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Tournament season brings Ser Duncan the Tall to Bitterbridge and to a household where a young widow is dying of boredom. Soon enough, simply looking at one another proves insufficient.
—
When they draw near, you mount carefully so as not to wake the nephew. “You are rather young—” you say to Ser Duncan’s squire, and see him brace at once for insult, “—to be so thoroughly cursed with baldness.”
His mouth quirks. He lets out a breath. In the voice of a child who has more wit in that bald head than is entirely proper, he says, “You are rather grown to be losing children.”
“Egg,” Duncan hisses. “Beg pardon, m’lady. He ought not say such things.”
“No harm done.” You lift a hand once to stay him. Then, to the boy: “‘Tis not my child that got lost. I have none.”
“And why is that?”
“Seven hells, Egg—” Duncan mutters, reddening under the dirt.