The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin Read Free Book Online

shall want a
grandson before the year is out. Twins would suit me even better, so churn the
butter well tonight, my sweet.”
     
    Laughter rang against the
rafters, and the guests drank still once more. The wine was rich and red and
sweet.
     
    Then Lord Frey said, “I give you
the King’s Hand, Brynden Rivers. May the Crone’s lamp light his path to
wisdom.” He lifted his goblet high and drank, together with Lord Butterwell and
his bride and the others on the dais. Below the salt, Ser Glendon turned his
cup over to spill its contents to the floor.
     
    “A sad waste of good wine,” said
Maynard Plumm.
     
    “I do not drink to kinslayers,”
said Ser Glendon. “Lord Bloodraven is a sorcerer and a bastard.”
     
    “Born bastard,” Ser Uthor agreed
mildly, “but his royal father made him legitimate as he lay dying.” He drank
deep, as did Ser Maynard and many others in the hall. Near as many lowered
     
    their cups, or turned them upside
down as Ball had done. Dunk’s own cup was heavy in his hand. How many eyes
does Lord Bloodraven have? the riddle went. A thousand eyes, and one.
     
    Toast followed toast, some
proposed by Lord Frey and some by others. They drank to young Lord Tully, Lord
Butterwell’s liege lord, who had begged off from the wedding. They drank to the
health of Leo Longthorn, Lord of Highgarden, who was rumored to be ailing. They
drank to the memory of their gallant dead. Aye, thought Dunk,
remembering. I’ll gladly drink to them.
     
    Ser John the Fiddler proposed the
final toast. “To my brave brothers! I know that they are smiling
tonight!”
     
    Dunk had not intended to drink so
much, with the jousting on the morrow, but the cups were filled anew after
every toast, and he found he had a thirst. “Never refuse a cup of wine or a
horn of ale,” Ser Arlan had once told him, “it may be a year before you see
another.” It would have been discourteous not to toast the bride and groom, he told himself, and dangerous not to drink to the king and his Hand, with
strangers all about.
     
    Mercifully, the Fiddler’s toast
was the last. Lord Butterwell rose ponderously to thank them for coming and
promise good jousting on the morrow. “Let the feast begin!”
     
    Suckling pig was served at the
high table, a peacock roasted in its plumage, a great pike crusted with crushed
almonds. Not a bite of that made it down below the salt. Instead of suckling
pig, they got salt pork, soaked in almond milk and peppered pleasantly. In
place of peacock, they had capons, crisped up nice and brown and stuffed with
onions, herbs, mushrooms, and roasted chestnuts. In place of pike, they ate
chunks of flaky white cod in a pastry coffyn, with some sort of tasty brown
sauce that Dunk could not quite place. There was pease porridge besides,
buttered turnips, carrots drizzled with honey, and a ripe white cheese that
smelled as strong as Bennis of the Brown Shield. Dunk ate well, but all the while
wondered what Egg was getting in the yard. Just in case, he slipped half a
capon into the pocket of his cloak, with some hunks of bread and a little of
the smelly cheese.
     
    As they ate, pipes and fiddles
filled the air with spritely tunes, and the talk turned to the morrow’s
jousting. “Ser Franklyn Frey is well regarded along the Green Fork,” said Uthor
Underleaf, who seemed to know these local heroes well. “That’s him upon the
dais, the uncle of the bride. Lucas Nayland is down from Flag’s Mire, he should
not be discounted. Nor should Ser Mortimer Boggs, of Crackclaw Point. Elsewise,
this should be a tourney of household knights and village heroes. Kirby Pimm
and Galtry the Green are the best of those, though neither is a match for Lord
Butterwell’s good-son, Black Tom Heddle. A nasty bit of business, that one. He
won the hand of His Lordship’s eldest daughter by killing three of her other
suitors, it’s said, and once unhorsed the Lord of Casterly Rock.”
     
    “What, young Lord Tybolt?” asked
Ser