harm to any man at
Whitewalls. Surely no one hated him that much but Egg’s brother Aerion, and
the Bright Prince was in exile across the narrow sea. “Who paid you?”
“A serving man brought the gold
at sunrise, not long after the master of the games nailed up the pairings. His
face was hooded, and he did not speak his master’s name.”
“But why?” said Dunk.
“I did not ask.” Ser Uthor filled
his cup again. “I think you have more enemies than you know, Ser Duncan. How
not? There are some who would say you were the cause of all our woes.”
Dunk felt a cold hand on his
heart. “Say what you mean.”
The Snail shrugged. “I may not
have been at Ashford Meadow, but jousting is my bread and salt. I follow
tourneys from afar as faithfully as the maesters follow stars. I know how a
certain hedge knight became the cause of a Trial of Seven at Ashford Meadow,
resulting in the death of Baelor Breakspear at his brother Maekar’s hand.” Ser
Uthor seated himself and stretched his legs out. “Prince Baelor was well loved.
The Bright Prince had friends as well, friends who will not have forgotten the
cause of his exile. Think on my offer, ser. The snail may leave a trail of
slime behind him, but a little slime will do a man no harm ... whilst if you
dance with dragons, you must expect to burn.”
* * * *
The
day seemed darker when Dunk stepped from the Snail’s tent. The clouds in the
east had grown bigger and blacker, and the sun was sinking to the west, casting
long shadows across the yard. Dunk found the squire Will inspecting Thunder’s
feet.
“Where’s Egg?” he asked of him.
“The bald boy? How would I know? Run
off somewhere.”
He could not bear to say farewell
to Thunder, Dunk
decided. He’ll be back at the tent with his books.
He wasn’t, though. The books were
there, bundled neatly in a stack beside Egg’s bedroll, but of the boy there was
no sign. Something was wrong here. Dunk could feel it. It was not like Egg to
wander off without his leave.
A pair of grizzled men-at-arms
were drinking barley beer outside a striped pavilion a few feet away. “...
well, bugger that, once was enough for me,” one muttered. “The grass was green
when the sun come up, aye ...” He broke off when other man gave him a nudge,
and only then took note of Dunk. “Ser?”
“Have you seen my squire? Egg,
he’s called.”
The man scratched at the grey
stubble underneath one ear. “I remember him. Less hair than me, and a mouth
three times his size. Some o’ the other lads shoved him about a bit, but that
was last night. I’ve not seen him since, ser.”
“Scared him off,” said his
companion.
Dunk gave that one a hard look.
“If he comes back, tell him to wait for me here.” “Aye, ser. That we will.”
Might be he just went to watch
the jousts. Dunk
headed back toward the tilting grounds. As he passed the stables, he came on
Ser Glendon Ball, brushing down a pretty sorrel charger. “Have you seen Egg?” he
asked him.
“He ran past a few moments ago.”
Ser Glendon pulled a carrot from his pocket and fed it to the sorrel. “Do you
like my new horse? Lord Costayne sent his squire to ransom her, but I told him
to save his gold. I mean to keep her for my own.”
“His Lordship will not like
that.”
“His Lordship said that I had no
right to put a fireball upon my shield. He told me my device should be a clump
of pussywillows. His Lordship can go bugger himself.”
Dunk could not help but smile. He
had supped at that same table himself, choking down the same bitter dishes as
served up by the likes of the Bright Prince and Ser Steffon Fossoway. He felt a
certain kinship with the prickly young knight. For all I know, my mother was
a whore as well. “How many horses have you won?”
Ser Glendon shrugged. “I lost
count. Mortimer Boggs still owes me one. He said he’d rather eat his horse than
have
Whitewalls. Surely no one hated him that much but Egg’s brother Aerion, and
the Bright Prince was in exile across the narrow sea. “Who paid you?”
“A serving man brought the gold
at sunrise, not long after the master of the games nailed up the pairings. His
face was hooded, and he did not speak his master’s name.”
“But why?” said Dunk.
“I did not ask.” Ser Uthor filled
his cup again. “I think you have more enemies than you know, Ser Duncan. How
not? There are some who would say you were the cause of all our woes.”
Dunk felt a cold hand on his
heart. “Say what you mean.”
The Snail shrugged. “I may not
have been at Ashford Meadow, but jousting is my bread and salt. I follow
tourneys from afar as faithfully as the maesters follow stars. I know how a
certain hedge knight became the cause of a Trial of Seven at Ashford Meadow,
resulting in the death of Baelor Breakspear at his brother Maekar’s hand.” Ser
Uthor seated himself and stretched his legs out. “Prince Baelor was well loved.
The Bright Prince had friends as well, friends who will not have forgotten the
cause of his exile. Think on my offer, ser. The snail may leave a trail of
slime behind him, but a little slime will do a man no harm ... whilst if you
dance with dragons, you must expect to burn.”
* * * *
The
day seemed darker when Dunk stepped from the Snail’s tent. The clouds in the
east had grown bigger and blacker, and the sun was sinking to the west, casting
long shadows across the yard. Dunk found the squire Will inspecting Thunder’s
feet.
“Where’s Egg?” he asked of him.
“The bald boy? How would I know? Run
off somewhere.”
He could not bear to say farewell
to Thunder, Dunk
decided. He’ll be back at the tent with his books.
He wasn’t, though. The books were
there, bundled neatly in a stack beside Egg’s bedroll, but of the boy there was
no sign. Something was wrong here. Dunk could feel it. It was not like Egg to
wander off without his leave.
A pair of grizzled men-at-arms
were drinking barley beer outside a striped pavilion a few feet away. “...
well, bugger that, once was enough for me,” one muttered. “The grass was green
when the sun come up, aye ...” He broke off when other man gave him a nudge,
and only then took note of Dunk. “Ser?”
“Have you seen my squire? Egg,
he’s called.”
The man scratched at the grey
stubble underneath one ear. “I remember him. Less hair than me, and a mouth
three times his size. Some o’ the other lads shoved him about a bit, but that
was last night. I’ve not seen him since, ser.”
“Scared him off,” said his
companion.
Dunk gave that one a hard look.
“If he comes back, tell him to wait for me here.” “Aye, ser. That we will.”
Might be he just went to watch
the jousts. Dunk
headed back toward the tilting grounds. As he passed the stables, he came on
Ser Glendon Ball, brushing down a pretty sorrel charger. “Have you seen Egg?” he
asked him.
“He ran past a few moments ago.”
Ser Glendon pulled a carrot from his pocket and fed it to the sorrel. “Do you
like my new horse? Lord Costayne sent his squire to ransom her, but I told him
to save his gold. I mean to keep her for my own.”
“His Lordship will not like
that.”
“His Lordship said that I had no
right to put a fireball upon my shield. He told me my device should be a clump
of pussywillows. His Lordship can go bugger himself.”
Dunk could not help but smile. He
had supped at that same table himself, choking down the same bitter dishes as
served up by the likes of the Bright Prince and Ser Steffon Fossoway. He felt a
certain kinship with the prickly young knight. For all I know, my mother was
a whore as well. “How many horses have you won?”
Ser Glendon shrugged. “I lost
count. Mortimer Boggs still owes me one. He said he’d rather eat his horse than
have
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