The only thing I remember of the dream I had last night was reading a book that I found at someone's place, just randomly opening it from the middle and starting to read from the middle of the scene.
It was historical fiction, roughly central Europe, I suppose somewhere around the 1300s-1600s, just depicting a scene of the protagonist, who was some sort of a knight, nobleman or such, sitting outside a tent at a campsite watching this kid, a boy of seven or eight years old, do chores in front of the tent fixing his stuff. A squire or servant of some other sort, specifically here just to do work for the protagonist.
And in the scene it's cold, just at the end of autumn when there's no snow yet but it feels like there ought to be, frost on tips of blades of dead grass that makes everything look like silver and sanded glass, with peoples' and horses breath fogging up into visible clouds. And he watches this kid work with no proper coat or anything, hands red and stiff from the cold, and he feels bad for this kid.
So he goes "boy, it's cold as shit in here. Get over here and keep me warm." And the kid puts down whatever he was working on and does as he's told, comes to sit on his master's lap and gets wrapped into his cloak. And the kid is cold as shit and his clothes are damp around the edges and this is extremely uncomfortable for the protagonist here in particular, but he could at least let the kid warm up on himself, while also maintaining the dignified facade of "I don't give a shit about you and you are here purely for my convenience".
So I was reading that and thinking "damn I gotta remember the name of this book and find it later" and then waking up, I remember that not only do I not remember the name of the book or the author, I know for certain that it doesn't exist at all.
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