The Mystery Knight

The name echoed off the walls, and for half a heartbeat it was if every man, woman, and boy in the hall had turned to stone. Then Lord Costayne slammed a fist upon a table and shouted, “It’s death that one deserves, not justice!” A dozen other voices echoed his, and Ser Harbert Paege declared, “He’s bastard born. All bastards are thieves, or worse. Blood will tell.”

For a moment Dunk despaired. I am alone here. But then Ser Kyle the Cat pushed himself to his feet, swaying only slightly. “The boy may be a bastard, my lords, but he’s Fireball’s bastard. It’s like Ser Harbert said. Blood will tell.”

Daemon frowned. “No one honors Fireball more than I do,” he said. “I will not believe this false knight is his seed. He stole the dragon’s egg, and slew three good men in the doing.”

“He stole nothing and killed no one,” Dunk insisted. “If three men were slain, look elsewhere for their killer. Your Grace knows as well as I that Ser Glendon was in the yard all day, riding one tilt after t’other.”

“Aye,” Daemon admitted. “I wondered at that myself. But the dragon’s egg was found amongst his things.”

“Was it? Where is it now?

Lord Gormon Peake rose cold-eyed and imperious. “Safe, and well guarded. And why is that any concern of yours, ser?”

“Bring it forth,” said Dunk. “I’d like another look at it, mlord. T’other night, I saw it only for a moment.”

Peake’s eyes narrowed. “Your Grace,” he said to Daemon, “it comes to me that this hedge knight arrived at Whitewalls with Ser Glendon, uninvited. He may well be part of this.”

Dunk ignored that. “Your Grace, the dragon’s egg that Lord Peake found amongst Ser Glendon’s things was the one he placed there. Let him bring it forth, if he can. Examine it yourself. I’ll wager you it’s no more than a painted stone.”

The ball erupted into chaos. A hundred voices began to speak at once, and a dozen knights leapt to their feet. Daemon looked near as young and lost as Ser Glendon had when he had been accused. “Are you drunk, my friend?”

Would that I were. “I’ve lost some blood,” Dunk allowed, “but not my wits. Ser Glendon has been wrongfully accused.”

“Why?” Daemon demanded, baffled. “If Ball did no wrong, as you insist, why would His Lordship say he did and try to prove it with some painted rock?”

“To remove him from your path. His Lordship bought your other foes with gold and promises, but Ball was not for sale.”

The Fiddler flushed. “That is not true.” “It is true. Send for Ser Glendon, and ask him yourself.”

“I will do just that. Lord Peake, have the bastard fetched up at once. And bring the dragon’s egg as well. I wish to have a closer look at it.”

Gormon Peake gave Dunk a look of loathing. “Your Grace, the bastard boy is being questioned. A few more hours, and we will have a confession for you, I do not doubt.”

“By questioned, m’lord means tortured,” said Dunk. “A few more hours, and Ser Glendon will confess to having killed Your Grace’s father, and both your brothers too.”

“Enough!” Lord Peake’s face was almost purple. “One more word, and I will rip your tongue out by the roots.”

“You lie,” said Dunk. “That’s two words.”

“And you will rue the both of them,” Peake promised. “Take this man and chain him in the dungeons.”

“No.” Daemon’s voice was dangerously quiet. “I want the truth of this. Sunderland, Vyrwel, Smallwood, take your men and go find Ser Glendon in the dungeons. Bring him up forthwith, and see that no harm comes to him. If any man should try to hinder you, tell him you are about the king’s business.”

“As you command,” Lord Vyrwel answered.

“I will settle this as my father would,” the Fiddler said. “Ser Glendon stands accused of grievous crimes. As a knight, he has a right to defend himself by strength of arms. I shall meet him in the lists, and let the gods determine guilt and innocence.”

* * *

Hero’s blood or whore’s blood, Dunk thought when two of Lord Vrywel’s men dumped Ser Glendon naked at his feet, he has a deal less of it than he did before.

The boy had been savagely beaten. His face was bruised and swollen, several of his teeth were cracked or missing, his right eye was weeping blood, and up and down his chest his flesh was red and cracking where they’d burned him with hot irons.

“You’re safe now,” murmurred Ser Kyle. “There’s no one here but hedge knights, and the gods know that we’re a harmless lot.” Daemon had given them the maester’s chambers, and commanded them to dress any hurts Ser Glendon might have suffered and see that he was ready for the lists.

Three fingernails had been pulled from Ball’s left hand, Dunk saw as he washed the blood from the boy’s face and hands. That worried him more than all the rest. “Can you hold a lance?” “A lance?” Blood and spit dribbled from Ser Glendon’s mouth when he tried to speak. “Do I have all my fingers?”

“Ten,” said Dunk, “but only seven fingernails.”

Ball nodded. “Black Toni was going to cut my fingers off, but he was called away. Is it him that I’m to fight?”

“No. I killed him.”

That made him smile. “Someone had to.”

“You’re to tilt against the Fiddler, but his real name—”

“-is Daemon, aye. They told me. The Black Dragon.” Ser Glendon laughed. “My father died for him. I would have been his man, and gladly. I would have fought for him, killed for him, died for him, but I could not lose for him.” He turned his head and spat out a broken tooth. “Could I have a cup of wine?”

“Ser Kyle, get the wineskin.”

The boy drank long and deep, then wiped his mouth. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a girl.” Dunk frowned. “Can you still sit a horse?”

“Help me wash, and bring me my shield and lance and saddle,” Ser Glendon said, “and you will see what I can do.”

* * *

It was almost dawn before the rain let up enough for the combat to take place. The castle yard was a morass of soft mud glistening wetly by the light of a hundred torches. Beyond the field, a gray mist was rising, sending ghostly fingers up the pale stone walls to grasp the castle battlements. Many of the wedding guests had vanished during the intervening hours, but those who remained climbed the viewing stand again and settled themselves on planks of rain-soaked pine. Amongst them stood Ser Gormon Peake, surrounded by a knot of lesser lords and household knights.

It had been only a few years since Dunk had squired for old Ser Arlan. He had not forgotten how. He cinched the buckles on Ser Glendon’s ill-fitting armor, fastened his helm to his gorget, helped him mount, and handed him his shield. Earlier contests had left deep gouges in the wood, but the blazing fireball could still be seen. He looks as young as Egg, Dunk thought. A frightened boy, and grim. His sorrel mare was unbarded, and skittish as well. He should have stayed with his own mount. The sorrel may be better bred and swifter, but a rider rides best on a horse that he knows well, and this one is a stranger to him.

“I’ll need a lance,” Ser Glendon said. “A war lance.”

Dunk went to the racks. War lances were shorter and heavier than the tourney lances that had been used in all the earlier tilts; eight feet of solid ash ending in an iron point. Dunk chose one and pulled it out, running his hand along its lenth to make sure it had no cracks.

At the far end of the lists, one of Daemon’s squires was offering him a matching lance. He was a fiddler no more. In place of swords and fiddles, the trapping of his warhorse now displayed the three-headed dragon of House Blackfyre, black on a field of red. The prince had washed the black dye from his hair as well, so it flowed down to his collar in a cascade of silver and gold that glimmered like beaten metal in the torchlight. Egg would have hair like that if he ever let it grow, Dunk realized. He found it hard to picture him that way, but one day he knew he must, if the two of them should live so long.