The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin

feel a hole in his head, which was all to the
good. He was in some cellar, he saw, with casks of wine and ale on every side. At least it is cool here, he thought, and drink is close at hand. The taste of blood was in his mouth. Dunk felt a stab of fear. If he had bitten
off his tongue, he would be dumb as well as thick. “Good morrow,” he croaked,
just to hear his voice. The words echoed off the ceiling. Dunk tried to push
himself onto his feet, but the effort set the cellar spinning.
     
    “Slowly, slowly,” said a quavery
voice, close at hand. A stooped old man appeared beside the bed, clad in robes as
grey as his long hair. About his neck was a maester’s chain of many metals. His
face was aged and lined, with deep creases on either side of a great beak of a
nose. “Be still, and let me see your eyes.” He peered in Dunk’s left eye, and
then the right, holding them open between his thumb and forefinger.
     
    “My head hurts.”
     
    The maester snorted. “Be grateful
it still rests upon your shoulders, ser. Here, this may help somewhat. Drink.”
     

Dunk made himself swallow every
drop of the foul potion, and managed not to spit it out. The tourney,” he said,
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell me. What’s happened?”
     
    “The same foolishness that always
happens in these affrays. Men have been knocking each other off horses with
sticks. Lord Smallwood’s nephew broke his wrist and Ser Eden Risley’s leg was
crushed beneath his horse, but no one has been killed thus far. Though I had my
fears for you, ser.”
     
    “Was I unhorsed?” His head still
felt as though it were stuffed full of wool, else he would never have asked
such a stupid question. Dunk regretted it the instant the words were out.
     
    “With a crash that shook the
highest ramparts. Those who had wagered good coin on you were most distraught,
and your squire was beside himself. He would be sitting with you still if I had
not chased him off. I need no children underfoot. I reminded him of his duty.”
     
    Dunk found that he needed
reminding himself. “What duty?”
     
    “Your mount, ser. Your arms and
armor.”
     
    “Yes,” Dunk said, remembering.
The boy was a good squire; he knew what was required of him. I have lost the
old man’s sword and the armor that Steely Pate forged for me.
     
    “Your fiddling friend was also
asking after you. He told me you were to have the best of care. I threw him out
as well.”
     
    “How long have you been tending
me?” Dunk flexed the fingers of his sword hand. All of them still seemed to
work. Only my head’s hurt, and Ser Arlan used to say I never used that anyway.
“Four hours, by the sundial.”
     
    Four hours was not so bad. He had
once heard tale of a knight struck so hard that he slept for forty years, and
woke to find himself old and withered. “Do you know if Ser Uthor won his second
tilt?” Maybe the Snail would win the tourney. It would take some sting from the
defeat if Dunk could tell himself that he had lost to the best knight in the
field.
     
    “That one? Indeed he did. Against
Ser Addam Frey, a cousin to the bride, and a promising young lance. Her
Ladyship fainted when Ser Addam fell. She had to be helped back to her
chambers.”
     
    Dunk forced himself to his feet,
reeling as he rose, but the maester helped to steady him. “Where are my
clothes? I must go. I have to ... I must ...”
     
    “If you cannot recall, it cannot
be so very urgent.” The maester made an irritated motion. “I would suggest that
you avoid rich foods, strong drink, and further blows between your eyes ... but
I learned long ago that knights are deaf to sense. Go, go. I have other fools
to tend.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Outside,
Dunk glimpsed a hawk soaring in wide circles through the bright blue sky. He
envied him. A few clouds were gathering to the east, dark as Dunk’s mood. As he
found his way back to the tilting ground, the sun beat down on his head like a
hammer on an