Read Online The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George R. R. Martin
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keep my hair shaved or dyed,”
the boy said with obvious reluctance, “ and tell no man my true name.”
Dunk nodded. “How much wine had
this boy drunk?” “He was drinking barley beer.”
“You see? The barley beer was
talking. Words are wind, Egg. Just let them blow on past you.”
“Some words are wind.” The boy was
nothing if not stubborn. “Some words are treason. This is a traitor’s tourney,
ser.”
“What, all of them?” Dunk shook
his head. “If it was true, that was a long time ago. The Black Dragon’s dead,
and those who fought with him are fled or pardoned. And it’s not true. Lord
Butterwell’s sons fought on both sides.”
“That makes him half a
traitor, ser.”
“Sixteen years ago.” Dunk’s
mellow winey haze was gone. He felt angry, and near sober. “Lord Butterwell’s
steward is the master of the games, a man named Cosgrove. Find him and enter my
name for the lists. No, wait ... hold back my name.” With so many lords on
hand, one of them might recall Ser Duncan the Tall from Ashford Meadow. “Enter
me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a Mystery Knight
appeared at a tourney.
Egg fingered his fat lip. “The
Gallows Knight, ser?”
“For the shield.”
“Yes, but—”
“Go do as I said. You have read
enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and
forefinger.
* * * *
The
sun rose hot and hard, implacable.
Waves of heat rose shimmering off
the white stones of the castle. The air smelled of baked earth and torn grass,
and no breath of wind stirred the banners that drooped atop the keep and
gatehouse, green and white and yellow. 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 war horse
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 gray 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 he 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
the boy said with obvious reluctance, “ and tell no man my true name.”
Dunk nodded. “How much wine had
this boy drunk?” “He was drinking barley beer.”
“You see? The barley beer was
talking. Words are wind, Egg. Just let them blow on past you.”
“Some words are wind.” The boy was
nothing if not stubborn. “Some words are treason. This is a traitor’s tourney,
ser.”
“What, all of them?” Dunk shook
his head. “If it was true, that was a long time ago. The Black Dragon’s dead,
and those who fought with him are fled or pardoned. And it’s not true. Lord
Butterwell’s sons fought on both sides.”
“That makes him half a
traitor, ser.”
“Sixteen years ago.” Dunk’s
mellow winey haze was gone. He felt angry, and near sober. “Lord Butterwell’s
steward is the master of the games, a man named Cosgrove. Find him and enter my
name for the lists. No, wait ... hold back my name.” With so many lords on
hand, one of them might recall Ser Duncan the Tall from Ashford Meadow. “Enter
me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a Mystery Knight
appeared at a tourney.
Egg fingered his fat lip. “The
Gallows Knight, ser?”
“For the shield.”
“Yes, but—”
“Go do as I said. You have read
enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and
forefinger.
* * * *
The
sun rose hot and hard, implacable.
Waves of heat rose shimmering off
the white stones of the castle. The air smelled of baked earth and torn grass,
and no breath of wind stirred the banners that drooped atop the keep and
gatehouse, green and white and yellow. 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 war horse
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 gray 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 he 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
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