A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

less lion. I won’t weep.”
    Brienne heard the sound of someone praying. She thought of Septon Meribald, but all the words were wrong.
The night is dark and full of terrors, and so are dreams.
    They were riding through a gloomy wood, a dank, dark, silent place where the pines pressed close. The ground was soft beneath her horse’s hooves, and the tracks she left behind filled up with blood. Beside her rode Lord Renly, Dick Crabb, and Vargo Hoat. Blood ran from Renly’s throat. The Goat’s torn ear oozed pus. “Where are we going?” Brienne asked. “Where are you taking me?” None of them would answer.
How can they answer? All of them are dead.
Did that mean that she was dead as well?
    Lord Renly was ahead of her, her sweet smiling king. He was leading her horse through the trees. Brienne called out to tell him how much she loved him, but when he turned to scowl at her, she saw that he was not Renly after all. Renly never scowled.
He always had a smile for me,
she thought . . . except . . .
    â€œCold,” her king said, puzzled, and a shadow moved without a man to cast it, and her sweet lord’s blood came washing through the green steel of his gorget to drench her hands. He had been a warm man, but his blood was cold as ice.
This is not real,
she told herself.
This is another bad dream, and soon I’ll wake.
    Her mount came to a sudden halt. Rough hands seized hold of her. She saw shafts of red afternoon light slanting through the branches of a chestnut tree. A horse rooted amongst the dead leaves after chestnuts, and men moved nearby, talking in quiet voices. Ten, twelve, maybe more. Brienne did not recognize their faces. She was stretched out on the ground, her back against a tree trunk. “Drink this, m’lady,” said the girl’s voice. She lifted a cup to Brienne’s lips. The taste was strong and sour. Brienne spat it out. “Water,” she gasped. “Please. Water.”
    â€œWater won’t help the pain. This will. A little.” The girl put the cup to Brienne’s lips again.
    It even hurt to drink. Wine ran down her chin and dribbled on her chest. When the cup was empty the girl filled it from a skin. Brienne sucked it down until she sputtered. “No more.”
    â€œMore. You have a broken arm, and some of your ribs is cracked. Two, maybe three.”
    â€œBiter,” Brienne said, remembering the weight of him, the way his knee had slammed into her chest.
    â€œAye. A real monster, that one.”
    It all came back to her; lightning above and mud below, the rain
pinging
softly against the dark steel of the Hound’s helm, the terrible strength in Biter’s hands. Suddenly she could not stand being bound. She tried to wrench free of her ropes, but all that did was chafe her worse. Her wrists were tied too tightly. There was dried blood on the hemp. “Is he dead?” She trembled. “Biter.
Is he dead?
” She remembered his teeth tearing into the flesh of her face. The thought that he might still be out there somewhere, breathing, made Brienne want to scream.
    â€œHe’s dead. Gendry shoved a spearpoint through the back of his neck. Drink, m’lady, or I’ll pour it down your throat.”
    She drank. “I am looking for a girl,” she whispered, between swallows. She almost said
my sister.
“A highborn maid of three-and-ten. She has blue eyes and auburn hair.”
    â€œI’m not her.”
    No.
Brienne could see that. The girl was thin to the point of looking starved. She wore her brown hair in a braid, and her eyes were older than her years.
Brown hair, brown eyes, plain. Willow, six years older.
“You’re the sister. The innkeep.”
    â€œI might be.” The girl squinted. “What if I am?”
    â€œDo you have a name?” Brienne asked. Her stomach gurgled. She was afraid that she might retch.
    â€œHeddle. Same as Willow. Jeyne Heddle.”
    â€œJeyne. Untie my hands. Please. Have pity. The ropes are chafing my wrists. I’m bleeding.”
    â€œIt’s not allowed. You’re to stay bound, till . . .”
    â€œ. . . till you stand before m’lady.” Renly stood behind the girl, pushing his black hair out of his eyes.
Not Renly. Gendry.
“M’lady means for you to answer for your crimes.”
    â€œM’lady.” The wine was making her head spin. It was hard to think. “Stoneheart. Is that who you mean?”