Bennis rode closer. "Don't see no ladies here, just some mouthy peasant". He poked the digger's bare brown chest with the point of his sword, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
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?" Bennis made his longsword whistle, opening the old man's cheek from ear to jaw. "I said, them pear trees die, or you do". The digger's blood ran red down one side of his face.
He should not have done that. Dunk had to swallow his rage. Bennis was on his side in this. "Get away from here", he shouted at the diggers. "Go back to your lady's castle".
"Run", Ser Bennis urged.
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.