A Feast for Dragons

them were of a
height, but she could not look him in the eye, nor say the simple words her
septa had taught her. Ser Ronnet. I welcome you to my lord father’s hall. It
is good to look upon your face at last.
    “Why are you following me?” she demanded of the boy. “Were
you told to spy upon me? Do you belong to Varys, or the queen?”
    “No. Not neither. No one.”
    Brienne put his age at ten, but she was terrible at judging
how old a child was. She always thought they were younger than they were,
perhaps because she had always been big for her age. Freakish big, Septa
Roelle used to say, and mannish. “This road is too dangerous for a boy
alone.”
    “Not for a squire. I’m his squire. The Hand’s
squire.”
    “Lord Tywin?” Brienne sheathed her blade.
    “No. Not that Hand. The one before. His son. I fought with
him in the battle. I shouted ‘ Halfman! Halfman!’ ”
    The Imp’s squire. Brienne had not even known he had
one. Tyrion Lannister was no knight. He might have been expected to have a
serving boy or two to attend him, she supposed, a page and a cupbearer, someone
to help dress him. But a squire? “Why are you stalking after me?” she
said. “What do you want?”
    “To find her.” The boy got to his feet. “His lady. You’re
looking for her. Brella told me. She’s his wife. Not Brella, Lady Sansa. So I
thought, if you found her . . .” His face twisted in sudden anguish. “I’m his squire, ”
he repeated, as the rain ran down his face, “but he left me.”
    ----
    The
Soiled Knight
    T he night was unseasonably cool, even for
autumn. A brisk wet wind was swirling down the alleys, stirring up the day’s
dust. A north wind, and full of chill. Ser Arys Oakheart pulled up his hood
to cover his face. It would not do for him to be recognized. A fortnight past,
a trader had been butchered in the shadow city, a harmless man who’d come to
Dorne for fruit and found death instead of dates. His only crime was being from
King’s Landing.
    The mob would find a sterner foe in me. He would
almost have welcomed an attack. His hand drifted down to brush lightly over the
hilt on the longsword that hung half-hidden amongst the folds of his layered
linen robes, the outer with its turquoise stripes and rows of golden suns, and
the lighter orange one beneath. The Dornish garb was comfortable, but his
father would have been aghast had he lived to see his son so dressed. He was a
man of the Reach, and the Dornish were his ancient foes, as the tapestries at
Old Oak bore witness. Arys only had to close his eyes to see them still. Lord
Edgerran the Open-Handed, seated in splendor with the heads of a hundred
Dornishmen piled round his feet. The Three Leaves in the Prince’s Pass, pierced
by Dornish spears, Alester sounding his warhorn with his last breath. Ser
Olyvar the Green Oak all in white, dying at the side of the Young Dragon. Dorne
is no fit place for any Oakheart.
    Even before Prince Oberyn had died, the knight had been ill
at ease whenever he left the grounds of Sunspear to walk the alleys of the
shadow city. He could feel eyes upon him everywhere he went, small black
Dornish eyes regarding him with thinly veiled hostility. The shopkeepers did
their best to cheat him at every turn, and sometimes he wondered whether the
taverners were spitting in his drinks. Once a group of ragged boys began
pelting him with stones, until he drew his sword and ran them off. The Red
Viper’s death had inflamed the Dornish even more, though the streets had
quieted a bit since Prince Doran had confined the Sand Snakes to a tower. Even
so, to wear his white cloak openly in the shadow city would be asking for
attack. He had brought three with him: two of wool, one light and one heavy,
the third of fine white silk. He felt naked without one hanging from his
shoulders.
    Better naked than dead, he told himself. I am a
Kingsguard still, even uncloaked. She must respect that. I must make her
understand. He should never have let himself be drawn into this, but the
singer said that love can make a fool of any man.
    Sunspear’s shadow city oft seemed deserted in the heat of
the day, when only buzzing flies moved down the dusty streets, but once evening
fell the same streets came to life. Ser Arys heard faint music drifting through
louvered windows as he passed below, and somewhere finger drums were beating
out the quick rhythm of a spear dance, giving the night a pulse. Where three
alleys met beneath the second of the