BRIENNE

"Tarth, you say?" Lord Karyl Vance was a tall, stately man of about forty years, with a winestain birthmark on his left cheek. His silver-grey plate was edged in niello, as were his gauntlets. His cloak was black and white chequy, with black dragons on the white squares, and two eyes in a golden ring on the black. The same coat of arms was inked upon the great ironwood shield in his squire's arms. "The home of Lord Selwyn Tarth?"

"Lord Selwyn is my father," said Brienne.

Lord Vance affirmed. "A good man, and true."

But Ser Brynden Tully only shrugged. Hard lines marked his hard grey face. "You could say that for most men. Let us not waste any more time. How might we help you, Lady Brienne?"

Brienne gestured to Podrick, who fumbled in his saddlebags for a while before drawing the parchment forth and offered it to the Blackfish. "The seal is unbroken," she noted.

"I can see that." He paced back across the tent. In their seats, the lords Vance and Vypren and Ser Patrek Mallister craned their necks to get a better look at the paper, but they could not have read more than one line before Ser Brynden scrunched it up into a ball and tossed it at Pod. "Dishonest words from a Targaryen pretender. Perhaps you have not noticed, but we fly King Stannis's banners."

"To be sure," said an immensely fat knight who wore White Harbor's coat-of-arms. "But the wench has a point."

"My name is Brienne," she told him, "not wench."

"And I am Ser Wylis Manderly. My apologies, my lady." To Ser Brynden he said, "Might the rest of us see the missive, at least?"

"You may not," the Blackfish said curtly. "We are to take Harrenhal for King Stannis, and then we are to regroup with my nephew Edmure and move on to Maidenpool and the rebel lords of the Vale. As I have told you. We will not concern ourselves with Aegon Targaryen. Not until he concerns himself with us."

Brienne curled her fingers into fists. "My lords, Lady Sansa is at Harrenhal. Your niece's daughter, Ser Brynden!"

The Blackfish's face could have been made out of stone. No, his eyes said, no, and nothing more.

Bronze Yohn Royce spoke next. "Your offer is sweet, my lady, but we serve King Stannis now. We cannot bend our knee, lest we be considered traitors."

Brienne could scarce believe what she was hearing. "Lady Sansa has travelled leagues and leagues and survived countless hardships to get to Harrenhal. And now you would deny her the chance to see her brother, to see her family again, all because you are too proud?"

"Broken oaths are what tore the Riverlands apart at the Red Wedding," said Ser Patrek Mallister, "and the keeping of new oaths are what brought us back together."

"Under Stannis Baratheon as the King in the North, Stark and Tully are united again, and in a state of relative peace," Lord Redfort explained. "Even the lords Bracken and Blackwood are in agreement. We are a free and independent people, the Freys are destroyed, and there is a living Stark who will rule in Winterfell someday. Tell us, my lady, why should we give all that up to serve your southron king?"

"You say that you keep your oaths?" asked Brienne. Her hand went to her swordbelt, and in an instant her steel was drawn. Brynden Blackfish's hand leapt to his own scabbard, Lord Forrester cursed loudly and Robett Glover jumped back in his seat, swearing. The guardsmen turned, raising their spears at her. "What are you doing, woman?" Lord Royce asked loudly.

Brienne held her gauntlet high in surrender, showing that she meant no harm (though in hindsight, perhaps drawing Oathkeeper in the first place had been ill-advised). "This sword is Valyrian steel," she said, "forged by the Lannisters from the metal of Lord Eddard Stark's greatsword."

"Ice," said Rickard Ryswell.

"Ice," Brienne repeated, "it was given to me by Ser Jaime Lannister."

That brought renewed mumbling to the table. "The Kingslayer spun me some yarn that you were searching for Catelyn's daughters during the siege of Riverrun," the Blackfish said at last.

"And now I have found one of Lady Catelyn's daughters," Brienne said, anguished. "When Lady Stark released Ser Jaime from his cell, she made him swear to return her daughters to Riverrun, or Winterfell, or a safe place, by way of exchange. Jaime lost his sword hand during the journey, and shortly after we reached King's Landing, Lady Sansa fled the castle, so Jaime was powerless to help her."

"Listen to the wench!" exclaimed Lord Redfort, pointing a fat thumb in her direction. "She even calls him 'Jaime', not Kingslayer. Perhaps there is more truth to the rumours than we think."

Brienne had heard the rumours, of how men called her the "Kingslayer's whore", and yet a rumour was just that, and easily ignored. "By the time we reached King's Landing, news of the Red Wedding had reached us. Nonetheless, Ser Jaime passed his quest on to me, to find Lady Catelyn's daughters and take them somewhere safe – the Wall, mayhaps; they have a bastard brother there, or to their aunt Lysa Arryn, in the Eyrie. He told me to name my sword Oathkeeper, for the oath I meant to keep to the Stark girls' mother. To return them to someplace safe. To you, my lords. Yet now you refuse to allow me to complete that quest."

Bronze Yohn regarded her with flinty suspicion. "That is a Lannister sword. A golden lion on the pommel, and rubies in the hilt. Red and gold. Lannister colours."

"The wench is a Lannister," agreed Lord Rodrik Forrester. "She probably shits gold, just like the rest of them."

"The wench is not a Lannister," said Brynden Tully, and for a moment Brienne had hope. Only for a moment, though. "But she is on their side, and she certainly does not fight for the same cause as ours." He turned his questioning gaze to her. "Do you?"

Brienne was struggling to hold back her rage, towards Stannis, towards Ser Brynden, towards all of them. "I would sooner die for a good cause than fight for that evil man," she said. "You will not stand with Lady Sansa? Fine. I will not stand with you, nor with a man who would murder his own brother with blood magic."

"As I seem to recall, you slew Renly Baratheon, my lady," said Bronze Yohn. "It did not seem proper courtesy to mention that, though."

"A pair of kingslayers," crowed Lord Redfort.

Brienne gritted her teeth. "I did NOT kill Renly. I would never… he was… he was… kind, clever, good…"

"You killed him," repeated Lord Royce, sounding half-saddened, "and my son Robar died for it. True, it was Loras Tyrell who did the deed, but he died for Renly's legacy, and you killed Renly. Forgive my bluntness, but it seems you flit from camp to camp fast as anything. Renly at Bitterbridge, the Young Wolf at Riverrun, the Lannisters in King's Landing, and now the Targaryens in Harrenhal."

"The wench might owe her loyalty to Littlefinger," Lord Vypren suggested, as though Brienne were not even there. "Liars flock together, they say."

Ser Wylis Manderly raised a hand. "Lady Brienne, I am afraid the matter is rather simple. We are King Stannis's men; we knelt before him and said our oaths of fealty, to serve his will from White Harbor to Runestone to Riverrun. That is the oath we swore, regardless of what Lady Catelyn asked of you. We cannot give up our loyalty and surrender His Grace's trust in us to a Targaryen, of all people, even if it means getting Lady Sansa back."

"Out of courtesy, I will allow you stay the night, to wait out the storm," said Ser Brynden Tully, "but after that, you must return to Harrenhal."

Brienne swallowed a breath, and nodded her head stolidly. And to think, once she had respected the man, and she had been impressed by the tales of the Blackfish's knightly chivalry. This was no chivalry, though. This was treason, to one's own kin. "If… if I might make one last request, on behalf of Lady Sansa. She will want to know that her brother is well."

"We cannot allow Lord Rickon to be near this woman,-" someone said.

The Blackfish looked at her for a long time. "No," he said at last, "we cannot. Good evening, Lady Brienne." He walked back round the table and passed close to her, showing her and Podrick the way out into the night.

Stormclouds hung black and heavy over the camp. The rain was coming down heavy and loud, and very soon the ground would become just like the road from Harrenhal, a quagmire of silty mud so slippery that they had been forced to dismount in places and walk the horses along.

"My lady!" Podrick hurried along beside her, struggling with the heavy weight of his satchel. "My lady, we should head back to the campfire."

Brienne stopped, balling her hands into fists. For a moment, she was tempted to make Pod the subject of her anger, but this was no fault of his. She gave an empty little nod and headed out towards the campfire. There was nothing else to be done. Ser Brynden is stubborn as any Tully, just as Jaime warned me. She'd been to see him in his cell before her departure. Jaime had looked ragged on that night, his fair skin mottled with muck and mire, his threadbare cloak sprawling out on the ground behind him.

"Good luck with that, my lady," Jaime said, when Brienne told him what quest Aegon had given her. "The Blackfish is not over fond of compromise, and you'll be hard-pressed to negotiate with him." He smiled at some joke only he seemed to understand.

"It is his niece's freedom I am negotiating for. The Tullys are proud, aye, but their words are family, duty, honor, in that order. Brynden Blackfish knows where his loyalties lie."

"You can hope, my lady. I've found that House words mean little and less. Hear me roar." He pointed to his stump, newly swathed in greyish-white bandage. "Hear me roar, eh. Look at me, then, Brienne, and tell me if I look like a lion." His tone was full of mocking, but strangely sombre as well.

"Those aren't your words, though. Not really. I suppose… it's like you say. A Lannister always pays his debts. You promised to return Lady Catelyn's daughters to her. And no matter how long it took you, that debt is nearly paid."

"The Blackfish's host is half a week's ride away," he said, "by the time you return to Harrenhal, I may be gone." Gone. She did not have to ask what he meant by that. They both knew. "So I have to ask, now that we're talking about it: the words of House Tarth. Your words. I confess that I never troubled to learn them. It seemed to me, proud as I was… as I still am, truth be told… that some little house from an island in the Stormlands wasn't big enough to warrant its own words. But I'll not go wherever I'm going thinking that your words are 'thappireth'."

"What…? oh… you were mocking the Goat."

"Those are some strange House words, my lady."

"No, I meant-" She felt a blush rising to her cheeks. Why? she asked herself, you don't love him; he doesn't love you, he never will, he loves his sister, a woman fair and full-grown, not some gangly maid with a man's shape and a woman's weak heart. "Judge Us By Our Actions," she blurted, before she made herself look any more of a fool.

"Judge Us By Our Actions," Jaime repeated. "They suit you, my lady. Most would look at you and see a great ugly wench... but… I've known you, and I see… well, you."

Brienne was wondering what he'd meant as she and Podrick trudged along the muddy track towards the campfire. The winds had risen, blowing a blustery gale across the hillside; raindrops stung her face and trickled down her cheeks. The tents of Ser Brynden's camp flapped in the wind, rising and falling like a ship's great sails. Earlier, a stream on the southern camp border had burst its banks, and the soldiers were lugging sodden tents and waterlogged waggons up the hill as they went down. Raindrops fell from the peaks of their hooded cloaks, scattering themselves in the grass like tears. She stopped abruptly to look at Pod. "A campfire?" she asked. "In this rain?"

Her squire looked at his boots, flushing red. "Sorry, my lady." He looked as tired as she felt, not that Brienne blamed him. It had been a long day's riding, and to get here and have the Blackfish refuse them… well, that had been the ultimate indignity. Brienne was ready to forego finding the Brotherhood, willing to head straight to bed, but then she spotted Anguy out of the corner of the eye, sitting in a cluster of men beneath the pale canopy of a feast tent.

They had the good fortune to find a quiet table, though the tent was hardly busy anyway at this hour. Lamb stew was cooking in kettles on the stove. Podrick hollowed out two trenchers of black bread and filled them until they were brimming, while Brienne fetched two mugs of hot spiced wine. They ate in satisfied silence, listening as the raindrops beat a song above their heads. "It reminds me of when I was with Ser Cedric," Pod said as they ate. "Only you're much better than Ser Cedric. My lady. Kinder, I suppose. And better with a sword too."

Brienne acknowledged the clumsy compliment. "There have been worse squires," she said. "Far worse squires."

Hob-nailed boots squelched through the muddy grass, and Brienne looked up into the eyes of Gendry. Renly's eyes, she thought for the hundredth time. And the memory returned to her of a young lord's words at a harvest ball, as they did so often. He'd been sixteen when it happened, scarce older than Brienne herself, but still broad and handsome and smiling, as always. In her dreams, Renly was always smiling. My king. She had not forgotten her pledge to Catelyn Stark, but she had certainly not forgotten the promise she'd made to herself. I will avenge Renly Baratheon if it is the last thing I do.

She must have been staring at Gendry for too long, for he looked up with a slightly confused look in his eyes. "My lady?"

Brienne blanched a little. "I am… sorry. You… you remind me of someone I once knew."

"Was it my father, my lady? He… he-"

King Robert. "No," she replied, "it wasn't. It was King Renly. His… the brother. You look alike, both of you."

There was no malice in Gendry's gaze, as there had been none in Renly's. "The common folk liked him," the young knight said thoughtfully. "When he came riding through the streets to go to the tourney grounds or down to the harbour, the men would chant "Baratheon, Baratheon, Baratheon!" and the maids would throw flowers at his horse. Master Mott made his armour too; lobstered steel with a greenish tint, with enamelled roses on the greaves and gauntlets. And a helm topped with golden antlers."

I remember. That was the same suit he died in. King Renly's blood had trickled out over that sheet of fine emerald plate, dressing his throat with glossy redness as the shadow that had slain him slunk away into the night. "Cold," he said, and then he died.

"He was a good man. He would have made a better king."

"Perhaps he would have," Gendry said. "But most folk would never have known the difference. Back in King's Landing the only change we ever knew was harvest time, 'cos you could buy food from places other than the pot shops instead of stealing it. And war. That was bad, probably, but I wasn't in the city when the fighting started." At Brienne's urging he continued, "I went north on the Kingsroad, with Yoren and the Night's Watch."

"And Lady Arya?"

He stopped, swallowed his words. "She didn't like to be called a lady."

"Do you know where she is?"

Gendry's eyes grew angry. "If I did, don't you think I'd tell you? She ran away. She was always running away. I think she went with the Hound, but she never told me. That's just was how she was." His voice brimmed with bitterness. "I should have gone with her. I wouldn't have, not back then, I'd have tried to get her to come back… but I should have followed her, tried to find her. Arry… Arya… she was the closest thing to family that I had." He rose abruptly from the table, his trencher still mostly full, and left her there.

The night passed by slowly after that. Brienne drained her cup of wine and looked to refill it. It was dishonourable to be drunk, but she was tempted to make an exception for tonight. All this running, all this fighting, all this searching the hedgerows and towns of the Seven Kingdoms to fulfil one oath, and being denied at the last hurdle. That was hardly fair, she thought… then again, things seldom were.

"Come on, Podrick," she said gloomily, rising from the bench and slamming her tankard down. "To bed. We have a long day, come the morrow."

They trudged back through the campfires to where they had raised their tent. Pod had laid down sheepskin blankets to keep off the chill, but Brienne's mood did not leave her wanting for comfort. In the grass beneath a tall elm tree she found a mottled grey-and-black stone, jagged at the edges, and set it down beside her in the mud. The raindrops came down through the forked branches and ran down under her gorget and her arming doublet. Runnels splattered her blue plate and plastered her hair to her forehead, limp and damp. Brienne took out Oathkeeper and scraped her makeshift whetstone along its length, over and over and over, as the rain doused the fires and her spirits. You failed, she thought, you great pale cow of a wench. You always dreamed of a knightly quest and chivalrous deeds and great honours, and you came so far, but you failed, you fell, you lost, and you will never be a knight, just an ugly, stupid little girl with ugly, stupid dreams who never learns. The world is not yours; it is theirs, the others, the liars, the braggarts, the thieves, it will never be anyone else's. There's no justice in this world, not truly.

She must have fallen asleep beneath the elm. That night she dreamed that she was swimming off the coast of Tarth, as a storm picked up in the north. The wind battered against the sails of her father's boats, smashing into them like a titan's fingers. Brienne tried to swim, to move away, but the weight of her plate armour was dragging her down, as though someone were pulling on her ankle, and the next she knew the waters had closed over her head and she was sinking like a stone.

Then gauntleted fingers clawed at the surface and fixed around her arm, and gave a sharp, swift pull.

She came out of the darkness retching, and glanced around to find the face of her saviour, blinking the water from her eyes. He wore green armour polished as brightly as a sun, with the arms of Tarth embossed on his breastplate, and Renly Baratheon's antlered helm. A cloak of snow streamed from his shoulders, flapping idly in the now-quiet breeze. But when he drew back the visor, it was Jaime Lannister's face that smiled back at her. "Careful, my lady," he said, grinning, "you almost drowned there."

She dreamed another dream then, but come morning Jaime's words were all she remembered. Birds fluttered above her in the canopy, robins and wrens chirping a dawn chorus to herald her waking. The grass around her was soaked through, and the mud had turned sticky and black and thick beyond that, but someone – Podrick, most like – had covered her with a blanket during the night to keep the rain off.

Brienne walked back to their tent half in a dream. Pod sat cooking liver sausages on a wooden skewer over the fire, his brow creased in concentration. "My lady," he said, standing up when he saw her. The sausage dropped from his skewer into the hot coals, where it spat and curled and blackened. "Oh. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." In a manner of speaking. "I seem to have interrupted your breakfast."

"Well, it's your breakfast as well. And there's boiled eggs, not just sausages. If I can work out how to boil them."

"Have you tried getting some water?"

"Oh. No. My lady." He half-stood, then sat back down. "My lady?"

She turned, and her eyes met those of Ser Brynden Tully. He wore a dark blue cloak clasped by an enamelled black fish, and the same suit of scaled black mail he'd donned for their meeting yesterday. The craggy knight looked as alert as ever, despite the hour. Brienne suspected that he had been up all night for whatever reason. She watched him all the while as he drew closer.

"My lady." He inclined his head respectfully. "Might I have a moment with you?"

Brienne replied with a stiff, wordless nod, out of the fleeting respect she'd once had for Brynden Tully and nothing else. "Pod," she said, "go find the horses once you've broken your fast. We have a long hard ride back to Harrenhal to report our failure to Lady Sansa." She said the words loud enough for the Blackfish to hear them, wondering if the old knight felt any shame on his part.

"To my tent," said Ser Brynden once they were alone, "quickly now."

A low mist was settling over the encampment. The way was long and muddy and quiet; the horns that served to wake the common soldiers had not yet sounded. They passed only half a dozen others, men-at-arms and knights alike; the Blackfish greeted them all with a cordial nod. Their eyes lingered a little longer on Brienne as though to say; what in seven Hells is she?

"You must forgive my earlier brusqueness," Ser Brynden said as they passed a row of Tully men-at-arms. "There were far too many ears listening for my taste, Lady Brienne. Far too many."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I have not been entirely truthful with you. None of us have."

'Us' turned out to include half a dozen of the Northern lords who had sat at Ser Brynden's war table the day before. Lord Rodrik Forrester was there, and fat Ser Wylis Manderly, busy demolishing a plate of fried bacon and fried bread. Next to him was Ser Patrek Mallister, and next to him Robett Glover, of Deepwood Motte, and lastly the Riverlords Vypren and Vance. Half of them made their excuses to Brienne's face, while the others apologised to her feet. When that was done, Ser Brynden bid her take a seat. "I would sooner stand," Brienne said brusquely. The company made her uneasy as it stood; she was not about to bow to their wishes.

"We shall be frank with you, my lady," said Ser Wylis, "as we were not yesterday. Alas, as Ser Brynden has surely told you, there were too many listeners in that room for us to share our true intent with you. We can never quite trust a Ryswell, though I don't doubt that they'll stand with us when the time comes. And the lords Royce and Redfort are fast supporters of Stannis Baratheon."

Brienne raised an eyebrow. "And you are not, my lords?"

"Well." Lord Vance looked uncomfortable. "In short, no. We proclaimed Stannis king out of convenience, but none of us hold any love for him in our hearts."

"He is not an easy man to love," Ser Wylis quipped.

Brienne touched Oathkeeper's hilt with her fingers. "If you do not support Stannis… then…" She took a breath. "…what about Lady Sansa?"

"Lady Sansa is my grandniece, the blood of my beloved Cat, and a daughter of Riverrun," said Ser Brynden. "Family, duty, honor. I could not turn her away, no matter the circumstances. Not truly."

A wave of relief came over her, though her tone stayed wary. "So you will hear my terms?"

"Aye. We are riding to Harrenhal whatever the case. I will dismiss the Vale lords to aid my nephew Edmure in his taking of Harroway's Town and Crackclaw Point. Meanwhile, we shall march on Harrenhal and put up siege lines, while you and I treat with Aegon Targaryen under the guise of a parley. Oh, there will be terms to settle and agreements to sign, but with luck, we will be returning north to Riverrun with Sansa before news of this reaches Stannis Baratheon."

Brienne could only nod her head dumbly. "And… my lords, why are you doing this?"

Ser Wylis answered, "Long ago, the Manderlys made a solemn promise to the Starks of Winterfell. In return for shelter and safety in the Northern lands and the permission to keep the Seven southron gods, we swore fealty and absolute loyalty to them, and that we would always endeavour to protect and uphold the Stark of Winterfell. A promise was made; those are the Manderly words. Yet that same solemn vow is not unique to us. The vow that we Northerners made to the Kings in the North is more than words on paper, it is blood and water and all things in between. We are their loyal bannermen. Always. The north remembers, Lady Brienne. It remembers the Red Wedding, aye, but it remembers our ancient history as well, and it remembers its promises most of all."

"Robb Stark gave us a cause to rally behind, and many of us would fight that cause till our dying breath," said Rodrik Forrester. "As we speak, Lord Umber and Lady Mormont are at Castle Black, to seek out Bran Stark and Jon Snow and present them with King Robb's will. The wolves have come again. And whether it be Brandon or Rickon or even Lady Sansa that we stand behind, the North stands with them."

"And the Riverlands," said Brynden Tully. "Stannis Baratheon has brought nothing to us but more war and hardship. He may take Lannisport someday, but how many lives will be lost in doing so? How many lives wasted, and for a cause we do not even care for? We Rivermen want nothing more than to put away their swords and return to their homes, including the Brackens and the Blackwoods and all those warring in the West even now. 'Tis a cruel fate for the man we called king, and it may besmirch on our honour… but precious few of us are happy to spread the song of the Red God's choir, truth be told."

"Aye," agreed Galbart Glover, "someone ought to burn that red priestess of his."

"Lord Rickon," Brienne said suddenly, remembering, "might I be allowed to see him? Lady Sansa was most anxious for her brother's wellbeing."

"Naturally," said Ser Brynden. He nodded to a guard, "bring him in."

The men came first, and the boy followed close behind. Young Lord Rickon had his mother's auburn colouring, and the blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun, but there was a haunting look in his gaze. He had seen more than any boy of eleven ought, Brienne knew, and he had suffered for it. The softness of childhood had gone from his face; his cheeks were sharp and defined, his jaw near as hard as iron. This is what war does to people, she thought. And there were more obvious signs, too: over his arming jacket of boiled leather Rickon wore a battered steel breastplate, and pauldrons and greaves and vambraces made for his size. A bowl-shaped helm was tucked under his arm.

"My lord." Brienne ducked her head. "I come with word-"

"I'm not a lord," he interrupted her, "Bran's lord of Winterfell, not me, I told them all, and now I'm telling you-" He caught the Blackfish's warning glance and gave her a shy smile. "Is Sansa with you? I heard you talking."

"No." Brienne felt more ungainly and awkward than ever around this not-quite-child. "No, she's not. She's at Riverrun, with… with people who will keep her safe."

Rickon frowned, screwing up his face. "They always say that. Theon said we'd be safe, but then he killed everyone and burned Winterfell. King Stannis said we'd be safe, but then he wanted to send us all to war, that's what they said. Are you going to rescue Sansa?"

Brienne's lips were dry as dust. "Yes," she muttered, "yes, I suppose I will. And you'll help. Once we get there. To Harrenhal." She felt as tongue-tied as Podrick Payne.

"You're a knight," said Rickon, "but you're a lady too. Like Arya."

"Your sister…"

The boy spoke insistently. "I saw her."

The Blackfish frowned. "Our dreams seldom have truth in them."

"This one did," the boy insisted, "the wolf dreams never lie. She was in a strange city, and all the faces were looking down on her."

The faces? Brienne did not ask what he meant, lest she sound even stupider than she must look. Her hand went to Oathkeeper in its scabbard, for no particular reason at all… but there was reason to it, she quickly realised. "This was forged from your father's sword," she said, unhooking her swordbelt. "It… it belongs to you now, as a Stark of Winterfell." She laid sword and sheath both down on the table. Candlelight flickered along the rubies set in the hilt.

Rickon squinted down, laying his eyes upon the steel. "There's a lion on the hilt," he said disapprovingly, "the Stark sigil is a wolf."

"A sword can be reforged, and decorated again," Ser Brynden said. "But this is a blade fit for a knight, I must say." He looked at the sword with something that might have been longing, then turned his gaze away. "And you are only a boy, nephew. Until such time as you are old enough to wield this sword properly, it should stay with Lady Brienne."

Whatever she might have said in reply went forgotten when she heard the tent flap parting and a messenger pushed his way through the press, flustered with exertion. "Ser, my lord," he directed at Ser Brynden Tully.

"What is it?" asked the Blackfish.

"Ser Ryam's back, my lord," the messenger replied, "they came upon the Lannister party south o' Pinkmaiden, ser, they have them. And the princess too."

Tully let his breath out in a long, low hiss. A long moment passed before Brienne understood what the message meant. The princess, she realised; unbidden, her thoughts went to Jaime, along in his cell on the fringes of King Aegon's camp. Oh, that princess.

"Beg pardon, my lady," Ser Brynden said to her. "It seems I have something to attend to. You might do well to talk with Rickon; the boy is doubtless full of questions." He went, and the Riverlords followed in turn.

Brienne heard Rickon's voice beside her. "Father's sword," he said quietly, "it was a greatsword, not just a longsword. Twice as big as that one." He pointed to Oathkeeper. "What happened to the rest of it?"

"There must be two swords," Brienne replied.

"Yes, but where's the other?"

She had seen that other sword presented to King Joffrey on the morning of his wedding. "It must be with the Lannisters over in Casterly Rock. King Tommen has it, I'd wager."

Rickon pouted. "That's my father's sword, not his. I used to like him, but not anymore… the Lannisters killed my father, so I should kill them. All of them. Shaggy will tear out their throats, you'll see. They'll see." He looked away from her, pouting.

As Brienne hooked the blade back through her swordbelt, a pang of sadness went through her. She remembered the sad, strong woman who had been so certain that her sons had departed the world before her, had been so certain that she had failed them; then she remembered what Catelyn Tully had become. I hope she has found peace by now, or else the Mother's mercy. And then, I hope she knew, though, if she's gone. I hope she knew that all was not lost.


Author's Note:

I'm back.

Long story short: My hiatus didn't go quite as well as planned, and I didn't get that much done on the story, but if I hadn't taken it I'd be spewing out incomplete trash.

So how much have I actually done?
I'm sorry to say that this is the only chapter I've completed entirely and re-edited. THE SUNSET KINGDOMS is currently in a middling section where lots of the chapters are merely setup for the second part of the story, and as such many of these chapters are incredibly dull to write (in places). I've got a Jon chapter about 50% done, a Dany chapter (40%), Davos (60%), Cersei (15%), Sansa (25%), a half-planned Mya Stone POV chapter that I'll probably work into a different POV perspective, and more...

However, I have done quite a bit of writing up at the far end of the story, and I now know roughly how this is going to pan out. THE SUNSET KINGDOMS will be 108 chapters (give or take a couple), so we're approaching the halfway mark, and then I'll need another sequel (tentative title: KNIGHTS OF THE NIGHTINGALE) to wrap everything up - probably a fair bit shorter than TSK.

TSK is a horrible, ungainly beast, that has mutated out of the shape I'd intended to take into something very similar in places and massively different in others. A lot of the time, that's actually a good thing.

I won't be writing at anything near the rate I was during July/August, but I'll try to get 6 or 7 chapters out by the end of October, and then get back up to my normal writing pace in November. With a little luck and a boost over Christmas/New Year, TSK will be complete by February/March 2017, and everything uploaded shortly thereafter.

I would like to talk about this chapter specifically, but really all I want is to click the POST button and get things running again.

Thank you all so very much for reading.