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Authors: Robert Silverberg
Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy (64 page)
BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy
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“You must forgive my noble brother, ser,” said Prince Baelor. “Two of his sons have gone astray on their way here, and he fears for them.”
“The spring rains have swollen many of the streams,” said Dunk. “Perhaps the princes are only delayed.”
“I did not come here to take counsel from a hedge knight,” Prince Maekar declared to his brother.
“You may go, ser,” Prince Baelor told Dunk, not unkindly.
“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and turned.
But before he could get away, the prince called after him. “Ser. One thing more. You are not of Ser Arlan’s blood?”
“Yes, m’lord. I mean, no. I’m not.”
The prince nodded at the battered shield Dunk carried, and the winged chalice upon its face. “By law, only a trueborn son is entitled to inherit a knight’s arms. You must needs find a new device, ser, a sigil of your own.”
“I will,” said Dunk. “Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely, you’ll see.”
As brave as Baelor Breakspear,
the old man would often say.
As brave as Baelor Breakspear,
the old man would often say.
T
he winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly among the stalls and pavilions. Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular. He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch.
I could have her, if I liked. She’d like the clink of my coin well enough, I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted
. He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt. Tourneys could be dangerous … but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that.
She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then?
When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.
he winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly among the stalls and pavilions. Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular. He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch.
I could have her, if I liked. She’d like the clink of my coin well enough, I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted
. He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt. Tourneys could be dangerous … but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that.
She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then?
When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.
He found Egg at the puppet show, sitting cross-legged on the ground with the hood of his cloak pulled all the way forward to hide his baldness. The boy had been afraid to enter the castle, which Dunk put down to equal parts shyness and shame.
He does not think himself worthy to mingle with lords and ladies, let alone great princes
. It had been the same with him when he was little. The world beyond Flea Bottom had seemed as frightening as it was exciting.
Egg needs time, that’s all.
For the present, it seemed kinder to give the lad a few coppers
and let him enjoy himself among the stalls than to drag him along unwilling into the castle.
He does not think himself worthy to mingle with lords and ladies, let alone great princes
. It had been the same with him when he was little. The world beyond Flea Bottom had seemed as frightening as it was exciting.
Egg needs time, that’s all.
For the present, it seemed kinder to give the lad a few coppers
and let him enjoy himself among the stalls than to drag him along unwilling into the castle.
This morning the puppeteers were doing the tale of Florian and Jonquil. The fat Dornishwoman was working Florian in his armor made of motley, while the tall girl held Jonquil’s strings. “You are no knight,” she was saying as the puppet’s mouth moved up and down. “I know you. You are Florian the Fool.”
“I am, my lady,” the other puppet answered, kneeling. “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”
“A fool
and
a knight?” said Jonquil. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
and
a knight?” said Jonquil. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Sweet lady,” said Florian, “all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.”
It was a good show, sad and sweet both, with a sprightly swordfight at the end, and a nicely painted giant. When it was over, the fat woman went among the crowd to collect coins while the girl packed away the puppets.
Dunk collected Egg and went up to her.
“M’lord?” she said, with a sideways glance and a half-smile. She was a head shorter than he was, but still taller than any other girl he had ever seen.
“That was good,” Egg enthused. “I like how you make them move, Jonquil and the dragon and all. I saw a puppet show last year, but they moved all jerky. Yours are more smooth.”
“Thank you,” she told the boy politely.
Dunk said, “Your figures are well carved too. The dragon, especially. A fearsome beast. You make them yourself?”
She nodded. “My uncle does the carving. I paint them.”
“Could you paint something for me? I have the coin to pay.” He slipped the shield off his shoulder and turned it to show her. “I need to paint something over the chalice.”
The girl glanced at the shield, and then at him. “What would you want painted?”
Dunk had not considered that. If not the old man’s winged chalice, what? His head was empty.
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
“I don’t … I’m not certain.” His ears were turning red, he realized miserably. “You must think me an utter fool.”
Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall.
“I don’t … I’m not certain.” His ears were turning red, he realized miserably. “You must think me an utter fool.”
She smiled. “All men are fools, and all men are knights.”
“What color paint do you have?” he asked, hoping that might give him an idea.
“I can mix paints to make any color you want.”
The old man’s brown had always seemed drab to Dunk. “The field should be the color of sunset,” he said suddenly. “The old man liked sunsets. And the device …”
“An elm tree,” said Egg. “A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches.”
“Yes,” Dunk said. “That would serve. An elm tree … but with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”
The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night, and have it back to you on the morrow.”
Dunk handed it over. “I am called Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“I’m Tanselle,” she laughed. “Tanselle Too-Tall, the boys used to call me.”
“You’re not too tall,” Dunk blurted out. “You’re just right for …” He realized what he had been about to say, and blushed furiously.
“For?” said Tanselle, cocking her head inquisitively.
“Puppets,” he finished lamely.
T
he first day of the tourney dawned bright and clear. Dunk bought a sackful of foodstuffs, so they were able to break their fast on goose eggs, fried bread, and bacon, but when the food was cooked he found he had no appetite. His belly felt hard as a rock, even though he knew he would not ride today. The right of first challenge would go to knights of higher birth and greater renown, to lords and their sons and champions from other tourneys.
he first day of the tourney dawned bright and clear. Dunk bought a sackful of foodstuffs, so they were able to break their fast on goose eggs, fried bread, and bacon, but when the food was cooked he found he had no appetite. His belly felt hard as a rock, even though he knew he would not ride today. The right of first challenge would go to knights of higher birth and greater renown, to lords and their sons and champions from other tourneys.
Egg chattered all though their breakfast, talking of this man and that man and how they might fare.
He was not japing me when he said he knew every good knight in the Seven Kingdoms
, Dunk thought ruefully. He found it humbling to listen so intently to the words of a scrawny orphan boy, but Egg’s knowledge might serve him should he face one of these men in a tilt.
He was not japing me when he said he knew every good knight in the Seven Kingdoms
, Dunk thought ruefully. He found it humbling to listen so intently to the words of a scrawny orphan boy, but Egg’s knowledge might serve him should he face one of these men in a tilt.
The meadow was a churning mass of people, all trying to elbow their way closer for a better view. Dunk was as good an elbower as any, and bigger than most. He squirmed forward to a rise six yards from the fence. When Egg complained that all he could see were arses, Dunk sat the boy on his shoulders. Across the field, the viewing stand was
filling up with highborn lords and ladies, a few rich townfolk, and a score of knights who had decided not to compete today. Of Prince Maekar he saw no sign, but he recognized Prince Baelor at Lord Ashford’s side. Sunlight flashed golden off the shoulder clasp that held his cloak and the slim coronet about his temples, but otherwise he dressed far more simply than most of the other lords.
He does not look a Targaryen in truth, with that dark hair
. Dunk said as much to Egg.
filling up with highborn lords and ladies, a few rich townfolk, and a score of knights who had decided not to compete today. Of Prince Maekar he saw no sign, but he recognized Prince Baelor at Lord Ashford’s side. Sunlight flashed golden off the shoulder clasp that held his cloak and the slim coronet about his temples, but otherwise he dressed far more simply than most of the other lords.
He does not look a Targaryen in truth, with that dark hair
. Dunk said as much to Egg.
“It’s said he favors his mother,” the boy reminded him. “She was a Dornish princess.”
The five champions had raised their pavilions at the north end of the lists with the river behind them. The smallest two were orange, and the shields hung outside their doors displayed the white sun-and-chevron . Those would be Lord Ashford’s sons Androw and Robert, brothers to the fair maid. Dunk had never heard other knights speak of their prowess, which meant they would likely be the first to fall.
Beside the orange pavilions stood one of deep-dyed green, much larger. The golden rose of Highgarden flapped above it, and the same device was emblazoned on the great green shield outside the door. “That’s Leo Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden,” said Egg.
“I knew that,” said Dunk, irritated. “The old man and I served at Highgarden before you were ever born.” He hardly remembered that year himself, but Ser Arlan had often spoken of Leo Longthorn, as he was sometimes called; a peerless jouster, for all the silver in his hair. “That must be Lord Leo beside the tent, the slender greybeard in green and gold.”
“Yes,” said Egg. “I saw him at King’s Landing once. He’s not one you’ll want to challenge, ser.”
“Boy, I do not require your counsel on who to challenge.”
The fourth pavilion was sewn together from diamond-shaped pieces of cloth, alternating red and white. Dunk did not know the colors, but Egg said they belonged to a knight from the Vale of Arryn named Ser Humfrey Hardyng. “He won a great melee at Maidenpool last year, ser, and overthrew Ser Donnel of Duskendale and the Lords Arryn and Royce in the lists.”
The last pavilion was Prince Valarr’s. Of black silk it was, with a line of pointed scarlet pennons hanging from its roof like long red flames. The shield on its stand was glossy black, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. One of the Kingsguard
knights stood beside it, his shining white armor stark against the black of the tentcloth. Seeing him there, Dunk wondered whether any of the challengers would dare to touch the dragon shield. Valarr was the king’s grandson, after all, and son to Baelor Breakspear.
knights stood beside it, his shining white armor stark against the black of the tentcloth. Seeing him there, Dunk wondered whether any of the challengers would dare to touch the dragon shield. Valarr was the king’s grandson, after all, and son to Baelor Breakspear.
He need not have worried. When the horns blew to summon the challengers, all five of the maid’s champions were called forth to defend her. Dunk could hear the murmur of excitement in the crowd as the challengers appeared one by one at the south end of the lists. Heralds boomed out the name of each knight in turn. They paused before the viewing stand to dip their lances in salute to Lord Ashford, Prince Baelor, and the fair maid, then circled to the north end of the field to select their opponents. The Grey Lion of Casterly Rock struck the shield of Lord Tyrell, while his golden-haired heir Ser Tybolt Lannister challenged Lord Ashford’s eldest son. Lord Tully of Riverrun tapped the diamond-patterned shield of Ser Humfrey Hardyng, Ser Abelar Hightower knocked upon Valarr’s, and the younger Ashford was called out by Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the knight they called the Laughing Storm.
The challengers trotted back to the south end of the lists to await their foes: Ser Abelar in silver and smoke colors, a stone watchtower on his shield, crowned with fire; the two Lannisters all crimson, bearing the golden lion of Casterly Rock; the Laughing Storm shining in cloth-of-gold, with a black stag on breast and shield and a rack of iron antlers on his helm; Lord Tully wearing a striped blue-and-red cloak clasped with a silver trout at each shoulder. They pointed their twelve-foot lances skyward, the gusty winds snapping and tugging at the pennons.
At the north end of the field, squires held brightly barded destriers for the champions to mount. They donned their helms and took up lance and shield, in splendor the equal of their foes: the Ashfords’ billowing orange silks, Ser Humfrey’s red-and-white diamonds, Lord Leo on his white charger with green satin trappings patterned with golden roses, and of course Valarr Targaryen. The Young Prince’s horse was black as night, to match the color of his armor, lance, shield, and trappings. Atop his helm was a gleaming three-headed dragon, wings spread, enameled in a rich red; its twin was painted upon the glossy black surface of his shield. Each of the defenders had a wisp of orange silk knotted about an arm, a favor bestowed by the fair maid.
As the champions trotted into position, Ashford Meadow grew almost
still. Then a horn sounded, and stillness turned to tumult in half a heartbeat. Ten pairs of gilded spurs drove into the flanks of ten great warhorses, a thousand voices began to scream and shout, forty ironshod hooves pounded and tore the grass, ten lances dipped and steadied, the field seemed almost to shake, and champions and challengers came together in a rending crash of wood and steel. In an instant, the riders were beyond each other, wheeling about for another pass. Lord Tully reeled in his saddle but managed to keep his seat. When the commons realized that all ten of the lances had broken, a great roar of approval went up. It was a splendid omen for the success of the tourney, and a testament to the skill of the competitors.
still. Then a horn sounded, and stillness turned to tumult in half a heartbeat. Ten pairs of gilded spurs drove into the flanks of ten great warhorses, a thousand voices began to scream and shout, forty ironshod hooves pounded and tore the grass, ten lances dipped and steadied, the field seemed almost to shake, and champions and challengers came together in a rending crash of wood and steel. In an instant, the riders were beyond each other, wheeling about for another pass. Lord Tully reeled in his saddle but managed to keep his seat. When the commons realized that all ten of the lances had broken, a great roar of approval went up. It was a splendid omen for the success of the tourney, and a testament to the skill of the competitors.
Squires handed fresh lances to the jousters to replace the broken ones they cast aside, and once more the spurs dug deep. Dunk could the feel the earth trembling beneath the soles of his feet. Atop his shoulders, Egg shouted happily and waved his pipestem arms. The Young Prince passed nearest to them. Dunk saw the point of his black lance kiss the watchtower on his foe’s shield and slide off to slam into his chest, even as Ser Abelar’s own lance burst into splinters against Valarr’s breastplate. The grey stallion in the silver-and-smoke trappings reared with the force of the impact, and Ser Abelar Hightower was lifted from his stirrups and dashed violently to the ground.
Lord Tully was down as well, unhorsed by Ser Humfrey Hardyng, but he sprang up at once and drew his longsword, and Ser Humfrey cast aside his lance—unbroken—and dismounted to continue their fight afoot. Ser Abelar was not so sprightly. His squire ran out, loosened his helm, and called for help, and two servingmen lifted the dazed knight by the arms to help him back to his pavilion. Elsewhere on the field, the six knights who had remained ahorse were riding their third course. More lances shattered, and this time Lord Leo Tyrell aimed his point so expertly he ripped the Grey Lion’s helm cleanly off his head. Barefaced, the Lord of Casterly Rock raised his hand in salute and dismounted, yielding the match. By then Ser Humfrey had beaten Lord Tully into surrender, showing himself as skilled with a sword as he was with a lance.
BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy
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