by James Lowder
If, then, there are inevitable intimations of such dark possibilities within A Song of Ice and Fire, one alternative would be to take the story backward, into preceding phases of the cycle of romance that are related to comedy. Or, if authors resolve to explore the prehistory of their fantasy worlds for other reasons, they may find themselves naturally impelled toward stories that resemble comedy more than romance. Thus, while one can never be sure precisely what led Martin to begin writing his prequels, it is not surprising to find that, in contrast to the main epic, the resulting stories initially seem to project the lighter tone of an enjoyable diversion, reflecting the spirit of the springtime mythos of comedy.
The characters of Dunk and Egg, in fact, seem precisely crafted to serve as comic alternatives to the more serious-minded events of the main series. As a bastard who knows nothing about his parents, Dunk is entirely unconnected to the royal families in A Song of Ice and Fire and thus unencumbered by any inherited responsibilities. Though he impresses people with his great height, which is why he names himself “Ser Duncan the Tall,” Dunk does not always seem an especially talented fighter—in the third Dunk and Egg story, “The Mystery Knight,” he is easily defeated by a superior opponent. Neither does he appear to be unusually intelligent—whenever he makes a mistake, he mentally repeats what his knight used to tell him, “Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall,” and he describes Egg as “braver than I am, and more clever.” Thus, unlike the princes and warriors of the main series, he is never burdened by high expectations as he muddles his way through an adventure. Further, by employing the accoutrements of knighthood he inherited from the knight he served as a squire, Dunk can improvise his way into the company of nobles. Yet, as a traveling “hedge knight,” he can serve whatever cause or employer that seems best. Thus, he may become any sort of person he wants to be, reflecting Frye’s observation that “there can hardly be such a thing as inevitable comedy,” in contrast to the sense of inevitability that may, as noted, haunt the mythos of romance.
As for Egg, he may be of noble birth, and destined to become King Aegon V, but he has literally escaped from all the normal responsibilities of a young prince. When Dunk first encounters him, the boy has been traveling incognito (his head shaved so as not to reveal his family’s distinctive golden and silvery hair), in an effort to avoid becoming his brother’s squire; Dunk takes him for a stable boy and, at the youth’s insistence, reluctantly employs him as his squire. Later, after his true identity is revealed, Egg insists upon remaining Dunk’s squire, and when Dunk refuses to serve at court, Egg is allowed to accompany him during his travels as a knight-for-hire, still disguised as a poor boy, which Dunk indicates will serve as the best sort of training for the youthful nobleman. His nickname, in fact, has at least three meanings: of course, “Egg” is a shortened form of “Aegon”; it is an appropriate name for a bald boy, as Dunk notes—“His head does look like an egg”; and the egg is regularly employed as a symbol of rebirth. In a sense, Egg is being reborn, as he sheds the clothing and duties of a prince to begin learning about life from the new perspective of a common man. Indeed, when Dunk first sees Egg, he is stark naked, emerging from a bath in a stream, much like a newborn child.
It is also worth noting, in terms of seasonal imagery, that “The Hedge Knight” begins during the spring, as Dunk buries his former employer and is thus free to begin his own career as a knight, in keeping with Frye’s dictum that comedy involves a transition “from a society controlled by habit, ritual bondage, arbitrary law and the older characters to a society controlled by youth and pragmatic freedom” (unlike romance, which generally focuses on the defense of an established order, not its overthrow). The introductory references to a shining sun, though interrupted by “spring rains,” are pointedly dissimilar to the cold, dark night that begins A Game of Thrones, immediately suggesting a story with a lighter tone. The story further seems like a comedy, in its Fryean structure at least, as the lowly Dunk first bests the dissolute Prince Aerion by preventing him from harming a female puppeteer, and later defeats him in a joust, temporarily upending the social order by having a peasant triumph over a prince—a reflection of Frye’s point that comedy involves “a reversal of social standards.” True, the story still has significant connections to the main series: the drunken Prince Daeron provides an aura of destiny by displaying the Targaryen gift for prophetic dreams, as he relates a dream of Dunk with a dead dragon that correctly predicts the death of Prince Baelor; and since Dunk’s battle with Aerion, in which each is accompanied by six knights, caused Baelor’s death and led to Aerion’s exile, the story contributes to the chain of improbable events that eventually placed Egg on the throne. Still, “The Hedge Knight,” as a whole, seems inconsequential, as it is not a story that anyone needs to know in order to appreciate the main series.
More significantly, the story apparently sets the stage for a series of colorful adventures that will have little if any relationship to the weightier matters of A Song of Ice and Fire: Dunk and Egg will roam through the countryside, forming temporary alliances and facing various perils, with each episode contributing in some way to the maturation of Dunk and education of young Egg. This would aptly describe the second Dunk and Egg story, “The Sworn Sword”: Dunk has attached himself to a minor knight, Ser Eustace, and must take his side when a neighboring noble, the widowed Lady Rohanne, diverts his stream into her territory. Though Dunk defeats her champion in a battle, the dispute is actually settled when Lady Rohanne, who needs a husband to legally keep her land, unexpectedly agrees to marry Ser Eustace. In the meantime, having discovered that Ser Eustace fought for would-be usurper Daemon in the Blackfyre Rebellion, a disillusioned Dunk resolves to leave his service and seek another assignment.
Overall, the story matches the pattern of Frye’s mythos of comedy, not the quest myth of romance. First, while a devastating draught does provide a dramatic background for the story, an effort to get one’s opponents to dismantle a dam necessarily seems less grand than the conflicts typically observed in fantasy; at one point, Dunk dismisses the matter as “just some pissing contest.” Dunk’s brief efforts to train some of Ser Eustace’s peasants for a possible battle reveal that the men are comically inept, and when Dunk refuses to let Egg accompany him to a confrontation with Lady Rohanne, the boy goes behind his back to persuade Ser Eustace to require his presence, leading Dunk to ruefully lament that he had been “Outwitted by a boy of ten,” reinforcing the idea that he is none too bright. While Dunk does win his concluding battle, it is a clumsy affair, taking place in a stream and utterly lacking the dignity of a knightly joust. In addition, the battle turns out to be of little import, as matters are actually resolved by an unexpected and incongruous marriage, which Frye describes as the “most common” conclusion for a comedy. The marriage also represents an example of the sorts of “manipulation” and “unlikely conversions” that typically occur at the end of comedies.
Still, despite its generally comic spirit, some aspects of “The Sworn Sword” suggest a shift toward the more somber world of romance. First, while the literal seasons of stories may not always correspond to their metaphorical seasons (according to Frye’s theory), it may be significant that this tale is set in summer, not in spring, and the more portentous matters of dynastic succession again intrude upon the diversion, as Ser Eustace’s old involvement in the effort to oust King Daeron II becomes a key element in the plot. In addition, Ser Eustace is portrayed as a man who is living in the past, constantly telling stories about battles that occurred long ago and recalling his family’s formerly elevated status; as his knight Ser Bennis dismissively notes, the man keeps talking “about how great he used to be.” In contrast to comedy, his attitude seems to reflect the “extraordinarily persistent nostalgia” that Frye sees as characteristic of romance, and Ser Eustace further illustrates that such inclinations can be harmful: obsessed with memories of happier days, Ser Eustace has neglected to maintain any forces that could credibly fight on his behalf, so tha
t Dunk feels compelled to drive away the poorly prepared peasants he hastily recruited for the task, making it likely that the knight will permanently lose the stream that is vital to his estate.
In the end, though, Ser Eustace recovers by forcefully stepping into the present, accepting Lady Rohanne’s point that “The world changes,” and, by marrying her, he forges an improbable alliance that serves both of their interests. Intriguingly, one might interpret this development as a coded message to the authors of prequels: stop obsessing over the past of your imagined worlds and get back to their present. Without interviewing Martin, of course, one cannot tell if any such meaning was intended, or if he was in fact getting feedback from fans who were growing impatient with his prequels. Still, if an author ever feels the need to defend the creation of prequels, there are two possible approaches: to simply assert that, as a matter of responsibility, an author who starts writing prequels, for whatever reason, should finish their story; or to resolve to make the prequels seem more portentous, more integral to the main series, so they cannot be attacked as frivolous diversions.
Interestingly, there is evidence in the third novel of A Song of Ice and Fire, A Storm of Swords, suggesting precisely such a desire to heighten the import of the Dunk and Egg stories. In one scene, Jaime Lannister, the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, mentions Dunk as one of his distinguished predecessors:
The chair behind the table was old black oak, with cushions of blanched cowhide, the leather worn thin. Worn by the bony arse of Barristan the Bold and Ser Gerold Hightower before him, by Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redwyne, and the Demon of Darry, by Ser Duncan the Tall and the Pale Griffin Alyn Connington. How could the Kingslayer belong in such exalted company?
He also reads a biography of Barristan that mentions, as one of his noteworthy deeds, that he bested Ser Duncan at a tournament. And in case readers did not recall these fleeting references, Martin reminds them of Dunk’s fate throughout the third Dunk and Egg story, “The Mystery Knight”: Ser John the Fiddler, later revealed to be the son of the rebel Daemon Blackfyre, prophetically dreams that Dunk will become “a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard,” though Dunk ironically ridicules the idea on three occasions.
A man originally presented as a humble commoner, then, has been recast as someone, like Egg, who is destined to become a renowned figure, and he could hardly advance to such an elevated status by continuing to engage in petty squabbles involving rustic nobles. Instead, to explain his fate, Martin must provide him with adventures that will function in some way to elevate his stature, just as T.H. White elevated the stature of Arthur in moving from The Sword in the Stone (1938) to the later novels in The Once and Future King tetralogy (1938–1958), and as Tolkien elevated the stature of hobbits in moving from The Hobbit (1937) to The Lord of the Rings. This would provide one explanation for the tonal shift observed in “The Mystery Knight.” Ostensibly, this will simply be another random adventure for the pair, as Dunk and Egg, while traveling north to seek employment, encounter some knights who inform them about an upcoming wedding where there will be a joust, and Dunk decides to participate in the tournament.
However, this is also another story that takes place in the summer, not the spring, as the story opens with Dunk and Egg riding through a “light summer rain,” and the tournament turns out to be far more significant than Dunk and Egg suspect. For Daemon’s disguised son and other compatriots are actually gathering at the wedding to launch a second rebellion against King Daeron II, as Egg comes to suspect when he notices that many of its participants were involved in the first revolt. Further, after providing some inadvertent assistance in thwarting this effort, Dunk gets to meet the King’s Hand himself, the powerful Bloodraven, who thus becomes personally aware of the knight who has been secretly training his princely relative. So, having helped to prevent a rebellion, and having made a friend in high places, Dunk now seems better positioned for his eventual elevation to the Kingsguard, though further triumphs will presumably be necessary before he achieves that status.
As a small but significant sign of how the stories are changing, Bloodraven had previously figured as an unseen but constantly dreaded presence, said to be a sorcerer with spies everywhere, listening for the first signs of treasonous activity; in “The Sworn Sword,” recalling the time he had seen the man, Dunk reports that “the memory made him shiver,” and he regularly repeats a paranoid joke suggesting his pervasive vigilance: “How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? [. . .] A thousand eyes, and one.” This is exactly what typical characters in comedy, members of the lower class like Dunk, would think about a powerful and oppressive ruler. Yet at the end of “The Mystery Knight,” Bloodraven has a conversation with Dunk in which he comes across as a harsh but reasonable ruler, even capable of laughing at the imprudent demands of his cousin Egg, and Egg implicitly defends his ruthlessness by recalling what the man had told his father, that “it was better to be frightening than frightened.” Suddenly, Bloodraven seems a more likable fellow, perfectly in keeping with the main series’ theme of unreliable perspectives and tales; and the man who once feared him, and felt “ill-at-ease” around nobles in “The Hedge Knight,” has now spoken to him almost as an equal, signaling that Dunk has entered the company of royals and will henceforth share their attitudes.
And, while one can never be certain where Martin’s future prequels will take their characters, it would be reasonable to anticipate that later stories, like “The Mystery Knight,” will have Dunk, accompanied by a maturing Egg, continue to mingle with the royal names on the Westerosi genealogy charts, bolster his reputation by means of significant accomplishments, and eventually earn promotion to the Kingsguard, one of the highest posts available to a person not of royal blood. One might also speculate that his feats will prove to be important precursors to certain developments in the main series, to answer any possible objections to Martin’s ongoing attention to the character. As another aspect of Dunk’s growing prominence, it is also possible that Martin will clear up the mystery of his birth, perhaps revealing that he is in fact related to one of the epic’s great families. Indeed, Dunk’s vivid dreams, his concession to Ser John that he had also prophetically dreamed of joining the Kingsguard, and his earlier comment that “We’d all be bastard sons of old King Aegon if half these tales were true,” serve as hints that he is part of the Targaryen family.
In taking such steps, Martin would effectively transform the Dunk and Egg stories into essential precursors to A Song of Ice and Fire, and in the future, perhaps, one or more volumes of Dunk and Egg stories, not A Game of Thrones, will be presented as the true beginning of the series. And we see that the expectations raised by the end of the first Dunk and Egg tale—of a series of engaging but inconsequential adventures involving an itinerant knight and his squire—are not being met, and that these stories are instead taking on an aura of dignity and significance that recalls the original series, as they now involve the heroic achievements of a future military leader and the education of a future king.
It thus becomes necessary to modify the hypothesis previously advanced about the writing of prequels: it may appear that prequels would offer opportunities to craft comedic companion pieces to more portentous epics, but the resulting prequels inexorably come to replicate the nature and atmosphere of the original stories, becoming, one might say, portentous epics in themselves. Certainly, whatever escape Tolkien might have sought in his own inchoate prequels to The Lord of the Rings was never achieved, as all the materials in The Silmarillion mimic the grandeur of their predecessors. In the form of the detailed material eventually assembled as The Children of Húrin (2007), they even took on an explicitly tragic tone never observed in the trilogy itself. It is similarly possible that the Dunk and Egg stories, as their protagonists assume their royal roles and advance toward their already-chronicled deaths, will start to project the sense of impending tragedy arguably implicit in the original series. It might even become necessary to begin describing these prequ
els as the Duncan and Aegon stories, not the Dunk and Egg stories, to better reflect their burgeoning gravitas.
Thus, instead of providing Martin with alternative, lighter works to accompany the more serious main components of A Song of Ice and Fire series, the Dunk and Egg stories have become a serious matter in themselves, a second important task that Martin must complete, in addition to the original epic. Now, with two similar assignments in his inbox, whatever originally led Martin to begin writing prequels may now inspire him to launch another series of prequels involving new characters, which would again offer the possibility of diverting, comedic adventures. And if this begins to seem like an endless circular pattern, it would represent another variation on the cyclical narratives that Northrop Frye has argued are central to all forms of fantasy.
GARY WESTFAHL, now retired from the University of California, Riverside, works as an Adjunct Professor at the University of La Verne. In addition to publishing hundreds of articles and reviews, including over fifty film reviews for Locus Online, he is the author, editor, or co-editor of over twenty books about science fiction and fantasy, including the Hugo Award–nominated Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits and The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Science Fiction and Fantasy: Themes, Works, and Wonders. In 2003, he won the Science Fiction Research Association’s Pilgrim Award for his lifetime contributions to science fiction and fantasy scholarship.
