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Summary
His gaze roamed over Dunk, slow, appraising. "Knights need coin. Tourneys cost more than honor."
Dunk felt heat rise in his face. He set the tankard down. Inside his skull a voice - old, village, ugly - whispered: real men don’t sell their arse for silver. Real men don’t let other men put it in them. He swallowed. “I’ve managed.”
