a half, though some days it seemed like twenty. They had climbed the Prince's Pass together and crossed the deep sands of Dorne, both red and white. A poleboat had taken them down the Greenblood to the Planky Town, where they took passage for Oldtown on the galleas White Lady . They had slept in stables, inns, and ditches, broken bread with holy brothers, whores, and mummers, and chased down a hundred puppet shows. Egg had kept Dunk's horse groomed, his longsword sharp, his mail free of rust. He had been as good a companion as any man could wish for, and the hedge knight had come to think of him almost as a little brother.

He isn't, though. This egg had been hatched of dragons, not of chickens. Egg might be a hedge knight's squire, but Aegon of House Targaryen was the fourth and youngest son of Maekar, Prince of Summerhall, himself the fourth son of the late King Daeron the Good, the Second of His Name, who'd sat the Iron Throne for five-and-twenty years until the Great Spring Sickness took him off.

"So far as most folk are concerned, Aegon Targaryen went back to Summerhall with his brother Daeron after the tourney at Ashford Meadow", Dunk reminded the boy. "Your father did not want it known that you were wandering the Seven Kingdoms with some hedge knight. So let's hear no more about your boot".

A look was all the answer that he got. Egg had big eyes, and somehow his shaven head made them look even larger. In the dimness of the lamplit cellar they looked black, but in better light their true color could be seen: deep and dark and purple. Valyrian eyes, thought Dunk. In Westeros, few but the blood of the dragon had eyes that color, or hair that shone like beaten gold and strands of silver woven all together.

When they'd been poling down the Greenblood, the orphan girls had made a game of rubbing Egg's shaven head for luck. It made the boy blush redder than a pomegranate. "Girls are so stupid ", he would say. "The next one who touches me is going into the river". Dunk had to tell him, "Then I'll be touching you. I'll give you such a clout in the ear you'll be hearing bells for a moon's turn". That only goaded the boy to further insolence. "Better bells than stupid girls ", he insisted, but he never threw anyone into the river.

Dunk stepped into the tub and eased himself down until the water covered him up to his chin. It was still scalding hot on top, though cooler farther down. He clenched his teeth to keep from yelping. If he did the boy would laugh. Egg liked his bathwater scalding hot.

"Do you need more water boiled, ser?"

"This will serve". Dunk rubbed at his arms and watched the dirt come off in long gray clouds. "Fetch me the soap. Oh, and the long-handled scrub brush, too". Thinking about Egg's hair had made him remember that his own was filthy. He took a deep breath and slid down beneath the water to give it a good soak. When he emerged again, sloshing, Egg was standing beside the tub with the soap and long-handled horsehair brush in hand. "You have hairs on your cheek", Dunk observed, as he took the soap from him. "Two of them. There, below your ear. Make sure you get them the next time you shave your head".

"I will, ser". The boy seemed pleased by the discovery.

No doubt he thinks a bit of beard makes him a man. Dunk had thought the same when he first found some fuzz growing on his upper lip. I tried to shave with my dagger, and almost nicked my nose off. "Go and get some sleep now", he told Egg. "I won't have any more need of you till morning".

It took a long while to scrub all the dirt and sweat away. Afterward, he put the soap aside, stretched out as much as he was able, and closed his eyes. The water had cooled by then. After the savage heat of the day, it was a welcome relief. He soaked till his feet and fingers were all wrinkled up and the water had gone gray and cold, and only then reluctantly climbed out.

Though he and Egg had been given thick straw pallets down in the cellar, Dunk preferred to sleep up on the roof. The air was fresher there, and sometimes there was a breeze. It was not as though he need have much fear of rain. The next time it rained on them up there would be the first.

Egg was asleep by the time Dunk reached the roof. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head and stared up at the sky. The stars were everywhere, thousands and thousands of them. It reminded him of a night at Ashford Meadow, before the tourney started. He had seen a falling star that night. Falling stars were supposed to bring you luck, so he'd told Tanselle to paint it on his shield, but Ashford had been anything but lucky for him. Before the tourney ended, he had almost lost a hand and a foot, and three good men had lost their lives. I gained a squire, though. Egg was with me when I rode away from Ashford. That was the only good thing to come of all that happened.

He hoped that no stars fell tonight.

There were red mountains in the distance and white sands beneath his feet. Dunk was digging, plunging a spade into the dry hot earth, and flinging the fine sand back over his shoulder. He was making a hole. A grave, he thought, a grave for hope. A trio of Dornish knights stood watching, making mock of him in quiet voices. Farther off the merchants waited with their mules and wayns and sand sledges. They wanted to be off, but he could not leave until he'd buried Chestnut. He would not leave his old friend to the snakes and scorpions and sand dogs.

The stot had died on the long thirsty crossing between the Prince's Pass and Vaith, with Egg upon his back. His front legs just seemed to fold up under him, and he knelt right down, rolled onto his side, and died. His carcass sprawled beside the hole. Already it was stiff. Soon it would begin to smell.