A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

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.
    â€œVoices, 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.”
    â€œAnd you, brother,” said Ser Illifer. “Who are you?”
    â€œPoor 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.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œJoin 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.”
    â€œWe were bound for Duskendale,” declared Ser Creighton, “but mayhaps we could see you safely to King’s Landing.”
    â€œIf you have the coin to pay us for this escort,” added Ser Illifer, who seemed practical as well as penniless.
    â€œSparrows need no gold,” the septon said.
    Ser Creighton was lost. “Sparrows?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œI love them well enough,” said Illifer, “yet I must eat.”
    â€œSo must all the Mother’s children.”
    â€œWe 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 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.”
    â€œAll 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