A Feast for Dragons

barefoot septon calmed them with a word. “Judge not, for
judgment is the Father’s. Let them pass in peace. They are poor fellows too,
lost upon the earth.”
    Brienne edged her mare forward. “My sister is lost as well.
A girl of three-and-ten with auburn hair, fair to look upon.”
    “All the Mother’s children are fair to look upon. May the
Maiden watch over this poor girl . . . and you as well, I think.” The septon
lifted one of the traces of the wayn upon his shoulder, and began to pull. The
begging brothers took up the chant once more. Brienne and the hedge knights sat
upon their horses as the procession moved slowly past, following the rutted
road toward Rosby. The sound of their chanting slowly dwindled away and died.
    Ser Creighton lifted one cheek off the saddle to scratch his
arse. “What sort of man would slay a holy septon?”
    Brienne knew what sort. Near Maidenpool, she recalled, the
Brave Companions had strung a septon up by his heels from the limb of a tree
and used his corpse for archery practice. She wondered if his bones were piled
in that wayn with all the rest.
    “A man would need to be a fool to rape a silent sister,” Ser
Creighton was saying. “Even to lay hands upon one . . . it’s said they are the Stranger’s
wives, and their female parts are cold and wet as ice.” He glanced at Brienne.
“Uh . . . beg pardon.”
    Brienne spurred her mare toward Duskendale. After a moment,
Ser Illifer followed, and Ser Creighton came bringing up the rear.
    Three hours later they came up upon another party struggling
toward Duskendale; a merchant and his serving men, accompanied by yet another
hedge knight. The merchant rode a dappled grey mare, whilst his servants took
turns pulling his wagon. Four labored in the traces as the other two walked
beside the wheels, but when they heard the sound of horses they formed up
around the wagon with quarterstaffs of ash at the ready. The merchant produced
a crossbow, the knight a blade. “You will forgive me if I am suspicious,” called
the merchant, “but the times are troubled, and I have only good Ser Shadrich to
defend me. Who are you?”
    “Why,” Ser Creighton said, affronted, “I am the famous Ser
Creighton Longbough, fresh from battle on the Blackwater, and this is my
companion, Ser Illifer the Penniless.”
    “We mean you no harm,” said Brienne.
    The merchant considered her doubtfully. “My lady, you should
be safe at home. Why do you wear such unnatural garb?”
    “I am searching for my sister.” She dared not mention
Sansa’s name, with her accused of regicide. “She is a highborn maid and
beautiful, with blue eyes and auburn hair. Perhaps you saw her with a portly
knight of forty years, or a drunken fool.”
    “The roads are full of drunken fools and despoiled maidens.
As to portly knights, it is hard for any honest man to keep his belly round
when so many lack for food . . . though your Ser Creighton has not hungered, it
would seem.”
    “I have big bones,” Ser Creighton insisted. “Shall we ride
together for a time? I do not doubt Ser Shadrich’s valor, but he seems small,
and three blades are better than one.”
    Four blades, thought Brienne, but she held her
tongue.
    The merchant looked to his escort. “What say you, ser?”
    “Oh, these three are nought to fear.” Ser Shadrich was a
wiry, fox-faced man with a sharp nose and a shock of orange hair, mounted on a
rangy chestnut courser. Though he could not have been more than five foot two,
he had a cocksure manner. “The one is old, t’other fat, and the big one is a
woman. Let them come.”
    “As you say.” The merchant lowered his crossbow.
    As they resumed their journey, the hired knight dropped back
and looked her up and down as if she were a side of good salt pork. “You’re a
strapping healthy wench, I’d say.”
    Ser Jaime’s mockery had cut her deep; the little man’s words
hardly touched her. “A giant, compared to some.”
    He laughed. “I am big enough where it counts, wench.”
    “The merchant called you Shadrich.”
    “Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen. Some call me the Mad
Mouse.” He turned his shield to show her his sigil, a large white mouse with
fierce red eyes, on bendy brown and blue. “The brown is for the lands I’ve
roamed, the blue for the rivers that I’ve crossed. The mouse is me.”
    “And are you mad?”
    “Oh, quite. Your common mouse will run from blood and
battle. The mad mouse seeks them out.”
    “It would seem he