BRIENNE
The kingsroad twisted and writhed over the hills like an angry snake, climbing thickly forested hills and then diving down at the last moment on slopes so steep that Brienne had to inch her horse forwards once small step at a time. Podrick's steed had no such caution and sent her squire rocketing down the hills at a ludicrous speed that had her fearing for the life of anything and everything in the vicinity. When she met Pod at the bottom of the hill, there was a giddy smile on his face, a smile that was so gleeful she despaired for his health. She gave him a strange look.
"Sorry, s- my lady," Podrick said, and nothing more. He said so little that some days she forgot that he was even there with here. Though she was more than capable of working alone, Brienne would have been thankful for a competent squire.
That being said, Podrick Payne was not very competent. A rabbit cooked over an open fire was something Brienne had seen frequently and often desired at the end of a long day, while a rabbit that had not been skinned cooked over an open fire was something that mystified and disgusted her in equal measure.
After that disaster, they stuck to inns, and to the bread and cheese, blackened bacon and the little fish that Brienne was able to barter from the wagoneers and traders that travelled the kingsroad with her. Most were traveling south towards King's Landing or towards the Roseroad in the direction of Oldtown, fleeing the coming winter, but Sansa Stark would have fled north, not south, and no doubt Arya Stark would have done the same. Brienne debated with herself as to whether the younger Stark girl had in fact survived, and no matter how many people told her that she was dead, the things Jaime had said about the girl stuck in her mind. The girl was a wild one, he had told her, maybe she wanted to be a boy; Ser Meryn Trant found her practising sword fighting with a 'dancing master'. Perhaps a girl like that would have found some way of escaping the cesspit that was King's Landing, and a way back north to her family in Winterfell or to safety elsewhere. Brienne had never had a 'dancing master', but her father was devoted to teaching her how to fight properly. Lord Selwyn Tarth was a large, strong man, with a stern demeanour and a suspicion of strangers, but he reserved the kindest corner of his heart for his only daughter and taught her everything he knew about the art of the sword. And after the things her father had taught her, Brienne felt that she might have stood a fair chance on the open road, even with the rogues and thieves that populated the world outside the gates of cities and holdfasts. Then again, she could not have escaped from the very worst men of all. According to a trader she passed near the Ivy Inn, the Hound had rode into Saltpans on a massive black dog, burned it to the ground, killed every man and raped every girl in the town before riding on. And a Buckwell man-at-arms travelling south told her that he had seen a wolf the size of a mid-sized horse at the ruby ford, hunting with a pack of a hundred. The land was dangerous nowadays. Brienne always kept Oathkeeper where she could see it.
Maybe Arya Stark had not been so lucky in her travels after all. Maybe she had never even left King's Landing. Only the Spider knew what lived down in the sewers beneath the city.
The Riverlands were burned into ruin. At Datherstone, a day south of Darry, she came across a small cottage, the timbers burned till they were black, and the door blown off its hinges. When she peered inside all she saw were the bodies of dead children, three boys and four girls. At least two of the girls had clearly been raped, and all of them had their throats cut from ear to ear. Brienne buried them and said the prayers that the septon at Evenfall Hall had taught her over their makeshift graves while Podrick watched in mute horror from atop his horse.
"Lions or wolves?" he asked, in barely more than a whisper.
Brienne shook her head. There were hardly any wolves to speak of in these days anyway, but she knew that it was not the Lannisters either. No, the truth was far worse than that.
"War," she said. "The things it does to men."
They found the next town in ruins as well; even from a distance they could see the plumes of death-black smoke rising from the wattle-and-daub dwellings beside the kingsroad, and the holdfast tower had collapsed in on itself. Before the town, a fat septon was waddling down the road in well-kept sandals, dressed in shapeless grey sackcloth.
"I buried the next lot," he said when Brienne approached. "May the Seven grant them all the goodly peace they deserve."
"Is this Blanetree, good septon?" she asked.
"Aye," the short septon said. "It is – or rather, it was. I was the septon here, from twenty years ago until this week past. They came in the night, mad men riding on the horses of hell. They came out of the darkness and burned the towers to the ground. Little lord Raymund's father fell at the Battle of the Green Fork fighting for Hoster Tully, and the town was vulnerable... they burned every house, had their way with every maiden and then murdered them as well."
"Even the children?" asked Brienne.
"Aye," said the septon, and looked at his feet. "Even the littlest children. … Little Lord Blanetree was but twelve namedays, his sisters not much older than that, but old enough for them to have their way with, and his younger brother ten or eleven or so. Lord Raymund was a sweet lad, for all the good that it did him when the riders came. I barely managed to get out, and came back to give them their rites this morn. Alas, I could not get into the lord's holdfast… though…"
"I'll see what I can do," Brienne said. "They deserve their peace. Be on your way, ser. Pod, give the goodman some of our cheese, and a little of the ale."
"Seven blessings on you, my lady," said the septon. "I only wish that I could repay you in some way."
"I ask no repayment, only a question," she replied. "I am looking for my sister, a maid of six-and-ten, pretty, with auburn hair and blue eyes."
The septon shook his head. "I regret that I have not seen her, my lady. Though I will say prayers for her this evening when I reach a place to shelter, and more once I reach King's Landing.
Another sparrow, then, Brienne thought, gone to join the flock. "Fare well, then," she said, and the short septon was gone.
When she followed the road up to Blanetree, she could see that the low palisade that surrounded the town had been smashed through in places. A gatehouse with the sigil of House Blanetree on a painted shield above it, green and brown maple leaves on gauzy yellow, had clearly been forced, judging from the broken chains inside the gate. Approaching the towerhouse, Brienne saw why such a slight man had been unable to get inside. A large beam had fallen across the entrance to the holdfast, presumably from the ruined house to one side that had partially collapsed under fire, leaving burned timbers, pots and pans and bits of furniture fallen across the road. It was almost like a strange snapshot of life here. Except for the people. The people were gone. The septon had done his job well, but Brienne had noticed the new sandals he wore on his feet, the food that filled his pockets and the anxious way in which he spoke. It seemed that not even the holiest of men could resist a little looting in times like these. That thought filled her with sadness.
She reined her horse up beside a post. It took her only two minutes; one to find a piece of sturdy wood sufficient enough to lever the fallen beam up, and another to lift said beam high enough to shift away it from the castle gate. Inside, everything looked like and smelled like blood. Podrick cowered in the doorway, unwilling to pass into the dimly lit tower, so Brienne handed him her scabbard with Oathkeeper in, and stooped her back so that she could fit through the small opening. There was a room at the bottom, and a winding flight of steps, twisting up and up and up.
It was in the second room that she found the bodies. The door had been locked once, but now it was half off its hinges. A boy with auburn hair was the first she saw, his head smashed hard against the flagstones, a steady pool of blood blossoming from below him. From the way he stood by the door, it seemed to Brienne that he had died defending his siblings, but the outlaws themselves had taken his sword with them. Beaten steel was becoming harder and harder to come by.
Beyond the dead lord, she could see two girls, twins, perhaps. Both were fair of face, but Brienne doubted that would have mattered against the rapers who came. One had died curled up against the tower wall while the other was flat on her back, arms splayed, facing the ceiling. Brienne turned to look up at it. The spiderwebbed cracks in the stonework almost made a face. Bury them, wench, it said in a voice that seemed to belong to Ser Jaime Lannister, say their rites and bury them along with the rest.
"Very well, ser," Brienne said so quietly she thought she must have imagined the movement of her lips. "Very well. I will."
That was when the hand touched her ankle.
A lesser woman might have screamed, and even so Brienne jumped away in terror as the owner of the hand stirred. The younger boy – ten or eleven or so, the septon had said – and Brienne had not even chanced to look upon him.
Which proved that it was so often the very least of things that mattered.
She dropped into a crouch besides the boy, who moaned a singular sound of pain and desperation, and put her arms under him, lifting his head up so that he rested against her. Pressing her hands to his side, they came away wet with blood that gleamed black through the darkness. The wound was glancing, but it would be enough to kill him if it was left untreated.
"Podrick!" she shouted, so that her voice echoed off every wall inside the towerhouse and hopefully outside too. "PODDDD!"
She bundled the lad up in her arms and proceeded to carry him out of the room, shielding him from the sight of his murdered siblings, listening to his small, ragged breaths. When she was five, she had been outside in the yard for some reason or other when they brought in her elder brother Galladon on a pallet, sodden wet and far quieter than he had any right to be, and Brienne followed them, listening to his tired breathing as her father's armsmen bore the pallet inside and laid him before the maester. And she had watched Maester Ryam pause, then shake his head sorrowfully. After that, maybe it was a mercy that Lord Selwyn Tarth found her peeping and took her back to her chambers, to sew aimlessly with her septa. But all the while, she was thinking of Galladon lying on his deathbed, and how she had seen him, wet through to the skin and cold to the touch. Then she had felt helpless, just as she felt helpless now.
"Cold," said her king in a small voice. "Cold," said Renly, as a look of puzzlement came onto his face.
"Ser, my lady!" Podrick was shaking her by the shoulders. "Cold," said Brienne.
"No, my lady, he's not – it's not – come on." So she let Podrick Payne half-drag her out of the towerhouse to where the Blanetree Road dwindled into a dirt track. Outside, it was beginning to rain, drop by drop, and Brienne's dark plate reflected every last finger of the sun.
"They're all dead, Pod," she said. "All of them."
"Not him, my lady. No, not him."
"Water, Pod."
Podrick hesitated. "For you, or for-
More insistently: "Water, Pod. Please."
He took a few moments fumbling with saddlebags and skins, but she got the skin of water in the end. It was half full, and she emptied half of that into the boy's dry mouth, and the other half into his bloody wound. She slapped him on the back after a moment, to let him vomit up blood and whatever else was in the back of his throat, and then offered him a long gulp from the next skin of water.
"Podrick, do you know anything about open wounds?" she asked.
The boy looked clueless. No, my lady, he might have said, but I do know how to fetch food from the kitchens, lay a table, and pour the Imp's wine for him.
"Wonderful," Brienne said sarcastically. "How far to Darry?"
"There'll be a maester at Darry," Pod stated mutely.
"Yes, Pod," Brienne said tiredly. "Yes, there will. So how far is it to Darry?"
"Twenty miles, my lady. Near half a day's riding."
"We can do it in half that time if we hurry. You like riding fast, don't you, Pod?"
Podrick mumbled something. Brienne snorted. She doubted that he liked anything in particular. "Well," she said, clapping her hands together loudly. "To Darry."
She slung the wounded boy over the back of her horse, praying that their combined weight was not too much. Had it been the boy's elder brother who survived, it might have been. "Hold on," she told him and felt weak hands grip at her waist for dear life. "Oh, hold on."
"Er, my lady," said Podrick. "My lady."
"What is it, Pod?" she asked, betraying a hint of annoyance in her voice.
"The riders, my lady," he said. "The riders; they're here. Now."
And so they were. Even worse, they were standing in the gatehouse, staring at Brienne down the length of the road. The cloaks they wore were cloaks of black and red and yellow, and when they came closer she could make out their faces. The one in the red robes was portly, his beard strands of silver, and when he touched his fingers to the hilt of his sword, she could have sworn that it glowed.
They were riding out from behind the houses now, through the gaps in the palisade fence. Nervously, Brienne drew Oathkeeper, for all the good that I would do her. "Stay back!"
"Don't be such a fool, my lady," said the man in red. "You can count numbers, can't you? And we," He spread his arms wide to encompass his entire group. "We have no desire to hurt you. We just want to talk with you, or rather, we know someone who does."
She sheathed Oathkeeper back in her belt. "Thoros," said Podrick Payne in scarcely more than a whisper. "I know him, well, I know someone who does – but that's Thoros of Myr, my lady, him with the burning sword that he carries in all the tourneys."
"Ser Thoros," Brienne called.
"No knight, my lady," said Thoros of Myr. "Those gods are not mine; not ours. R'hllor has done for us what the Seven never could, though I confess, I'm no true devotee of religion either – and I'm certainly not responsible for this slaughter. Outlaws, my friends."
Brienne's horse whinnied. "I see you have an injured lad with you," said the red priest. "A Blanetree, mayhaps. The younger one. Little lord Lucas, was it?"
"Aye," said a man in a yellow cloak. "Little Lord Lucas now, though there's little left to be lord over now. We'll take him in, tend to him, and give him water. The Brotherhood without Banners does not turn away the wounded, or the weary, or those on a noble quest like yourselves."
"It's Sansa Stark you want, isn't it?" asked Thoros, and continued when he saw the shock on Brienne's face. "You were never very discreet about it, my lady. Half the Riverlands know that you're looking for a maid of six-and-ten with auburn hair. Sansa Stark – which makes you Brienne of Tarth. The Kingslayer's travelling companion, or his lover… or his whore, it depends on who you ask, although if you ask me the latter seems unlikely, begging your pardons."
"Aye," agreed the man in the yellow cloak. "Why would he need another whore when he has his sister?"
Brienne's cheeks flushed red. "Careful, ser."
Why defend me, wench? Jaime's voice asked her, what good have I ever done you in my life?
You made me believe, Brienne thought, believe that in even in the very darkest soul there was still a fragment of light to be found.
"Lem's no ser either," said Thoros of Myr. "Only a Hound. And… and you seek the wrong Stark girl, Lady Brienne. Arya Stark is the one we know."
Brienne choked back a sudden, unexplained sob and fell to her knees. "You're lucky we found you, actually," said Thoros. "These parts aren't right for a lady to be a-wandering without protection, though that steel looks good quality – sharp enough to shave a spider's arse with." The men around him laughed.
Valyrian steel, thought Brienne, but she did not tell them that, the best steel of all.
"We saw Arya Stark," said one of the more soberly dressed fellows. "I'm Harwin, the son of the master of horse at Winterfell. Lord Eddard's master of horse, that is." He looked solemn. "But anyway, we saw her, and we planned to take her north to Riverrun. But she escaped, ran off, most likely got away with the Hound."
"Sandor Clegane," breathed Pod, as though she were stupid.
"You say she was with the Hound?" asked Brienne.
"Aye," replied Harwin. "She was, but the Hound's dead and gone now. That's how Lem's got his helm. Found it on some arsehole named Rorge at Maidenpool, one of the Bloody Mummers." Brienne thought of Vargo Hoat, licking his wormy lips as though she were a pork chop to be slowly broiled until all the juices ran out.
"What happened to the Goat? Of Harrenhal, I mean."
"Vargo Hoat. Ah, he died before we could get to him," said Thoros of Myr. "A shame, that. I was looking forward to giving Lord Tywin's rat his justice, but it seems the Mountain beat me to it. But Ser Gregor's next on our list. Burning Raventree Hall to the ground, if he hasn't already crushed it with his fat arse. We had hoped to find him next, my lady, but now we've got you instead." He smiled.
A sickening feeling was rising in Brienne's stomach. "What do you want with us?"
Thoros held up his hands innocently. "To talk, nothing more. Or rather, she does."
He stepped back into line and allowed the hooded figure to come forwards. "Lord Beric found her a day after the Red Wedding, my lady," said Thoros of Myr. "The Freys cut her throat deep, but not deep enough. He gave his life force up to save her, and it worked well. Far better than we expected. We thought she might not be able to remember, to know, to speak, but she does all three almost as well as Lord Beric himself. She does it all so well that you might even forget that she was dead."
No, Brienne thought, she's dead for sure. Dead and gone. But the ghost dared her to deny it. Parts of her hair had faded from Tully auburn to grey, and there were lines, scratches and scars running all down her face. A rough line of stitching had been hastily drawn across her scarred throat, and while her flesh looked cold, the lady seemed very much alive.
"Brienne," said Catelyn Stark.
Author's Note: As is often the case with ASoIaF, events do not necessarily happen in exact chronological order. Namely, this Brienne chapter takes place a couple of weeks after the royal wedding, which is next chapter, and the upcoming Barristan/Dany chapters are often a couple of months ahead of the rest of the story.
Reviews are very much appreciated!
