Chapter Text
The rain was almost as loud as the crack of thunder that birthed it, as heavy droplets shattered on the sharp blades of grass and against the foot worn dirt-paved road. Every pinprick of rainwater that landed against Brienne’s armor stung the skin underneath, and the pelting downpour began to weigh her down. It clattered against her helmet, leaving her dizzy, and her ears ringing.
Brienne could tell that a more malevolent storm was beginning to brew the moment she felt the wind’s once lithe kiss, change into a wrathful whip. It stopped fluttering her thin wisps of hair against her cheek, and instead culminated above the clouds, rising into a rigorous thundergust that blew her pretty mare’s mane wildly. Her skin always flared with goosebumps when felt a storm’s charge in the air, perhaps her body’s remnant memory of the terrible storms that ruled her childhood back on Tarth.
Looking across the shore that led towards Crackclaw Point, a place she wished to avoid if possible, she watched the greyish-green beginnings of the narrow sea. The waves swirled hauntingly, bashing against the limestone rocks, threatening anyone who dared to enter with a harsh, battering death. She was grateful to be anchored to land, and on her two feet. She could not find it within herself to walk closer to the shoreline, and the realization stung. Most babes sired in the Stormlands were born with the rocking of ships engrained into their bodies, a second mother’s soothing motions, but as of late, the ocean only seemed to make her sick more than it provided any comfort.
Brienne could’ve taken her helmet off when a group of barefoot children carrying fishing equipment came up to her horse, jumping and yelling excitedly about a knight, patting her horse's croup like a drum — she should have — but she feared the worst, and the fisherfolk’s cruel japes she’d endured still left her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment.
This way, her face was hidden away, and the children easily mistook her for a man, cheering loudly for the Warrior that visited them. All three boys were far too energized for the dreary mood that the day lent itself to, following her rounsey and bouncing from point to point, each offering to trade her something. Anything at all. She knew from their wide eyed wonder, that the boys were elated at the very idea of Knighthood. Brienne felt a twinge of nostalgia, mixed with sadness, for the naive girl she once was. Still am, she thought. It nettled her.
Two of the boys offered their clams and crabs respectively, freshly caught off the shore. The other offered his sister, like she were nothing but a shiny sea shell; something small but glistening, pretty and ready to be picked by whichever eager eye found it first, in exchange for what, a sand copper? What little the boys knew about trading was obvious. What little the boys knew about anything was glaringly so.
She forced herself to bite her tongue, and kicked her horse to keep a steady pace, although the euphoric cries of the children pressured a warm smile into her sodden features. The one who looked the eldest, a boy of what she assumed to be close to his ninth nameday, held his crab cage high into the air, shaking them roughly. Rain water sprayed off the wood trap and onto her, dousing Brienne even more. She was completely drenched, and taking off her mail by her lonesome would be a challenge. That was if she could find lodging.
“I’ve got five crabs,” he yelled over the sound of the rain, and shook the cage once more. Brienne could feel the coin pouch burning against her hip. Jaime had stacked her more than full of coin.
The purse was fuller than she’d ever seen, even once being a highborn lady herself. Silver stags, copper stars, and even a clutch of gold dragons in a separate, smaller bag for protection. The satchel was embroidered in the signature gold and red of the Lannisters, and when it caught in the sun, it was almost as blinding as the coin itself. She had half a mind to hide it from view — elsewise she might be spotted with it and robbed.
“Three pennies for each! I caught them today, myself. The storm is going to wash up more!”
Brienne considered the boy. Truthfully, she knew she would feel a tad cheap taking him up on the offer. Three pennies each would not even make a dent in her leather pouch. She needed some coin for herself, as she would still need lodging and food all throughout her travels.
She paid for Ser Creighton and Ser Illifer, who proved themselves good. But these boys don’t ask for much, they’re decent, too. She touched the purse that was slung alongside her hip, weighing it in her palm. Be any heavier, it’ll break my horse, she thought in jest.
The other boys interrupted him, offering their own goods for cheaper. Five clams for only two pennies, the boy’s sister for one stag, until he’d bartered the poor girl to six groats, and even offered the elder boy’s sister too.
Part of Brienne pondered on how much of it was just a game to the children, if they truly knew how dire the times to come would be. That was something she couldn’t answer either, so speculating was useless. She abandoned the thought immediately, as her mind drifted to Lady Sansa, and her dear sister Arya. She assumed that the group of children were repeating what they observed their parents do at their village market.
That was how she learnt to wield a sword after all. The very beginnings of it started no grander than staring into her father’s training yard wistfully from her bedchamber’s window. That might have been the biggest mistake Selwyn had made, allowing her to gaze down towards the tussling men. Wanting swelled up in her more than it ever had before. No amount of sweet cakes, or promised swims in the sea could replace it. It only worsened when she was old enough to journey alongside her father to tourneys. She would watch the jousts her father took her to carefully, memorizing every thrust and shield. She took quickly to practicing in her room with the fork she’d smuggled from her supper, or feigning illness just to watch her small body become a large, proud shadow bounce against Evenfall’s walls, as she’d slice and dance.
Brienne escaped the confinement of her room one evening, when her father left to Storm’s End to consult the status of Tarth’s trading port with neighboring houses, places where Renly had first showed any interest in visiting, albeit for the wrong reasons.
The memories of sneaking into her father’s armory, slinking through corridors and dodging the guards still flowed through her as if they happened only a moment’s breath before. She still felt the way she did that day whenever she raised her sword, the feeling of her heart battering against her ribs, pounding at the back of her head. The boys’ merchant game brought Brienne’s mind back to her own childhood, revisiting the memories of when she’d sneak down to Tarth’s shore markets, and how the eldest boy seemed distantly familiar.
He paraded pasty blonde curls, and sun-kissed tan skin from his days spent in the sun, assumedly by the coast, catching food for his family and making due. Brienne knew not of this boy’s family, not a crest in sight, a mother or a father. Not even a sibling. She felt a tether of kinship reaching out towards the boy, and let herself believe that he was happy. Simple, but fulfilled. The smile he shone her was born from a boyish outlook. Easily, she brought her horse to a halt, and let the weary smile overtake her rough features.
“Ser, you do know that this storm is going to get worse, don’t you?” one of the boys piped up. “There’s an inn not too far from here. My cousin owns it, he’s a good man. It’s cheap, and you’ll be out of the rain, Ser.”
I am no Ser, thought Brienne once more. And Tarth’s storms are much worse than anything that’s ever hit this harbor. She almost lifted her tongue to speak her mind, but quickly waved the idea of speaking at all away.
Shipbreaker’s Bay knocked on the shores of her home isle like a long-lost companion returning home after war, often taking pieces of their only port with them, washing wood and merchant’s parcels out to the narrow sea, never to be seen again. The sea had no care for who you were. The wind could carry names and rumors, even to the darkest corners, but it would be nothing more than a drowned whisper in the lashings of an Tarth storm. She thought once more of the lecherous sea. Everyone has their turn there, eventually.
Brienne remembered fondly how her father was always by the shore the following morning after a storm, having sent out Evenfall’s only attendants to help the smallfolk. Those that were not fortunate, and that was to say those who had homes made of clay and not stones, had been ravaged. But the people of Tarth, alongside their shorelines and docks, had been rebuilt a hundred times over. It would continue that way, so long as her father lived. So long as she were his daughter. She knew he once wished to see her take the helm, albeit with a husband at her side, but that was but a distant dream now, and seemed like a child’s fable she told herself. The old wound irritated, but it had been her own fault for picking at it.
She considered the boy’s offer. A warm bed and a cheap meal… No, Brienne decided, she’d just come from an inn, and despite the foreboding skies, it was still early. High noon had not yet struck, and she couldn’t spend any more time dabbling than need be. She had already accidentally spent a night in Duskendale, she needed to be on the move sooner than later.
The boy looked at her expectantly, and she knew that look more than well. Surely, he was wondering if she were simple, or just plain stupid. It grabbed her attention, and even the cold rain wasn’t as chilling as the wave of hurt that washed over her.
A part of her had wondered if that childish innocence would lend her a hand. That perhaps they’d refrain from mocking her, but Septa Roelle’s cruel words rang in her head louder than the rain. She knew it wouldn’t have been true even if it weren’t for the woman, plenty of boys and girls back home held nothing back, and that had little to do with anything that Septa Roelle could tell her, save for that she was not fit to be such as she was. No matter how thunderous the storm was, her mind was always louder.
She lost her grippings for but a moment, as the memories had wrapped her up so tightly, that she’d forgotten that she was supposed to be holding up a facade. Brienne caught herself before it happened. If I speak, they’ll know I am a woman…
So, instead Brienne nodded, and pointed to the crabs. She held up three fingers, and fished into her coin pouch for the boy. The others groaned, murmuring about how he’d won again, all while he smiled brightly. For a small moment in time, Brienne allowed herself to be accompanied by the children’s light atmosphere. She found that it slipped her mind to ask if they had heard of a girl such as Sansa, but knew it was for the best. She was not ready to extend herself beyond what was already being offered once more.
The boy handed her the lot of crabs, wrangling them from their crate until they were wrapped messily in a net. Even with what she assumed to be their silent mockery, she found that she wanted terribly to ask his name. She did not understand why. When he reminded her for his nine pennies, although she had already reached for it, she handed him three silver stags instead.
The look of astonishment it imprinted on them was well worth it, if not for anything else.
“Thank you, Ser!” they called, as Brienne spurred her horse back to action. She nodded politely, and waved as they ran down the path they came from, leaping through puddles and carefully counting the coins she’d given them.
As she continued on horseback, the harsh downpour of rain began to calm her. She remembered how before Galladon's death, she used to fall asleep to storms curled up in his arms, begging her father to let them go out into the hills and meadows, just to lay above Evenfall's shore and listen to the rocking waves. It was of utmost importance to her that he always tagged alongside her, and not to mention, it was he who got permission far more often than she did. He'd hold her hand to help her scale the mountains, hold her bare foot to make sure she didn't stray too close to the edge of a cliff...
Brienne shook her head. She almost wished that she took the boy up on his offer of lodging. It was no matter now, she was not going to turn back. She needed to find shelter, and quickly.
Brienne settled in nearby ruins, roughly an hour from where she’d encountered those boys. It seemed divine that she had been so lucky to stumble upon it, even if it was disquieting. The castle she’d stumbled upon looked as if it had been abandoned for years, with thorny bramble and various other greens growing in and out of it. It was large, but the woods were larger.
Nature had formed itself inside of the castle, overtaking it, and Brienne could have missed it in the wide expanse of trees had she not been looking.
With her horse tied to the only wall sconce still standing, in a dry spot where the roof was still intact but a large wall had fallen, she entered the ruins in search of a more coveted section of the castle, where the rain wouldn’t splash. She took her helm off, and shook her head like a wet sailor’s dog.
Her hair was all knotted now, as she hadn’t bothered to braid it when she threw her helm on. A mistake she knew she was sure to make again. Wringing the thin strands out, she began to tie it back as she walked through the castle’s remains.
It didn’t take long at all before she wandered into what must have once been a room of importance, and she discovered who this castle had once belonged to. Three crowns on a blue chief, accompanied with barry blue and pink. It made sense geographically, and her heart constricted in her chest as she thought once more of Lady Sansa. She stood in what was once a castle belonging to the Hollard’s.
Now, it was next to nothing, just as the Hollard name became. Brienne remembered the tales that her father would tell her, of the Defiance of Duskendale, when the late King Aerys had been captured.
Septa Roelle admonished her when she’d brought it up one evening, and said that such tales were for men who fought wars, not for the ladies who stayed put. She remembered how flustered she’d been, when her septa told her that if she spoke of it again, she’d go just as mad as Aerys had. Very little did she tell Septa Roelle after that, and yet her father continued with the lullabies. She much preferred the tales of the likes of Ser Galldon.
There was a fair chance Ser Dontos had been born here. Leek’s maester had told her to look elsewhere. If Sansa really did kill King Joffrey, and if Dontos really did aid her escape, Brienne doubted that they would even still be in the Crownlands. Seeking passage for three across the Narrow sea… and that was If The Imp had joined them in their escape… It all was lodged so heavily, and blundered her senses so deeply, she almost wanted to cry.
The castle looked as if it had been sacked already anyway. This was no place to hide, and Brienne tousled the maester’s words around in her head. Sansa could have gone north, where her gods are, or perhaps the Vale with Lady Lysa, or even Riverrun, where the Tully’s ruled; where her blood stayed. They’d be harboring a possible Kingslayer, but they were family, and that was supposed to mean something.
She’s more like to stick with her kin, than she is to escape elsewhere like Dorne. But… there are too many outcomes.
Sansa could have gone anywhere. She could be with Tyrion, Dontos, her aunt or uncle. Was it worse, that she very well could be all alone? The thought of Sansa twisted something deeply in her gut, and she clenched her eyes shut. She swore that she would return her safely. She swore.
She had to wait the storm out, but there was little that moping around Hollard Castle ruins would do to help her find Sansa, she knew that much. The rain left her bones chilled, soaking into the gaps of her armor, finding its way into her tunic, and dampening her skin. It was too close to winter to stay cold like this, she’d freeze before she would even make it out of the Crownlands. She shivered, rubbed her thick hands together, and set out in search for anything flammable.
Most, if not all of the surrounding woods were soaking wet, even those that had crawled into the ruins. She managed a few measly sticks, cutting them with her longsword. She turned to bramble next, and hissed through the small cuts the thorns left on her hands. The rain washed the blood away better than she could have cleaned it. The thin sticks were hard to light. There was no dry grass, either, nothing to support the small fire she barely scraped up.
The clattering noise of horse hooves up the way made Brienne pause. She could hear the horse snorting and huffing, likely irritated by the rain. A searching voice called, but the rain was too noisy for Brienne to decipher it further.
Quickly, she dropped the sticks, and snuffed out the small puffs of smoke that elicited from the measly fire with her boot. The rain obscured her from most things, as did the woods, but she stepped into the shadows nonetheless.
She did not intend to get caught alone in the ruins of an abandoned castle, no less by someone who’d been trailing her. Ser Goodwin taught her well and true; that men would underestimate her just for being a woman alone, and she would not let anyone get that upper hand on her.
There was a slight of paranoia that squirmed in her brain; wondering if she’d been followed after she frequented more traveled roads; or if one of the innkeepers had fessed up to seeing a woman such as her. She was not hard to miss. Whatever it may have been, Brienne was far off from where merchants often walked, and no sane man would venture into this storm without a death wish. She was being tracked.
This was the road that Jaime and I were captured on. I will not make that mistake again.
Thoughts of the Brave Companions sent a shiver down her spine. She would never forget how cruel they were, how heinously they treated Jaime. How they beat her blue. It had sparked something… fresh, like a new born calf for the both of them, yes, but enduring those weeks had been monstrous.
Finding leverage in the shadows, where a wall was cracked and only half of it still stood, she watched the road. She looked for banners, for groups, even for a lone sellsword — but all she saw was a small man, hooded and warily riding his horse, sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the clearing, where the road forked out.
Her mind flickered between men she thought could have been following her — Mad Mouse came to mind immediately, but no description made any sense. Certainly, none of the men she thought could be following her would be so stupid to do such a thing. The man was lucky she wasn't barbarous.
The rain only obscured so much, and it might as well have been a death sentence to dwell on these roads. Her hand met her sword hilt, perhaps it was a squire, or a green Kingsguard. She crouched, and as stealthily as someone her height could manage, creeped closer.
It dawned on her then, who it was.
It was no Brave Companion, no knight or guard sent to chase after her, not even a sellsword, bought to bring her back to King's Landing. It was but a boy, small and hunched, who sat atop his horse unsteadily. She’d seen him before, she realized. He’d ran into her in Duskendale, before scurrying off like a scared dock cat.
Underneath his thick cloak, Brienne could scarcely make his face out. He looked at his surroundings like he was lost in a maze, squinting as he tried to find any tracks that may have led him towards where Brienne had gone. She had been confident that there were none, other than the castle ruins, which he seemed to not even notice at all. To make it worse, the boy looked nervous on top of it all.
She saw this boy in Rosby, too. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been stalking her all this time. She chided herself, how could she have been so stupid? Foolish, foolish girl.
There was a slight pang of sympathy, but she forced herself to push it down. Trust was becoming harder and harder to come by, and she could not strain her neck any further. He could still be dangerous, and this could very well be a trap. He tried once more, looking around utterly lost, before he reigned his horse in and sauntered up one of the forks. The boy didn't look back. Not even once.
Brienne untied her mare, who was blissfully silent, before jumping on her wet saddle and pursuing the lost boy. The rain pounded harder, pelting her forehead. If he wanted to play such games with her, she would at least be a willing participant.
She quickly learned that the boy truly was not very observant, although fearless for the attempt. Perhaps it was his hood, along with the loud clacking of hooves and pouring rain, that made it so the boy did not notice her trailing him. She was not far from him, either. One look out of the corner of his eye, past his hood, and she'd be seen. She closed in on him, riding closer, until it was almost unbelievable how un-alert he was.
Absconding off of her horse, she jogged towards his slow rounsey, easily matching their pace, before unsheathing her longsword, the scabbard clattering loudly against her armor with her quickened movements.
When the boy’s mare reared tall after she smacked its croup with the side of her longsword, sending the small, hooded boy atop of her flying off, Brienne thought that the boy looked like a bird. His too-big cloak flared and flapped like a swallow bird’s wings, and suddenly, he was airborne — before roughly landing into the mud below with a thud, and the idea was gone. The mare trotted a few feet away, finding purchase in the rich foliage, neighing and shaking off the rain.
The dirt drenched him even more than the rain had, sticking to his skin, lobbing grass and mud across his clothes, tangling into his dark curls. It was in his mouth, and she watched as he tried to spit it out, chewing dead grass. He was scrawny, far skinnier than she had been at his age, and he had that same sty underneath his left eye as that boy in Duskendale.
It really is him. It’s that same boy.
His own weapon, a small dagger wrapped in a tattered leather sheath slid across the ground. His hands searched wildly, patting his belt with panic and pulling on his jacket, before he tried to wipe the thick coating of mud out from his eyes.
Wielding her longsword, she thrusted it towards him, holding it to his neck, the tip threatening to cut his throat. He swallowed roughly, trying to arch his neck away from the sharp point, but Brienne only followed.
His mouth moved with a fury, although no words fell from his lips, and Brienne took the opportunity to shout over the loud rain, “Who are you?”
There was little room for the boy to refuse her questioning, but he was rendered speechless beneath her sword. He looked no more dangerous than a chick that fell from its nest, abandoned too early and left without the knowledge of flight. His mouth was agape, and the rain did more to wash the dirt from his mouth than his hands did. He shivered underneath the cool touch of rain, and Brienne wondered how much of it was fear.
“Puh!” he shouted. “Puh!”
Brienne didn’t understand. The boy’s voice wavered, but the words that followed were pure nonsense.
“Puh!” Again. “Puh! Puh!”
She finally caught on then, that the boy was trying to plead for his life, but had been so scared he couldn’t get the words out. She thought to draw her sword then, but refused. Not until she knew he wasn’t a threat.
“Please?” repeated Brienne. “Are you trying to say please?”
The boy shook his head, his arms flailing in front of him. “Why are you following me? Who sent you!”
His loose chainmail rattled like bones on his shaking figure, his teeth chattering. The boy wasn’t even dressed for the rain.
“Please,” Brienne offered, “who are you?”
The boy spat more mud onto the ground. “Puh— Puh— Pod—“ he coughed, “My name!” he stuttered. “My name, Pod — Podrick Puh — Payne.”
She lowered her sword then. He was willing to cooperate, she needn’t use unnecessary violence, especially not on a boy.
“Podrick,” she repeated quietly and only to herself. It was then that she allowed sympathy to flow through her core. He was just a boy, and she assumed he was much younger than she had been when she finally took her departure from Evenfall.
There was more information she needed to pull from the boy however, before she was going to allow herself to let him go. Her mind drifted towards Jaime once more, only to then move in favor of his sister. Brienne wanted to ask what the boy knew about all of the Crownlands. He’s a Payne, and they hail from the Westerlands.
“Who do you answer to? Were you sent by Varys as a spy? The Queen? Answer truthfully, boy.”
She felt a bit embarrassed calling him boy, when in truth she was not much older than a girl. She hoped that she was not as see through about it as she was with everything else, but the boy seemed to receive it like he received everything else she’d demanded from him.
Podrick. His name is Podrick, she reminded herself.
“No!” shouted Podrick. His voice was thick with his anguish, and Brienne could see that hot tears began to run a river down his dirty cheeks. “No! I swear by the seven, I — I’m not such! Neither!”
He was so small. Brienne knew this road was not meant for boys like him. It wasn’t safe for anyone, no less a child. Her hand stayed at her hip, clutching her scabbard cautiously. Child or not, he is still a stranger.
“I’m simply a squire! I squire for The Hand! The Hand!” he yelled. Her grip tightened, and when she moved to unsheath her sword once more, the boy flinched, and his tears thickened.
“You’re Lord Tywin Lannister’s squire?” as her eyebrow raised, her heart dropped into the ground, buried in the dirt. If Lord Tywin had sent his squire — who was no more than a boy after her, right before his death…
“No! Not that one, the other! His son, Tyrion, we fought alongside each other in the Battle of Blackwater!”
Her head spun. The boy only served to confuddle her mind more. Brienne hadn’t known that The Imp had a squire, for he wasn’t a soldier, and the presence of his squire was most peculiar. She knew of his drinking, there wasn’t anyone who didn’t, so perhaps a cupbearer, but a squire?
“I was the one to shout for him at Blackwater, ‘Halfman! Halfman!’, I can prove it, I have the scars! Lord Tyrion too! I think he would testify for me, if he were here!”
Brienne wondered how Podrick had even found himself at the Battle of Blackwater, even more so how he’d managed to survive. He is quite small, Brienne considered, and assumed he could easily maneuver through the legs fighting men, but to be able to dodge their strikes all together was an entirely different matter.
It was far more likely they didn’t think him worthy of their sword, than it was for him to have escaped. Brienne knew that most boys younger than Podrick could take him down. She doubted the boy had ever killed.
His body still shook. “What do you want from me? Why did you follow me? From Rosby. From Duskendale... I saw you there plain as the day, do not lie.”
Podrick pleaded once more, “No, I won’t! I mean — I — I don’t wish you any harm, please!”
“Answer!” Brienne shouted.
“To find her!” Podrick found the courage to stand with his words.
At the boy’s rising figure, she found herself thinking, Good, he will not get far cowering on the ground. Although Brienne had to lend him some merit, the fact that he even followed her to begin with, and stayed true to his story was more than telling. It seemed to Brienne that the boy had not yet found his reigns yet, but he surely was trying.
Thus, she was unsure that Podrick needed to stay with someone such as her.
“His lady. Brella said such. She’s his wife, Lord Tyrion’s young lady wife — Not Brella, no, Lady Sansa Stark… You are looking for her, so I thought… if you found her…”
The longer he spoke, the quieter his voice got, and by the end of his stuttering, Brienne could barely hear him. He hunched in on himself too, just as she did. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words escaped her.
She knew she was not a good liar, she’d been caught out once before already, and she was large — too easy to spot. She had not been granted the correct figure to slink away the same way Sansa had, and she would not fit into many of the holes her Lady might have, but to fully realize how careless she’d been the whole time…
The failure lodged thick in her throat. She had failed Jaime after all. When she dreamed of him the night prior, she’d at least had the solace of knowing it was such. Her nightmares usually followed her into the waking world, but the reality laid heavy on her shoulders.
“I’m his squire.” Podrick filled. His mouth downturned, and Brienne watched as he curled inward. “But he left me.”
His words struck a cord within her heart, and she felt her throat constrict. She let her sword slip back into the sheath completely, and inched closer to the boy, who was still mumbling, although his voice was completely drowned out. Brienne nodded slightly.
Podrick looked as if he needed to be soothed, but she knew that her thick calloused hands and unsteady voice was likely not what Podrick would want. It wasn’t what he needed, either. Brienne couldn’t possibly be motherly, nor lady like, and although she would not offer Podrick the same cruelty Septa Roelle had spat towards her, she certainly could not offer him much consolation either.
Brienne cursed the linking of thoughts she had, as she wondered if Podrick was soothed often as a child. The answer was likely no, if the way he hugged himself was anything to go by. Her own lord father, The Evenstar, had rubbed her back and whispered sweet things into her ears at night, and woke her from her fever dreams of Galladon when she’d cried out for him in her sick delirium. The sea had been so cold, she fell gravely ill, and for a month, it was almost as if Evenfall cradled no one at all, not even Selwyn, save the ghosts that lingered in the keep.
The early memories of when her father had allowed her to sleep by his bedside, kissed her sweat ridden forehead goodnight, and whistled bard’s tales to her warmed her chest. Yet she was wholy unsure how to transfer it to the boy.
“Lady Sansa…” Brienne started. “I have not found her yet, such is very clear. She escapes me now. I haven’t a clue where to find her.”
Podrick wiped at his eyes like a babe, flinching when he rubbed his stye, and shifted his wet mop of hair from his eyes.
“You say that you squired for Lord Tyrion…”
Podrick nodded heavily, and bent down to pick up his scattered belongings, some of which had floated away in the small river of mud that the rain created. Brienne followed, collecting his pouch of coin and shaking grass and dirt off a half eaten piece of baker’s bread.
“Would you know any more than I of Lady Sansa’s disappearance?” Brienne hoped that her tone was not accusatory. She tried to be gentle, but it did not often work on others. She was more accustomed to them expecting roughness to spout from her, despite all of her trying.
“You were in Kings Landing when King Joffrey died, and when Lady Sansa made her escape, I assume?”
Podrick nodded once more. “I should apologize… I know as little as you… I do not know where she has gone, my lady…” he looked at her armor, and corrected himself with a flush of embarrassment, “Ser…”
Brienne picked up his sword, and handed it to him openly. Podrick’s hands were completely full, items piling on top of his arms, so Brienne lowered her hand, and helped him. She took all of the items that poured from the mare’s saddle bag, hooked some to her belt, the rest filled her pockets, and watched as Podrick furiously looked around for his mare.
“Do you know anything at all of Lady Sansa’s disappearance? Did you see her?”
Surely the boy must know something. If he didn’t, then there must’ve been more to it. Forces at play. He was The Imp’s squire, after all, he must have been around Lady Sansa enough to know something. Even the smallest of clues would aid. If he can’t recall them now, perhaps they will come to him with time.
Podrick dropped his water skin trying to tie his coin pouch back onto his pant loop. “No, Ser.”
“I’m not…” Brienne trailed off. She sighed, forgoing the thought, and continued, “At all?”
“Well, no. I have seen her. She is my Lord Tyrion’s lady wife after all. I saw her bathing in her tub. Not — Not purposefully! I wouldn’t… Tyrion took me to her, but ushered me out quickly to change for the feast in the Queen’s Ballroom. She was quite kind to me, she asked of my house. I felt as if I was not wanted, however. I could tell we were bothering her.”
Brienne picked up his water skin and brushed the mouth piece off with her tunic, before capping it and bringing Podrick closer. He spun when she grappled him, and looked surprised when Brienne reached for his belt to tie it tighter than he had.
“I did not see where she went. I spoke to Lord Tyrion in his prison, I stayed by him, but learned nothing of substance to aide me in the search for Lady Sansa. I suspect he wanted to send me somewhere, but he didn’t. And wherever that was, I am unaware of it.”
“You said he left you?”
“Y — Yes… he released me as his squire not too long after he declared a trial by combat. I do not know if The Imp is guilty, and I do not know where he fled either. That was the last I saw him, I know nothing more, I swear. I wasn’t even allowed into the throne room where they held his trial.”
Brienne removed her hands from Podrick’s thin body as quickly as they’d came, her skin burning at the touch. “Shall we find your horse?”
“Please,” Podrick sniffled. “My lady…” he lately added on. Brienne did not try to correct him.
Luckily she’d seen where the mare wandered off to, but they needed to find her quickly, before anyone else beat them to it. She pointed to her own horse, and motioned for Podrick to hop on. He looked unsure, eyebrows twisted and his hands fiddling. He wiped at his clothing, trying to clean himself, but Brienne just shook her head. It was not necessary, the rain would wash them off better than his dirty cloak.
Regardless, she handed him a thin, wiry piece of cloth she’d intended to use as a quilt, and motioned for him to use it to wipe the thickest of the mud off. The rain wouldn’t last forever, they could eventually find some place where Podrick could bathe and scrub the rest of the dirt off.
She tore half of the dirtied bread and fed it to her horse. It was no good for the either of them anymore, so perhaps her mare would enjoy it. Brienne refused to waste any foodstuffs, especially when it was presumably the boy that paid for it.
Podrick’s nervousness rubbed off on her quite heavily, but she tried to push it down. If not for herself, then for Sansa, and if not for Sansa, then for Jaime, or perhaps even Podrick, who seemed to need some guidance. She was unsure she could provide it, but she was almost willing to grant him the opportunity.
She threw the majority of his miscellaneous items into her own saddle bag. Brienne helped Podrick jump onto the rump of her horse before hoisting herself onto the saddle.
The mare was where Brienne expected her to be, hiding in the trees away from the rain. She warily backed away when the trotting of Brienne’s horse drew near, but did not escape. Podrick leapt from the back of Brienne’s horse when they slowed, and hastily ran to the rounsey.
Podrick’s familiar face eased the horse, and he stood on the tips of his toes to pet the top of the mare’s head. He rubbed her snout, and combed his fingers through her mane. She blew out air happily, and Podrick patted his pockets with a fury.
“My sugar cubes!” Podrick cried. He checked again, but to no avail.
Brienne hopped off of her own horse, and carded through her saddlebag, looking for the sugar cubes that Podrick must have dropped. She did not find them either, meaning his sugar cubes were lost in the dirt, back near the fork.
She did however, still have half of the messied bread. Walking up behind Podrick, she tapped his shoulder, and handed him the rest of the bread. He took the soggy good gratefully, but his eyes showed his shock.
“Thank you, Ser.” He broke the half piece into another half, and fed the larger piece to the horse. The other piece was held tightly in his hands, as if it were going to be taken from him. He wiped it off with his cape, and stuffed it into his breeches pocket.
Brienne hoped he was not stowing that away for later to eat. The coin pouch burned in her pocket once more. Podrick’s own was far too light, she had no clue how he’d planned to be on his own for much longer. There were but a few stags flowing in the bag, when she peeked.
He must be saving his stags for something important, Brienne reasoned. But what could be more important than food?
His mare grabbed the bread with glee, but she wished she had an apple, or even the sugar cubes that Podrick lost. She did feel a tad guilty that she was responsible for it, but did not allow it to overtake her. She could not trust just anyone, so her actions had been necessary.
Brienne touched Podrick’s elbow, and shook her head. He looked up at her towering figure, confusion evident in his face.
“Are you going to eat that?”
Podrick’s face flushed red with embarassment. It suited his young face much more than the action did for her.
“No…” Podrick tried, but it was an obvious lie, almost as obvious as her own, and he soon confessed, “mayhaps. I don’t know what lies ahead, and I don’t want to waste it.”
Brienne understood. “I have enough coin, you won’t need to eat dirty bread. I couldn’t let you do that.”
Podrick seemed surprised at use of let, as if he’d been forced to do such unsavory things in the past. Brienne did not press the issue. Neither did she mention how if things were to get rough, as Podrick thought, the bread would be useless. It would float down the river with the rest of their belongings, and they would likely not eat at all.
The thought of Renly’s lost sword stung. She tried to dismiss the feeling, she had Oathkeeper now.
Podrick demurely nodded. He’d have been a fool to deny free food on the road, that much he knew. “That is very kind, my lady.”
Watching as Podrick attempted to take hold of the reigns, messily clobbering onto its back, almost tipping himself and the horse over in the process, Brienne helped him steady his rounsey, before grabbing his miscellaneous items from her saddle. She placed them into his own, much smaller saddle bag.
“Does your mare have a name?” asked Brienne, when they departed for a second time.
Podrick flushed, “No, Ser… My lady. I have yet to name her, I didn’t think that far. She didn’t have one at the stables, I think. I didn’t ask, I didn’t really have time to ask, but, I think she hasn’t one.
“All horses must have a name.”
“Does yours, my lady?”
“Not yet.” Brienne wondered if Jaime named her. She too hadn’t the chance to see the horse’s given name, if she even had one at all. “We’ll have to come up with one.”
“We… should. I’ll think on it. Have you got any ideas?”
“I haven’t. I’m not very good at naming things, even less so a horse.”
She thought of the horses that carried famous knights, who all wielded gallant names that were fit for their righteous duties and achievements. A name needed to sound good rolling off the tongue, it needed to make those who heard it look on in awe.
She struggled to imagine herself atop a horse that was named among the greats. Perhaps the boy is better at naming, she hoped.
Brienne lead the way, as she steered her so-far nameless mare out of the heavy foliage, back onto the mossy path. Podrick followed Brienne’s retreating figure less hesitantly than he’d entered.
She wasn’t expecting to riding alongside a companion on the road, and the presence of such certainly complicated matters, but the boy’s company couldn’t be too terrible, Podrick seemed good. And that was all she felt she could ask for.
A silence fell between the two travelers like a sheltering blanket once they’d escaped the rain, as the brush of the Crownlands slowly dispersed into that of the Riverlands. It was comfortable, until it became stiff, and Brienne felt the urge to prod him with more questions rise within her.
Podrick’s speech was unique. He spoke only in spurts, and would often talk his way around things, unless she made a point to directly ask. It was obvious that he was not trying to form lies of omission, the boy was clearly not trying to deceive her, rather he seemed anxious that he’d misspeak.
But Brienne was finding that she was not very patient, she couldn’t be, not on a matter such as this. Time was far too precious to dally around with. Even so, she could not force the boy to conjure up memories that he could not recall.
In the meantime, she needed to know more about Podrick. He could tell his recountings of what he knew of Tyrion or his brief happenings with Cersei, but it would not tell her anything she did not know about the Lannisters, or Podrick himself. She knew that she did not want to make a habit of picking up strays. So, those she did find, she’d like to know. A little kindness would go far for someone like Podrick, who she assumed had not seen much of it in his short lifetime. It was a gift she wished had been offered to her when she was younger.
As a young girl, a noble one at that, most girls her age wished for castles and knights and kisses that could save lives. She did as well, so often that she’d get lost in her own head, but the idea of it seemed so silly now. She was not that girl, and she never would be, so perhaps it was a good happening that her dreams had been transformed. Though she still found herself thinking that they were nice dreams to have, even if they were still untouchable. Brienne could pretend, even if she knew it would do her no good.
Ultimately, she wished for true kindness, not fake smiles followed by disgruntled looks when the Evenstar’s back was turned, all for the sake of pleasing her lord father. Brienne truly wondered how much Selwyn knew was fake. If he had become as skilled at it as his daughter was. Yet still, Brienne knew she was not immune to falling into tricks and cruel japes. She never would be, and maybe that hurt the most. He would often look at her, and find a compliment slip from his tongue that was not as common, and not so focused on her looks. She assumed he did, and although he tried his best to keep her happy, there were some things that even a father could not fix.
“How long have you squired for Lord Tyrion?”
Podrick corrected her, “I’m not his squire anymore, my lady. And it wasn’t for very long. I’m…”
Young? Brienne wanted to fill in, but she kept her mouth shut. She was one to talk, and the more she let Podrick speak for himself, the more that she would learn.
He shook his head, “I didn’t train under Lord Tyrion, either.”
This piqued Brienne’s interest. “Who trained you? Your father?”
She could not lie, she was not as well versed into House Payne as she might have been with other houses. She knew he was not a part of the major branch, and she could not name his father if she tried.
“No. My father died in the Greyjoy Rebellion right after he wed to my mother. I did not know him. I barely knew my mother, too. She was gone before I could even remember what she’d looked like.”
Brienne’s throat tightened, and discomfort washed over her. She did not speak of her relation to the matter.
“I trained under Ser Cedric Payne. He taught me mostly everything.” Podrick touched his scabbard. “That’s how I ended up in Casterly Rock. He brought me with him when Lord Tywin called upon his banner men. Otherwise I would have been without shelter. I spent that year beating other boys with sticks in the training yard while Ser Cedric fought in a real battle.”
“How did you end up as Tyrion’s? If you were Ser Cedric’s.”
Podrick did not respond, and Brienne would not force him to speak of his past, and she would appreciate if he did the same. When the silence stretched for too long, Podrick’s mouth twisted as if he were trying to make the connections between mouth and mind, but did not continue his story.
It wasn’t until an hour down their path that he fessed to more. Brienne hadn’t prompted him with anything, and she did not expect him to speak more than what was expected of him — having been a squire and all, but he mustered up the courage to continue when they stopped to water their horses.
It was clear that Podrick enjoyed taking care of the horses, and it brought a small smile to Brienne’s face. He’d be a good hand, if he wanted it. He was young enough to still be able to find a stable master that would teach him all he needed to know, if he procured enough coin for it. She knew he did not, and his claimings of being a squire for Tyrion would not grant him any leverage.
Brienne was careful to not let it show, but she found that despite their still budding companionship, he was quite sweet, and she knew she was going to regret it if she didn't find some way to help him. His presence was a refreshing change juxtaposed to the rest of her travels and the world surrounding her, which only seemed to ridicule her and cause her pain.
“I technically was never anything of Ser Cedric’s. He was the closest family I had, he raised me like a son, but I was not. He died fighting for the Lannisters, and I ended up in Ser Lorimer’s company.” Podrick shivered, and Brienne couldn’t be sure it was from the wind.
Brienne had heard that name before, although under the much crueler epithet Lorimer the Belly. All she knew was that he was a hedge knight, who was hung in Lannisport for betraying Lord Tywin, after he'd stolen meat and other goods from stock that Tywin owned. Rumors whispered that he allegedly ran a scheme of it for years prior, and once the Lannisters found out just how hefty the money they'd been cut from was, reacted swiftly. There was a precedent set after that, and a lot of the thievery in the area halted, although it never truly went away, just manifested in other areas.
For as long as the people of the Westerlands went hungry under Lord Tywin’s rule, and under the current ruling King, there would be looters. Many people were hung, and their crimes were never truly testified.
Podrick filled in what Brienne didn’t know, stammering through it all. “I stole too. It was what I was taught to do, Ser Lorimor showed me how to get away with it and how to plead for my life if they caught me. I knew it was wrong… but, I feared what would happen if I didn’t. Everyone had to make their stay, so I did. I — I would never steal from you, Ser. I am not like that. Not anymore.”
The reassurance was nice, but Podrick did not necessarily need to speak it for Brienne to know it. Although she was not yet willing to trust the boy with her life. He seemed to understand the thralls of being caught.
“They wanted to hang me, as well. They hung the other boys my age, some were even younger. The only reason they didn’t kill me was because of Ser Kevan Lannister. He stopped his brother, Lord Tywin, all because of my name sake… He said that because I was a Payne, I could be of use as one of his banners. That I could grow up to fight for Lord Tywin’s Westerlands. I didn’t grow up as a Payne, but I was spared as one… Ser Kevan sent me to squire for Lord Tyrion after that. He said it would to me good to learn how to be a proper man. That thieves got no where but the gallows.”
Brienne could see that the guilt of his crimes wrapped its thorny barbs around Podrick's soft heart. She paused before she allowed herself to speak. She wanted to offer her condolences to the boy, but they felt thick in her throat.
'I'm sorry' teetered on the edge of her tongue, but it seemed like a mismatched response, and Podrick didn't look like he was. He'd done what was necessary, and because of it, he still lived. Instead, she drew her lip underneath her teeth, nodded, and hoped that her eyes showed as much emotion as her father always said they did.
“Did you train under anyone while you served in Lord Tyrion‘s presence?”
“No, Ser. I did not spend my days at the training yard. Lord Tyrion often sent me to fetch things for him, or to relay messages. I picked up a sword before the Battle of Blackwater, but I did not do much with it until then. I… I killed a man in the battle. I can swing a sword, my lady.”
She studied his hands intently, as she did with most men she met. He gripped his horse’s reigns too tightly, his knuckles were white. But he had no calluses that Brienne could see, no bruises or scuffs, not even small cuts. She wondered when the last time he’d really trained was.
“And can you swing it well? If you’ve killed a man, you must know something.” The boy was courageous, if not anything else.
Again, Podrick stayed silent for more than the question alotted for, before he confessed, “As well as I can try. I cannot promise to be good. But I can learn.”
Brienne sighed. She was not sure this arrangement was going to work, as bad as she felt for the boy. He had little skills that would be useful towards her cause. He did not know where Lady Sansa went, although she could wait with him to see if he could perhaps conjure up things he’d forgotten. He knew how to steal, but Brienne was not willing to stoop that low, not when she wanted to be good, and she had the coin to pay.
Podrick must have sensed her unwillingness. “My lady… Please. I am a good squire, I swear it.”
The boy swears everything. You are not a squire any more than I am a knight, Brienne thought. Although she did not voice it, it seemed too cruel, and she would not stoop beneath herself. Her distrust for most need not fester resentment. Her burns are not his.
“You will not enjoy it.”
Podrick nodded.
“You should know what you’re getting yourself into. You should leave now, if you don’t want to stay with me. I will send you with food from an inn back to the Red Keep. you can continue your squire training there, if you wish it.” Brienne told him, but was unsure if there was any truth to it. He was let go as a squire, and Cersei would likely not want any of Tyrion’s squires roaming Kings Landing. He had no where to go.
“I don’t, Ser. I wish to find Lady Sansa. I wish to find Lord Tyrion.”
“Why do you trust me?” Brienne asked. “I could fool you. It would not be hard to do so.”
“Because…” the boy started, stubbornly. “You’re the best chance I’ve got. If I want to find them I should stick with the likes of you. I can be attentive, I can wash your horse and I can fit your armor.”
Brienne sighed again. “You will have blisters. Bruises are going to form on every inch of your body, and you will surely be saddle sore. You’ll wish you never rode your mare at all.”
“I know, my lady… Ser.”
“It’ll be rough on your body in ways you will not expect. You’ll struggle to sleep, and you’ll feel every hit you take in your bones when you lay your head down at night.”
“I know.”
“You’ll wake up early and sleep late, if you can even do that. It’s a lot of work. You don’t want that.”
“I do,” Podrick claimed. “I mean… I don’t, but I do. Surely you understand. I want everything that comes with it, if it means I can find Lady Sansa. I will not complain.”
Brienne considered the boy. She supposed he was telling true, he had not complained a single time since she picked him up at Hollard’s Castle. Even if it was evident he wanted to, he stayed silent.
“Ser…” Podrick pleaded. “My lady…”
Brienne bit the skin of her cheek. She slowed her horse down, and let Podrick take the lead. “How old are you, really?”
“Ten and two.” claimed Podrick.
He did not look ten and two, but Brienne did not look ten and two when she was, either. She towered a head over Ronnet at that age. Podrick seemed too short, with his scrawny limbs, his hair looking more like ruffled feathers than anything else, and his cheeks were bordering on cherubic.
They both bordered on the extremes of their youth, but Brienne did not dismiss his claim, she had no right. Still, she made a point to watch him carefully. It did not take long for him to squirm uncomfortably under her gaze, so she averted her eyes quickly.
In the long run, Brienne supposed that it didn’t matter. The boy was already here, and no matter his age, he’d shown to her that he was courageous.
“Say, can you keep an oath?” Brienne kicked her horse to speed, catching up with Podrick. He was beginning to steer off course, anyhow.
Podrick looked at her, “Of course, Ser.”