The Mystery Knight by George R. R. Martin Page A

anvil. The earth seemed to move beneath his feet ... or it might
just be that he was swaying. He had almost fallen twice climbing the cellar
steps. I should have heeded Egg.
     
    He made his slow way across the
outer ward, around the fringes of the crowd. Out on the field, plump Lord Alyn
Cockshaw was limping off between two squires, the latest conquest of young
Glendon Ball. A third squire held his helm, its three proud feathers broken. “Ser John the Fiddler,” the herald cried. “Ser Franklyn of House Frey, a
knight of the Twins, sworn to the Lord of the Crossing. Come forth and prove
your valor.”
     
    Dunk could only stand and watch
as the Fiddler’s big black trotted onto the field in a swirl of blue silk and
golden swords and fiddles. His breastplate was enameled blue as well, as were
his poleyns, couter, greaves, and gorget. The ringmail underneath was gilded. Ser
Franklyn rode a dapple grey with a flowing silver mane, to match the grey of
his silks and the silver of his armor. On shield and surcoat and horse
trappings he bore the twin towers of Frey. They charged and charged again. Dunk
stood watching, but saw none of it. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall, he
chided himself. He had a snail upon his shield. How could you lose to a man
with a snail upon his shield?
     
    There was cheering all around
him. When Dunk looked up, he saw that Franklyn Frey was down. The Fiddler had
dismounted, to help his fallen foe back to his feet. He is one step closer
to his dragon’s egg, Dunk thought, and where am I?
     
    As he approached the postern
gate, Dunk came upon the company of dwarfs from last night’s feast preparing to
take their leave. They were hitching ponies to their wheeled wooden pig, and a
second wayn of more conventional design. There were six of them, he saw, each
smaller and more malformed than the last. A few might have been children, but
they were all so short that it was hard to tell. In daylight, dressed in
horsehide breeches and roughspun hooded cloaks, they seemed less jolly than
they had in motley. “Good morrow to you,” Dunk said, to be courteous. “Are you
for the road? There’s clouds to the east, could mean rain.”
     
    The only answer that he got was a
glare from the ugliest dwarf. Was he the one I pulled off Lady Butterwell
last night? Up close, the little man smelled like a privy. One whiff was
enough to make Dunk hasten his steps.
     
    The walk across the Milk house seemed
to take Dunk as long as it had once taken him and Egg to cross the sands of
Dorm. He kept a wall beside him, and from time to time he leaned on it. Every
time he turned his head, the world would swim. A drink, he thought. I
need a drink of water, or else I’m like to fall.
     
    A passing groom told him where to
find the nearest well. It was there that he discovered Kyle the Cat, talking
quietly with Maynard Plumm. Ser Kyle’s shoulders were slumped in dejection, but
he looked up at Dunk’s approach. “Ser Duncan? We had heard that you were dead,
or dying.”
     
    Dunk rubbed his temples. “I only
wish I were.”
     
    “I know that feeling well.” Ser
Kyle sighed. “Lord Caswell did not know me. When I told him how I carved his
first sword, he stared at me as if I’d lost my wits. He said there was no place
at Bitterbridge for knights as feeble as I had shown myself to be.” The Cat
gave a bitter laugh. “He took my arms and armor, though. My mount as well. What
will I do?”
     
    Dunk had no answer for him. Even
a freerider required a horse to ride; sellswords must have swords to sell. “You
will find another horse,” Dunk said, as he drew the bucket up. “The Seven
Kingdoms are full of horses. You will find some other lord to arm you.” He
cupped his hands, filled them with water, drank.
     
    “Some other lord. Aye. Do you
know of one? I am not so young and strong as you. Nor so big. Big men are
always in demand. Lord Butterwell likes his knights large, for one. Look at
that Torn Heddle. Have you