A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

by George R.R. Martin

“Another day done”—he would sigh—“and who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?”

This is what it means to be a knight, he told himself as he sucked the last bit of meat off the bone. Good food, and ale whenever I want it, and no one to clout me in the head.

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?”

“One victory is all I need,” he muttered aloud. “That’s not so much to hope for.”

The stars were everywhere, thousands and thousands of them. One fell as he was watching, a bright green streak that flashed across the black, then was gone. A falling star brings luck to him who sees it, Dunk thought. But the rest of them are all in their pavilions by now, staring up at silk instead of sky. So the luck is mine alone.

The old man always said that a knight should never love a horse, since more than a few were like to die under him, but he never heeded his own counsel either.

“You’re not too tall,” Dunk blurted out. “You’re just right for …” He realized what he had been about to say, and blushed furiously. “For?” said Tanselle, cocking her head inquisitively. “Puppets,” he finished lamely.

“A hedge knight is the truest kind of knight, Dunk,” the old man had told him, a long long time ago. “Other knights serve the lords who keep them, or from whom they hold their lands, but we serve where we will, for men whose causes we believe in. Every knight swears to protect the weak and innocent, but we keep the vow best, I think.”

Pain was as much a part of knighthood as were swords and shields.