A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

hundred stags, for I’m feeling kindly.”

      “Eight hundred?” It was more than he had expected. “I … I could trade you some old armor, made for a smaller man … a halfhelm, a mail hauberk …”

      “Steely Pate sells only his own work,” the man declared, “but it might be I could make use of the metal. If it’s not too rusted, I’ll take it and armor you for six hundred.”

      Dunk could beseech Pate to give him the armor on trust, but he knew what sort of answer that request would likely get. He had traveled with the old man long enough to learn that merchants were notoriously mistrustful of hedge knights, some of whom were little better than robbers. “I’ll give you two silvers now, and the armor and the rest of the coin on the morrow.”

      The armorer studied him a moment. “Two silvers buys you a day. After that, I sell me work to the next man.”

      Dunk scooped the stags out of his pouch and placed them in the armorer’s callused hand. “You’ll get it all. I mean to be a champion here.”

      “Do you?” Pate bit one of the coins. “And these others, I suppose they all came just to cheer you on?”

      The moon was well up by the time he turned his steps back toward his elm. Behind him, Ashford Meadow was ablaze with torchlight. The sounds of song and laughter drifted across the grass, but his own mood was somber. He could think of only one way to raise the coin for his armor. And if he should be defeated … “One victory is all I need,” he muttered aloud. “That’s not so much to hope for.”

      Even so, the old man would never have hoped for it. Ser Arlan had not ridden a tilt since the day he had been unhorsed by the Prince of Dragonstone in a tourney at Storm’s End, many years before. “It is not every man who can boast that he broke seven lances against the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms,” he would say. “I could never hope to do better, so why should I try?”

      Dunk had suspected that Ser Arlan’s age had more to do with it than the Prince of Dragonstone did, but he never dared say as much. The old man had his pride, even at the last. I am quick and strong, he always said so, what was true for him need not be true for me, he told himself stubbornly.

      He was moving through a patch of weed, chewing over his chances in his head, when he saw the flicker of firelight through the bushes. What is this? Dunk did not stop to think. Suddenly his sword was in his hand and he was crashing through the grass.

      He burst out roaring and cursing, only to jerk to a sudden halt at the sight of the boy beside the campfire. “You!” He lowered the sword. “What are you doing here?”

      “Cooking a fish,” said the bald boy. “Do you want some?”

      “I meant, how did you get here? Did you steal a horse?”

      “I rode in the back of a cart, with a man who was bringing some lambs to the castle for my lord of Ashford’s table.”

      “Well, you’d best see if he’s gone yet, or find another cart. I won’t have you here.”

      “You can’t make me go,” the boy said, impertinent. “I’d had enough of that inn.”

      “I’ll have no more insolence from you,” Dunk warned. “I should throw you over my horse right now and take you home.”

      “You’d need to ride all the way to King’s Landing,” said the boy. “You’d miss the tourney.”

      King’s Landing. For a moment Dunk wondered if he was being mocked, but the boy had no way of knowing that he had been born in King’s Landing as well. Another wretch from Flea Bottom, like as not, and who can blame him for wanting out of that place?

      He felt foolish standing there with sword in hand over an eight-year-old orphan. He sheathed it, glowering so the boy would see that he would suffer no nonsense. I ought to give him a good beating at the least, he thought, but the child looked so pitiful he could not bring himself to hit him. He glanced around the camp. The fire was burning merrily within a neat circle of rocks. The horses had been brushed, and clothes were hanging from the elm, drying above the flames. “What are those doing there?”

      “I washed them,” the boy said. “And I groomed the horses, made the fire, and caught this fish. I would have raised your pavilion, but I couldn’t find one.”

      “There’s my pavilion.” Dunk swept a hand above his head, at the branches of the tall elm that loomed above them.

      “That’s a tree,” the boy said, unimpressed.

      “It’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I would sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent.”

      “What if it rains?”

      “The tree will shelter me.”

      “Trees leak.”

      Dunk laughed. “So they do. Well, if truth be told, I lack the coin for a pavilion. And you’d best turn that fish, or it will be burned on the bottom and raw on the top. You’d never make a kitchen boy.”

      “I would if I wanted,” the boy said, but he turned the fish.

      “What happened to your hair?” Dunk asked of him.

      “The maesters shaved it off.” Suddenly self-conscious, the boy pulled up the hood of his dark brown cloak, covering his head.

      Dunk had heard that they did that sometimes, to treat lice or rootworms or certain sicknesses. “Are you ill?”

      “No,” said the boy. “What’s your name?”

      “Dunk,” he said.

      The wretched boy laughed aloud, as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Dunk?” he said. “Ser Dunk? That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?”

      Was it? The old man had called him just Dunk for as long as he could recall, and he did not remember much of his life before. “Duncan, yes,” he said. “Ser Duncan of …” Dunk had no other name, nor any house; Ser Arlan had found him living wild in the stews and alleys of Flea Bottom. He had never known his father or mother. What was he to say? “Ser Duncan of Flea Bottom” did not sound very knightly. He could take Pennytree, but what if they asked him where it was? Dunk had never been to Pennytree, nor had the old man talked much about it. He frowned for a moment, then blurted out, “Ser Duncan the Tall.” He was tall, no one could dispute that, and it sounded puissant.

      Though the little sneak did not seem to think so. “I have never heard of any Ser Duncan the Tall.”

      “Do you know every knight in the Seven Kingdoms, then?”

      The boy looked at him boldly. “The good ones.”

      “I’m as good as any. After the tourney, they’ll all know that. Do you have a name, thief?”

      The boy hesitated. “Egg,” he said.

      Dunk did not laugh. His head does look like an egg. Small boys can be cruel, and grown men as well. “Egg,” he said, “I should beat you bloody and send you on your way, but the truth is, I have no pavilion and I have no squire either. If you’ll swear to do as you’re told, I’ll let you serve me for the tourney. After that, well, we’ll see. If I decide you’re worth your keep, you’ll have clothes on your back and food in your belly. The clothes might be roughspun and the food salt beef and salt fish, and maybe some venison from time to time where there are no foresters about, but you won’t go hungry. And I promise not to beat you except when you deserve it.”

      Egg smiled. “Yes, my lord.”

      “Ser,” Dunk corrected. “I am only a hedge knight.” He wondered if the old man was looking down on him. I will teach him the arts of battle, the same as you taught me, ser. He seems a likely lad, might be