Free The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin Page A

Knight and saddle both went tumbling to
the dust. Dunk was impressed despite himself. The boy jousts almost as well
as he talks. He wondered if that would stop them laughing at him.
     
    A trumpet rang, loud enough to
make Dunk wince. Once more the herald climbed his stand. “Ser Jay of House
Caswell, Lord of Bitterbridge and Defender of the Fords. Ser Kyle, the Cat of
Misty Moor. Come forth and prove your valor.”
     
    Ser Kyle’s armor was of good
quality, but old and worn, with many dints and scratches. “The Mother has been
merciful to me, Ser Duncan,” he told Dunk and Egg, on his way to the lists. “I
am sent against Lord Caswell, the very man I came to see.”
     
    If any man upon the field felt
worse than Dunk this morning, it had to be Lord Caswell, who had drunk himself
insensible at the feast. “It’s a wonder he can sit a horse, after last night,”
said Dunk. “The victory is yours, ser.”
     
    “Oh, no.” Ser Kyle smiled a
silken smile. “The cat who wants his bowl of cream must know when to purr and
when to show his claws, Ser Duncan. If His Lordship’s lance so much as scrapes
against my shield, I shall go tumbling to the earth. Afterwards, when I bring
my horse and armor to him, I will compliment His Lordship on how much his
prowess has grown since I made him his first sword. That will recall me to him,
and before the day is out, I shall be a Caswell man again, a knight of
Bitter-bridge.”
     
    There is no honor in that, Dunk almost said, but he bit his
tongue instead. Ser Kyle would not be the first hedge knight to trade his honor
for a warm place by the fire. “As you say,” he muttered. “Good fortune to you.
Or bad, if you prefer.”
     
    Lord Joffrey Caswell was a weedy
youth of twenty, though admittedly he looked rather more impressive in his
armor than he had last night when he’d been face down in a puddle of wine. A
yellow centaur was painted on his shield, pulling on a longbow. The same
centaur adorned the white silk trappings of his horse, and gleamed atop his
helm in yellow gold. A man who has a centaur for his sigil should ride
better than that. Dunk did not know how well Ser Kyle wielded a lance, but
from the way Lord Caswell sat his horse, it looked as though a loud cough might
unseat him. All the Cat need do is ride past him very fast.
     
    Egg held Thunder’s bridle as Dunk
swung himself ponderously up into the high, stiff saddle. As he sat there
waiting, he could feel the eyes upon him. They are wondering if the big
hedge knight is any good. Dunk wondered that himself. He would find out
soon enough.
     
    The Cat of Misty Moor was true to
his word. Lord Caswell’s lance was wobbling all the way across the field, and
Ser Kyle’s was ill-aimed. Neither man got his horse up past a trot. All the
same, the Cat went tumbling when Lord Joffrey’s coronal chanced to whack his
shoulder. I thought all cats landed gracefully upon their feet, Dunk
thought as the hedge knight rolled in the dust. Lord Caswell’s lance remained
unbroken. As he brought his horse around, he thrust it high into the air
repeatedly, as if he’d just unseated Leo Longthorn or the Laughing Storm. The
Cat pulled off his helm and went chasing down his horse.
     
    “My shield,” Dunk said to Egg.
The boy handed it up. He slipped his left arm through the strap and closed his
hand around the grip. The weight of the kite shield was reassuring, though its
length made it awkward to handle, and seeing the hanged man once again gave him
an uneasy feeling. Those are ill-omened arms. He resolved to get the
shield repainted as soon as he could. May the Warrior grant me a smooth
course and a quick victory, he prayed as Butterwell’s herald was clambering
up the steps once more. “Ser Uthor Underleaf,” his voice rang out. “The Gallows Knight. Come forth and prove your valor.”
     
    “Be careful, ser,” Egg warned as
he handed Dunk a tourney lance, a tapered wooden shaft twelve feet long ending
in a rounded iron