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

yard
seemed to move beneath his feet ... or it might be that he was swaying.
     
    The lists had been erected in the
center of the outer yard. A three-tiered wooden viewing stand had been raised
beneath the walls, so Lord Butterwell and his highborn guests would be well
shaded on their cushioned seats. There were tents at both ends of the lists where
the knights could don their armor, with racks of tourney lances standing ready.
When the wind lifted the banners for an instant, Dunk could smell the whitewash
on the tilting barrier. He set off in search of the inner ward. He had to hunt
up Egg and send the boy to the master of the games to enter him in the lists.
That was a squire’s duty.
     
    Whitewalls was strange to him,
however, and somehow Dunk got turned around. He found himself outside the
kennels, where the hounds caught scent of him and began to bark and howl. They want to tear my throat out, he thought, or else they want the capon
in my cloak. He
     
    doubled back the way he’d come,
past the sept. A woman went running past, breathless with laughter, a bald
knight in hard pursuit. The man kept falling, until finally the woman had to
come back and help him up. I should slip into the sept and ask the Seven to
make that knight my first opponent, Dunk thought, but that would have been
impious. What I really need is a privy, not a prayer. There were some
bushes near at hand, beneath a flight of pale stone steps. Those will serve. He groped his way behind them and unlaced his breeches. His bladder had been
full to bursting. The piss went on and on.
     
    Somewhere above, a door came
open. Dunk heard footfalls on the steps, the scrape of boots on stone. “...
beggar’s feast you’ve laid before us Without Bittersteel ...”
     
    “Bittersteel be buggered,”
insisted a familiar voice. “No bastard can be trusted, not even him. A few
victories will bring him over the water fast enough.”
     
    Lord Peake. Dunk held his breath ... and his
piss.
     
    “Easier to speak of victories
than to win them.” This speaker had a deeper voice than Peake, a bass rumble
with an angry edge to it. “Old Milkblood expected the boy to have it, and so
will all the rest. Glib words and charm cannot make up for that.”
     
    “A dragon would. The prince
insists the egg will hatch. He dreamed it, just as he once dreamed his brothers
dead. A living dragon will win us all the swords that we would want.”
     
    “A dragon is one thing, a dream’s
another. I promise you, Bloodraven is not off dreaming. We need a warrior, not
a dreamer. Is the boy his father’s son?”
     
    “Just do your part as promised,
and let me concern myself with that. Once we have Butterwell’s gold and the
swords of House Frey, Harrenhal will follow, then the Brackens. Otho knows he
cannot hope to stand ...”
     
    The voices were fading as the
speakers moved away. Dunk’s piss began to flow again. He gave his cock a shake,
and laced himself back up. “His father’s son,” he muttered. Who were they
speaking of? Fireball’s son?
     
    By the time he emerged from under
the steps, the two lords were well across the yard. He almost shouted after
them, to make them show their faces, but thought better of it. He was alone and
unarmed, and half-drunk besides. Maybe more than half. He stood there
frowning for a moment, then marched back to the hall.
     
    Inside, the last course had been
served and the frolics had begun. One of Lord Frey’s daughters played “Two
Hearts That Beat As One” on the high harp, very badly. Some jugglers flung
flaming torches at each other for a while, and some tumblers did cartwheels in
the air. Lord Frey’s nephew began to sing “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” while
Ser Kirby Pimm beat out time upon the table with a wooden spoon. Others joined
in, until the whole hall was bellowing, “A bear! A bear! All black and
brown, and covered with hair!” Lord Caswell passed out at the table with
his face in a puddle of wine, and Lady