'From you?' Pate scratched his beard. 'A copper.'
The rain had all but stopped as the first wan light suffused the eastern sky, but it had done its work. Lord Ashford's men had removed the barriers, and the tourney field was one great morass of grey-brown mud and torn grass. Tendrils of fog were writhing along the ground like pale white snakes as Dunk made his way back toward the lists. Steely Pate walked with him.
The viewing stand had already begun to fill, the lords and ladies clutching their cloaks tight about them against the morning chill. Smallfolk were drifting toward the field as well, and hundreds of them already stood along the fence. So many come to see me die, thought Dunk bitterly, but he wronged them. A few steps farther on, a woman called out, 'Good fortune to you.' An old man stepped up to take his hand and said, 'May the gods give you strength, ser.' Then a begging brother in a tattered brown robe said a blessing on his sword, and a maid kissed his cheek. They are for me. 'Why?' he asked Pate. 'What am I to them?'
'A knight who remembered his vows,' the smith said.
They found Raymun outside the challengers' paddock at the south end of the lists, waiting with his cousin's horse and Dunk's. Thunder tossed restlessly beneath the weight of chinet, chamfron, and blanket of heavy mail. Pate inspected the armor and pronounced it good work, even though someone else had forged it. Wherever the armor had come from, Dunk was grateful.
Then he saw the others: the one-eyed man with the salt-and-pepper beard, the young knight in the striped yellow-and-black surcoat with the beehives, on the shield. Robyn Rhysling and Humfrey Beesbury, he thought in astonishment. And Ser Humfrey Hardyng as well. Hardyng was mounted on Aerion's red charger, now barded in his red-and-white diamonds.
He went to them. 'Sers, I am in your debt.'
'The debt is Aerion's,' Ser Humfrey Hardyng replied, 'and we mean to collect it.'
'I had heard your leg was broken.'
'You heard the truth' Hardyng said. 'I cannot walk. But so long as I can sit a horse, I can fight.'
Raymun took Dunk aside. 'I hoped Hardyng would want another chance at Aerion, and he did. As it happens, the other Humfrey is his brother by marriage. Egg is responsible for Ser Robyn, whom he knew from other tourneys. So you are five.'
'Six,' said Dunk in wonder, pointing. A knight was entering the paddock, his squire leading his charger behind him. 'The Laughing Storm.' A head taller than Ser Raymun and almost of a height with Dunk, Ser Lyonel wore a cloth-of-gold surcoat bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, and carried his antlered helm under his arm. Dunk reached for his hand. 'Ser Lyonel, I cannot thank you enough for coming, nor Ser Steffon for bringing you.'
'Ser Steffon?' Ser Lyonel gave him a puzzled look. 'It was your squire who came to me. The boy, Aegon. My own lad tried to chase him off, but he slipped between his legs and turned a flagon of wine over my head.' He laughed. 'There has not been a trial of seven for more than a hundred years, do you know that? I was not about to miss a chance to fight the Kingsguard knights, and tweak Prince Maekar's nose in the bargain.'
'Six,' Dunk said hopefully to Raymun Fossoway as Ser Lyonel joined the others. 'Your cousin will bring the last, surely.'
A roar went up from the crowd. At the north end of the meadow, a column of knights came trotting out of the river mist. The three Kingsguard came first, like ghosts in their gleaming white enamel armor, long white cloaks trailing behind them. Even their shields were white, blank and clean as a field of new-fallen snow. Behind rode Prince Maekar and his sons. Aerion was mounted on a dapple grey, orange and red flickering through the slashes in the horse's caparison at each stride. His brother's destrier was a smaller bay, armored in overlapping black and gold scales. A green silk plume trailed from Daeron's helm. It was their father who made the most fearsome appearance, however. Black curved dragon teeth ran across his shoulders, along the crest of his helm, and down his back, and the huge spiked mace strapped to his saddle was as deadly-looking a weapon as any Dunk had ever seen.
'Six,' Raymun exclaimed suddenly. 'They are only six.'
It was true, Dunk saw. Three black knights and three white. They are a man short as well. Was it possible that Aerion had not been able to find a seventh man? What would that mean? Would they fight six against six if neither found a seventh?
Egg slipped up beside him as he was trying to puzzle it out. 'Ser, it's time you donned your armor.'
'Thank you, squire. If you would be so good?' Steely Pate lent the lad a hand. Hauberk and gorget, greaves and gauntlet, coif and codpiece, they turned him into steel, checking each buckle and each clasp thrice. Ser Lyonel sat sharpening his sword on a whetstone while the Humfreys talked quietly, Ser Robyn prayed, and Raymun Fossoway paced back and forth, wondering where his cousin had got to.
Dunk was fully armored by the time Ser Steffon finally appeared. 'Raymun,' he called, 'my mail, if you please.' He had changed into a padded doublet to wear beneath his steel.
'Ser Steffon,' said Dunk, 'what of your friends? We need another knight to make our seven.'
'You need two, I fear,' Ser Steffon said. Raymun laced up the back of the hauberk.
'M'lord?' Dunk did not understand. 'Two?'
Ser Steffon picked up a gauntlet of fine lobstered steel and slid his left hand, into it, flexing his fingers. 'I see five here,' be said while Raymun fastened his sword belt. 'Beesbury, Rhysling, Hardyng, Baratheon, and yourself.'
'And you,' said Dunk. 'You're the sixth.'
'I am the seventh,' said Ser Steffon, smiling, 'but for the other side. I fight with Prince Aerion and the accusers.'
Raymun had been about to hand his cousin his helm. He stopped as if struck. 'No.'
'Yes.' Ser Steffon shrugged. 'Ser Duncan understands, I am sure. I have a duty to my prince.'
'You told him to rely on you.' Raymun had gone pale.
'Did I?' He took the helm from his cousin's hands. 'No doubt I was sincere at the time. Bring me my horse.'
'Get him yourself,' said,Raymun angrily. 'If you think I wish any part of this, you're as thick as you are vile.'
'Vile?' Ser Steffon tsked. 'Guard your tongue, Raymun. We're both apples from the same tree. And you are my squire. Or have you forgotten your vows?'
'No. Have you forgotten yours? You swore to be a knight.'
'I shall be more than a knight before this day is done. Lord Fossoway. I like the sound of that.' Smiling, he pulled on his other gauntlet, turned away, and crossed the paddock to his horse. Though the other defenders stared at him with contemptuous eyes, no one made a move to stop him.
Dunk watched Ser Steffon lead his destrier back across the field. His hands coiled into fists, but his throat felt too raw for speech. No word would move the likes of him anyway.
'Knight me.' Raymun put a hand on Dunk's shoulder and turned him. 'I will take my cousin's place. Ser Duncan, knight me.' He went to one knee.
Frowning, Dunk moved a hand to the hilt of his longsword, then hesitated. 'Raymun, I… I should not.'
'You must. Without me, you are only five.'
'The lad has the truth of it,' said Ser Lyonel Baratheon. 'Do it, Ser Duncan. Any knight can make a knight.'
'Do you doubt my courage?' Raymun asked.
'No,' said Dunk. 'Not that, but…' Still he hesitated.
A fanfare of trumpets cut the misty morning air. Egg came running up to them. 'Ser, Lord Ashford summons you.
The Laughing Storm gave an impatient shake of the head. 'Go to him, Ser Duncan. I'll give squire Raymun his knighthood.' He slid his sword out of his sheath and shouldered Dunk aside. 'Raymun of House Fossoway,' he began solemnly, touching the blade to the squire's right shoulder, 'in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.' The sword moved from his right shoulder to his left. 'In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.' Back to the right. 'In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.' The left. 'In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women.'
