“Some never will,” Dunk told him. “It doesn’t matter what you do. Others, though . . . they’re not all the same. I’ve met some good ones.” He thought a moment. “When the tourney’s done, Egg and I mean to go north. Take service at Winterfell, and fight for the Starks against the ironmen. You could come with us.” The north was a world all its own, Ser Arlan always said. No one up there was like to know the tale of Penny Jenny and the Knight of the Pussywillows. No one will laugh at you up there. They will know you only by your blade, and judge you by your worth.
Ser Glendon gave him a suspicious look. “Why would I want to do that? Are you telling me I need to run away and hide?”
“No. I just thought . . . two swords instead of one. The roads are not as safe as they once were.”
“That’s true enough,” the boy said grudgingly, “but my father was once promised a place amongst the Kingsguard. I mean to claim the white cloak that he never got to wear.”
You have as much chance of wearing a white cloak as I do, Dunk almost said. You were born of a camp follower, and I crawled out of the gutters of Flea Bottom. Kings do not heap honor on the likes of you and me. The lad would not have taken kindly to that truth, however. Instead he said, “Strength to your arm, then.”
He had not gone more than a few feet when Ser Glendon called after him. “Ser Duncan, wait. . . . . I should not have been so sharp. A knight must needs be courteous, my mother used to say.” The boy seemed to be struggling for words. “Lord Peake came to see me, after my last joust. He offered me a place at Starpike. He said there was a storm coming the likes of which Westeros had not seen for a generation, that he would need swords and men to wield them. Loyal men, who knew how to obey.”
Dunk could hardly believe it. Gormon Peake had made his scorn for hedge knights plain, both on the road and on the roof, but the offer was a generous one. “Peake is a great lord,” he said, wary, “but . . . but not a man that I would trust, I think.”
“No.” The boy flushed. “There was a price. He’d take me into his service, he said . . . but first I would have to prove my loyalty. He would see that I was paired against his friend the Fiddler next, and he wanted me to swear that I would lose.”
Dunk believed him. He should have been shocked, he knew, and yet somehow he wasn’t. “What did you say?”
“I said I might not be able to lose to the Fiddler even if I were trying, that I had already unhorsed much better men than him, that the dragon’s egg would be mine before the day was done.” Ball smiled feebly. “It was not the answer that he wanted. He called me a fool, then, and told me that I had best watch my back. The Fiddler had many friends, he said, and I had none.”
Dunk put a hand upon his shoulder, and squeezed. “You have one, ser. Two, once I find Egg.”
The boy looked him in the eye, and nodded. “It is good to know there are some true knights still.”
Dunk got his first good look at Ser Tommard Heddle whilst searching for Egg amongst the crowds about the lists. Heavy-set and broad, with a chest like a barrel, Lord Butterwell’s good-son wore black plate over boiled leather, and an ornate helm fashioned in the likeness of some demon, scaled and slavering. His horse was three hands taller than Thunder and two stone heavier, a monster of a beast armored in a coat of ringmail. The weight of all that iron made him slow, so Heddle never got up past a canter when the course was run; but that did not prevent him making short work of Ser Clarence Charlton. As Charlton was borne from the field upon a litter, Heddle removed his demonic helm. His head was broad and bald, his beard black and square. Angry red boils festered on his cheek and neck.
Dunk knew that face. Heddle was the knight who’d growled at him in the bedchamber when he touched the dragon’s egg, the man with the deep voice that he’d heard talking with Lord Peake.
A jumble of words came rushing back to him . . . beggar’s feast you’ve laid before us . . . is the boy his father’s son . . . Bittersteel . . . need the sword . . . Old Milkblood expects . . . is the boy his father’s son . . . I promise you, Bloodraven is not off dreaming . . . is the boy his father’s son?
He stared at the viewing stand, wondering if somehow Egg had contrived to take his rightful place amongst the notables. There was no sign of the boy, however. Butterwell and Frey were missing too, though Butterwell’s wife was still in her seat, looking bored and restive. That’s queer, Dunk reflected. This was Butterwell’s castle, his wedding, and Frey was father to his bride. These jousts were in their honor. Where would they have gone?
“Ser Uthor Underleaf,” the herald boomed. A shadow crept across Dunk’s face as the sun was swallowed by a cloud. “Ser Theomore of House Bulwer, the Old Ox, a knight of Blackcrown. Come forth and prove your valor.”
The Old Ox made a fearsome sight in his blood red armor, with black bull’s horns rising from his helm. He needed the help of a brawny squire to get onto his horse, though, and the way his head was always turning as he rode suggested that Ser Maynard had been right about his eye. Still, the man received a lusty cheer as he took the field.
Not so the Snail, no doubt just as he preferred. On the first pass, both knights struck glancing blows. On the second, the Old Ox snapped his lance on the Ser Uthor’s shield, while the Snail’s blow missed entirely. The same thing happened on the third pass, and this time Ser Uthor swayed as if about to fall. He is feigning, Dunk realized. He is drawing the contest out to fatten the odds for next time. He had only to glance around to see Will at work, making wagers for his master. Only then did it occur to him that he might have fattened his own purse with a coin or two upon the Snail. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
The Old Ox fell on fifth pass, knocked sideways by a coronal that slipped deftly off his shield to take him in the chest. His foot tangled in his stirrup as he fell, and he was dragged forty yards across the field before his men could get his horse under control. Again the litter came out, to bear him to the maester. A few drops of rain began to fall as Bulwer was carried away, darkened his surcoat where they fell. Dunk watched without expression. He was thinking about Egg. What if this secret enemy of mine has got his hands on him? It made as much sense as anything else. The boy is blameless. If someone has a quarrel with me, it should not be him who answers for it.
Ser John the Fiddler was being armed for his next tilt when Dunk found him. No fewer than three squires were attending him, buckling on his armor and seeing to the trappings of his horse, whilst Lord Alyn Cockshaw sat nearby drinking watered wine and looking bruised and peevish. When he caught sight of Dunk, Lord Alyn sputtered, dribbling. wine upon on his chest. “How is it that you’re still walking about? The Snail stove your face in.”
“Steely Pate made me a good strong helm, m’lord. And my head is hard as stone, Ser Arlan used to say.”
The Fiddler laughed. “Pay no mind to Alyn. Fireball’s bastard knocked him off his horse onto that plump little rump of his, so now he has decided that he hates all hedge knights.”
“That wretched pimpled creature is no son of Quentyn Ball,” insisted Alyn Cockshaw. “He should never have been allowed to compete. If this were my wedding, I should have had him whipped for his presumption.”
“What maid would marry you?” Ser John said. “And Ball’s presumption is a deal less grating than your pouting. Ser Duncan, are you perchance a friend of Galtry the Green? I must shortly part him from his horse.”
Dunk did not doubt it. “I do not know the man, m’lord.”
“Will you take a cup of wine? Some bread and olives?”
“Only a word, m’lord.”
“You may have all the words you wish. Let us adjourn to my pavilion.” The Fiddler held the flap for him. “Not you, Alyn. You could do with a few less olives, if truth be told.”
Inside, the Fiddler turned back to Dunk. “I knew Ser Uthor had not killed you. My dreams are never wrong. And the Snail must face me soon enough. Once I’ve unhorsed him, I shall demand your arms and armor back. Your destrier as well, though you deserve a
better mount. Will you take one as my gift?”
“I . . . no . . . I couldn’t do that.” The thought made Dunk uncomfortable. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, but . . . ”
“If it is the debt that troubles you, put the thought from your mind. I do not need your silver, ser. Only your friendship. How can you be one of my knights without a horse?” Ser John drew on his gauntlets of lobstered steel and flexed his fingers.
“My squire is missing.”
“Ran off with a girl, perhaps?”
“Egg’s too young for girls, m’lord. He would never leave me of his own will. Even if I were dying, he would stay until my corpse was cold. His horse is still here. So is our mule.”
“If you like, I could ask my men to look for him.”
My men. Dunk did not like the sound of that. A tourney for traitors, he thought. “You are no hedge knight.”
“No.” The Fiddler’s smile was full of boyish charm. “But you knew that from the start. You have been calling me m’lord since we met upon the road, why is that?”
“The way you talk. The way you look. The way you act.” Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. “Up on the roof last night, you said some things . . . ”
“Wine makes me talk too much, but I meant every word. We belong together, you and I. My dreams do not lie.”
“Your dreams don’t lie,” said Dunk, “but you do. John is not your true name, is it?”
“No.” The Fiddler’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
He has Egg’s eyes.
“His true name will be revealed soon enough, to those who need to know.” Lord Gormon Peake had slipped into the pavilion, scowling. “Hedge knight, I warn you—”
“Oh, stop it, Gormy,” said the Fiddler “Ser Duncan is with us, or will be soon. I told you, I dreamed of him.” Outside, a herald’s trumpet blew. The Fiddler turned his head. “They are calling me to the lists. Pray excuse me, Ser Duncan. We can resume our talk after I dispose of Ser Galtry the Green.”
“Strength to your arm,” Dunk said. It was only courteous.
Lord Gormon remained after Ser John had gone. “His dreams will be the death of all of us.”
“What did it take to buy Ser Galtry?” Dunk heard himself say. “Was silver sufficient, or does he require gold?”
“Someone has been talking, I see.” Peake seated himself in a camp chair. “I have a dozen men outside. I ought to call them in and have them slit your throat, ser.”
“Why don’t you?”
“His Grace would take it ill.”
His Grace. Dunk felt as though someone had punched him in the belly. Another black dragon, he thought. Another Blackfyre Rebellion. And soon another Redgrass Field. The grass was not red when the sun came up. “Why this wedding?”
“Lord Butterwell wanted a new young wife to warm his bed, and Lord Frey had a somewhat soiled daughter. Their nuptials provided a plausible pretext for some like-minded lords to gather. Most of those invited here fought for the black dragon once. The rest have reason to resent Bloodraven’s rule, or nurse grievances and ambitions of their own. Many of us had sons and daughters taken to King’s Landing to vouchsafe our future loyalty, but most of the hostages perished in the Great Spring Sickness. Our hands are no longer tied. Our time is come. Aerys is weak. A bookish man, and no warrior. The commons hardly know him, and what they know they do not like. His lords love him even less. His father was weak as well, that is true, but when his throne was threatened he had sons to take the field for him. Baelor and Maekar, the hammer and the anvil . . . but Baelor Breakspear is no more, and Prince Maekar sulks at Summerhall, at odds with king and Hand.”
Aye, thought Dunk, and now some fool hedge knight has delivered his favorite son into the hands of his enemies. How better to ensure that the prince never stirs from Summerhall? “There is Bloodraven,” he said. “He is not weak.”
“No,” Lord Peake allowed, “but no man loves a sorcerer, and kinslayers are accursed in the sight of gods and men. At the first sign of weakness or defeat, Bloodraven’s men will melt away like summer snows. And if the dream the prince has dreamed comes true, and a living dragon comes forth here at Whitewalls . . . ”
Dunk finished for him. “ . . . . the throne is yours.”
“His,” said Lord Gormon Peake. “I am but a humble servant.” He rose. “Do not attempt to leave the castle, ser. If you do, I will take it as a proof of treachery, and you will answer with your life. We have gone too far to turn back now.”
The leaden sky was spitting down rain in earnest as John the Fiddler and Ser Galtry the Green took up fresh lances at opposite ends of the lists. Some of the wedding guests were streaming off toward the great hall, huddled under cloaks.
Ser Galtry rode a white stallion. A drooping green plume adorned his helm, a matching plume his horse’s crinet. His cloak was a patchwork of many squares of fabric, each a different shade of green. Gold inlay made his greaves and gauntlet glitter, and his shield showed nine jade mullets upon a leek green field. Even his beard was dyed green, in the fashion of the men of Tyrosh across the narrow sea.
Nine times he and the Fiddler charged with levelled lances, the green patchwork knight and the young lordling of the golden swords and fiddles, and nine times their lances shattered. By the eighth run, the ground had begun to soften, and big destriers splashed through pools of rainwater. On the ninth, the Fiddler almost lost his seat, but recovered before he fell. “Well struck,” he called out, laughing. “You almost had me down, ser.”
“Soon enough,” the green knight shouted through the rain.
“No, I think not.” The Fiddler tossed his splintered lance away, and a squire handed him a fresh one.
The next run was their last. Ser Galtry’s lance scraped ineffectually off the Fiddler’s shield, whilst Ser John’s took the green knight squarely in the center of his chest and knocked him from his saddle, to land with a great brown splash. In the east Dunk saw the flash of distant lightning.
The viewing stands were emptying out quickly, as smallfolk and lordlings alike scrambled to get out of the wet. “See how they run,” murmured Alyn Cockshaw, as he slid up beside Dunk. “A few drops of rain and all the bold lords go squealing for shelter. What will they do when the real storm breaks, I wonder?”
The real storm. Dunk knew Lord Alyn was not talking about the weather. What does this one want? Has he suddenly decided to befriend me?
The herald mounted his platform once again. “Ser Tommard Heddle, a knight of Whitewalls, in service to Lord Butterwell,” he shouted, as thunder rumbled in the distance. “Ser Uthor Underleaf. Come forth and prove your valor.”
Dunk glanced over at Ser Uthor in time to see the Snail’s smile go sour. This is not the match he paid for. The master of the games had crossed him up, but why? Someone else has taken a hand, someone Cosgrove esteems more than Uthor Underleaf. Dunk chewed on that for a moment. They do not know that Uthor does not mean to win, he realized all at once. They see him as a threat, so they mean for Black Tom to remove him from the Fiddler’s path. Heddle himself was part of Peake’s conspiracy, he could be relied on to lose when the need arose. Which left no one but . . .
And suddenly Lord Peake himself was storming across the muddy field to climb the steps to the herald’s platform, his cloak flapping behind him. “We are betrayed,” he cried. “Bloodraven has a spy amongst us. The dragon’s egg is stolen!”
Ser John the Fiddler wheeled his mount around. “My egg? How is that possible? Lord Butterwell keeps guards outside his bedchamber night and day.”
“Slain,” Lord Peake declared, “but one man named his killer before he died.”
Does he mean to accuse me? Dunk wondered. A dozen men had seem him touch the dragon’s egg last night, when he’d carried Lady Butterwell to her lord husband’s bed.
Lord Gormon’s finger stabbed down in accusation. “There he stands. The whore’s son. Seize him.”
At the far end of the lists, Ser Glendon Ball looked up in confusion. For a m
oment he did not appear to comprehend what was happening, until he saw men rushing at him from all directions. Then the boy moved more quickly than Dunk could have believed. He had his sword half out of its sheath when the first man threw an arm around his throat. Ball wrenched free of his grip, but by then two more of them were on him. They slammed into him and dragged him down into the mud. Other men swarmed over them, shouting and kicking. That could be been me, Dunk realized. He felt as helpless as he had at Ashford, the day they’d told him he must lose a hand and a foot.
Alyn Cockshaw pulled him back. “Stay out of this, you want to find that squire of yours.”
Dunk turned on him. “What do you mean?”
“I may know where to find the boy.”
“Where?” Dunk was in no mood for games.
At the far end of the field, Ser Glendon was yanked roughly back onto his feet, pinioned between two men-at-arms in mail and halfhelms. He was brown with mud from waist to ankle, and blood and rain washed down his cheeks. Hero’s blood, thought Dunk, as Black Tom dismounted before the captive. “Where is the egg?”
Blood dribbled from Ball’s mouth. “Why would I steal the egg? I was about to win it.”
Aye, thought Dunk, and that they could not allow.
Black Tom slashed Ball across the face with a mailed fist. “Search his saddlebags,” Lord Peake commanded. “We’ll find the dragon’s egg wrapped up and hidden, I’ll wager.”
Lord Alyn lowered his voice, “And so they will. Come with me if you want to find your squire. There’s no better time than now, whilst they’re all occupied.” He did not wait for a reply.
Dunk had to follow. Three long strides brought him abreast of the lordling. “If you have done Egg any harm—”
“Boys are not to my taste. This way. Step lively now.”
Through an archway, down a set of muddy steps, around a corner, Dunk stalked after him, splashing through puddles as the rain fell around them. They stayed close to the walls, cloaked in shadows, finally stopping in a closed courtyard where the paving stones were smooth and slick. Buildings pressed close on every side. Above were windows, closed and shuttered. In the center of the courtyard was a well, ringed with a low stone wall.
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