* * * *
Hero’s blood or whore’s blood, Dunk thought when two of Lord Vrywel’s men dumped Ser Glendon naked at his feet, he has a deal less of it than he did before.
The boy had been savagely beaten. His face was bruised and swollen, several of his teeth were cracked or missing, his right eye was weeping blood, and up and down his chest his flesh was red and cracking where they’d burned him with hot irons.
“You’re safe now,” murmurred Ser Kyle. “There’s no one here but hedge knights, and the gods know that we’re a harmless lot.” Daemon had given them the maester’s chambers, and commanded them to dress any hurts Ser Glendon might have suffered and see that he was ready for the lists.
Three fingernails had been pulled from Ball’s left hand, Dunk saw as he washed the blood from the boy’s face and hands. That worried him more than all the rest. “Can you hold a lance?” “A lance?” Blood and spit dribbled from Ser Glendon’s mouth when he tried to speak. “Do I have all my fingers?”
“Ten,” said Dunk, “but only seven fingernails.”
Ball nodded. “Black Toni was going to cut my fingers off, but he was called away. Is it him that I’m to fight?”
“No. I killed him.”
That made him smile. “Someone had to.”
“You’re to tilt against the Fiddler, but his real name—”
“--is Daemon, aye. They told me. The Black Dragon.” Ser Glendon laughed. “My father died for him. I would have been his man, and gladly. I would have fought for him, killed for him, died for him, but I could not lose for him.” He turned his head and spat out a broken tooth. “Could I have a cup of wine?”
“Ser Kyle, get the wineskin.”
The boy drank long and deep, then wiped his mouth. “Look at me. I’m shaking like a girl.” Dunk frowned. “Can you still sit a horse?”
“Help me wash, and bring me my shield and lance and saddle,” Ser Glendon said, “and you will see what I can do.”