Free The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin

ground. Two more before
my turn. The sooner he unhorsed Ser Uthor, the sooner he could take his
armor off, have a cool drink, and rest. He should have at least an hour before
they called him forth again.
     
    Lord Butterwell’s portly herald
climbed to the top of the viewing stand to summon the next pair of jousters. “Ser Argrave the Defiant,” he called, “a knight of Nunny, in service to
Lord Butterwell of Whitewalls. Ser Glendon Flowers, the Knight of the Pussy willows.
Come forth and prove your valor.” A gale of laughter rippled through the
viewing stands.
     
    Ser Argrave was a spare, leathery
man, a seasoned household knight in dinted gray armor riding an unbarded horse.
Dunk had known his sort before; such men were tough as old roots, and knew
their business. His foe was young Ser Glendon, mounted on his wretched stot and
armored in a heavy mail hauberk and open-faced iron halfhelm. On his arm his
shield displayed his father’s fiery sigil. He needs a breastplate and a
proper helm, Dunk thought. A blow to the head or chest could kill him,
clad like that.
     
    Ser Glendon was plainly furious
at his introduction. He wheeled his mount in an angry circle and shouted, “I am
Glendon Ball, not Glendon Flowers. Mock me at your peril, herald. I warn
you, I have hero’s blood.” The herald did not deign to reply, but more laughter
greeted the young knight’s protest. “Why are they laughing at him?” Dunk
wondered aloud. “Is he a bastard, then?” Flowers was the surname given
to bastards born of noble parents in the Reach. “And what was all that about
pussywillows?”
     
    “I could find out, ser,” said
Egg.
     
    “No. It is none of our concern.
Do you have my helm?” Ser Argrave and Ser Glendon dipped their lances before
Lord and Lady Butterwell. Dunk saw Butterwell lean over and whisper something
in his bride’s ear. The girl began to giggle.
     
    “Yes, ser.” Egg had donned his
floppy hat, to shade his eyes and keep the sun off his shaved head. Dunk liked
to tease the boy about that hat, but just now he wished he had one like it.
Better a straw hat than an iron one, beneath this sun. He pushed his hair out
of his eyes, eased the greathelm down into place with two hands, and fastened
it to his gorget. The lining stank of old sweat, and he could feel the weight
of all that iron on his neck and shoulders. His head throbbed from last night’s
wine.
     
    “Ser,” Egg said, “it is not too
late to withdraw. If you lose Thunder and your armor ...”
     
    I would be done as a knight. “Why should I lose?” Dunk
demanded. Ser Argrave and Ser Glendon had ridden to opposite ends of the lists.
“It is not as if I faced the Laughing Storm. Is there some knight here like to
give me trouble?”
     
    “Almost all of them, ser.”
     
    “I owe you a clout in the ear for
that. Ser Uthor is ten years my senior and half my size.” Ser Argrave lowered
his visor. Ser Glendon did not have a visor to lower.
     
    “You have not ridden in a tilt
since Ashford Meadow, ser.”
     
    Insolent boy. “I’ve trained.” Not so
faithfully as he might have, to be sure. When he could, he took his turn riding
at quintains or rings, where such were available. And sometimes he would
command Egg to climb a tree and hang a shield or barrel stave beneath a
well-placed limb for them to tilt at.
     
    “You’re better with a sword than
with a lance,” Egg said. “With an axe or a mace, there’s few to match your
strength.”
     
    There was enough truth in that to
annoy Dunk all the more. “There is no contest for swords or maces,” he pointed
out, as Fireball’s son and Ser Argrave the Defiant began their charge. “Go get
my shield.” Egg made a face, then went to fetch the shield.
     
    Across the yard, Ser Argrave’s
lance struck Ser Glendon’s shield and glanced off, leaving a gouge across the
comet. But Ball’s coronal found the center of his foe’s breastplate with such
force that it burst his saddle cinch.