damned, or I swear I'll see him dead.'
'Don't be an utter fool. Daeron is what he is, but he is still your blood and mine. I have no doubt Ser Roland will turn him up, and Aegon with him.'
'When the tourney is over, perhaps.'
'Aerion is here. He is a better lance than Daeron in any case, if it is the tourney that concerns you.' Dunk could see the speaker now. He was seated in the high seat, a sheaf of parchments in one hand, Lord Ashford hovering at his shoulder. Even seated, he looked to be a head taller than the other, to judge from the long straight legs stretched out before him. His short-cropped hair was dark and peppered with grey, his strong jaw clean- shaven. His nose looked as though it had been broken more than once. Though he was dressed very plainly, in green doublet, brown mantle, and scuffed boots, there was a weight to him, a sense of power and certainty.
It came to Dunk that he had walked in on something that he ought never have heard. I had best go and come back later, when they are done, he decided. But it was already too late. The prince with the silvery beard suddenly took note of him. 'Who are you, and what do you mean by bursting in on us?' he demanded harshly.
'He is the knight that our good steward was expecting,' the seated man said, smiling at Dunk in a way that suggested he had been aware of him all the time. 'You and I are the intruders here, brother. Come closer, ser.'
Dunk edged forward, uncertain what was expected of him. He looked at Plummer, but got no help there. The pinch-faced steward who had been so forceful yesterday now stood silent, studying the stones of the floor. 'My lords,' he said, 'I asked Ser Manfred Dondarrion to vouch for me so I might enter the lists, but he refuses. He says he knows me not. Ser Arlan served him, though, I swear it. I have his sword and shield, I–'
'A shield and a sword do not make a knight,' declared Lord Ashford, a big bald man with a round red face. 'Plummer has spoken to me of you. Even if we accept that these arms belonged to this Ser Arlan of Pennytree, it may well be that you found him dead and stole them. Unless you have some better proof of what you say, some writing or–'
'I remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree,' the man in the high seat said quietly. 'He never won a tourney that I know, but he never shamed himself either. At King's Landing sixteen years ago, he overthrew Lord Stokeworth and the Bastard of Harrenhal in the melee, and many years before at Lannisport he unhorsed the Grey Lion himself. The lion was not so grey then, to be sure.'
'He told me about that, many a time,' said Dunk.
The tall man studied him. 'Then you will remember the Grey Lion's true name, I have no doubt.'
For a moment there was nothing in Dunk's head at all. A thousand times the old man had told that tale, a thousand times, the lion, the lion, his name, his name, his name… He was near despair when suddenly, it came. 'Ser Damon Lannister!' he shouted. 'The Grey Lion! He's Lord of Casterly Rock now.'
'So he is,' said the tall man pleasantly, 'and he enters the lists on the morrow.' He rattled the sheaf of papers in his hand.
'How can you possibly remember some insignificant hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Lannister sixteen years ago?' said the prince with the silver beard, frowning.
'I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes.'
'Why would you deign to joust with a hedge knight?'
'It was nine years past, at Storm's End. Lord Baratheon held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him.
'Seven,' insisted Dunk, 'and that was against the Prince of Dragonstone!' No sooner were the words out than he wanted them back. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall, he could hear the old man chiding.
'So it was.' The prince with the broken nose smiled gently. 'Tales grow in the telling, I know. Do not think ill of your old master, but it was four lances only, I fear.'
Dunk was grateful that the hall was dim; he knew his ears were red. 'My lord.' No, that's wrong too. 'Your Grace.' He fell to his knees and lowered his head. 'As you say, four, I meant no… I never… The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.'
'And strong as an aurochs, by the look of you,' said Baelor Breakspear. 'No harm was done, ser. Rise.'
Dunk got to his feet, wondering if he should keep his head down or if he was allowed to look a prince in the face. I am speaking with Baelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir apparent to the Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror. What could a hedge knight dare say to such a person? 'Y-you gave him back his horse and armor and took no ransom, I remember,' he stammered. 'The old-Ser Arlan, he told me you were the soul of chivalry, and that one day the Seven Kingdoms would be safe in your hands.'
'Not for many a year still, I pray,' Prince Baelor said.
'No,' said Dunk, horrified. He almost said, I didn't mean that the king should die, but stopped himself in time. 'I am sorry, m'lord. Your Grace, I mean.'
Belatedly he recalled that the stocky man with the silver beard had addressed Prince Baelor as brother. He is blood of the dragon as well, damn me for a fool. He could only be Prince Maekar, the youngest of King Daeron's four sons. Prince Aerys was bookish and Prince Rhaegel mad, meek, and sickly. Neither was like to cross half the realm to attend a tourney, but Maekar was said to be a redoubtable warrior in his own right, though ever in the shadow of his eldest brother.
'You wish to enter the lists, is that it?' asked Prince Baelor. 'That decision rests with the master of the games, but I see no reason to deny you.'
The steward inclined his head. 'As you say, my lord.'
Dunk tried to stammer out thanks, but Prince Maekar cut him off. 'Very well, ser, you are grateful. Now be off with you.'
'You must forgive my noble brother, ser,' said Prince Baelor. 'Two of his sons have gone astray on their way here, and he fears for them.'
'The spring rains have swollen many of the streams,' said Dunk. 'Perhaps the princes are only delayed.'
'I did not come here to take counsel from a hedge knight,' Prince Maekar declared to his brother.
'You may go, ser,' Prince Baelor told Dunk, not unkindly.
'Yes, my lord.' He bowed and turned.
But before he could get away, the prince called after him. 'Ser. One thing more. You are not of Ser Arlan's_blood?'
'Yes, m'lord. I mean, no. I'm not.'
The prince nodded at the battered shield Dunk carried, and the winged chalice upon its face. 'By law, only a trueborn son is entitled to inherit a knight's arms. You must needs find a new device, ser, a sigil of your own.'
'I will,' said Dunk. 'Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely, you'll see.' As brave as Bae(or Breakspear, the old man would often say.
The winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly among the stalls and pavilions. Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular. He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch. I could have her, if I liked. She'd like the clink of my coin well enough, I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted. He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt. Tourneys could be dangerous… but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that. She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then? When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.
He found Egg at the puppet show, sitting crosslegged on the ground with the hood of his cloak pulled all the way forward to hide his baldness. The boy had been afraid to enter the castle, which Dunk put down to equal parts shyness and shame. He does not think himself worthy to mingle with lords and ladies, let alone great princes. It had been the same with him when he was little. The world beyond Flea Bottom had seemed as frightening as it was exciting. Egg needs time, that's all. For the present, it seemed kinder to give the lad a few coppers and let him enjoy himself among the stalls than to drag him along unwilling into the castle.
This morning the puppeteers were doing the tale of Florian and Jonquil. The fat Dornishwoman was working Florian in his armor made of motley, while the tall girl held Jonquil's strings. 'You are no knight,' she was saying as the puppet's mouth moved up and down. 'I know you. You are Florian the Fool.'
