Tybolt Lannister and Androw Ashford rode against each other thrice more before Ser Androw finally lost shield, seat, and match all at once. The younger Ashford lasted even longer, breaking no less than
nine lances against Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm. Champion and challenger both lost their saddles on their tenth course, only to rise together to fight on, sword against mace. Finally a battered Ser Robert Ashford admitted defeat, but on the viewing stand his father looked anything but dejected. Both Lord Ashford’s sons had been ushered from the ranks of the champions, it was true, but they had acquitted themselves nobly against two of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.
I must do even better, though,
Dunk thought as he watched victor and vanquished embrace and walk together from the field.
It is not enough for me to fight well and lose. I must win at least the first challenge, or I lose all.
Ser Tybolt Lannister and the Laughing Storm would now take their places among the champions, replacing the men they had defeated. Already the orange pavilions were coming down. A few feet away, the Young Prince sat at his ease in a raised camp chair before his great black tent. His helm was off. He had dark hair like his father, but a bright streak ran through it. A servingman brought him a silver goblet and he took a sip.
Water, if he is wise,
Dunk thought,
wine if not.
He found himself wondering if Valarr had indeed inherited a measure of his father’s prowess, or whether it had only been that he had drawn the weakest opponent.
A fanfare of trumpets announced that three new challengers had entered the lists. The heralds shouted their names.
“Ser Pearse of House Caron, Lord of the Marches.”
He had a silver harp emblazoned on his shield, though his surcoat was patterned with nightingales.
“Ser Joseth of House Mallister, from Seagard.”
Ser Joseth sported a winged helm; on his shield, a silver eagle flew across an indigo sky.
“Ser Gawen of House Swann, Lord of Stonehelm on the Cape of Wrath.”
A pair of swans, one black and one white, fought furiously on his arms. Lord Gawen’s armor, cloak, and horse bardings were a riot of black and white as well, down to the stripes on his scabbard and lance.
Lord Caron, harper and singer and knight of renown, touched the point of his lance to Lord Tyrell’s rose. Ser Joseth thumped on Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s diamonds. And the black-and-white knight, Lord Gawen Swann, challenged the black prince with the white guardian. Dunk rubbed his chin. Lord Gawen was even older than the old man, and the old man was dead. “Egg, who is the least dangerous of these
challengers?” he asked the boy on his shoulders, who seemed to know so much of these knights.
“Lord Gawen,” the boy said at once. “Valarr’s foe.”
“Prince
Valarr,” he corrected. “A squire must keep a courteous tongue, boy.”
The three challengers took their places as the three champions mounted up. Men were making wagers all around them and calling out encouragement to their choices, but Dunk had eyes only for the prince. On the first pass he struck Lord Gawen’s shield a glancing blow, the blunted point of the lance sliding aside just as it had with Ser Abelar Hightower, only this time it was deflected the other way, into empty air. Lord Gawen’s own lance broke clean against the prince’s chest, and Valarr seemed about to fall for an instant before he recovered his seat.
The second time through the lists, Valarr swung his lance left, aiming for his foe’s breast, but struck his shoulder instead. Even so, the blow was enough to make the older knight lose his lance. One arm flailed for balance and Lord Gawen fell. The Young Prince swung from the saddle and drew his sword, but the fallen man waved him off and raised his visor. “I yield, Your Grace,” he called. “Well fought.” The lords in the viewing stand echoed him, shouting,
“Well fought! Well fought!”
as Valarr knelt to help the grey-haired lord to his feet.
“It was not either,” Egg complained.
“Be quiet, or you can go back to camp.”
Farther away, Ser Joseth Mallister was being carried off the field unconscious, while the harp lord and the rose lord were going at each other lustily with blunted longaxes, to the delight of the roaring crowd. Dunk was so intent on Valarr Targaryen that he scarcely saw them.
He is a fair knight, but no more than that,
he found himself thinking.
I would have a chance against him. If the gods were good, I might even unhorse him, and once afoot my weight and strength would tell.
“Get him!” Egg shouted merrily, shifting his seat on Dunk’s back in his excitement. “Get him! Hit him! Yes! He’s right there, he’s
right there!”
It seemed to be Lord Caron he was cheering on. The harper was playing a different sort of music now, driving Lord Leo back and back as steel sang on steel. The crowd seemed almost equally divided between them, so cheers and curses mingled freely in the morning air. Chips of wood and paint were flying from Lord Leo’s shield as Lord
Pearse’s axe knocked the petals off his golden rose, one by one, until the shield finally shattered and split. But as it did, the axehead hung up for an instant in the wood … and Lord Leo’s own axe crashed down on the haft of his foe’s weapon, breaking it off not a foot from his hand. He cast aside his broken shield, and suddenly he was the one on the attack. Within moments, the harper knight was on one knee, singing his surrender.
For the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon, it was more of the same, as challengers took the field in twos and threes, and sometimes five together. Trumpets blew, the heralds called out names, warhorses charged, the crowd cheered, lances snapped like twigs, and swords rang against helms and mail. It was, smallfolk and high lord alike agreed, a splendid day of jousting. Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Ser Humfrey Beesbury, a bold young knight in yellow and black stripes with three beehives on his shield, splintered no less than a dozen lances apiece in an epic struggle the smallfolk soon began calling “the Battle of Humfrey.” Ser Tybolt Lannister was unhorsed by Ser Jon Penrose and broke his sword in his fall, but fought back with shield alone to win the bout and remain a champion. One-eyed Ser Robyn Rhysling, a grizzled old knight with a salt-and-pepper beard, lost his helm to Lord Leo’s lance in their first course, yet refused to yield. Three times more they rode at each other, the wind whipping Ser Robyn’s hair while the shards of broken lances flew round his bare face like wooden knives, which Dunk thought all the more wondrous when Egg told him that Ser Robyn had lost his eye to a splinter from a broken lance not five years earlier. Leo Tyrell was too chivalrous to aim another lance at Ser Robyn’s unprotected head, but even so Rhysling’s stubborn courage (or was it folly?) left Dunk astounded. Finally the Lord of Highgarden struck Ser Robyn’s breastplate a solid thump right over the heart and sent him cartwheeling to the earth.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon also fought several notable matches. Against lesser foes, he would often break into booming laughter the moment they touched his shield, and laugh all the time he was mounting and charging and knocking them from their stirrups. If his challengers wore any sort of crest on their helm, Ser Lyonel would strike it off and fling it into the crowd. The crests were ornate things, made of carved wood or shaped leather, and sometimes gilded and enameled or even wrought in pure silver, so the men he beat did not appreciate this habit,
though it made him a great favorite of the commons. Before long, only crestless men were choosing him. As loud and often as Ser Lyonel laughed down a challenger, though, Dunk thought the day’s honors should go to Ser Humfrey Hardyng, who humbled fourteen knights, each one of them formidable.
Meanwhile the Young Prince sat outside his black pavilion, drinking from his silver goblet and rising from time to time to mount his horse and vanquish yet another undistinguished foe. He had won nine victories, but it seemed to Dunk that every one was hollow.
He is beating old men and upjumped squires, and a few lords of high birth and low skill. The truly dangerous men are riding past his shield as if they do not see it.
Late in the day, a brazen fanfare announced the entry of a new challenger to the lists. He rode in on a great red charger whose black bardings were slashed to reveal glimpses of yellow, crimson, and orange beneath. As he approached the viewing stand to make his salute, Dunk saw the face beneath the raised visor, and recognized the prince he’d met in Lord Ashford’s stables.
Egg’s legs tightened around his neck. “Stop that,” Dunk snapped, yanking them apart. “Do you mean to choke me?”
“Prince Aerion Brightflame,”
a herald called,
“of the Red Keep of King’s Landing, son of Maekar Prince of Summerhall of House Targaryen, grandson to Daeron the Good, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
”
Aerion bore a three-headed dragon on his shield, but it was rendered in colors much more vivid than Valarr’s; one head was orange, one yellow, one red, and the flames they breathed had the sheen of gold leaf. His surcoat was a swirl of smoke and fire woven together, and his blackened helm was surmounted by a crest of red enamel flames.
After a pause to dip his lance to Prince Baelor, a pause so brief that was almost perfunctory, he galloped to the north end of the field, past Lord Leo’s pavilion and the Laughing Storm’s, slowing only when he approached Prince Valarr’s tent. The Young Prince rose and stood stiffly beside his shield, and for a moment Dunk was certain that Aerion meant to strike it … but then he laughed and trotted past, and banged his point hard against Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s diamonds.
“Come out, come out, little knight,” he sang in a loud clear voice, “it’s time you faced the dragon.”
Ser Humfrey inclined his head stiffly to his foe as his destrier was brought out, and then ignored him while he mounted, fastened his helm, and took up lance and shield. The spectators grew quiet as the two knights took their places. Dunk heard the
clang
of Prince Aerion dropping his visor. The horn blew.
Ser Humfrey broke slowly, building speed, but his foe raked the red charger hard with both spurs, coming hard. Egg’s legs tightened again.
“Kill him!”
he shouted suddenly.
“Kill him, he’s right there, kill him, kill him, kill him!”
Dunk was not certain which of the knights he was shouting to.
Prince Aerion’s lance, gold-tipped and painted in stripes of red, orange, and yellow, swung down across the barrier.
Low, too low,
thought Dunk the moment he saw it.
He’ll miss the rider and strike Ser Humfrey’s horse, he needs to bring it up.
Then, with dawning horror, he began to suspect that Aerion intended no such thing.
He cannot mean to …
At the last possible instant, Ser Humfrey’s stallion reared away from the oncoming point, eyes rolling in terror, but too late. Aerion’s lance took the animal just above the armor that protected his breastbone, and exploded out of the back of his neck in a gout of bright blood. Screaming, the horse crashed sideways, knocking the wooden barrier to pieces as he fell. Ser Humfrey tried to leap free, but a foot caught in a stirrup and they heard his shriek as his leg was crushed between the splintered fence and falling horse.
All of Ashford Meadow was shouting. Men ran onto the field to extricate Ser Humfrey, but the stallion, dying in agony, kicked at them as they approached. Aerion, having raced blithely around the carnage to the end of the lists, wheeled his horse and came galloping back. He was shouting too, though Dunk could not make out the words over the almost human screams of the dying horse. Vaulting from the saddle, Aerion drew his sword and advanced on his fallen foe. His own squires and one of Ser Humfrey’s had to pull him back. Egg squirmed on Dunk’s shoulders. “Let me down,” the boy said. “The poor horse,
let me down.”
Dunk felt sick himself.
What would I do if such a fate befell Thunder?
A man-at-arms with a poleaxe dispatched Ser Humfrey’s stallion, ending
the hideous screams. Dunk turned and forced his way through the press. When he came to open ground, he lifted Egg off his shoulders. The boy’s hood had fallen back and his eyes were red. “A terrible sight, aye,” he told the lad, “but a squire must needs be strong. You’ll see worse mishaps at other tourneys, I fear.”
“It was no mishap,” Egg said, mouth trembling. “Aerion meant to do it. You saw.”
Dunk frowned. It had looked that way to him as well, but it was hard to accept that any knight could be so unchivalrous, least of all one who was blood of the dragon. “I saw a knight green as summer grass lose control of his lance,” he said stubbornly, “and I’ll hear no more of it. The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come, lad.”
H
e was right about the end of the day’s contests. By the time the chaos had been set to rights, the sun was low in the west, and Lord Ashford had called a halt.
As the shadows of evening crept across the meadow, a hundred torches were lit along the merchant’s row. Dunk bought a horn of ale for himself and half a horn for the boy, to cheer him. They wandered for a time, listening to a sprightly air on pipes and drums and watching a puppet show about Nymeria, the warrior queen with the ten thousand ships. The puppeteers had only two ships, but managed a rousing sea battle all the same. Dunk wanted to ask the girl Tanselle if she had finished painting his shield, but he could see that she was busy.
I’ll wait until she is done for the night,
he resolved.
Perhaps she’ll have a thirst then.