The Sworn Sword

For the moment, though, the tangled underbrush along the Chequy Water was still thick with thorny vines, nettles, and tangles of briarwhite and young willow. Rather than fight through it, they crossed the dry streambed to the Coldmoat side, where the trees had been cleared away for pasture. Amongst the parched brown grasses and faded wildflowers, a few black-nosed sheep were grazing. "Never knew an animal stupid as a sheep", Ser Be

Half a league farther south, they came upon the dam.

It was not large as such things went, but it looked strong. Two stout wooden barricades had been thrown across the stream from bank to bank, made from the trunks of trees with the bark still on. The space between them was filled with rocks and earth and packed down hard. Behind the dam the flow was creeping up the banks and spilling off into a ditch that had been cut through Lady Webber's fields. Dunk stood in his stirrups for a better look. The glint of sun on water betrayed a score of lesser cha

"See what you went and did, lunk", said Be

Dunk had no choice but to follow. Ser Arlan's longsword rode his hip, a good straight piece of steel. If these ditchdiggers have a lick of sense, they'll run. Thunder's hooves kicked up clods of dirt.

One man dropped his shovel at the sight of the oncoming knights, but that was all. There were a score of the diggers, short and tall, old and young, all baked brown by the sun. They formed a ragged line as Be

"And that's an Osgrey stream". Be

"Maester Cerrick made it", said one young digger.

"No", an older man insisted. "The gray pup pointed some and said do this and do that, but it were us who made it".

"Then you can bloody well unmake it".

The diggers' eyes were sullen and defiant. One wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. No one spoke.

"You lot don't hear so good", said Be

"This is Webber land". The old digger was a scrawny fellow, stooped and stubborn. "You got no right to be here. Lop off any ears and m'lady will drown you in a sack".

Be

He goes too far. "Put up your steel", Dunk warned him. "This is not his doing. This maester set them to the task".

"It's for the crops, ser", a jug-eared digger said. "The wheat was dying, the maester said. The pear trees, too".

"Well, maybe them pear trees die, or maybe you do".

"Your talk don't frighten us", said the old man.

"No?" Be

He should not have done that. Dunk had to swallow his rage. Be

"Run", Ser Be

Three of them let go of their tools and did just that, sprinting through the grass. But another man, sunburned and brawny, hefted a pick and said, "There's only two of them".

"Shovels against swords is a fool's fight, Jorgen", the old man said, holding his face. Blood trickled through his fingers. "This won't be the end of this. Don't think it will".

"One more word, and I might be the end o' you".

"We meant no harm to you", Dunk said to the old man's bloody face. "All we want is our water. Tell your lady that".

"Oh, we'll tell her, ser", promised the brawny man, still clutching his pick. "That we will".

On the way home they cut through the heart of Wat's Wood, grateful for the small measure of shade provided by the trees. Even so, they cooked. Supposedly there were deer in the wood, but the only living things they saw were flies. They buzzed about Dunk's face as he rode, and crept round Thunder's eyes, irritating the big warhorse no end. The air was still, suffocating. At least in Dorne the days were dry, and at night it grew so cold I shivered in my cloak. In the Reach the nights were hardly cooler than the days, even this far north.

When ducking down beneath an overhanging limb, Dunk plucked a leaf and crumpled it between his fingers. It fell apart like thousand-year-old parchment in his hand. "There was no need to cut that man", he told Be

"A tickle on the cheek was all it was, to teach him to mind his tongue. I should of cut his bloody throat for him, only then the rest would of run like rabbits, and we'd of had to ride down the lot o' them".

"You'd kill twenty men?" Dunk said, incredulous.

"Twenty– two. That's two more'n all your fingers and your toes, lunk. You have to kill them all, else they go telling tales". They circled round a deadfall. "We should of told Ser Useless the drought dried up his little pissant stream".

"Ser Eustace . You would have lied to him".

"Aye, and why not? Who's to tell him any different? The flies?" Be

"A sworn sword owes his lord the truth".

"There's truths and truths, lunk. Some don't serve". He spat. "The gods make droughts. A man can't do a bloody buggering thing about the gods. The Red Widow, though… we tell Useless that bitch dog took his water, he'll feel honor-bound to take it back. Wait and see. He'll think he's got to do something ".

"He should. Our smallfolk need that water for their crops".

" Our smallfolk?" Ser Be

"I don't need toes to count". Dunk was sick of the heat, the flies, and the brown knight's company. He may have ridden with Ser Arlan once, but that was years and years ago. The man is grown mean and false and craven. He put his heels into his horse and trotted on ahead, to put the smell behind him.

Standfast was a castle only by courtesy. Though it stood bravely atop a rocky hill and could be seen for leagues around, it was no more than a towerhouse. A partial collapse a few centuries ago had required some rebuilding, so the north and west faces were pale gray stone above the windows, and the old black stone below. Turrets had been added to the roofline during the repair, but only on the sides that were rebuilt; at the other two corners crouched ancient stone grotesques, so badly abraded by wind and weather that it was hard to say what they had been. The pinewood roof was flat, but badly warped and prone to leaks.