Free The Sworn Sword by George R. R. Martin Page A

share the jape? Ser knight, why are you troubling my good-sister?”
    It was the girl he had seen earlier at the archery butts. She had a quiver of arrows on one hip, and held a longbow that was just as tall as she was, which wasn’t very tall. If Dunk was shy an inch of seven feet, the archer was shy an inch of five. He could have spanned her waist with his two hands. Her red hair was bound up in a braid so long it brushed past her thighs, and she had a dimpled chin, a snub nose, and a light spray of freckles across her cheeks.
    “Forgive us, Lady Rohanne.” The speaker was a pretty young lord with the Caswell centaur embroidered on his doublet. “This great oaf took the Lady Helicent for you.”
    Dunk looked from one lady to the other. “ You are the Red Widow?” he heard himself blurt out. “But you’re too—”
    “Young?” The girl tossed her longbow to the lanky lad he’d seen her shooting with. “I am five-and-twenty, as it happens. Or was it small you meant to say?”
    “—pretty. It was pretty .” Dunk did not know where that came from, but he was glad it came. He liked her nose, and the strawberry-blond color of her hair, and the small but well-shaped breasts beneath her leather jerkin. “I thought that you’d be . . . I mean . . . they said you were four times a widow, so . . .”
    “My first husband died when I was ten. He was twelve, my father’s squire, ridden down upon the Redgrass Field. My husbands seldom linger long, I fear. The last died in the spring.”
    That was what they always said of those who had perished during the Great Spring Sickness two years past. He died in the spring. Many tens of thousands had died in the spring, among them a wise old king and two young princes full of promise. “I . . . I am sorry for all your losses, m’lady.” A gallantry, you lunk, give her a gallantry. “I want to say . . . your gown . . .”
    “Gown?” She glanced down at her boots and breeches, loose linen tunic, and leather jerkin. “I wear no gown.”
    “Your hair, I meant . . . it’s soft and . . .”
    “And how would you know that, ser? If you had ever touched my hair, I should think that I might remember.”
    “Not soft,” Dunk said miserably. “Red, I meant to say. Your hair is very red.”
    “ Very red, ser? Oh, not as red as your face, I hope.” She laughed, and the onlookers laughed with her.
    All but Ser Lucas Longinch. “My lady,” he broke in, “this man is one of Standfast’s sellswords. He was with Bennis of the Brown Shield when he attacked your diggers at the dam and carved up Wolmer’s face. Old Osgrey sent him to treat with you.”
    “He did, m’lady. I am called Ser Duncan, the Tall.”
    “Ser Duncan the Dim, more like,” said a bearded knight who wore the threefold thunderbolt of Leygood. More guffaws sounded. Even Lady Helicent had recovered herself enough to give a chuckle.
    “Did the courtesy of Coldmoat die with my lord father?” the girl asked. No, not a girl, a woman grown. “How did Ser Duncan come to make such an error, I wonder?”
    Dunk gave Inchfield an evil look. “The fault was mine.”
    “Was it?” The Red Widow looked Dunk over from his heels up to his head, though her gaze lingered longest on his chest. “A tree and shooting star. I have never seen those arms before.” She touched his tunic, tracing a limb of his elm tree with two fingers. “And painted, not sewn. The Dornish paint their silks, I’ve heard, but you look too big to be a Dornishman.”
    “Not all Dornishmen are small, m’lady.” Dunk could feel her fingers through the silk. Her hand was freckled, too. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over. His mouth was oddly dry. “I spent a year in Dorne.”
    “Do all the oaks grow so tall there?” she said, as her fingers traced a tree limb around his heart.
    “It’s meant to be an elm, m’lady.”
    “I shall remember.” She drew her hand back, solemn. “The ward is too hot and dusty for a conversation. Septon, show Ser