A Feast for Dragons

rare and bloody fray.” He allowed that
Ser Illifer had fought nobly in the battle as well. Illifer himself said
little.
    When time came to resume their journey, the knights fell in
on either side of her, like guards protecting some great lady . . . though this
lady dwarfed both of her protectors and was better armed and armored in the
nonce. “Did anyone pass by during your watches?” Brienne asked them.
    “Such as a maid of three-and-ten, with auburn hair?” said
Ser Illifer the Penniless. “No, my lady. No one.”
    “I had a few,” Ser Creighton put in. “Some farm boy on a
piebald horse went by, and an hour later half a dozen men afoot with staves and
scythes. They caught sight of our fire, and stopped for a long look at our
horses, but I showed them a glimpse of my steel and told them to be along their
way. Rough fellows, by the look o’ them, and desperate too, but ne’er so
desperate as to trifle with Ser Creighton Longbough.”
    No, Brienne thought, not so desperate as that. She turned away to hide her smile. Thankfully, Ser Creighton was too intent on
the tale of his epic battle with the Knight of the Red Chicken to make note of
the maiden’s mirth. It felt good to have companions on the road, even such
companions as these two.
    It was midday when Brienne heard chanting drifting through
the bare brown trees. “What is that sound?” Ser Creighton asked.
    “Voices, raised in prayer.” Brienne knew the chant. They are
beseeching the Warrior for protection, asking the Crone to light their way.
    Ser Illifer the Penniless bared his battered blade and
reined in his horse to wait their coming. “They are close now.”
    The chanting filled the woods like pious thunder. And
suddenly the source of the sound appeared in the road ahead. A group of begging
brothers led the way, scruffy bearded men in roughspun robes, some barefoot and
some in sandals. Behind them marched threescore ragged men, women, and
children, a spotted sow, and several sheep. Several of the men had axes, and
more had crude wooden clubs and cudgels. In their midst there rolled a
two-wheeled wayn of grey and splintered wood, piled high with skulls and broken
bits of bone. When they saw the hedge knights, the begging brothers halted, and
the chanting died away. “Good knights,” one said, “the Mother loves you.”
    “And you, brother,” said Ser Illifer. “Who are you?”
    “Poor fellows,” said a big man with an axe. Despite the
chill of the autumnal wood, he was shirtless, and on his breast was carved a
seven-pointed star. Andal warriors had carved such stars in their flesh when
first they crossed the narrow sea to overwhelm the kingdoms of the First Men.
    “We are marching to the city,” said a tall woman in the
traces of the wayn, “to bring these holy bones to Blessed Baelor, and seek
succor and protection from the king.”
    “Join us, friends,” urged a spare small man in a threadbare
septon’s robe, who wore a crystal on a thong about his neck. “Westeros has need
of every sword.”
    “We were bound for Duskendale,” declared Ser Creighton, “but
mayhaps we could see you safely to King’s Landing.”
    “If you have the coin to pay us for this escort,” added Ser
Illifer, who seemed practical as well as penniless.
    “Sparrows need no gold,” the septon said.
    Ser Creighton was lost. “Sparrows?”
    “The sparrow is the humblest and most common of birds, as we
are the humblest and most common of men.” The septon had a lean sharp face and
a short beard, grizzled grey and brown. His thin hair was pulled back and
knotted behind his head, and his feet were bare and black, gnarled and hard as
tree roots. “These are the bones of holy men, murdered for their faith. They
served the Seven even unto death. Some starved, some were tortured. Septs have
been despoiled, maidens and mothers raped by godless men and demon worshipers.
Even silent sisters have been molested. Our Mother Above cries out in her anguish.
It is time for all anointed knights to forsake their worldly masters and defend
our Holy Faith. Come with us to the city, if you love the Seven.”
    “I love them well enough,” said Illifer, “yet I must eat.”
    “So must all the Mother’s children.”
    “We are bound for Duskendale,” Ser Illifer said flatly.
    One of the begging brothers spat, and a woman gave a moan.
“You are false knights,” said the big man with the star carved on his chest.
Several others brandished their cudgels.
    The