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

cousin will bring the last, surely.”
     
    A roar went up from the crowd. At the north end of the meadow, a column of knights came trotting out of the river mist. The three Kingsguard came first, like ghosts in their gleaming white enamel armor, long white cloaks trailing behind them. Even their shields were white, blank and clean as a field of new-fallen snow. Behind rode Prince Maekar and his sons. Aerion was mounted on a dapple grey, orange and red flickering through the slashes in the horse’s caparison at each stride. His brother’s destrier was a smaller bay, armored in overlapping black and gold scales. A green silk plume trailed from Daeron’s helm. It was their father who made the most fearsome appearance, however. Black curved dragon teeth ran across his shoulders, along the crest of his helm, and down his back, and the huge spiked mace strapped to his saddle was as deadly-looking a weapon as any Dunk had ever seen.
     
    “Six,” Raymun exclaimed suddenly. “They are only six.”
     
    It was true, Dunk saw. Three black knights and three white. They are a man short as well. Was it possible that Aerion had not been able to find a seventh man? What would that mean? Would they fight six against six if neither found a seventh?
     
    Egg slipped up beside him as he was trying to puzzle it out. “Ser, it’s time you donned your armor.”
     
    “Thank you, squire. If you would be so good?” Steely Pate lent the lad a hand. Hauberk and gorget, greaves and gauntlet, coif and codpiece, they turned him into steel, checking each buckle and each clasp thrice. Ser Lyonel sat sharpening his sword on a whetstone while the Humfreys talked quietly, Ser Robyn prayed, and Raymun Fossoway paced back and forth, wondering where his cousin had got to.
     
    Dunk was fully armored by the time Ser Steffon finally appeared. “Raymun,” he called, “my mail, if you please.” He had changed into a padded doublet to wear beneath his steel.
     
    “Ser Steffon,” said Dunk, “what of your friends? We need another knight to make our seven.”
     
    “You need two, I fear,” Ser Steffon said. Raymun laced up the back of the hauberk.
     
    “M’lord?” Dunk did not understand. “Two?”
     
    Ser Steffon picked up a gauntlet of fine lobstered steel and slid his left hand, into it, flexing his fingers. “I see five here,” be said while Raymun fastened his sword belt. “Beesbury, Rhysling, Hardyng, Baratheon, and yourself.”
     
    “And you,” said Dunk. “You’re the sixth.”
     
    “I am the seventh,” said Ser Steffon, smiling, “but for the other side. I fight with Prince Aerion and the accusers.”
     
    Raymun had been about to hand his cousin his helm. He stopped as if struck. “No.”
     
    “Yes.” Ser Steffon shrugged. “Ser Duncan understands, I am sure. I have a duty to my prince.”
     
    “You told him to rely on you.” Raymun had gone pale.
     
    “Did I?” He took the helm from his cousin’s hands. “No doubt I was sincere at the time. Bring me my horse.”
     
    “Get him yourself,” said,Raymun angrily. “If you think I wish any part of this, you’re as thick as you are vile.”
     
    “Vile?” Ser Steffon tsked. “Guard your tongue, Raymun. We’re both apples from the same tree. And you are my squire. Or have you forgotten your vows?”
     
    “No. Have you forgotten yours? You swore to be a knight.”
     
    “I shall be more than a knight before this day is done. Lord Fossoway. I like the sound of that.” Smiling, he pulled on his other gauntlet, turned away, and crossed the paddock to his horse. Though the other defenders stared at him with contemptuous eyes, no one made a move to stop him.
     
    Dunk watched Ser Steffon lead his destrier back across the field. His hands coiled into fists, but his throat felt too raw for speech. No word would move the likes of him anyway.
     
    “Knight me.” Raymun put a hand on Dunk’s shoulder and turned him. “I will take my cousin’s place. Ser