A towering figure.
Though not as massive as the Mountain, the speaker was remarkably tall. Had he not seen the face, Tyrion might have mistaken the figure for the Hound, Sandor Clegane—but it wasn't. The body belonged to a woman.
Her face, though unmistakably female, lacked any softness. It was broad and rough, freckled, with a nose crooked from too many breaks. Her teeth jutted out unevenly, her mouth was wide and unsettling, her lips thick and fleshy like caterpillars. Her hair was yellow as dirty straw—dry, brittle, and lifeless.
Only her eyes stood out: large, clear, and vividly blue.
"My lord," the woman said, "I am Brienne of Tarth."
Tyrion, nearly as tall as Jaime but far less broad, found himself having to look up at her.
"Ah, Brienne of Tarth," Tyrion said with a nod. "If I'm not mistaken, you're the daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall. What brings you into my brother's company? Should I have you escorted back to Evenfall Hall?"
"My thanks, my lord," Brienne replied, her shoulders broad and her back as straight as a door. "I have come for Lady Catelyn's two daughters. I was charged with bringing them safely back to their mother."
"A lady knight," Tyrion mused. "But perhaps this isn't the time to spoil the mood—to interrupt such a touching family reunion?" He gestured toward Jaime and Cersei, still locked in a long embrace.
Brother and sister—absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. Best not interrupt.
"Come along, Brienne," Tyrion said. "My brother loves me, my sister hates me, and neither of them has time for me right now."
He left Lancel and Bronn with the Gold Cloaks and rode off with Brienne toward the Tower of the Hand.
"I recall you served as one of Lord Renly's Rainbow Guard," Tyrion remarked as they walked through the tower's corridors. "I'd wager you were the Blue Guard. Your name and those eyes of yours—blue suits you best."
"Yes, my lord," Brienne said quietly. It was clear she didn't wish to speak of it. She had failed to protect her king.
"I've heard some dreadful rumors," Tyrion said, "about your connection to Lord Renly's death. Of course, I take them for what they are—rumors. My own life is full of those."
"If you ask me, it was all Stannis's doing," Tyrion went on. "The man worships some fire god—likely dabbling in black magic. Imagine that: a man of iron turning to sorcery. Tsk."
"He is a treacherous man and a kinslayer," Brienne said firmly. "I will avenge Lord Renly."
"No need for vengeance," Tyrion said. "Stannis was washed away beneath King's Landing by my own piss. By now, he's probably rotting in some privy on Dragonstone. And those rainbow knights who followed him—wasn't there one called Ser Guyard the Green?"
"There was," Brienne confirmed.
"And he's the one calling you Renly's killer? Ha! The man's a chameleon." Tyrion smirked. "Lady Stark and my brother both trust you. That's good enough for me."
"Thank you, my lord," Brienne said. "You are a good man."
Tyrion chuckled. "Perhaps. But tell me—how did you come to serve Lady Stark? The Riverlands and the Stormlands are a long way apart."
Brienne hesitated, then answered honestly. "Lady Stark came as an envoy to Lord Renly. It was then that she saved me."
"Lady Stark went to see Renly?" Tyrion asked. "Why would she go to him? As I recall, Lord Eddard Stark named Stannis as the rightful heir."
"It was Lord Petyr Baelish's counsel," Brienne said. "He advised Lady Stark to seek an alliance with Lord Renly."
Ah. So Littlefinger had left another string to pull.
They reached the door to the Tower of the Hand's chambers. Podrick stood at attention outside while Tyrion knocked.
"Is Lady Stark within?"
"She is, my lord," came Shae's voice from inside.
Tyrion pushed open the door. Three young women were within—Sansa Stark seated on the bed, Arya Stark leaning against it, and Shae, attending them as maid.
Brienne stepped inside, glanced at the girls, and dropped to one knee before Sansa. "My lady, I come under Lady Catelyn's orders, to escort you home."
"How did you recognize Lady Sansa?" Tyrion asked, surprised. "Have you met before?"
"This is our first meeting," Brienne said. "But your mother told me you share her red hair and blue eyes. She said I'd know you the moment I saw you." From her cloak she drew a sealed letter and a pair of earrings—the tokens—and handed them to Sansa. "A letter from your mother, my lady. You are as beautiful as she was."
"I don't recall Lady Catelyn ever being this beautiful," Tyrion said, still nursing old resentment.
"People grow old," Brienne replied. "Lady Catelyn must have been just as beautiful when she was young."
"You're young yourself, but I wouldn't say beautiful," Tyrion said, unable to resist the jab.
"You'll be bald when you're old," Arya shot back.
"What are you doing here?" Tyrion turned to her. "Why isn't the horse-faced girl training with her sword today?"
"Syrio gave me a day off," Arya said warily. "Did you send someone pretending to be one of Robb's knights to trick us?"
"It's Mother's handwriting—and those are her earrings," Sansa said, her voice trembling with excitement. She was certain of it; no one could imitate her mother's hand, let alone steal her jewelry.
"Arya, Arya—we can go home!" Sansa cried, standing up. It was the first time Tyrion had seen her smile in days.
"Really?" Arya ran over and snatched the letter. "Mother says to meet her at Riverrun. Where's that? Why not Winterfell?"
Hell, Tyrion thought. Winterfell's hell too.
"Can Syrio come with me?" Arya asked. "I want him to keep teaching me."
"I'm afraid not," Tyrion said. "I'm the one paying his wages."
"My lord," Brienne said, rising to her feet. "If possible, I'd like to depart at first light tomorrow."
"Hmm…" Tyrion hesitated. He'd rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times while lying awake at night—but saying the words aloud was harder than he expected.
"I'm sorry, my ladies," Tyrion said at last. "I'm afraid you cannot leave just yet."
"Why?" Sansa asked anxiously, rushing to stand before him. He remembered—she never looked him in the eye. But now those sapphire eyes were fixed on his face.
"You swore an oath, my lord," Sansa said, grasping his hand. Her touch was warm but quickly fading. "You promised us… as long as your brother returned safely…"
"Liar!" Arya shouted, glaring at him. "The Lust Demon is an oathbreaker! He lied! I told you he was lying!"
"Please, let me explain," Tyrion said quickly. "The main reason is—His Grace Joffrey is hosting an engagement feast…"
"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Arya spat at him, thrashing in Shae's grip. "Oathbreaker! Oathbreaker!"
"You know you're still betrothed to His Grace Joffrey," Tyrion said, unable to meet Sansa's blue eyes—or Arya's. He stared only at her red hair. "While that betrothal stands, you cannot leave."
"His brother's a Kingslayer, and he's an oathbreaker! He's a Lust Demon and a liar! I told you before, but you wouldn't listen! You still think he's some handsome, kind lord!"
"King Joffrey's engagement feast will be held soon," Tyrion said louder, trying to drown out Arya's curses. "At the feast, the king will announce the annulment of your betrothal. Then you'll be free to go."
"Very well, my lord." Sansa sat back down, her face composed, the earlier joy gone. She was once again the perfect lady. "Thank you for informing me—and for bringing Brienne, kind lord. When will this feast be held?"
Gods above, this is hell, Tyrion thought. Who will take me away from here? Why isn't she crying? How can she be so calm?
"In about a week," he said. "Two at most."
"Thank you, my lord."
Tyrion fled the room almost at a run, nearly colliding with Podrick at the door.
"My lord…" the boy stammered, startled. "What—?"
"When Brienne comes out, take her to choose a suit of armor," Tyrion said without looking back, hurrying down the stairs. He had to get away—from Arya's curses echoing down the hall.