A Feast for Dragons

hides her own true colors. Creigh, behold the Maid o’
Tarth, who opened Renly’s royal throat for him.”
    “That is a lie.” Renly Baratheon had been more than a king
to her. She had loved him since first he came to Tarth on his leisurely lord’s
progress, to mark his coming of age. Her father welcomed him with a feast and
commanded her to attend; elsewise she would have hidden in her room like some
wounded beast. She had been no older than Sansa, more afraid of sniggers than
of swords. They will know about the rose, she told Lord Selwyn, they
will laugh at me. But the Evenstar would not relent.
    And Renly Baratheon had shown her every courtesy, as if she
were a proper maid, and pretty. He even danced with her, and in his arms she’d
felt graceful, and her feet had floated across the floor. Later others begged a
dance of her, because of his example. From that day forth, she wanted only to
be close to Lord Renly, to serve him and protect him. But in the end she failed
him. Renly died in my arms, but I did not kill him, she thought, but
these hedge knights would never understand. “I would have given my life for
King Renly, and died happy,” she said. “I did no harm to him. I swear it by my
sword.”
    “A knight swears by his sword,” Ser Creighton said.
    “Swear it by the Seven,” urged Ser Illifer the Penniless.
    “By the Seven, then. I did no harm to King Renly. I swear it
by the Mother. May I never know her mercy if I lie. I swear it by the Father,
and ask that he might judge me justly. I swear it by the Maiden and Crone, by
the Smith and the Warrior. And I swear it by the Stranger, may he take me now
if I am false.”
    “She swears well, for a maid,” Ser Creighton allowed.
    “Aye.” Ser Illifer the Penniless gave a shrug. “Well, if
she’s lied, the gods will sort her out.” He slipped his dagger back away. “The
first watch is yours.”
    As the hedge knights slept, Brienne paced restlessly around
the little camp, listening to the crackle of the fire. I should ride on
whilst I can. She did not know these men, yet she could not bring herself
to leave them undefended. Even in the black of night, there were riders on the
road, and noises in the woods that might or might not have been owls and
prowling foxes. So Brienne paced, and kept her blade loose in its scabbard.
    Her watch was easy, all in all. It was after that was
hard, when Ser Illifer woke and said he would relieve her. Brienne spread a
blanket on the ground, and curled up to close her eyes. I will not sleep, she told herself, bone weary though she was. She had never slept easily in the
presence of men. Even in Lord Renly’s camps, the risk of rape was always there.
It was a lesson she had learned beneath the walls of Highgarden, and again when
she and Jaime had fallen into the hands of the Brave Companions.
    The cold in the earth seeped through Brienne’s blankets to
soak into her bones. Before long every muscle felt clenched and cramped, from her
jaw down to her toes. She wondered whether Sansa Stark was cold as well,
wherever she might be. Lady Catelyn had said that Sansa was a gentle soul who
loved lemon cakes, silken gowns, and songs of chivalry, yet the girl had seen
her father’s head lopped off and been forced to marry one of his killers
afterward. If half the tales were true, the dwarf was the cruelest Lannister of
all. If she did poison King Joffrey, the Imp surely forced her hand. She was
alone and friendless at that court. In King’s Landing, Brienne had hunted
down a certain Brella, who had been one of Sansa’s maids. The woman told her
that there was little warmth between Sansa and the dwarf. Perhaps she had been
fleeing him as well as Joffrey’s murder.
    Whatever dreams Brienne dreamed were gone when dawn awoke
her. Her legs were stiff as wood from the cold ground, but no one had molested
her, and her goods remained untouched. The hedge knights were up and about. Ser
Illifer was cutting up a squirrel for breakfast, while Ser Creighton stood
facing a tree, having himself a good long piss. Hedge knights, she
thought, old and vain and plump and nearsighted, yet decent men for all
that. It cheered her to know that there were still decent men in the world.
    They broke their fast on roast squirrel, acorn paste, and
pickles, whilst Ser Creighton regaled her with his exploits on the Blackwater,
where he had slain a dozen fearsome knights that she had never heard of. “Oh,
it was a rare fight, m’lady,” he said, “a