The Kneeling Man

[Ollie]

An inn that has a reputation for being in ill repair, the Kneeling Man is located on the River Road between Riverrun and Lord Harroway's Town, sitting on the banks of the Red Fork. Hanging from a lopsided baton is a wooden sign with peeling paint depicting what could be taken either as an ancient King of the North kneeling away his crown, or perhaps a rather fat duck devouring a rotten peach. Given the name of the tavern, the former was most likely.

[Ollie]

Ser Dunnock stumbled into the Kneeling Man, much as he had the Mallard's Malice before it, and the Hangman's Haven before that, and the... the Jester's Jest before that? No... That wasn't right. The Jester's ... It was the Jester's Something, Dunnock was sure of that.

No matter.

Ser Dunnock stumbled, as he had for the past fortnight, into the tavern, and bellowed for a drink. "Mead, ale, wine, cider... a-ale...? Did I say tha' already lass? Ain't no rightly matter! Bring 'em an' I'll drink 'em!" He gave a red-face guffaw that matched the stain of his teeth, and stumbled to the back of the common room.

The place was more quiet than not, most folk drawn to King's Landing for the Royal wedding celebrations, no doubt. Aside from the Bloody Sparrow and a few old hens clucking behind the bar, it was empty.

The hedge knight collapsed into a bench and raised his imaginary glass, "Aye! 'ere's t' e'ery feckless bastard 'ose fought in a tourney!" With that, he threw back his empty hand, drained the air, and slumped backwards.

[Horas]

"Here's to that," says a voice from behind the Bloody Sparrow, a low rumble reminiscent of a rockslide. The man, a heavyset middle aged warrior with a long blond beard, sits down unbidden across from Dunnock. One hand clutches a pint of ale.

The bearded man waves a serving wench over. "Another drink for my friend," he rumbles, "The man looks like he needs it."

[Ollie]

"A right lordship I'd give ye, t'were I king!" he chuckled, thankfully indulging in the stranger's hospitality in the form of a pint of ale. It was heady, warm, and thick enough to cut with a knife, and Ser Dunnock loved it.

A long draft later, the hedge knight shambles over to the rumbling voice. "What's yer name, milord?"

[Horas]

"Lord?" The man laughs deeply, "I'm no lord, Ser. I'm just Rolf."

Rolf smiles. "And you're the one they call the Bloody Sparrow, aren't you? Ser Dunnock Rivers."

[Ollie]

The alcohol clouded emotions of amiability, distrust, and unbidden recollection each paraded across his face in their own time. "Ser Dunnock is me name," he said as coolly as a man half in his cups could muster. "Seen th' Bloody Sparrow 'imself in a tourney, no doubt?"

[Horas]

"Aye," Rolf says, taking a drink of his own ale. "Some affair in the Riverlands a few years back, in Darry lands, was it? I remember the grin." Rolf no doubt refers to Dunnock's hideous red smile.

[Ollie]

Dunnock perhaps failed to recall that specific instance of his bravery and valor, but nodded along anyway, the very sanguine grin spreading wide across his face after a swig of the ale-like bread.

"Yer a right goodman, M'lord Rolf. I pray the Bloody Sparrow won ye a great fistfull o' stags."

[Horas]

"Indeed you did," Rolf grins and leans back, rolling his shoulders. "Tell me, Dunnock, you serving any high lord at the moment? Me and mine are always in need of a clever man and a strong sword arm."

[Ollie]

The hedge knight sloshed his head to and fro. "The Bloody Sparrow ain't servin' nary a lord, milord," he chuckled thickly, the jape of this gruff lowborn so generous with his coin being the likes of a lord only fueled by his offer of employment.

"Sword arm I got well 'nuff, rightly, an' ye'll find me wiff wits 'nuff t'fight an' serve."

[Horas]

A serving wench passes nearby, and Rolf does not immediately reply, but instead turns to her. "How about something to eat, lass? I saw some chickens cooped outside." He slides a golden dragon down the table, making sure Dunnock sees it. Rolf does not look close to the sort of man who'd have the means to toss golden dragons across the table. "Keep the change."

When she hurries back to the kitchens, looking incredulously at the gold in her palm, Rolf turns back to Dunnock. "Y'see, Dunnock, I ask about the wits, 'cause this job has a bit of play-acting involved. The sort of job where you swear your sword to some high lord, but you only pretend to listen to him. But really you'd be reporting to one of my friends. You think you could do something like that, Dunnock?"

[Ollie]

Dunnock crooked a brow, his hazel eyes particularly gold-like and twinkling themselves as the dragon soared from Rolf's hand to the wench's pocket. "Ye... ye..." he stammered for a moment, trying to find his tongue. "Y-ye are a lord then?" he said gesturing with a nod to Rolf as if his words made it true.

The gory toothed hedge knight blinked a few times, then canted his head. "Aye," he nodded, speaking in the slowness men in their cups often do, "Aye, milord. I could do somethin' like tha'.

[Horas]

Rolf grins. "That's good, Ser Dunnock." He stretches his legs and suddenly rises, looking in the direction of the door. "I think I'll go for a walk. Care to join me?"

[Ollie]

"A walk," he mumbled, eyes flickering through the tavern.

"A walk," he repeated, this time clearer. "Aye a walk." Ser Dunnock sprang to his feet, to his dismay, much too quickly. The bastard river swayed a moment then sat down hard.

"Aye, a walk, but what 'bout yer chicken?" he remembered inconveniently.

[Horas]

"They'll keep it hot for me, with what I paid. Come now." The man walks out of the tavern into the chilly night air, away from prying ears.