nature, and he has placed all his best hopes on Aerion, since Daeron has been such a grave disappointment to him.' The prince took a sip of wine, then set the goblet aside. 'Whatever my brother believes or fails to believe, one truth is beyond dispute. You laid hands upon the blood of the dragon. For that offense, you must be tried, and judged, and punished.'
'Punished?' Dunk did not like the sound of that.
'Aerion would like your head, with or without teeth. He will not have it, I promise you, but I cannot deny him a trial. As my royal father is hundreds of leagues away, my brother and I must sit in judgment of you, along with Lord Ashford, whose domains these are, and Lord Tyrell of Highgarden, his liege lord. The last time a man was found guilty of striking one of royal blood, it was decreed that he should lose the offending hand.'
'My hand?' said Dunk, aghast.
'And your foot. You kicked him too, did you not?'
Dunk could not speak.
'To be sure, I will urge my fellow judges to be merciful. I am the King's Hand and the heir to the throne, my word carries some weight. But so does my brother's. The risk is there.'
'I,' said Dunk, 'I… Your Grace, I…' They meant no treason, it was only a wooden dragon, it was never meant to be a royal prince, he wanted to say, but his words had deserted him once and all. He had never been any good with words.
'You have another choice, though,' Prince Baelor said quietly. 'Whether it is a better choice or a worse one, I cannot say, but I remind you that any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand trial by combat. So I ask you once again, Ser Duncan the Tall-how good a knight are you? Truly?'
A trial of seven,' said Prince Aerion, smiling. 'That is my right, I do believe.
Prince Baelor drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. To his left, Lord Ashford nodded slowly. 'Why?' Prince Maekar demanded, leaning forward toward his son. 'Are you afraid to face this hedge knight alone, and let the gods decide the truth of your accusations?'
'Afraid?' said Aerion. 'Of such as this? Don't be absurd, Father. My thought is for my beloved brother. Daeron has been wronged by this Ser Duncan as well, and has first claim to his blood. A trial of seven allows both of us to face him.'
'Do me no favors, brother,' muttered Daeron Targaryen. The eldest son of Prince Maekar looked even worse than he had when Dunk had encountered him in the inn. He seemed to be sober this time, his red-and-black doublet unstained by wine, but his eyes were bloodshot, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow. 'I am content to cheer you on as you slay the rogue.'
'You are too kind, sweet brother,' said Prince Aerion, all smiles, 'but it would be selfish of me to deny you the right to prove the truth of your words at the hazard of your body. I must insist upon a trial of seven.'
Dunk was lost. 'Your Grace, my lords,' he said to the dais. 'I do not understand. What is this trial of seven?'
Prince Baelor shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'It is another form of trial by combat. Ancient, seldom invoked. It came across the narrow sea with the Andals and their seven gods. In any trial by combat, the accuser and accused are asking the gods to decide the issue between them. The Andals believed that if the seven champions fought on each side, the gods, being thus honored, would be more like to take a hand and see that a just result was achieved.'
'Or mayhap they simply had a taste for swordplay,' said Lord Leo Tyrell, a cynical smile touching his lips. 'Regardless, Ser Aerion is within his rights. A trial of seven it must be.'
'I must fight seven men, then?' Dunk asked hopelessly.
'Not alone, ser,' Prince Maekar said impatiently.
'Don't play the fool, it will not serve. It must be seven against seven. You must needs find six other knights to fight beside you.'
Six knights, Dunk thought. They might as well have told him to find six thousand. He had no brothers, no cousins, no old comrades who had stood beside him in battle. Why would six strangers risk their own lives to defend a hedge knight against two royal princelings? 'Your Graces, my lords,' he said, 'what if no one will take my part?'
Maekar Targaryen looked down on him coldly. 'If a cause is just, good men will fight for it. If you can find no champions, ser, it will be because you are guilty. Could anything be more plain?'
Dunk had never felt so alone as he did when he walked out the gates of Ashford Castle and heard the portcullis rattle down behind him. A soft rain was falling, light as dew on his skin, and yet he shivered at the touch of it. Across the river, colored rings haloed the scant few pavilions where fires still burned. The night was half gone, he guessed. Dawn would be on him in a few hours. And with dawn comes death.
They had given him back his sword and silver, yet as he waded across the ford, his thoughts were bleak. He wondered if they expected him to saddle a horse and flee. He could, if be wished. That would be the end of his knighthood, to be sure; he would be no more than an outlaw henceforth, until the day some lord took him and struck off his head. Better to die a knight than live like that, he told himself stubbornly. Wet to the knee, he trudged past the empty lists. Most of the pavilions were dark, their owners long asleep, but here and there a few candles still burned. Dunk heard soft moans and cries of pleasure coming from within one tent. It made him wonder whether he would die without ever having known a maid.
Then he heard the snort of a horse, a snort he somehow knew for Thunder's. He turned his steps and ran, and there he was, tied up with Chestnut outside a round pavilion lit from within by a vague golden glow. On its center pole the banner hung sodden, but Dunk could still make out the dark curve of the Fossoway apple. It looked like hope.
A trial by combat,' Raymun said heavily. 'Gods be good, Duncan, that means lances of war, morningstars, battle-axes… the swords won't be blunted, do you understand that?'
'Raymun the Reluctant,' mocked his cousin Ser Steffon. An apple made of gold and garnets fastened his cloak of yellow wool. 'You need not fear, cousin, this is a knightly combat. As you are no knight, your skin is not at risk. Ser Duncan, you have one Fossoway at least. The ripe one. I saw what Aerion did to those puppeteers. I am for you.'
'And I,' snapped Raymun angrily. 'I only meant–'
His cousin cut him off. 'Who else fights with us, Ser Duncan?'
Dunk spread his hands hopelessly. 'I know no one else. Well, except for Ser Manfred Dondarrion. He wouldn't even vouch that I was a knight, he'll never risk his life for me.'
Ser Steffon seemed little perturbed. 'Then we need five more good men. Fortunately, I have more than five friends. Leo Longthorn, the Laughing Storm, Lord Caron, the Lannisters. Ser Otho Bracken… aye, and the Blackwoods as well, though you will never get Blackwood and Bracken on the same side of a melee. I shall go and speak with some of them.'
'They won't be happy at being woken,' his cousin objected.
'Excellent,' declared Ser Steffon. 'If they are angry, they'll fight all the more fiercely. You may rely on me, Ser Duncan. Cousin, if I do not return before dawn, bring my armor and see that Wrath is saddled and barded for me. I shall meet you both in the challengers' paddock.' He laughed. 'This will be a day long remembered, I think.' When he strode from the tent, he looked almost happy.
Not so Raymun. 'Five knights,' he said glumly after his cousin had gone. 'Duncan, I am loath to dash your hopes, but…'
'If your cousin can bring the men be speaks of…'
'Leo Longthorn? The Brute of Bracken? The Laughing Storm?' Raymun stood. 'He knows all of them, I have no doubt, but I would be less certain that any of them know him. Steffon sees this as a chance for glory, but it means your life. You should find your own men. I'll help. Better you have too many champions than too few.' A noise outside made Raymun turn his head. 'Who goes there?' he demanded, as a boy ducked through the flap, followed by a thin man in a rain-sodden black cloak.
'Egg?' Dunk got to his feet. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm your squire,' the boy said. 'You'll need someone to arm you, ser.'
