A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

business. What sort of business?”
    Lie to me and I will hang you.
“S-sansa Stark.”
    â€œIf the Stark girl were here, I’d know it. She’s run back north, I’ll wager. Hoping to find refuge with one of her father’s bannermen. She had best hope she chooses the right one.”
    â€œShe might have gone to the Vale instead,” Brienne heard herself blurt out, “to her mother’s sister.”
    Lord Randyll gave her a contemptuous look. “Lady Lysa is dead. Some singer pushed her off a mountain. Littlefinger holds the Eyrie now . . . though not for long. The lords of the Vale are not the sort to bend their knees to some upjumped jackanapes whose only skill is counting coppers.” He handed her back her letter. “Go where you want and do as you will . . . but when you’re raped don’t look to me for justice. You will have earned it with your folly.” He glanced at Ser Hyle. “And you, ser, should be at your gate. I gave you the command there, did I not?”
    â€œYou did, my lord,” said Hyle Hunt, “but I thought—”
    â€œYou think too much.” Lord Tarly strode away.
    Lysa Tully is dead.
Brienne stood beneath the gallows, the precious parchment in her hand. The crowd had dispersed, and the crows had returned to resume their feast.
A singer pushed her off a mountain.
Had the crows dined on Lady Catelyn’s sister too?
    â€œYou spoke of the Stinking Goose, my lady,” said Ser Hyle. “If you want me to show you—”
    â€œGo back to your gate.”
    A look of annoyance flashed across his face.
A plain face, not an honest one.
“If that’s your wish.”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œIt was only a game to pass the time. We meant no harm.” He hesitated. “Ben died, you know. Cut down on the Blackwater. Farrow too, and Will the Stork. And Mark Mullendore took a wound that cost him half his arm.”
    Good,
Brienne wanted to say.
Good, he deserved it.
But she remembered Mullendore sitting outside his pavilion with his monkey on his shoulder in a little suit of chain mail, the two of them making faces at each other. What was it Catelyn Stark had called them, that night at Bitterbridge?
The knights of summer.
And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves. . . .
    She turned her back on Hyle Hunt. “Podrick, come.”
    The boy trotted after her, leading their horses. “Are we going to find the place? The Stinking Goose?”
    â€œI am. You are going to the stables, by the east gate. Ask the stableman if there’s an inn where we can spend the night.”
    â€œI will, ser. My lady.” Podrick stared at the ground as they went, kicking stones from time to time. “Do you know where it is? The Goose? The Stinking Goose, I mean.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe said he’d show us. That knight. Ser Kyle.”
    â€œHyle.”
    â€œHyle. What did he do to you, ser? I mean, my lady.”
    The boy may be a stumbletongue, but he’s not stupid.
“At Highgarden, when King Renly called his banners, some men played a game with me. Ser Hyle was one of them. It was a cruel game, hurtful and unchivalrous.” She stopped. “The east gate is that way. Wait for me there.”
    â€œAs you say, my lady. Ser.”
    No sign marked the Stinking Goose. It took her most of an hour to find it, down a flight of wooden steps beneath a knacker’s barn. The cellar was dim and the ceiling low, and Brienne thumped her head on a beam as she entered. No geese were in evidence. A few stools were scattered about, and a bench had been shoved up against one earthen wall. The tables were old wine casks, grey and wormholed. The promised stink pervaded everything. Mostly it was wine and damp and mildew, her nose told her, but there was a little of the privy too, and something of the lichyard.
    The only drinkers were three Tyroshi seamen in a corner, growling at each other through green and purple beards. They gave her a brief inspection, and one said something that made the others laugh. The proprietor stood behind a plank that had been placed across two barrels. She was a woman, round and pale and balding, with huge soft breasts swaying beneath a soiled smock. She looked as though the gods had made her out of uncooked dough.
    Brienne did not dare to ask for water here. She bought a cup of wine and said, “I am looking for a man called Nimble Dick.”
    â€œDick