Dunk pulled shut the door. 'Are you Plummer the steward? I came for the tourney. To enter the lists.'
Plummer pursed his lips. 'My lord's tourney is a contest for knights. Are you a knight?'
He nodded, wondering if his ears were red.
'A knight with a name, mayhaps?'
'Dunk.' Why had he said that? 'Ser Duncan. The Tall.'
'And Where might you be from, Ser Duncan the Tall?'
'Everyplace. I was squire to Ser Arlan of Pennytree since I was five or six. This is his shield.' He showed it to the steward. 'He was coming to the tourney, but he caught a chill and died, so I came in his stead. He knighted me before he passed, with his own sword.' Dunk drew the longsword and laid it on the scarred wooden table between them.
The master of the lists gave the blade no more than a glance. 'A sword it is, for a certainty. I have never heard of this Arlan of Pennytree, however. You were his squire, you say?'
'He always said he meant for me to be a knight, as he was. When he was dying he called for his longsword and bade me kneel. He touched me once on my right shoulder and once on my left, and said some words, and when I got up he said I was a knight.'
'Hmpf.' The man Plummer rubbed his nose. 'Any knight can make a knight, it is true, though it is more customary to stand a vigil and be anointed by a septon before taking your vows. Were there any witnesses to your dubbing?'
'Only a robin, up in a thorn tree. I heard it as the old man was saying the words. He charged me to be a good knight and true, to obey the seven gods, defend the weak and innocent, serve my lord faithfully and defend the realm with all my might, and I swore that I would.'
'No doubt.' Plummer did not deign to call him ser, Dunk could not help but notice. 'I shall need to consult with Lord Ashford. Will you or your late master be known to any of the good knights here assembled?'
Dunk thought a moment. 'There was a pavilion flying the banner of House Dondarrion? The black, with purple lightning?'
'That would be Ser Manfred, of that House.'
'Ser Arlan served his lord father in Dorne, three years past. Ser Manfred might remember me.'
'I would advise you to speak to him. If he will vouch for you, bring him here with you on the morrow, at this same time.
'As you say, m'lord.' He started for the door.
'Ser Duncan,' the steward called after him.
Dunk turned back.
'You are aware,' the man said, 'that those vanquished in tourney forfeit their arms, armor, and horse to the victors, and must needs ransom them back?'
'I know.'
'And do you have the coin to pay such ransom?'
Now he knew his ears were red. 'I won't have need of coin,' he said, praying it was true. All I need is one victory. If I win my first tilt, I'll have the loser's armor and horse, or his gold, and I can stand a loss myself.
He walked slowly down the steps, reluctant to get on with what he must do next. In the yard, he collared one of the stableboys. 'I must speak with Lord Ashford's master of horse.'
'I'll find him for you.'
It was cool and dim in the stables. An unruly grey stallion snapped at him as he passed, but Sweetfoot only whickered softly and nuzzled his hand when he raised it to her nose. 'You're a good girl, aren't you?' he murmured. The old man always said that a knight should never love a horse, since more than a few were like to die under him, but he never heeded his own counsel either. Dunk had often seen him spend his last copper on an apple for old Chestnut or some oats for Sweetfoot and Thunder. The palfrey had been Ser Arlan's riding horse, and she had borne him tirelessly over thousands of miles, all up and down the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk felt as though he were betraying an old friend, but what choice did he have? Chestnut was too old to be worth much of anything, and Thunder must carry him in the lists.
Some time passed before the master of horse deigned to appear. As he waited, Dunk heard a blare of trumpets from the walls, and a voice in the yard. Curious, he led Sweetfoot to the stable door to see what was happening. A large party of knights and mounted archers poured through the gates, a hundred men at least, riding some of the most splendid horses that Dunk had ever seen. Some great lord has come. He grabbed the arm of a stableboy as he ran past. 'Who are they?'
The boy looked at him queerly. 'Can't you see the banners?' He wrenched free and hurried off.
The banners… As Dunk turned his head, a gust of wind lifted the black silk pennon atop the tall staff, and the fierce three-headed dragon of House Targaryen seemed to spread its wings, breathing scarlet fire. The banner- bearer was a tall knight in white scale armor chased with gold, a pure white cloak streaming from his shoulders. Two of the other riders were armored in white from head to heel as well. Kingsguard knights with the royal banner. Small wonder Lord Ashford and his sons came hurrying out the doors of the keep, and the fair maid too, a short girl with yellow hair and a round pink face. She does not seem so fair to me, Dunk thought. The puppet girl was prettier.
'Boy, let go of that nag and see to my horse.'
A rider had dismounted in front of the stables. He is talking to me, Dunk realized. 'I am not a stableboy, m'lord.'
'Not clever enough?' The speaker wore a black cloak bordered in scarlet satin, but underneath was raiment bright as flame, all reds and yellows and golds. Slim and straight as a dirk, though only of middling height, he was near Dunk's own age. Curls of silver-gold hair framed a face sculpted and imperious; high brow and sharp cheekbones, straight nose, pale smooth skin without blemish. His eyes were a deep violet color. 'If you cannot manage a horse, fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.'
'I… m'lord, pardons, I'm no serving man either. I have the honor to be a knight.'
'Knighthood has fallen on sad days,' said the princeling, but then one of the stableboys came rushing up, and he turned away to hand him the reins of his palfrey, a splendid blood bay. Dunk was forgotten in an instant. Relieved, he slunk back inside the stables to wait for the master of horse. He felt ill-at-ease enough around the lords in their pavilions, he had no business speaking to princes.
That the beautiful stripling was a prince he had no doubt. The Targaryens were the blood of lost Valyria across the seas, and their silver-gold hair and violet eyes set them apart from common men. Dunk knew Prince Baelor was older, but the youth might well have been one of his sons: Valarr, who was often called 'the Young Prince' to set him apart from his father, or Matarys, 'the Even Younger Prince,' as old Lord Swann's fool had named him once. There were other princelings as well, cousins to Valarr and Matarys. Good King Daeron had four grown sons, three with sons of their own. The line of the dragonkings had almost died out during his father's day, but it was commonly said that Daeron II and his sons had left it secure for all time.
'You. Man. You asked for me.' Lord Ashford's master of horse had a red face made redder by his orange livery, and a brusque manner of speaking. 'What is it? I have no time for–'
'I want to sell this palfrey,' Dunk broke in quickly, before the man could dismiss him. 'She's a good horse, sure of foot–'
'I have no time, I tell you.' The man gave Sweetfoot no more than a glance. 'My lord of Ashford has no need of such. Take her to the town, perhaps Henly will give you a silver or three.' That quick, he was turning away.
'Thank you, m'lord,' Dunk said before he could go. 'M'lord, has the king come?'
The master of horse laughed at him. 'No, thank the gods. This infestation of princes is trial enough. Where am I going to find the stalls for all these animals? And fodder?' He strode off shouting at his stableboys.
By the time Dunk left the stable, Lord Ashford had escorted his princely guests into the hail, but two of the Kingsguard knights in their white armor and snowy cloaks still lingered in the yard, talking with the captain of the guard. Dunk halted before them. 'M'lords, I am Ser Duncan the Tall.'
'Well met, Ser Duncan,' answered the bigger of the white knights. 'I am Ser Roland Crakehall, and this is my Sworn Brother, Ser Donnel of Duskendale.'
The seven champions of the Kingsguard were the most puissant warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms, saving only perhaps the crown prince, Baelor Breakspear himself. 'Have you come to enter the lists?' Dunk asked anxiously.
