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nice crop o’ bastard boys back then, might be we’d have some soldiers now.”
    “They seem no worse than any other peasant levy.” Dunk had marched with a few such while squiring for Ser Arlan.
    “Aye,” Ser Bennis said. “In a fortnight they might stand their own, ’gainst some other lot o’ peasants. Knights, though?” He shook his head, and spat.
     
    Standfast’s well was in the undercellar, in a dank chamber walled in stone and earth. It was there that Sam Stoops’ wife soaked and scrubbed and beat the clothes before carrying them up to the roof to dry. The big stone washtub was also used for baths. Bathing required drawing water from the well bucket by bucket, heating it over the hearth in a big iron kettle, emptying the kettle into the tub, then starting the whole process once again. It took four buckets to fill the kettle, and three kettles to fill the tub. By the time the last kettle was hot the water from the first had cooled to lukewarm. Ser Bennis had been heard to say that the whole thing was too much bloody bother, which was why he crawled with lice and fleas and smelled like a bad cheese.
    Dunk at least had Egg to help him when he felt in dire need of a good wash, as he did tonight. The lad drew the water in a glum silence, and hardly spoke as it was heating. “Egg?” Dunk asked as the last kettle was coming to a boil. “Is aught amiss?” When Egg made no reply, he said, “Help me with the kettle.”
    Together they wrestled it from hearth to tub, taking care not to splash themselves. “Ser,” the boy said, “what do you think Ser Eustace means to do?”
    “Tear down the dam, and fight off the Widow’s men if they try to stop us.” He spoke loudly, so as to be heard above the splashing of the bathwater. Steam rose in a white curtain as they poured, bringing a flush to his face.
    “Their shields are woven wood, ser. A lance could punch right through them, or a crossbow bolt.”
    “We may find some bits of armor for them, when they’re ready.” That was the best they could hope for.
    “They might be killed, ser. Wet Wat is still half a boy. Will Barleycorn is to be married the next time the septon comes. And Big Rob doesn’t even know his left foot from his right.”
    Dunk let the empty kettle thump down onto the hard-packed earthen floor. “Roger of Pennytree was younger than Wet Wat when he died on the Redgrass Field. There were men in your father’s host who’d been just been married, too, and other men who’d never even kissed a girl. There were hundreds who didn’t know their left foot from their right, maybe thousands.”
    “That was different, ” Egg insisted. “That was war.”
    “So is this. The same thing, only smaller.”
    “Smaller and stupider , ser.”
    “That’s not for you or me to say,” Dunk told him. “It’s their duty to go to war when Ser Eustace summons them . . . and to die, if need be.”
    “Then we shouldn’t have named them, ser. It will only make the grief harder for us when they die.” He screwed up his face. “If we used my boot—”
    “No.” Dunk stood on one leg to pull his own boot off.
    “Yes, but my father—”
    “No.” The second boot went the way of the first.
    “We—”
    “No.” Dunk pulled his sweat-stained tunic up over his head and tossed it at Egg. “Ask Sam Stoops’ wife to wash that for me.”
    “I will, ser, but—”
    “No, I said. Do you need a clout in the ear to help you hear better?” He unlaced his breeches. Underneath was only him; it was too hot for smallclothes. “It’s good that you’re concerned for Wat and Wat and Wat and the rest of them, but the boot is only meant for dire need.” How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? A thousand eyes, and one. “What did your father tell you, when he sent you off to squire for me?”
    “To keep my hair shaved or dyed, and tell no man my true name,” the boy said, with obvious reluctance.
    Egg had served Dunk for a good year and a half, though some