The Sworn Sword by George R. R. Martin Page B

tease you, in the village where you grew so tall?”
    “The village was King’s Landing.” He did not mention Flea Bottom. “There were girls, but . . .” The sort of teasing that went on in Flea Bottom sometimes involved cutting off a toe.
    “I expect they were afraid to tease you.” Lady Rohanne stroked her braid. “No doubt they were frightened of your size. Do not think ill of Lady Helicent, I pray you. My good-sister is a simple creature, but she has no harm in her. For all her piety, she could not dress herself without her septas.”
    “It was not her doing. The mistake was mine.”
    “You lie most gallantly. I know it was Ser Lucas. He is a man of cruel humors, and you offended him on sight.”
    “How?” Dunk said, puzzled. “I never did him any harm.”
    She smiled a smile that made him wish she were plainer. “I saw you standing with him. You’re taller by a hand, or near enough. It has been a long while since Ser Lucas met anyone he could not look down on. How old are you, ser?”
    “Near twenty, if it please m’lady.” Dunk liked the ring of twenty , though most like he was a year younger, maybe two. No one knew for certain, least of all him. He must have had a mother and a father like everybody else, but he’d never known them, not even their names, and no one in Flea Bottom had ever cared much when he’d been born, or to whom.
    “Are you as strong as you appear?”
    “How strong do I appear, m’lady?”
    “Oh, strong enough to annoy Ser Lucas. He is my castellan, though not by choice. Like Coldmoat, he is a legacy of my father. Did you come to knighthood on some battlefield, Ser Duncan? Your speech suggests that you were not born of noble blood, if you will forgive my saying so.”
    I was born of gutter blood. “A hedge knight named Ser Arlan of Pennytree took me on to squire for him when I was just a boy. He taught me chivalry and the arts of war.”
    “And this same Ser Arlan knighted you?”
    Dunk shuffled his feet. One of his boots was half unlaced, he saw. “No one else was like to do it.”
    “Where is Ser Arlan now?”
    “He died.” He raised his eyes. He could lace his boot up later. “I buried him on a hillside.”
    “Did he fall valiantly in battle?”
    “There were rains. He caught a chill.”
    “Old men are frail, I know. I learned that from my second husband. I was thirteen when we wed. He would have been five-and-fifty on his next name day, had he lived long enough to see it. When he was half a year in the ground, I gave him a little son, but the Stranger came for him as well. The septons said his father wanted him beside him. What do you think, ser?”
    “Well,” Dunk said hesitantly, “that might be, m’lady.”
    “Nonsense,” she said, “the boy was born too weak. Such a tiny thing. He scarce had strength enough to nurse. Still. The gods gave his father five-and-fifty years. You would think they might have granted more than three days to the son.”
    “You would.” Dunk knew little and less about the gods. He went to sept sometimes, and prayed to the Warrior to lend strength to his arms, but elsewise he let the Seven be.
    “I am sorry your Ser Arlan died,” she said, “and sorrier still that you took service with Ser Eustace. All old men are not the same, Ser Duncan. You would do well to go home to Pennytree.”
    “I have no home but where I swear my sword.” Dunk had never seen Pennytree; he couldn’t even say if it was in the Reach.
    “Swear it here, then. The times are uncertain. I have need of knights. You look as though you have a healthy appetite, Ser Duncan. How many chickens can you eat? At Coldmoat you would have your fill of warm pink meat and sweet fruit tarts. Your squire looks in need of sustenance as well. He is so scrawny that all his hair has fallen out. We’ll have him share a cell with other boys of his own age. He’ll like that. My master-at-arms can train him in all the arts of war.”
    “I train him,” said Dunk