Dunk left them there, feeling as relieved as he was guilty. We are still one short, he thought as Egg held Thunder for him. Where will I find another man? He turned the horse and rode slowly toward the viewing stand, where Lord Ashford stood waiting. From the north end of the lists, Prince Aerion advanced to meet him. 'Ser Duncan,' he said cheerfully, 'it would seem you have only five champions.'
'Six,' said Dunk. 'Ser Lyonel is knighting Raymun Fossoway. We will fight you six against seven.' Men had won at far worse odds, he knew. But Lord Ashford shook his head. 'That is not permitted, ser. If you cannot find another knight to take your side, you must be declared guilty of the crimes of which you stand accused.'
Guilty, thought Dunk. Guilty of loosening a tooth, and for that I must die. 'M'lord, I beg a moment.'
'You have it.'
Dunk rode slowly along the fence. The viewing stand was crowded with knights. 'M'lords,' he called to them, 'do none of you remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree? I was his squire. We served many of you. Ate at your tables and slept in your halls.' He saw Manfred Dondarrion seated in the highest tier. 'Ser Arlan took a wound in your lord father's service.' The knight said something to the lady beside him, paying no heed. Dunk was forced to move on. 'Lord Lannister, Ser Arlan unhorsed you once in tourney.' The Grey Lion examined his gloved hands, studiedly refusing to raise his eyes. 'He was a good man, and he taught me how to be a knight. Not only sword and lance, but honor. A knight defends the innocent, he said. That's all I did. I need one more knight to fight beside me. One, that's all. Lord Caron? Lord Swann?' Lord Swann laughed softly as Lord Caron whispered in his ear.
Dunk reined up before Ser Otho Bracken, lowering his voice. 'Ser Otho, all know you for a great champion. Join us, I beg you. In the names of the old gods and the new. My cause is just.'
'That may be,' said the Brute of Bracken, who had at least the grace to reply, 'but it is your cause, not mine. I know you not, boy.'
Heartsick, Dunk wheeled Thunder and raced back and forth before the tiers of pale cold men. Despair made him shout. 'ARE THERE NO TRUE KNIGHTS AMONG YOU?'
Only silence answered.
Across the field, Prince Aerion laughed. 'The dragon is not mocked,' he called out.
Then came a voice. 'I will take Ser Duncan's side.'
A black stallion emerged from out of the river mists, a black knight on his back. Dunk saw the dragon shield, and the red enamel crest upon his helm with its three roaring heads. The Young Prince. Gods be good, it is truly him?
Lord Ashford made the same mistake. 'Prince Valarr?'
'No.' The black knight lifted the visor of his helm. 'I did not think to enter the lists at Ashford, my lord, so I brought no armor. My son was good enough to lend me his.' Prince Baelor smiled almost sadly.
The accusers were thrown into confusion, Dunk could see. Prince Maekar spurred his mount forward. 'Brother, have you taken leave of your senses?' He pointed a mailed finger at Dunk. 'This man attacked my son.'
'This man protected the weak, as every true knight must,' replied Prince Baelor. 'Let the gods determine if he was right or wrong.' He gave a tug on his reins, turned Valarr's huge black destrier, and trotted to the south end of the field.
Dunk brought Thunder up beside him, and the other defenders gathered round them; Robyn Rhysling and Ser Lyonel, the Humfreys. Good men all, but are they good enough? 'Where is Raymun?'
'Ser Raymun, if you please.' He cantered up, a grim smile lighting his face beneath his plumed helm. 'My pardons, ser. I needed to make a small change to my sigil, lest I be mistaken for my dishonorable cousin.' He showed them all his shield. The polished golden field remained the same, and the Fossoway apple, but this apple was green instead of red. 'I fear I am still not ripe… but better green than wormy, eh?'
Ser Lyonel laughed, and Dunk grinned despite himself. Even Prince Baelor seemed to approve.
Lord Ashford's septon had come to the front of the viewing stand and raised his crystal to call the throng to prayer.
'Attend me, all of you,' Baelor said quietly. 'The accusers will be armed with heavy war lances for the first charge. Lances of ash, eight feet long, banded against splitting and tipped with a steel point sharp enough to drive through plate with the weight of a warhorse behind it.'
'We shall use the same,' said Ser Humfrey Beesbury. Behind him, the septon was calling on the Seven to look down and judge this dispute, and grant victory to the men whose cause was just.
'No,' Baelor said. 'We will arm ourselves with tourney lances instead.'
'Tourney lances are made to break,' objected Raymun.
'They are also made twelve feet long. If our points strike home, theirs cannot touch us. Aim for helm or chest. In a tourney it is a gallant thing to break your lance against a foe's shield, but here it may well mean death. If we can unhorse them and keep our own saddles, the advantage is ours.' He glanced to Dunk. 'If Ser Duncan is killed, it is considered that the gods have judged him guilty, and the contest is over. If both of his accusers are slain, or withdraw their accusations, the same is true. Elsewise, all seven of one side or the other must perish or yield for the trial to end.'
'Prince Daeron will not fight,' Dunk said.
'Not well, anyway,' laughed Ser Lyonel. 'Against that, we have three of the White Swords to contend with.'
Baelor took that calmly. 'My brother erred when he demanded that the Kingsguard fight for his son. Their oath forbids them to harm a prince of the blood. Fortunately, I am such.' He gave them a faint smile. 'Keep the others off me long enough, and I shall deal with the Kingsguard.'
'My prince, is that chivalrous?' asked Ser Lyonel Baratheon as the septon was finishing his invocation.
'The gods will let us know,' said Baelor Breakspear.
A deep expectant silence had fallen across Ashford Meadow.
Eighty yards away, Aerion's grey stallion trumpeted with impatience and pawed the muddy ground. Thunder was very still by comparison; he was an older horse, veteran of half a hundred fights, and he knew what was expected of him. Egg handed Dunk up his shield. 'May the gods be with you, ser,' the boy said.
The sight of his elm tree and shooting star gave him heart. Dunk slid his left arm through the strap and tightened his fingers around the grip. Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell. Steely Pate brought his lance to him, but Egg insisted that it must be he who put it into Dunk's hand.
To either side, his companions took up their own lances and spread out in a long line. Prince Baelor was to his right and Ser Lyonel to his left, but the narrow eye slit of the greathelm limited Dunk's vision to what was directly ahead of him. The viewing stand was gone, and likewise the smallfolk crowding the fence; there was only the muddy field, the pale blowing mist, the river, town, and castle to the north, and the princeling on his grey charger with flames on his helm and a dragon on his shield. Dunk watched Aerion's squire hand him a war lance, eight feet long and black as night. He will put that through my heart if he can.
A horn sounded.
For a heartbeat Dunk sat as still as a fly in amber, though all the horses were moving. A stab of panic went through him. I have forgotten, he thought wildly, I have forgotten all, I will shame myself I will lose everything.
Thunder saved him. The big brown stallion knew what to do, even if his rider did not. He broke into a slow trot. Dunk's training took over then. He gave the warhorse a light touch of spur and couched his lance. At the same time he swung his shield until it covered most of the left side of his body. He held it at an angle, to deflect blows away from him. Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell.
The noise of the crowd was no more than the crash of distant waves. Thunder slid into a gallop. Dunk's teeth jarred together with the violence of the pace. He pressed his heels down, tightening his legs with all his strength and letting his body become part of the motion of the horse beneath. I am Thunder and Thunder is me, we are one beast, we are joined, we are one. The air inside his helm was a1ready so hot he could scarce breathe.
In a tourney joust, his foe would be to his left across the tilting barrier, and he would need to swing his lance-across Thunder's neck. The angle. made it more likely that the wood would split on impact. But this was a deadlier game they played today. With no barriers dividing them, the destriers charged straight at one another. Prince Baelor's huge black was much faster than Thunder, and Dunk glimpsed him pounding, ahead through the corner of his eye slit. He sensed more than saw the others. They do not matter, only Aerion matters, only him.
He watched the dragon come. Spatters of mud sprayed back from the hooves of Prince Aerion's grey, and
