Two days’ ride to either side of the kingsroad, they
passed through a wide swath of destruction, miles of blackened
fields and orchards where the trunks of dead trees jutted into the
air like archers’ stakes. The bridges were burnt as well, and
the streams swollen by autumn rains, so they had to range along the
banks in search of fords. The nights were alive with howling of
wolves, but they saw no people.
At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton’s red salmon still flew above
the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates
smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw
nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the
sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its
name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed
Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting
corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.
Jaime took one look and burst into song. “Six maids there
were in a spring-fed pool . . . ”
“What are you doing?” Brienne demanded.
“Singing. ‘Six Maids in a Pool,’ I’m sure
you’ve heard it. And shy little maids they were, too. Rather
like you. Though somewhat prettier, I’ll warrant.”
“Be quiet,” the wench said, with a look that
suggested she would love to leave him floating in the pool among
the corpses.
“Please, Jaime,” pleaded cousin Cleos. “Lord
Mooton is sworn to Riverrun, we don’t want to draw him out of
his castle. And there may be other enemies hiding in the
rubble . . . ”
“Hers or ours? They are not the same, coz. I have a yen to
see if the wench can use that sword she wears.”
“If you won’t be quiet, you leave me no choice but
to gag you, Kingslayer.”
“Unchain my hands and I’ll play mute all the way to
King’s Landing. What could be fairer than that,
wench?”
“Brienne! My name is Brienne!” Three crows went
flapping into the air startled at the sound.
“Care for a bath, Brienne?” He laughed.
“You’re a maiden and there’s the pool. I’ll
wash your back.” He used to scrub Cersei’s back, when
they were children together at Casterly Rock.
The wench turned her horse’s head and trotted away. Jaime
and Ser Cleos followed her out of the ashes of Maidenpool. A half
mile on, green began to creep back into the world once more. Jaime
was glad. The burned lands reminded him too much of Aerys.
“She’s taking the Duskendale road,” Ser Cleos
muttered. “it would be safer to follow the coast.”
“Safer but slower. I’m for Duskendale, coz. If truth
be told, I’m bored with your company.” You may be half
Lannister, but you’re a far cry from my sister.
He could never bear to be long apart from his twin. Even as
children, they would creep into each other’s beds and sleep
with their arms entwined. Even in the womb. Long before his
sister’s flowering or the advent of his own manhood, they had
seen mares and stallions in the fields and dogs and bitches in the
kennels and played at doing the same. Once their mother’s
maid had caught them at it . . . he did not
recall just what they had been doing, but whatever it was had
horrified Lady Joanna. She’d sent the maid away, moved
Jaime’s bedchamber to the other side of Casterly Rock, set a
guard outside Cersei’s, and told them that they must never do
that again or she would have no choice but to tell their lord
father. They need not have feared, though. It was not long after
that she died birthing Tyrion. Jaime barely remembered what his
mother had looked like.
Perhaps Stannis Baratheon and the Starks had done him a
kindness. They had spread their tale of incest all over the Seven
Kingdoms, so there was nothing left to hide. Why shouldn’t I
marry Cersei openly and share her bed every night? The dragons
always married their sisters. Septons, lords, and smallfolk had
turned a blind eye to the Targaryens for hundreds of years, let
them do the same for House Lannister. It would play havoc with
Joffrey’s claim to the crown, to be sure, but in the end it
had been swords that had won the Iron Throne for Robert, and swords
could keep Joffrey there as well, regardless of whose seed he was.
We could marry him to Myrcella, once we’ve sent Sansa Stark
back to her mother. That would show the realm that the Lannisters
are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens.
Jaime had decided that he would return Sansa, and the younger
girl as well if she could be found. It was not like to win him back
his lost honor, but the notion of keeping faith when they all
expected betrayal amused him more than he could say.
They were riding past a trampled wheatfield and a low stone wall
when Jaime heard a soft thrum from behind, as if a dozen birds had
taken flight at once. “Down!” he shouted, throwing
himself against the neck of his horse. The gelding screamed and
reared as an arrow took him in the rump. Other shafts went hissing
past. Jaime saw Ser Cleos lurch from the saddle, twisting as his
foot caught in the stirrup. His palfrey bolted, and Frey was
dragged past shouting, head bouncing against the ground.
Jaime’s gelding lumbered off ponderously, blowing and
snorting in pain. He craned around to look for Brienne. She was
still ahorse, an arrow lodged in her back and another in her leg,
but she seemed not to feel them. He saw her pull her sword and
wheel in a circle, searching for the bowmen. “Behind the
wall,” Jaime called, fighting to turn his half-blind mount
back toward the fight. The reins were tangled in his damned chains,
and the air was full of arrows again. “At them!” he
shouted, kicking to show her how it was done. The old sorry horse
found a burst of speed from somewhere. Suddenly they were racing
across the wheatfield, throwing up clouds of chaff. Jaime had just
enough time to think, The wench had better follow before they
realize they’re being charged by an unarmed man in chains.
Then he heard her coming hard behind. “Evenfall!” she
shouted as her plow horse thundered by. She brandished her
longsword. “Tarth! Tarth!”
A few last arrows sped harmlessly past; then the bowmen broke
and ran, the way unsupported bowmen always broke and ran before the
charge of knights. Brienne reined up at the wall. By the time Jaime
reached her, they had all melted into the wood twenty yards away.
“Lost your taste for battle?”
“They were running.”
“That’s the best time to kill them.”
She sheathed her sword. “Why did you charge?”
“Bowmen are fearless so long as they can hide behind walls
and shoot at you from afar, but if you come at them, they run. They
know what will happen when you reach them. You have an arrow in
your back, you know. And another in your leg. You ought to let me
tend them.”
“You?”
“Who else? The last I saw of cousin Cleos, his palfrey was
using his head to plow a furrow. Though I suppose we ought to find
him. He is a Lannister of sorts.”
They found Cleos still tangled in his stirrup. He had an arrow
through his right arm and a second in his chest, but it was the
ground that had done for him. The top of his head was matted with
blood and mushy to the touch, pieces of broken bone moving under
the skin beneath the pressure of Jaime’s hand.
Brienne knelt and held his hand. “He’s still
warm.”
“He’ll cool soon enough. I want his horse and his
clothes. I’m weary of rags and fleas.”
“He was your cousin.” The wench was shocked.
“Was,” Jaime agreed. “Have no fear, I am amply
provisioned in cousins. I’ll have his sword as well. You need
someone to share the watches.”
“You can stand a watch without weapons.” She
rose.
“Chained to a tree? Perhaps I could. Or perhaps I could
make my own bargain with the next lot of outlaws and let them slit
that thick neck of yours, wench.”
“I will not arm you. And my name is—”
“—Brienne, I know. I’ll swear an oath not to
harm you, if that will ease your girlish fears.”
“Your oaths are worthless. You swore an oath to
Aerys.”
“You haven’t cooked anyone in their armor so far as
I know. And we both want me safe and whole in King’s Landing,
don’t we?” He squatted beside Cleos and began to undo
his swordbelt.
“Step away from him. Now. Stop that.”
Jaime was tired. Tired of her suspicions, tired of her insults,
tired of her crooked teeth and her broad spotty face and that limp
thin hair of hers. Ignoring her protests, he grasped the hilt of
his cousin’s longsword with both hands, held the corpse down
with his foot, and pulled. As the blade slid from the scabbard, he
was already pivoting, bringing the sword around and up in a swift
deadly arc. Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang.
Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime
laughed. “Very good, wench.”
“Give me the sword, Kingslayer.”
“Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at
her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back,
parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she
turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and
sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing.
This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he
was fighting, with death balanced on every stroke. And with my
wrists chained together, the wench may even give me a contest for a
time. His chains forced him to use a two-handed grip, though of
course the weight and reach were less than if the blade had been a
true two-handed greatsword, but what did it matter? His
cousin’s sword was long enough to write an end to this
Brienne of Tarth.
High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right,
backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came
together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving
into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike,
hacking, slashing,
faster, faster, faster . . .
. . . until, breathless, he stepped back
and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a
moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged.
“For a wench.”
She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily.
“I would not hurt you, Kingslayer.”
“As if you could.” He whirled the blade back up
above his head and flew at her again, chains rattling.
Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It
might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept
when swords woke. He drove her away from his cousin’s corpse,
drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled
once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was
done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a
beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened
her from shoulder to groin, and then she cut at him, again and
again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke.
The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she
slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with
fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked
and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every
crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an
iron cage around her that stopped every blow.
“Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a
second to catch his breath, circling to her right.
“For a wench?”
“For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a
ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling,
the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my
lady?”
Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was
Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked
across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. The Others
take her, and Riverrun as well! His skills had gone to rust and rot
in that bloody dungeon, and the chains were no great help either.
His eye closed, his shoulders were going numb from the jarring
they’d taken, and his wrists ached from the weight of chains,
manacles, and sword. His longsword grew heavier with every blow,
and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he’d done
earlier, nor raising it as high. She is stronger than I am.
The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him,
to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday,
and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was
stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a
certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It
did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all.
But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even
so . . . by rights, she should be the one
wearing down.
Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting,
“Yield! Throw down the sword!”
A slick stone turned under Jaime’s foot. As he felt
himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a diving lunge. His
point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red
flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of
her blood before his knee slammed into a rock. The pain was
blinding. Brienne splashed into him and kicked away his sword.
“YIELD!”
Jaime drove his shoulder into her legs, bringing her down on top
of him. They rolled, kicking and punching until finally she was
sitting astride him. He managed to jerk her dagger from its sheath,
but before he could plunge it into her belly she caught his wrist
and slammed his hands back on a rock so hard he thought she’d
wrenched an arm from its socket. Her other hand spread across his
face. “Yield!” She shoved his head down, held it under,
pulled it up. “Yield!” Jaime spit water into her face.
A shove, a splash, and he was under again, kicking uselessly,
fighting to breathe. Up again. “Yield, or I’ll drown
you!”
“And break your oath?” he snarled. “Like
me?”
She let him go, and he went down with a splash.
And the woods rang with coarse laughter.
Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the
waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they
caught us fucking instead of fighting. Jaime crawled over the rocks
to shallow water, wiping the blood from his eye with his chained
hands. Armed men lined both sides of the brook. Small wonder, we
were making enough noise to wake a dragon. “Well met,
friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I
disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”
“Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.” The man
who spoke was thick and powerful, and the nasal bar of his iron
halfhelm did not wholly conceal his lack of a nose.
These were not the outlaws who had killed Ser Cleos, Jaime
realized suddenly. The scum of the earth surrounded them: swarthy
Dornishmen and blond Lyseni, Dothraki with bells in their braids,
hairy Ibbenese, coal-black Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks. He
knew them. The Brave Companions.
Brienne found her voice. “I have a hundred stags—”
A cadaverous man in a tattered leather cloak said,
“We’ll take that for a start, m’lady.”
“Then we’ll have your cunt,” said the noseless
man. “It can’t be as ugly as the rest of
you.”
“Turn her over and rape her arse, Rorge,” urged a
Dornish spearman with a red silk scarf wound about his helm.
“That way you won’t need to look at her.”
“And rob her o’ the pleasure o’ looking at
me?” noseless said, and the others laughed.
Ugly and stubborn though she might be, the wench deserved better
than to be gang raped by such refuse as these. “Who commands
here?” Jaime demanded loudly.
“I have that honor, Ser Jaime.” The cadaver’s
eyes were rimmed in red, his hair thin and dry. Dark blue veins
could be seen through the pallid skin of his hands and face.
“Urswyck I am. Called Urswyck the Faithful.”
“You know who I am?”
The sellsword inclined his head. “it takes more than a
beard and a shaved head to deceive the Brave Companions.” The Bloody Mummers, you mean. Jaime had no more use for these
than he did for Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. Dogs, his father
called them all, and he used them like dogs, to hound his prey and
put fear in their hearts. “If you know me, Urswyck, you know
you’ll have your reward. A Lannister always pays his debts.
As for the wench, she’s highborn, and worth a good
ransom.”
The other cocked his head. “Is it so? How
fortunate.”
There was something sly about the way Urswyck was smiling that
Jaime did not like. “You heard me. Where’s the
goat?”
“A few hours distant. He will be pleased to see you, I
have no doubt, but I would not call him a goat to his face. Lord
Vargo grows prickly about his dignity.” Since when has that slobbering savage had dignity?
“I’ll be sure and remember that, when I see him. Lord
of what, pray?”
“Harrenhal. It has been promised.” Harrenhal? Has my father taken leave of his senses? Jaime raised
his hands. “I’ll have these chains off.”
Urswyck’s chuckle was papery dry. Something is very wrong here. Jaime gave no sign of his
discomfiture, but only smiled. “Did I say something
amusing?”
Noseless grinned. “You’re the funniest thing I seen
since Biter chewed that septa’s teats off.”
“You and your father lost too many battles,” offered
the Dornishman. “We had to trade our lion pelts for
wolfskins.”
Urswyck spread his hands. “What Timeon means to say is
that the Brave Companions are no longer in the hire of House
Lannister. We now serve Lord Bolton, and the King in the
North.”
Jaime gave him a cold, contemptuous smile. “And men say I
have shit for honor?”
Urswyck was unhappy with that comment. At his signal, two of the
Mummers grasped Jaime by the arms and Rorge drove a mailed fist
into his stomach. As he doubled over grunting, he heard the wench
protesting, “Stop, he’s not to be harmed! Lady Catelyn
sent us, an exchange of captives, he’s under my
protection . . . ” Rorge hit him again,
driving the air from his lungs. Brienne dove for her sword beneath
the waters of the brook, but the Mummers were on her before she
could lay hands on it. Strong as she was, it took four of them to
beat her into submission.
By the end the wench’s face was as swollen and bloody as
Jaime’s must have been, and they had knocked out two of her
teeth. It did nothing to improve her appearance. Stumbling and
bleeding, the two captives were dragged back through the woods to
the horses, Brienne limping from the thigh wound he’d given
her in the brook. Jaime felt sorry for her. She would lose her
maidenhood tonight, he had no doubt. That noseless bastard would
have her for a certainty, and some of the others would likely take
a turn.
The Dornishman bound them back to back atop Brienne’s plow
horse while the other Mummers were stripping Cleos Frey to his skin
to divvy up his possessions. Rorge won the bloodstained surcoat
with its proud Lannister and Frey quarterings. The arrows had
punched holes through lions and towers alike.
“I hope you’re pleased, wench,” Jaime
whispered at Brienne. He coughed, and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“If you’d armed me, we’d never have been
taken.” She made no answer. There’s a pig-stubborn
bitch, he thought. But brave, yes. He could not take that from her.
“When we make camp for the night, you’ll be raped, and
more than once,” he warned her. “You’d be wise
not to resist. If you fight them, you’ll lose more than a few
teeth.”
He felt Brienne’s back stiffen against his. “Is that
what you would do, if you were a woman?” If I were a woman I’d be Cersei. “If I were a woman,
I’d make them kill me. But I’m not.” Jaime kicked
their horse to a trot. “Urswyck! A word!”
The cadaverous sellsword in the ragged leather cloak reined up a
moment, then fell in beside him. “What would you have of me,
ser? And mind your tongue, or I’ll chastise you
again.”
“Gold,” said Jaime. “You do like
gold?”
Urswyck studied him through reddened eyes. “It has its
uses, I do confess.”
Jaime gave Urswyck a knowing smile. “All the gold in
Casterly Rock. Why let the goat enjoy it? Why not take us to
King’s Landing, and collect my ransom for yourself? Hers as
well, if you like. Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle, a maiden told
me once.” The wench squirmed at that, but said nothing.
“Do you take me for a turncloak?”
“Certainly. What else?”
For half a heartbeat Urswyck considered the proposition.
“King’s Landing is a long way, and your father is
there. Lord Tywin may resent us for selling Harrenhal to Lord
Bolton.” He’s cleverer than he looks. Jaime had been been looking
forward to hanging the wretch while his pockets bulged with gold.
“Leave me to deal with my father. I’ll get you a royal
pardon for any crimes you have committed. I’ll get you a
knighthood.”
“Ser Urswyck,” the man said, savoring the sound.
“How proud my dear wife would be to hear it. If only I
hadn’t killed her.” He sighed. “And what of brave
Lord Vargo?”
“Shall I sing you a verse of ‘The Rains of
Castamere’? The goat won’t be quite so brave when my
father gets hold of him.”
“And how will he do that? Are your father’s arms so
long that they can reach over the walls of Harrenhal and pluck us
out?”
“If need be.” King Harren’s monstrous folly
had fallen before, and it could fall again. “Are you such a
fool as to think the goat can outfight the lion?”
Urswyck leaned over and slapped him lazily across the face. The
sheer casual insolence of it was worse than the blow itself. He
does not fear me, Jaime realized, with a chill. “I have heard
enough, Kingslayer. I would have to be a great fool indeed to
believe the promises of an oathbreaker like you.” He kicked
his horse and galloped smartly ahead. Aerys, Jaime thought resentfully. It always turns on Aerys. He
swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two
swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me.
We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with
us. “Why did you tell him Tarth was the Sapphire Isle?”
Brienne whispered when Urswyck was out of earshot.
“He’s like to think my father’s rich in
gemstones . . . ”
“You best pray he does.”
“Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer? Tarth is called
the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters.”
“Shout it a little louder, wench, I don’t think
Urswyck heard you. The sooner they know how little you’re
worth in ransom, the sooner the rapes begin. Every man here will
mount you, but what do you care? Just close your eyes, open your
legs, and pretend they’re all Lord Renly.”
Mercifully, that shut her mouth for a time.
The day was almost done by the time they found Vargo Hoat,
sacking a small sept with another dozen of his Brave Companions.
The leaded windows had been smashed, the carved wooden gods dragged
out into the sunlight. The fattest Dothraki Jaime had ever seen was
sitting on the Mother’s chest when they rode up, prying out
her chalcedony eyes with the point of his knife. Nearby, a skinny
balding septon hung upside down from the limb of a spreading
chestnut tree. Three of the Brave Companions were using his corpse
for an archery butt. One of them must have been good; the dead man
had arrows through both of his eyes.
When the sellswords spied Urswyck and the captives, a cry went
up in half a dozen tongues. The goat was seated by a cookfire
eating a half-cooked bird off a skewer, grease and blood running
down his fingers into his long stringy beard. He wiped his hands on
his tunic and rose. “Kingthlayer,” he slobbered.
“You are my captifth.”
“My lord, I am Brienne of Tarth,” the wench called
out. “Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to
his brother at King’s Landing.”
The goat gave her a disinterested glance. “Thilence
her.”
“Hear me,” Brienne entreated as Rorge cut the ropes
that bound her to Jaime, “in the name of the King in the
North, the king you serve, please, listen—”
Rorge dragged her off the horse and began to kick her.
“See that you don’t break any bones,” Urswyck
called out to him. “The horse-faced bitch is worth her weight
in sapphires.”
The Dornishman Timeon and a foul-smelling Ibbenese pulled Jaime
down from the saddle and shoved him roughly toward the cookfire. It
would not have been hard for him to have grasped one of their sword
hilts as they manhandled him, but there were too many, and he was
still in fetters. He might cut down one or two, but in the end he
would die for it. Jaime was not ready to die just yet, and
certainly not for the likes of Brienne of Tarth.
“Thith ith a thweet day,” Vargo Hoat said. Around
his neck hung a chain of linked coins, coins of every shape and
size, cast and hammered, bearing the likenesses of kings, wizards,
gods and demons, and all manner of fanciful beasts. Coins from every land where he has fought, Jaime remembered.
Greed was the key to this man. If he was turned once, he can be
turned again. “Lord Vargo, you were foolish to leave my
father’s service, but it is not too late to make amends. He
will pay well for me, you know it.”
“Oh yeth,” said Vargo Hoat. “Half the gold in
Cathterly Rock, I thall have. But firth I mutht thend him a
methage.” He said something in his slithery goatish
tongue.
Urswyck shoved him in the back, and a jester in green and pink
motley kicked his legs out from under him. When he hit the ground
one of the archers grabbed the chain between Jaime’s wrists
and used it to yank his arms out in front of him. The fat Dothraki
put aside his knife to unsheathe a huge curved arakh, the wickedly
sharp scythe-sword the horselords loved. They mean to scare me. The fool hopped on Jaime’s back,
giggling, as the Dothraki swaggered toward him. The goat wants me
to piss my breeches and beg his mercy, but he’ll never have
that pleasure. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard; no sellsword would make him scream.
Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came
shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.
Two days’ ride to either side of the kingsroad, they
passed through a wide swath of destruction, miles of blackened
fields and orchards where the trunks of dead trees jutted into the
air like archers’ stakes. The bridges were burnt as well, and
the streams swollen by autumn rains, so they had to range along the
banks in search of fords. The nights were alive with howling of
wolves, but they saw no people.
At Maidenpool, Lord Mooton’s red salmon still flew above
the castle on its hill, but the town walls were deserted, the gates
smashed, half the homes and shops burned or plundered. They saw
nothing living but a few feral dogs that went slinking away at the
sound of their approach. The pool from which the town took its
name, where legend said that Florian the Fool had first glimpsed
Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting
corpses that the water had turned into a murky grey-green soup.
Jaime took one look and burst into song. “Six maids there
were in a spring-fed pool . . . ”
“What are you doing?” Brienne demanded.
“Singing. ‘Six Maids in a Pool,’ I’m sure
you’ve heard it. And shy little maids they were, too. Rather
like you. Though somewhat prettier, I’ll warrant.”
“Be quiet,” the wench said, with a look that
suggested she would love to leave him floating in the pool among
the corpses.
“Please, Jaime,” pleaded cousin Cleos. “Lord
Mooton is sworn to Riverrun, we don’t want to draw him out of
his castle. And there may be other enemies hiding in the
rubble . . . ”
“Hers or ours? They are not the same, coz. I have a yen to
see if the wench can use that sword she wears.”
“If you won’t be quiet, you leave me no choice but
to gag you, Kingslayer.”
“Unchain my hands and I’ll play mute all the way to
King’s Landing. What could be fairer than that,
wench?”
“Brienne! My name is Brienne!” Three crows went
flapping into the air startled at the sound.
“Care for a bath, Brienne?” He laughed.
“You’re a maiden and there’s the pool. I’ll
wash your back.” He used to scrub Cersei’s back, when
they were children together at Casterly Rock.
The wench turned her horse’s head and trotted away. Jaime
and Ser Cleos followed her out of the ashes of Maidenpool. A half
mile on, green began to creep back into the world once more. Jaime
was glad. The burned lands reminded him too much of Aerys.
“She’s taking the Duskendale road,” Ser Cleos
muttered. “it would be safer to follow the coast.”
“Safer but slower. I’m for Duskendale, coz. If truth
be told, I’m bored with your company.” You may be half
Lannister, but you’re a far cry from my sister.
He could never bear to be long apart from his twin. Even as
children, they would creep into each other’s beds and sleep
with their arms entwined. Even in the womb. Long before his
sister’s flowering or the advent of his own manhood, they had
seen mares and stallions in the fields and dogs and bitches in the
kennels and played at doing the same. Once their mother’s
maid had caught them at it . . . he did not
recall just what they had been doing, but whatever it was had
horrified Lady Joanna. She’d sent the maid away, moved
Jaime’s bedchamber to the other side of Casterly Rock, set a
guard outside Cersei’s, and told them that they must never do
that again or she would have no choice but to tell their lord
father. They need not have feared, though. It was not long after
that she died birthing Tyrion. Jaime barely remembered what his
mother had looked like.
Perhaps Stannis Baratheon and the Starks had done him a
kindness. They had spread their tale of incest all over the Seven
Kingdoms, so there was nothing left to hide. Why shouldn’t I
marry Cersei openly and share her bed every night? The dragons
always married their sisters. Septons, lords, and smallfolk had
turned a blind eye to the Targaryens for hundreds of years, let
them do the same for House Lannister. It would play havoc with
Joffrey’s claim to the crown, to be sure, but in the end it
had been swords that had won the Iron Throne for Robert, and swords
could keep Joffrey there as well, regardless of whose seed he was.
We could marry him to Myrcella, once we’ve sent Sansa Stark
back to her mother. That would show the realm that the Lannisters
are above their laws, like gods and Targaryens.
Jaime had decided that he would return Sansa, and the younger
girl as well if she could be found. It was not like to win him back
his lost honor, but the notion of keeping faith when they all
expected betrayal amused him more than he could say.
They were riding past a trampled wheatfield and a low stone wall
when Jaime heard a soft thrum from behind, as if a dozen birds had
taken flight at once. “Down!” he shouted, throwing
himself against the neck of his horse. The gelding screamed and
reared as an arrow took him in the rump. Other shafts went hissing
past. Jaime saw Ser Cleos lurch from the saddle, twisting as his
foot caught in the stirrup. His palfrey bolted, and Frey was
dragged past shouting, head bouncing against the ground.
Jaime’s gelding lumbered off ponderously, blowing and
snorting in pain. He craned around to look for Brienne. She was
still ahorse, an arrow lodged in her back and another in her leg,
but she seemed not to feel them. He saw her pull her sword and
wheel in a circle, searching for the bowmen. “Behind the
wall,” Jaime called, fighting to turn his half-blind mount
back toward the fight. The reins were tangled in his damned chains,
and the air was full of arrows again. “At them!” he
shouted, kicking to show her how it was done. The old sorry horse
found a burst of speed from somewhere. Suddenly they were racing
across the wheatfield, throwing up clouds of chaff. Jaime had just
enough time to think, The wench had better follow before they
realize they’re being charged by an unarmed man in chains.
Then he heard her coming hard behind. “Evenfall!” she
shouted as her plow horse thundered by. She brandished her
longsword. “Tarth! Tarth!”
A few last arrows sped harmlessly past; then the bowmen broke
and ran, the way unsupported bowmen always broke and ran before the
charge of knights. Brienne reined up at the wall. By the time Jaime
reached her, they had all melted into the wood twenty yards away.
“Lost your taste for battle?”
“They were running.”
“That’s the best time to kill them.”
She sheathed her sword. “Why did you charge?”
“Bowmen are fearless so long as they can hide behind walls
and shoot at you from afar, but if you come at them, they run. They
know what will happen when you reach them. You have an arrow in
your back, you know. And another in your leg. You ought to let me
tend them.”
“You?”
“Who else? The last I saw of cousin Cleos, his palfrey was
using his head to plow a furrow. Though I suppose we ought to find
him. He is a Lannister of sorts.”
They found Cleos still tangled in his stirrup. He had an arrow
through his right arm and a second in his chest, but it was the
ground that had done for him. The top of his head was matted with
blood and mushy to the touch, pieces of broken bone moving under
the skin beneath the pressure of Jaime’s hand.
Brienne knelt and held his hand. “He’s still
warm.”
“He’ll cool soon enough. I want his horse and his
clothes. I’m weary of rags and fleas.”
“He was your cousin.” The wench was shocked.
“Was,” Jaime agreed. “Have no fear, I am amply
provisioned in cousins. I’ll have his sword as well. You need
someone to share the watches.”
“You can stand a watch without weapons.” She
rose.
“Chained to a tree? Perhaps I could. Or perhaps I could
make my own bargain with the next lot of outlaws and let them slit
that thick neck of yours, wench.”
“I will not arm you. And my name is—”
“—Brienne, I know. I’ll swear an oath not to
harm you, if that will ease your girlish fears.”
“Your oaths are worthless. You swore an oath to
Aerys.”
“You haven’t cooked anyone in their armor so far as
I know. And we both want me safe and whole in King’s Landing,
don’t we?” He squatted beside Cleos and began to undo
his swordbelt.
“Step away from him. Now. Stop that.”
Jaime was tired. Tired of her suspicions, tired of her insults,
tired of her crooked teeth and her broad spotty face and that limp
thin hair of hers. Ignoring her protests, he grasped the hilt of
his cousin’s longsword with both hands, held the corpse down
with his foot, and pulled. As the blade slid from the scabbard, he
was already pivoting, bringing the sword around and up in a swift
deadly arc. Steel met steel with a ringing, bone-jarring clang.
Somehow Brienne had gotten her own blade out in time. Jaime
laughed. “Very good, wench.”
“Give me the sword, Kingslayer.”
“Oh, I will.” He sprang to his feet and drove at
her, the longsword alive in his hands. Brienne jumped back,
parrying, but he followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did she
turn one cut than the next was upon her. The swords kissed and
sprang apart and kissed again. Jaime’s blood was singing.
This was what he was meant for; he never felt so alive as when he
was fighting, with death balanced on every stroke. And with my
wrists chained together, the wench may even give me a contest for a
time. His chains forced him to use a two-handed grip, though of
course the weight and reach were less than if the blade had been a
true two-handed greatsword, but what did it matter? His
cousin’s sword was long enough to write an end to this
Brienne of Tarth.
High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon her. Left, right,
backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came
together, upswing, sideslash, overhand, always attacking, moving
into her, step and slide, strike and step, step and strike,
hacking, slashing,
faster, faster, faster . . .
. . . until, breathless, he stepped back
and let the point of the sword fall to the ground, giving her a
moment of respite. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged.
“For a wench.”
She took a slow deep breath, her eyes watching him warily.
“I would not hurt you, Kingslayer.”
“As if you could.” He whirled the blade back up
above his head and flew at her again, chains rattling.
Jaime could not have said how long he pressed the attack. It
might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept
when swords woke. He drove her away from his cousin’s corpse,
drove her across the road, drove her into the trees. She stumbled
once on a root she never saw, and for a moment he thought she was
done, but she went to one knee instead of falling, and never lost a
beat. Her sword leapt up to block a downcut that would have opened
her from shoulder to groin, and then she cut at him, again and
again, fighting her way back to her feet stroke by stroke.
The dance went on. He pinned her against an oak, cursed as she
slipped away, followed her through a shallow brook half-choked with
fallen leaves. Steel rang, steel sang, steel screamed and sparked
and scraped, and the woman started grunting like a sow at every
crash, yet somehow he could not reach her. It was as if she had an
iron cage around her that stopped every blow.
“Not bad at all,” he said when he paused for a
second to catch his breath, circling to her right.
“For a wench?”
“For a squire, say. A green one.” He laughed a
ragged, breathless laugh. “Come on, come on, my sweetling,
the music’s still playing. Might I have this dance, my
lady?”
Grunting, she came at him, blade whirling, and suddenly it was
Jaime struggling to keep steel from skin. One of her slashes raked
across his brow, and blood ran down into his right eye. The Others
take her, and Riverrun as well! His skills had gone to rust and rot
in that bloody dungeon, and the chains were no great help either.
His eye closed, his shoulders were going numb from the jarring
they’d taken, and his wrists ached from the weight of chains,
manacles, and sword. His longsword grew heavier with every blow,
and Jaime knew he was not swinging it as quickly as he’d done
earlier, nor raising it as high. She is stronger than I am.
The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him,
to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday,
and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was
stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a
certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It
did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all.
But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even
so . . . by rights, she should be the one
wearing down.
Instead she forced him back into the brook again, shouting,
“Yield! Throw down the sword!”
A slick stone turned under Jaime’s foot. As he felt
himself falling, he twisted the mischance into a diving lunge. His
point scraped past her parry and bit into her upper thigh. A red
flower blossomed, and Jaime had an instant to savor the sight of
her blood before his knee slammed into a rock. The pain was
blinding. Brienne splashed into him and kicked away his sword.
“YIELD!”
Jaime drove his shoulder into her legs, bringing her down on top
of him. They rolled, kicking and punching until finally she was
sitting astride him. He managed to jerk her dagger from its sheath,
but before he could plunge it into her belly she caught his wrist
and slammed his hands back on a rock so hard he thought she’d
wrenched an arm from its socket. Her other hand spread across his
face. “Yield!” She shoved his head down, held it under,
pulled it up. “Yield!” Jaime spit water into her face.
A shove, a splash, and he was under again, kicking uselessly,
fighting to breathe. Up again. “Yield, or I’ll drown
you!”
“And break your oath?” he snarled. “Like
me?”
She let him go, and he went down with a splash.
And the woods rang with coarse laughter.
Brienne lurched to her feet. She was all mud and blood below the
waist, her clothing askew, her face red. She looks as if they
caught us fucking instead of fighting. Jaime crawled over the rocks
to shallow water, wiping the blood from his eye with his chained
hands. Armed men lined both sides of the brook. Small wonder, we
were making enough noise to wake a dragon. “Well met,
friends,” he called to them amiably. “My pardons if I
disturbed you. You caught me chastising my wife.”
“Seemed to me she was doing the chastising.” The man
who spoke was thick and powerful, and the nasal bar of his iron
halfhelm did not wholly conceal his lack of a nose.
These were not the outlaws who had killed Ser Cleos, Jaime
realized suddenly. The scum of the earth surrounded them: swarthy
Dornishmen and blond Lyseni, Dothraki with bells in their braids,
hairy Ibbenese, coal-black Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks. He
knew them. The Brave Companions.
Brienne found her voice. “I have a hundred stags—”
A cadaverous man in a tattered leather cloak said,
“We’ll take that for a start, m’lady.”
“Then we’ll have your cunt,” said the noseless
man. “It can’t be as ugly as the rest of
you.”
“Turn her over and rape her arse, Rorge,” urged a
Dornish spearman with a red silk scarf wound about his helm.
“That way you won’t need to look at her.”
“And rob her o’ the pleasure o’ looking at
me?” noseless said, and the others laughed.
Ugly and stubborn though she might be, the wench deserved better
than to be gang raped by such refuse as these. “Who commands
here?” Jaime demanded loudly.
“I have that honor, Ser Jaime.” The cadaver’s
eyes were rimmed in red, his hair thin and dry. Dark blue veins
could be seen through the pallid skin of his hands and face.
“Urswyck I am. Called Urswyck the Faithful.”
“You know who I am?”
The sellsword inclined his head. “it takes more than a
beard and a shaved head to deceive the Brave Companions.” The Bloody Mummers, you mean. Jaime had no more use for these
than he did for Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. Dogs, his father
called them all, and he used them like dogs, to hound his prey and
put fear in their hearts. “If you know me, Urswyck, you know
you’ll have your reward. A Lannister always pays his debts.
As for the wench, she’s highborn, and worth a good
ransom.”
The other cocked his head. “Is it so? How
fortunate.”
There was something sly about the way Urswyck was smiling that
Jaime did not like. “You heard me. Where’s the
goat?”
“A few hours distant. He will be pleased to see you, I
have no doubt, but I would not call him a goat to his face. Lord
Vargo grows prickly about his dignity.” Since when has that slobbering savage had dignity?
“I’ll be sure and remember that, when I see him. Lord
of what, pray?”
“Harrenhal. It has been promised.” Harrenhal? Has my father taken leave of his senses? Jaime raised
his hands. “I’ll have these chains off.”
Urswyck’s chuckle was papery dry. Something is very wrong here. Jaime gave no sign of his
discomfiture, but only smiled. “Did I say something
amusing?”
Noseless grinned. “You’re the funniest thing I seen
since Biter chewed that septa’s teats off.”
“You and your father lost too many battles,” offered
the Dornishman. “We had to trade our lion pelts for
wolfskins.”
Urswyck spread his hands. “What Timeon means to say is
that the Brave Companions are no longer in the hire of House
Lannister. We now serve Lord Bolton, and the King in the
North.”
Jaime gave him a cold, contemptuous smile. “And men say I
have shit for honor?”
Urswyck was unhappy with that comment. At his signal, two of the
Mummers grasped Jaime by the arms and Rorge drove a mailed fist
into his stomach. As he doubled over grunting, he heard the wench
protesting, “Stop, he’s not to be harmed! Lady Catelyn
sent us, an exchange of captives, he’s under my
protection . . . ” Rorge hit him again,
driving the air from his lungs. Brienne dove for her sword beneath
the waters of the brook, but the Mummers were on her before she
could lay hands on it. Strong as she was, it took four of them to
beat her into submission.
By the end the wench’s face was as swollen and bloody as
Jaime’s must have been, and they had knocked out two of her
teeth. It did nothing to improve her appearance. Stumbling and
bleeding, the two captives were dragged back through the woods to
the horses, Brienne limping from the thigh wound he’d given
her in the brook. Jaime felt sorry for her. She would lose her
maidenhood tonight, he had no doubt. That noseless bastard would
have her for a certainty, and some of the others would likely take
a turn.
The Dornishman bound them back to back atop Brienne’s plow
horse while the other Mummers were stripping Cleos Frey to his skin
to divvy up his possessions. Rorge won the bloodstained surcoat
with its proud Lannister and Frey quarterings. The arrows had
punched holes through lions and towers alike.
“I hope you’re pleased, wench,” Jaime
whispered at Brienne. He coughed, and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“If you’d armed me, we’d never have been
taken.” She made no answer. There’s a pig-stubborn
bitch, he thought. But brave, yes. He could not take that from her.
“When we make camp for the night, you’ll be raped, and
more than once,” he warned her. “You’d be wise
not to resist. If you fight them, you’ll lose more than a few
teeth.”
He felt Brienne’s back stiffen against his. “Is that
what you would do, if you were a woman?” If I were a woman I’d be Cersei. “If I were a woman,
I’d make them kill me. But I’m not.” Jaime kicked
their horse to a trot. “Urswyck! A word!”
The cadaverous sellsword in the ragged leather cloak reined up a
moment, then fell in beside him. “What would you have of me,
ser? And mind your tongue, or I’ll chastise you
again.”
“Gold,” said Jaime. “You do like
gold?”
Urswyck studied him through reddened eyes. “It has its
uses, I do confess.”
Jaime gave Urswyck a knowing smile. “All the gold in
Casterly Rock. Why let the goat enjoy it? Why not take us to
King’s Landing, and collect my ransom for yourself? Hers as
well, if you like. Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle, a maiden told
me once.” The wench squirmed at that, but said nothing.
“Do you take me for a turncloak?”
“Certainly. What else?”
For half a heartbeat Urswyck considered the proposition.
“King’s Landing is a long way, and your father is
there. Lord Tywin may resent us for selling Harrenhal to Lord
Bolton.” He’s cleverer than he looks. Jaime had been been looking
forward to hanging the wretch while his pockets bulged with gold.
“Leave me to deal with my father. I’ll get you a royal
pardon for any crimes you have committed. I’ll get you a
knighthood.”
“Ser Urswyck,” the man said, savoring the sound.
“How proud my dear wife would be to hear it. If only I
hadn’t killed her.” He sighed. “And what of brave
Lord Vargo?”
“Shall I sing you a verse of ‘The Rains of
Castamere’? The goat won’t be quite so brave when my
father gets hold of him.”
“And how will he do that? Are your father’s arms so
long that they can reach over the walls of Harrenhal and pluck us
out?”
“If need be.” King Harren’s monstrous folly
had fallen before, and it could fall again. “Are you such a
fool as to think the goat can outfight the lion?”
Urswyck leaned over and slapped him lazily across the face. The
sheer casual insolence of it was worse than the blow itself. He
does not fear me, Jaime realized, with a chill. “I have heard
enough, Kingslayer. I would have to be a great fool indeed to
believe the promises of an oathbreaker like you.” He kicked
his horse and galloped smartly ahead. Aerys, Jaime thought resentfully. It always turns on Aerys. He
swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two
swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me.
We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with
us. “Why did you tell him Tarth was the Sapphire Isle?”
Brienne whispered when Urswyck was out of earshot.
“He’s like to think my father’s rich in
gemstones . . . ”
“You best pray he does.”
“Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer? Tarth is called
the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters.”
“Shout it a little louder, wench, I don’t think
Urswyck heard you. The sooner they know how little you’re
worth in ransom, the sooner the rapes begin. Every man here will
mount you, but what do you care? Just close your eyes, open your
legs, and pretend they’re all Lord Renly.”
Mercifully, that shut her mouth for a time.
The day was almost done by the time they found Vargo Hoat,
sacking a small sept with another dozen of his Brave Companions.
The leaded windows had been smashed, the carved wooden gods dragged
out into the sunlight. The fattest Dothraki Jaime had ever seen was
sitting on the Mother’s chest when they rode up, prying out
her chalcedony eyes with the point of his knife. Nearby, a skinny
balding septon hung upside down from the limb of a spreading
chestnut tree. Three of the Brave Companions were using his corpse
for an archery butt. One of them must have been good; the dead man
had arrows through both of his eyes.
When the sellswords spied Urswyck and the captives, a cry went
up in half a dozen tongues. The goat was seated by a cookfire
eating a half-cooked bird off a skewer, grease and blood running
down his fingers into his long stringy beard. He wiped his hands on
his tunic and rose. “Kingthlayer,” he slobbered.
“You are my captifth.”
“My lord, I am Brienne of Tarth,” the wench called
out. “Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to
his brother at King’s Landing.”
The goat gave her a disinterested glance. “Thilence
her.”
“Hear me,” Brienne entreated as Rorge cut the ropes
that bound her to Jaime, “in the name of the King in the
North, the king you serve, please, listen—”
Rorge dragged her off the horse and began to kick her.
“See that you don’t break any bones,” Urswyck
called out to him. “The horse-faced bitch is worth her weight
in sapphires.”
The Dornishman Timeon and a foul-smelling Ibbenese pulled Jaime
down from the saddle and shoved him roughly toward the cookfire. It
would not have been hard for him to have grasped one of their sword
hilts as they manhandled him, but there were too many, and he was
still in fetters. He might cut down one or two, but in the end he
would die for it. Jaime was not ready to die just yet, and
certainly not for the likes of Brienne of Tarth.
“Thith ith a thweet day,” Vargo Hoat said. Around
his neck hung a chain of linked coins, coins of every shape and
size, cast and hammered, bearing the likenesses of kings, wizards,
gods and demons, and all manner of fanciful beasts. Coins from every land where he has fought, Jaime remembered.
Greed was the key to this man. If he was turned once, he can be
turned again. “Lord Vargo, you were foolish to leave my
father’s service, but it is not too late to make amends. He
will pay well for me, you know it.”
“Oh yeth,” said Vargo Hoat. “Half the gold in
Cathterly Rock, I thall have. But firth I mutht thend him a
methage.” He said something in his slithery goatish
tongue.
Urswyck shoved him in the back, and a jester in green and pink
motley kicked his legs out from under him. When he hit the ground
one of the archers grabbed the chain between Jaime’s wrists
and used it to yank his arms out in front of him. The fat Dothraki
put aside his knife to unsheathe a huge curved arakh, the wickedly
sharp scythe-sword the horselords loved. They mean to scare me. The fool hopped on Jaime’s back,
giggling, as the Dothraki swaggered toward him. The goat wants me
to piss my breeches and beg his mercy, but he’ll never have
that pleasure. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard; no sellsword would make him scream.
Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came
shivering down, almost too fast to see. And Jaime screamed.