"Martin, George R.R. - Song of Ice and Fire 06 Prequel - The Hedge Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

"You can open your mouth to answer," said Dunk. "Now pick up that mail, shake off the dirt,
and put it back where you found it. And the halfhelm too. Did you feed the horses, as I told
you? And rub down Sweetfoot?"
"Yes," the boy said, as he shook straw from the mail. "You're going to Ashford, aren't you?
Take me with you, ser."
The innkeep had warned him of this. "And what might your mother say to that?"
"My mother?" The boy wrinkled up his face. "My mother's dead, she wouldn't say anything."
He was surprised. Wasn't the innkeep his mother? Perhaps he was only 'prenticed to her.
Dunk's head was a little fuzzy from the ale. "Are you an orphan boy?" he asked uncertainly.
"Are you?" the boy threw back.
"I was once," Dunk admitted. Till the old man took me in.
"If you took me, I could squire for you."
"I have no need of a squire," he said.
"Every knight needs a squire," the boy said. "You look as though you need one more than
most."
Dunk raised a hand threateningly. "And you look as though you need a clout in the ear, it seems
to me. Fill me a sack of oats. I'm off for Ashford alone."
If the boy was frightened, he hid it well. For a moment he stood there defiant, his arms crossed,
but just as Dunk was about to give up on him the lad turned and went for the oats.
Dunk was relieved. A pity I couldn't . . . but he has a good life here at the inn, a better one than
he'd have squiring for a hedge knight. Taking him would be no kindness.
He could still feel the lad's disappointment, though. As he mounted Sweetfoot and took up
Thunder's lead; Dunk decided that a copper penny might cheer him. "Here, lad, for your help."
He flipped the coin down at him with a smile, but the stableboy made no attempt to catch it. It
fell in the dirt between his bare feet, and there he let it lie.
He'll scoop it up as soon as I am gone, Dunk told himself. He turned the palfrey and rode from
the inn, leading the other two horses. The trees were bright with moonlight, and the sky was
cloudless and speckled with stars. Yet as he headed down the road he could feel the stableboy
watching his back, sullen and silent.

The shadows of the afternoon were growing long when Dunk reined up on the edge of broad
Ashford Meadow. Three score pavilions had already risen on the grassy field. Some were small,
some large; some square, some round; some of sailcloth, some of linen, some of silk; but all
were brightly colored, with long banners streaming from their center poles, brighter than a field
of wildflowers with rich reds and sunny yellows, countless shades of green and blue, deep
blacks and greys and purples.
The old man had ridden with some of these knights; others Dunk knew from tales told in
common rooms and round campfires. Though he had never learned the magic of reading or
writing, the old man had been relentless when it came to teaching him heraldry, often drilling him
as they rode. The nightingales belonged to Lord Caron of the Marches, as skilled with the high
harp as he was with a lance. The crowned stag was for Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing
Storm. Dunk picked out the Tarly huntsman, House Dondarrion's purple lightning, the red apple
of the Fossoways. There roared the lion of Lannister gold on crimson, and there the dark green
sea turtle of the Estermonts swam across a pale green field. The brown tent beneath red stallion
could only belong to Ser Otho Bracken, who was called the Brute of Bracken since slaying
Lord Quentyn Blackwood three years past during a tourney at King's Landing. Dunk heard that
Ser Otho struck so hard with the blunted longaxe that he stove in the visor of Lord
Blackwood's helm and the face beneath it. He saw some Blackwood banners as well, on the
west edge of the meadow, as distant from Ser Otho as they could be. Marbrand, Mallister,
Cargyll, Westerling, Swann, Mullendore, Hightower, Florent, Frey, Penrose, Stokeworth, Daffy,