"See what you went and did, lunk", said Bennis. "Couldn't have it that the stream dried up, no. Might be this starts with water, but it'll end with blood. Yours and mine, most like". The brown knight drew his sword. "Well, no help for it now. There's your thrice-damned diggers. Best we put some fear in them". He raked his garron with his spurs and galloped through the grass.

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 Bennis slowed, clutching their spades and picks. "This is Coldmoat land", one shouted.

"And that's an Osgrey stream". Bennis pointed with his longsword. "Who put that damned dam up?"

"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 Bennis. "Do I need to lop me off an ear or two? Who's first?"

"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".