A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms #2
Thunder was restless, in a way that Dunk had seldom seen before.
The stallion tossed his head from side to side as Egg was tightening his saddle cinch.
He even bared his big square teeth at the boy.
It is so hot, Dunk thought, too hot for man or mount.
A warhorse does not have a placid disposition even at the best of times.
The Mother herself would be foul-tempered in this heat.
In the center of the yard the jousters began another run.
Ser Harbert rode a golden courser barded in black and decorated with the red and white serpents of House Paege, Ser Franklyn a sorrel whose grey silk trapper bore the twin towers of Frey.
When they came together, the red and white lance cracked clean in two and the blue one exploded into splinters, but neither man lost his seat.
A cheer went up from the viewing stand and the guardsmen on the castle walls, but it was short and thin and hollow.
It is too hot for cheering. Dunk mopped sweat from his brow.
It is too hot for jousting. His head was beating like a drum.
Let me win this tilt and one more, and I will be content.
The knights wheeled their horses about at the end of the lists and tossed down the jagged remains of their lances, the fourth pair they had broken.
Three too many. Dunk had put off donning his armor as long as he dared, yet already he could feel his smallclothes sticking to his skin beneath his steel.
There are worse things than being soaked with sweat, he told himself, remembering the fight on the White Lady, when the ironmen had come swarming over her side.
He had been soaked in blood by the time that day was done.
Fresh lances in hand, Paege and Frey put their spurs into their mounts once again.
Clods of cracked, dry earth sprayed back from beneath their horses’ hooves with every stride.
The crack of the lances breaking made Dunk wince.
Too much wine last night, and too much food.
He had some vague memory of carrying the bride up the steps and meeting John the Fiddler and Lord Peake upon a roof.
What was I doing on a roof? There had been talk of dragons, he recalled, or dragon’s eggs, or something, but…
A noise broke his reverie, part roar and part moan.
Dunk saw the golden horse trotting riderless to the end of the lists, as Ser Harbert Paege rolled feebly on the ground.
Two more before my turn. The sooner he unhorsed Ser Uthor, the sooner he could take his armor off, have a cool drink, and rest. He should have at least an hour before they called him forth again.
Lord Butterwell’s portly herald climbed to the top of the viewing stand to summon the next pair of jousters.
“Ser Argrave the Defiant,” he called, “a knight of Nunny, in service to Lord Butterwell of Whitewalls. Ser Glendon Flowers, the Knight of the Pussywillows. Come forth and prove your valor.” A gale of laughter rippled through the viewing stands.
Ser Argrave was a spare, leathery man, a seasoned household knight in dinted grey armor riding an unbarded horse.
Dunk had known his sort before; such men were tough as old roots and knew their business.
His foe was young Ser Glendon, mounted on his wretched stot and armored in a heavy mail hauberk and open-faced iron halfhelm.
On his arm his shield displayed his father’s fiery sigil.
He needs a breastplate and a proper helm, Dunk thought.
A blow to the head or chest could kill him, clad like that.
Ser Glendon was plainly furious at his introduction.
He wheeled his mount in an angry circle, and shouted, “I am Glendon Ball, not Glendon Flowers. Mock me at your peril, herald. I warn you, I have hero’s blood.
” The herald did not deign to reply, but more laughter greeted the young knight’s protest. “Why are they laughing at him?” Dunk wondered aloud.
“Is he a bastard, then?” Flowers was the surname given to bastards born of noble parents in the Reach.
“And what was all that about pussywillows?”
“I could find out, ser,” said Egg.
“No. It is none of our concern. Do you have my helm?” Ser Argrave and Ser Glendon dipped their lances before Lord and Lady Butterwell. Dunk saw Butterwell lean over and whisper something in his bride’s ear. The girl began to giggle.
“Yes, ser.” Egg had donned his floppy hat, to shade his eyes and keep the sun off his shaven head.
Dunk liked to tease the boy about that hat, but just now he wished he had one like it.
Better a straw hat than an iron one, beneath this sun.
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, eased the greathelm down into place with two hands, and fastened it to his gorget.
The lining stank of old sweat, and he could feel the weight of all that iron on his neck and shoulders.
His head throbbed from last night’s wine.
“Ser,” Egg said, “it is not too late to withdraw. If you lose Thunder and your armor…”
I would be done as a knight. “Why should I lose?” Dunk demanded. Ser Argrave and Ser Glendon had ridden to opposite ends of the lists. “It is not as if I face the Laughing Storm. Is there some knight here like to give me trouble?”
“Almost all of them, ser.”
“I owe you a clout in the ear for that. Ser Uthor is ten years my senior and half my size.” Ser Argrave lowered his visor. Ser Glendon did not have a visor to lower.
“You have not ridden in a tilt since Ashford Meadow, ser.”
Insolent boy. “I’ve trained.” Not as faithfully as he might have, to be sure. When he could, he took his turn riding at quintains or rings, where such were available. And sometimes he would command Egg to climb a tree and hang a shield or barrel stave beneath a well-placed limb for them to tilt at.
“You’re better with a sword than with a lance,” Egg said. “With an axe or a mace there are few to match your strength.”
There was enough truth in that to annoy Dunk all the more. “There is no contest for swords or maces,” he pointed out, as Fireball’s son and Ser Argrave the Defiant began their charge. “Go get my shield.”
Egg made a face, then went to fetch the shield.
Across the yard, Ser Argrave’s lance struck Ser Glendon’s shield and glanced off, leaving a gouge across the comet.
But Ball’s coronal found the center of his foe’s breastplate with such force that it burst his saddle cinch.
Knight and saddle both went tumbling to the dust. Dunk was impressed despite himself.
The boy jousts almost as well as he talks.
He wondered if that would stop their laughing at him.
A trumpet rang, loud enough to make Dunk wince. Once more the herald climbed his stand. “Ser Joffrey of House Caswell, Lord of Bitterbridge and Defender of the Fords. Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor. Come forth and prove your valor.”
Ser Kyle’s armor was of good quality but old and worn, with many dints and scratches. “The Mother has been merciful to me, Ser Duncan,” he told Dunk and Egg, on his way to the lists. “I am sent against Lord Caswell, the very man I came to see.”
If any man upon the field felt worse than Dunk this morning it had to be Lord Caswell, who had drunk himself insensible at the feast. “It’s a wonder he can sit ahorse after last night,” said Dunk. “The victory is yours, ser.”
“Oh, no.” Ser Kyle smiled a silken smile.
“The cat who wants his bowl of cream must know when to purr and when to show his claws, Ser Duncan. If his lordship’s lance so much as scrapes against my shield, I shall go tumbling to the earth.
Afterward, when I bring my horse and armor to him, I will compliment his lordship on how much his prowess has grown since I made him his first sword.
That will recall me to him, and before the day is out I shall be a Caswell man again, a knight of Bitterbridge. ”
There is no honor in that, Dunk almost said, but he bit his tongue instead. Ser Kyle would not be the first hedge knight to trade his honor for a warm place by the fire. “As you say,” he muttered. “Good fortune to you. Or bad, if you prefer.”
Lord Joffrey Caswell was a weedy youth of twenty, though admittedly he looked rather more impressive in his armor than he had last night when he’d been facedown in a puddle of wine.
A yellow centaur was painted on his shield, pulling on a longbow.
The same centaur adorned the white silk trappings of his horse and gleamed atop his helm in yellow gold.
A man who has a centaur for his sigil should ride better than that.
Dunk did not know how well Ser Kyle wielded a lance, but from the way Lord Caswell sat his horse it looked as though a loud cough might unseat him.
All the Cat need do is ride past him very fast.
Egg held Thunder’s bridle as Dunk swung himself ponderously up into the high, stiff saddle. As he sat there waiting, he could feel the eyes upon him. They are wondering if the big hedge knight is any good. Dunk wondered that himself. He would find out soon enough.
The Cat of Misty Moor was true to his word.
Lord Caswell’s lance was wobbling all the way across the field, and Ser Kyle’s was ill aimed.
Neither man got his horse up past a trot.
All the same, the Cat went tumbling when Lord Joffrey’s coronal chanced to whack his shoulder.
I thought all cats landed gracefully upon their feet, Dunk thought, as the hedge knight rolled in the dust. Lord Caswell’s lance remained unbroken.
As he brought his horse around, he thrust it high into the air repeatedly, as if he’d just unseated Leo Longthorn or the Laughing Storm.
The Cat pulled off his helm and went chasing down his horse.