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

coronal in the shape of a closed fist. “The other squires say
Ser Uthor has a good seat. And he’s quick.
     
    “Quick?” Dunk snorted. “He has a
snail on his shield. How quick can he be?” He put his heels into Thunder’s
flanks and walked the horse slowly forward, his lance upright. One victory,
and I am no worse than before. Two will leave us well ahead. Two is not too
much to hope for, in this company. He had been fortunate in the lots, at
least. He could as easily have drawn the Old Ox or Ser Kirby Pimm or some other
local hero. Dunk wondered if the master of games was deliberately matching the
hedge knights against each other, so no lordling need suffer the ignominy of
losing to one in the first round. It does not matter. One foe at a time,
that was what the old man always said. Ser Uthor is all that should concern me
now.
     
    They met beneath the viewing
stand where Lord and Lady Butterwell sat on their cushions in the shade of the
castle walls. Lord Frey was beside them, dandling his snot-nosed son on one
knee. A row of serving girls was fanning them, yet Lord Butterwell’s damask
tunic was stained beneath the arms, and his lady’s hair was limp from
perspiration. She looked hot, bored, and uncomfortable, but when she saw Dunk,
she pushed out her chest in a way that turned him red beneath his helm. He
dipped his lance to her and her lord husband. Ser Uthor did the same.
Butterwell wished them both a good tilt. His wife stuck out her tongue.
     
    It was time. Dunk trotted back to
the south end of the lists. Eighty feet away, his opponent was taking up his
position as well. His grey stallion was smaller than Thunder, but younger and
more spirited. Ser Uthor wore green enamel plate and silvery chain mail.
Streamers of green and grey silk flowed from his rounded bascinet, and his
green shield bore a silver snail. Good armor and a good horse means a good
ransom, if I unseat him.
     
    A trumpet sounded.
     
    Thunder started forward at a slow
trot. Dunk swung his lance to the left and brought it down, so it angled across
the horse’s head and the wooden barrier between him and his foe. His shield
protected the left side of his body. He crouched forward, legs tightening as
Thunder drove down the lists. We are one. Man, horse, lance, we are one
beast of blood and wood and iron.
     
    Ser Uthor was charging hard,
clouds of dust kicking up from the hooves of his grey. With forty yards between
them, Dunk spurred Thunder to a gallop and aimed the point of his lance squarely
at the silver snail. The sullen sun, the dust, the heat, the castle, Lord
Butterwell and his bride, the Fiddler and Ser Maynard, knights, squires,
grooms, smallfolk, all vanished. Only the foe remained. The spurs again.
Thunder broke into a run. The snail was rushing toward them, growing with every
stride of the grey’s long legs ... but ahead came Ser Uthor’s lance with its
iron fist. My shield is strong; my shield will take the blow. Only the snail
matters. Strike the snail, and the tilt is mine.
     
    When ten yards remained between
them, Ser Uthor shifted the point of his lance upward.
     
    A crack rang in Dunk’s
ears as his lance hit. He felt the impact in his arm and shoulder, but never
saw the blow strike home. Uthor’s iron fist took him square between his eyes,
with all the force of man and horse behind it.
     
    * * * *
     
    Dunk
woke upon his back, staring up at the arches of a barrel-vaulted ceiling. For a
moment he did not know where he was, or how he had arrived there. Voices echoed
in his head, and faces drifted past him—old Ser Arlan, Tanselle Too-Tall,
Bennis of the Brown Shield, the Red Widow, Baelor Breakspear, Aerion the Bright
Prince, mad sad Lady Vaith. Then all at once, the joust came back to him: the
heat, the snail, the iron fist coming at his face. He groaned, and rolled onto
one elbow. The movement set his skull to pounding like some monstrous war drum.
     
    Both his eyes seemed to be
working, at least. Nor could he