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Brienne came to consciousness as though she were swimming up from the depths of a placid lagoon on Tarth’s shores. At first, everything seemed distant and hazy, then became a little brighter and clearer, and then, as though she were breaching the water’s surface, the world came into focus all at once. The world wasn’t the sunlit shores of Tarth, but gray and gloomy, a steady drizzle like little pinpricks on her exposed skin. An unfamiliar face hovered above her, a dark-skinned man wearing odd leather-and-metal armor that left his muscular arms bare. As she looked up at him, the worried expression creasing his brow softened into a smile.
“She’s awake.” His accent was odd, but his words were easily understandable.
“Good,” came a voice from beyond the range of her vision. Brienne recognized it as Arya’s voice, and blinked the haze from her eyes, as everything that had happened came back to her in a rush.
The North’s Grace had sailed west and south, toward unknown lands. West because that was the great uncharted horizon that everyone in Westeros knew, from Tarth to the Iron Islands, and south because great floating chunks of ice urged them in that direction, and the weather became coaxingly more pleasant as they trended south, so they kept to that course. And anyway, the winds generally came from the west, so the ship couldn’t sail directly into them.
The winds slackened, and they spent days adrift on a mirror-flat ocean that they could call neither the Sunset Sea (as they were too far south) nor the Summer Sea (as they were too far west). Brienne, musing, called it the World Sea, and Wendel Woolfield, the ship’s master, shrugged and allowed as how that was as good a name as any. Then the winds shifted to the east and strengthened, and one night as he took his sighting on the stars he announced they’d passed the planet’s equator.
After some time they sighted a great coast to their west. Ships, too, of strange design, mostly plying the coast but sometimes farther out upon the great ocean. Master Woolfield took care to stay out of their way, especially after the sailor on watch came down from the rigging with his spyglass and excitedly told them that the men on board were enormous, the size of giants, with huge horns growing from their heads. The sailors had murmured among themselves, and more than one muttered a prayer to the Lady of the Waves or the Smith or the Drowned God.
But none of these gods had been listening, or perhaps different gods held power in the southern hemisphere. When the wind shifted and strengthened and the skies grew dark, the foreign ships made for safety on their foreign shore. Their own ship, carefully sailing out of sight of both, had no recourse. The storm that rose from the sea was mighty, and it blew them westward toward the coast, through a roiling ocean with huge waves that tossed them from side to side and threatened to overturn their vessel. Even the seasoned sailors looked a bit green; Brienne, no stranger to the sea, had held fast to the rail on the heaving, swaying deck and told her stomach firmly that it was not to even think of disgorging its contents.
Master Woolfield had turned the North’s Grace sharply west, and though this eased the ship’s motion as it brought the waves more behind them, Brienne had watched in horror as they bore down on the dark coast. Then she saw what the lookout must have seen, what had driven their course change: a river’s wide mouth, the promise of calm waters beyond.
But the storm winds had made the river nearly as turbulent, and the ship’s wheel spun out of the helmsman’s control. The ship slewed wildly, and Brienne had been torn free of her rail, flung across the deck like a rag doll….
And now she was on this unknown beach, with faces both familiar and foreign hovering over her. Arya had moved to squat next to her, and so had the ship’s cook, Wex, and that made her feel a little better about having her head in a stranger’s lap, a cool compress draped over her forehead.
“I’m all right,” she gasped weakly. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”
The smile on the face of the man above her broadened. “Arya did say she thought you’d be annoyed about being injured in your ship’s awkward landfall. But it’s what I do best, fixing people after they get banged up.”
“’Twas not an easy entrance to negotiate,” muttered Master Woolfield as he hove into view, leaning on a stick. His leg was wrapped with rags, and Brienne could see him wincing as he moved. “You are not the only casualty, Ser Brienne. We’re every one of us bruised and battered, and it’s a wonder nobody was lost.”
“Though it wasn’t a sure thing, for a while,” added Arya. “A half-dozen men were washed overboard, not just you. Luckily for us, the Iron Bull and his company were on the shore, and they came to our rescue.”
“Pleased to be of service,” rumbled a voice on her other side. Brienne turned her head—and could not keep a startled breath from escaping. The man who’d spoken was clearly of the terrifying species that the lookouts had seen; broad horns jutted from either side of his head over oddly pointed ears, though otherwise he looked human enough, with a neat beard and an eyepatch over one eye. He was nowhere near the size of a giant, though she thought he might be a handspan taller than Tormund—and he was certainly broader.
Carefully she sat up, and was pleased to discover that she actually was all right. The cloth fell from her head as she did so, and the man whose care she’d been in snatched it up, examined it, and then stuffed it in a pouch at his side.
“Told you she’d be good as new,” he announced.
“You’re a miracle worker, Stitcher,” said the horned man. He extended a hand to Brienne, and when she took it, he pulled her to her feet. “I’m the Iron Bull. Your boss there says you’re a good warrior. You should be bashing heads in again in no time.”
She felt her cheeks go pink. “I didn’t come here to bash heads in.”
“Might have to anyway. Bears, bandits, Venatori. Lots of heads to bash.” He grinned, and something about his feral look reminded her again of Tormund.
“Venatori?”
“Some weird cult, apparently,” said Arya. “I guess every place’s got weird cults. Anyway, the North’s Grace was damaged pretty badly. Woolfield says it will take a few weeks at least to repair well enough to limp to a real boatyard. So we probably won’t be able to avoid running into them.”
“Be good to have a few more swords on our side if they show up again,” said one of the Iron Bull’s band, a skinny woman with a tattooed face. “Being as how Krem’s off on your errand, Bull.”
“Krem’s my lieutenant,” he explained. “He’s gone to offer our services to the Herald of Andraste. See how much she’ll pay, anyway.”
Mercenaries, then. Brienne looked around at them. The Iron Bull was the only horned one among them, but none of the rest looked very much like the Westerosi. The women had even pointier ears than he did, and one of the men, called Rocky, had Tyrion Lannister’s stature, though not his odd proportions. Did they band together because they were misfits, she wondered, or was this strange land peopled by more like them?
Arya must have read her mind, or at least her face, for she elbowed Brienne and grinned. “You came along for adventure, right? I think this qualifies!”
It wasn’t really adventure Brienne had been looking for, not exactly. It was only that, after all that had happened, she was left uncertain where her place would be. At one point she had hoped that maybe she and Jaime...but Jaime had left her in Winterfell and gone south, to perish with his twin sister in the dragon-borne cataclysm that struck King’s Landing. It was done, there was nothing she could do about it, although she wished every day that he’d chosen differently.
She’d sworn to Lady Catelyn Stark that she’d protect and defend her daughters, but her daughters’ paths had diverged, and she could not remain with both. Sansa Stark had been named Queen in the North, and had entire troops to defend her. Winterfell was being rebuilt, and already it was a strong and solid fortress. Arya Stark had only a ship, a fragile thing made of wood and canvas. And although Arya could doubtless defend herself with the uncanny arts she’d learned in Braavos, she had fewer resources and fewer men at her back.
When Bran was chosen King of the Six Kingdoms, they’d offered Brienne the post of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was a great honor, and part of her still wished she had accepted. But King’s Landing held only bitter ashes for her now. And her oath had been to protect Lady Catelyn’s daughters, not her sons.
She didn’t have much keeping her in Westeros. Only her father, really. She’d visited Tarth to see him before she left, and he’d smiled and told her that he hoped she’d have a grand time.
“You’re not disappointed that I turned down King Bran’s offer?”
“It would keep you closer to Tarth, that’s true,” he said. “But you’ve been wandering about Westeros following this lord and that lady, and yet it seems to me that none of your wanderings made you happy. If you think your happiness lies across the ocean, my girl, then that’s where you should go.”
It was not that she herself yearned to explore the world, Brienne had protested. It was only that Arya needed her more. Though in truth, it seemed that Arya was in her element, here on a foreign shore. She asked questions about the native plants and animals, and watched sharp-eyed as Stitcher compounded his health powders and Rocky assembled explosives. She and the Iron Bull sat by the fire after everyone else had crawled into their bedrolls, talking quietly long into the night. When Brienne, curious, asked her what they talked about, Arya only shrugged. “Things.”
“What kind of things?”
“The world, and things in it,” said Arya, and that was as much of an answer as she would give.
During the day, while the ship’s carpenter oversaw the cutting and shaping of the wood needed for repairs, directing the sailors and those of the Bull’s Chargers who had offered to help, Brienne and Arya joined the Iron Bull and the tattooed woman whose name was Dalish to hunt meat for their meals, and herbs for Stitcher’s medicines. Wild sheep roamed the forest that rose up the hillside, and the caves dotting the coastline were home to odd pig-like creatures that the mercenaries called nugs. Dalish pointed out plants for them to collect, both medicinal and culinary, and Wex cooked everything into stews that were not very different from what they’d eaten on the voyage, save that they were made from mutton and nug rather than fish and salt meat.
Their roamings along the coast were halted by a strange translucent thing that glowed green and shifted and moved as though alive. “Don’t get too close,” the Iron Bull warned them. “Fade rift. Full of demons and shit, no fun at all. This one popped into existence not long after we got here, which is one of the reasons I sent Krem to negotiate with the Herald of Andraste. Supposedly she can fix these things. Which reminds me, I want to check with the Inquisition, see if there’s any word.”
They followed him to the scouting camp of the Inquisition, a collection of wall tents in a defensible cleft in the rocks on a hill above the coast. The head scout was a short woman named Harding, who shook her head. “Haven’t heard from your man yet, or from our people, either.” Looking up to the sky, which was gray and drizzly as usual, she sighed. “Honestly, I don’t blame them. I can’t wait to be posted somewhere it doesn’t rain all the time.”
Brienne was secretly relieved when, walking back down to the coast from the Inquisition camp, Arya asked the Iron Bull if Scout Harding and his man Rocky were somehow related. She’d been wondering that herself.
The Iron Bull let out a hearty guffaw. “Guess you don’t have dwarves where you come from. Then again, most places don’t. I’ve been all over Thedas, only seen them here in Ferelden. Heard there aren’t many of them left, and they mostly stay in their underground cities.”
This all sounded strange and baffling to Brienne, but Arya only nodded and turned to Dalish. “And you’re an elf.”
“Yeah, so?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. We don’t see your kind either, in Westeros. Nor Qunari, for that matter.”
“Not yet,” said the Iron Bull.
Later, privately, Brienne asked Arya if the prospect didn’t worry her. “We haven’t been circumspect about where we’ve traveled from. We saw that the—the Qunari—” her mouth stumbled over the unfamiliar term. “We saw their ships, they’re a sea-going people. The Iron Bull is a warrior. What if they invade Westeros?”
“They can try,” said Arya matter-of-factly. “They probably will. But we’ve faced down White Walkers and dragons. Do you think a few big horned men can do what they couldn’t?”
Brienne had to agree. They’d run into a bear one day while foraging in the woods, and it had taken all four of them to bring it down: the Iron Bull with his massive war-axe, Arya and her with their swords, and Dalish, who stayed back and shot some kind of electric bolt from her stringless bow. An army of Qunari would be fearsome-looking, but no greater a foe than any the armies of the Seven Kingdoms had already fought.
“And elves? I read about them in books when I was a child. It’s hard to believe they really exist.”
“We all thought the Night King a legendary creature as well,” Arya reminded her. “Stories don’t grow from nothing.”
A few days later, Brienne was sharpening the edge of her blade when she heard whoops from the Bull’s Chargers. She looked up to see a young warrior coming down the hill to their beachside encampment, his helmet tucked under an arm and a wide grin on his face.
The Iron Bull strode over and clapped him on the shoulder with a meaty hand. “What news, Krem?”
“Good news, boss. Lady Trevelyan’s on her way here to meet you, should be just a day or two behind me.” He looked toward the beach, where Arya was in conversation with Skinner and Rocky was helping one of the sailors repair a bent spar. “Though it looks like we’ve already got company.”
“Ah, yes. Arya, Brienne, come over and meet my lieutenant.” In a few words he explained to Krem what had happened, that the North’s Grace had sailed from some unknown land in the northern hemisphere and ended up smashed on the Storm Coast.
“Doesn’t look too bad now.” said Krem.
“Thanks to the Chargers,” said Arya. She turned to the Iron Bull. “I appreciate the loan of your people—they made the work go a lot faster. Wendel thinks we should be able to float her tomorrow. Though I’m curious to meet this Lady Trevelyan. We’ll stay until she gets here, at least.”
“I like her,” said Krem. “From what I’ve seen of her so far, anyway. Not full of herself, like you’d expect from nobility, or from someone called the Herald of Andraste. I don’t think she likes that title, to be honest.”
“Not a believer, then?” asked Stitches.
“Oh, she’s Andrastian. But I suspect it’s an honor she doesn’t think she merits. Wants everyone to treat her as just an ordinary warrior, even if she’s got this mark on her hand that can close the Fade rifts.”
“She’s a warrior?” blurted out Brienne. The Thedosians all looked at her, puzzled. “She fights with a sword?”
Krem nodded. “Sword and shield. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that there aren’t a lot of women warriors where we come from.”
“What she means,” Arya interjected, “is that there are practically none. Fighting’s considered a man’s business in Westeros. The people who think that are stupid, though. Brienne’s one of the best.”
“It’s the same in Tevinter, where I’m from originally,” said Krem. “I don’t blame you for wanting to go somewhere else.” He smiled warmly at Brienne, and for a moment she felt a strange sudden lightness in her heart, that this handsome young man would smile at her, instead of mocking her awkward size or treating her with scorn.
Renly had treated her only as a knight, and that was still better than most, even though she couldn’t keep from wishing things could be different. And then Jaime—well, they’d gone through a lot together, and her emotions had gone through a lot as well, from contempt to admiration and everything in between. When the first tendrils of affection had risen in her, she’d done her best to tamp them down. She knew better than to trust him; knew better than to trust any man, after what she’d experienced, and she told herself that it was fine, she was fine, she didn’t need a man to make her feel fulfilled or complete.
Then somehow, Jaime and she had become friends. And then somehow they had become lovers. And then he’d made his choice to follow Cersei, and she’d made her peace with being alone once more. After all, she had always expected she’d be alone. But Krem smiled at her, and it was a sweet, open smile, and she could not help but smile back.
Lady Trevelyan arrived at their camp late the following afternoon. Unfortunately, the Venatori had arrived a few hours before; it had been a long, messy battle, and Arya, Brienne, and the Bull’s Chargers were all still covered in blood and sweat. Apparently the Inquisition’s people were used to it, though, because neither Trevelyan nor her companions remarked on it.
After she’d discussed terms with the Iron Bull—Arya and Brienne had gone down to the water to clean off the worst of the muck and give them some privacy to do their business—Trevelyan walked around the camp, finally coming to where the North’s Grace rested on the coarse gravelly sand, ready to be floated on the next high tide. “The Iron Bull says you come from a land far to the north,” she said, her eyes alight with interest as she scanned their vessel. “How do you find Ferelden?”
“Extremely wet,” said Arya.
“It’s not all like this. You should come to our headquarters at Haven, in the Frostback Mountains. Much drier.”
“And colder,” added one of the Herald’s companions.
“Yes, colder. But the Iron Bull says you two can hold your own in a fight, and the Inquisition could use some more good warriors.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” said Arya. “We’re just explorers.”
“Well, if your explorations take you to Haven, please stop by. I’m sure Bull’s Chargers would be happy to see you again, and so would I. Where do you plan to go from here?”
“Across to Kirkwall, first. The North’s Grace needs more repairs than what we’ve been able to do here. After that, I don’t know.”
“Kirkwall’s the right place for that,” said Trevelyan. She was a fine figure in her shining armor; Brienne could see that it was clearly made to fit a woman’s body, not man’s armor hammered and reshaped to accommodate breasts and hips. If they did end up traveling to Haven, she’d see if she could get some made for herself.
Then again, female warriors weren’t just an afterthought in this land. Maybe—“Could I get armor made in Kirkwall? That might fit me better than what I’ve got now?”
Trevelyan looked at her thoughtfully. “They’ve got armorers, yes. Though if you want something really nice, you should continue up the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux, in Orlais. I think the Orlesians care more about appearances than the craftsmen in Ferelden or Kirkwall, but they don’t stint on quality, either.”
Trevelyan’s group planned to remain on the Storm Coast for a few days, to close the Fade rift they’d seen on the coast, and deal with the bandits and Venatori. She invited them all, even the Westerosi, to eat and drink that evening at the Inquisition camp on the hill. “A welcome party for you lot,” she said, nodding toward the Bull’s Chargers, “and a farewell for the ship’s company headed for Kirkwall.”
It was a raucous affair, with Wex’s nug stew along with hare cooked on spits over the campfire; free-flowing ale and a few bottles of thin, sour wine that Scout Harding produced from somewhere. A dwarf named Varric gave her advice on the best places to go drinking in Kirkwall; an elegant woman named Vivienne, as dark as a Summer Islander, gave her the name of her favored dressmaker in Val Royeaux. It was the sort of party that Brienne recognized from Winterfell before the battle with the White Walkers, soldiers celebrating life because it might be taken from them at any time. And that, of course, had been the party that had led to Jaime taking her to bed.
Not that something like that was going to happen here. But as the evening wound down, she found herself leaning against a large boulder with Krem, mugs of ale in their hands, sharing stories of adventures they’d each had. He was easy to talk with, and pleasant to look at, and since he’d also come from a place where women weren’t warriors, he had some understanding of what she’d gone through when she’d worked so hard, as one of Renly Baratheon’s guard, to gain respect as a knight. But also she felt comfortable with him because she had no need to be defensive about being a big woman with a big sword, not here where female warriors were commonplace. It was the best of both worlds, to be treated both as a formidable knight, but also as a woman. After Jaime’s departure, she’d missed that.
“It must have been hard growing up knowing you couldn’t be what your family expected of you,” Krem said.
“At first, yes. I grew weary of being betrothed to men who laughed at my height and mocked my aspirations to become a knight.”
“What changed?”
“The last suitor told me I’d have to act like a proper woman if I expected to be his wife.” Brienne smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I broke three of his bones. It was then that my father realized I was serious about wanting to learn the sword. He taught me himself.”
“You were lucky, then. My father never accepted me.”
She studied the hard lines of his face. There was a wound in him that had never healed. “What happened?”
“I left Tevinter,” he said, and shook his head at her enquiring glance. “A story for another time, perhaps.”
By moonlight, not enough to be visible through the clouds and drizzle but enough to cast a pale silvery glow, they stumbled back down the hill. Brienne leaned against Krem from time to time, slightly tipsy, though not so much that she wasn’t aware of the noises of the animals in the bushes to either side—or at least, she would be, if their group wasn’t making so much noise that every animal on the Storm Coast had gone silent. It would be an early morning, as the high tide needed to float the North’s Grace would come shortly before dawn, and she was beginning to regret the amount of ale she’d drunk.
As they reached their camp and began to disperse to their separate tents and bedrolls, she hesitated, and next to her, Krem stopped as well. He seemed to read her thoughts, for he smiled. “This isn’t goodbye. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
“But you’re going to the Inquisition base in the mountains. We’re sailing to Kirkwall tomorrow.”
He turned his head and she followed his gaze to where the Iron Bull and Arya sat on a fallen log, clearly having one of their animated discussions, though their voices were too low to hear. “The boss doesn’t make friends easy, and he doesn’t let them go easy once he’s found them. I have a feeling our paths will cross again.”
Kirkwall was on the opposite coast from where they’d landed, and only a little farther up the Waking Sea. Which was a good thing, as the temporary repairs they’d made to the ship were barely enough to make her seaworthy, and Master Woolfield let out an audible sigh of relief as they limped through the channel cut between massive stone cliffs, and made fast to the pier.
The docks lay outside the huge walls that guarded the inner city, but at the gates to the city proper, Arya and Brienne were turned away. The smartly-uniformed guardsman shook his head. “No foreigners allowed in, Serah. We’ve got enough to deal with right now.”
“There was an incident not long ago,” Arya said, as they walked away. “The Chantry—that’s basically their sept, where they worship their god—was blown up, lots of people killed. I’m not surprised they’re wary.”
Brienne nodded. The Iron Bull must have told her that, or maybe Trevelyan had; Arya gathered information like a squirrel gathering nuts for its cache. Like the squirrel, Arya never knew exactly when winter would come, but raised with House Stark’s words, she knew it would come nonetheless, and it was best to be prepared.
Still, the area around the docks held many markets and merchant stalls, though it was much like Flea Bottom in King’s Landing, all slums and whorehouses. The one armorer they found had a sparse selection of inferior plate and weaponry, nothing worth the silver the man demanded.
“If those blades are any indication of the quality of the dockyard,” Brienne said, turning away from the armorer’s stall, “maybe we shouldn’t bother trying to get the repairs done here.”
“We don’t have any choice,” said Arya bluntly. “But we’ll get done what we can, and go on to Val Royeaux. Anyway, we can learn more about this place from the common people than from the fancy folk up in Hightown.” She’d gone to another merchant and bartered some of their stock of bar metal for local coins; Brienne had listened from a distance, amazed at her cunning and canny bargaining. Arya had acted offended at the first offer, leaning forward to tell the man, in a sharp, low voice, that if he thought that she was an easy mark as a foreigner he was sadly mistaken. Something in her tone made his eyes widen and his face go pale, and he pushed across the table triple the amount of his initial offer.
The common people were plentiful at The Hanged Man, the tavern that Varric had recommended. As they’d left the North’s Grace at the boatyard with Master Woolfield, and Kirkwall was not the sort of place you could camp on the beach—not if you wanted to still have your possessions, and your throat uncut, come morning—they and the rest of the crew took rooms there. Arya and Brienne shared a suite that was surprisingly nice and well-kept, considering the surroundings.
During the days, the ship’s crew went down to the boatyard or the docks. The more skilled men worked on the repairs to the ship, while the others did whatever small tasks they could do for a few coppers, which they usually immediately spent on whores or ale. Arya often slept in, having spent the night hours on her own errands. She was always gone by the time Brienne got back to The Hanged Man at the end of the day, leaving Brienne to eat the plain but filling meal the tavern served for supper by herself.
This gave Brienne time to wander on her own about Lowtown, as the part of Kirkwall outside the wall was known. This district was a rough place, but even men moved readily out of her way when they saw her height and the sword at her side, and nobody catcalled her or mocked her looks. Not the sort of experience she’d had in Renly’s service, or in King’s Landing, though she was still careful to be on her guard against cutpurses or bandits.
One day when she was at the docks, watching the ships come and go, a well-dressed woman descending from a private passenger vessel called out imperiously to her. “Serah! I am in need of an escort, if you would like to earn some coin and are not otherwise engaged this day?”
Curious, Brienne assented. Lady Mervina was from Ostwick, a city-state near the mouth of the Waking Sea—Brienne had learned of it from Trevelyan, as it was her home as well—and her personal guardswoman had fallen ill during the voyage. “I have business with the Viscount, and I am unwilling to walk through the city alone. You look trustworthy enough.”
“I am, my lady.”
They agreed on four gold sovereigns in advance, and four more when Lady Mervina had completed her errand and returned to her ship. Brienne had no idea if she was being overpaid or being cheated, but it was a chance to pass beyond the gate where they’d been denied entry, to see at least some of the rest of Kirkwall. Not to mention, something to do; she hated feeling idle.
In the end it was not a particularly exciting errand. Lady Mervina showed her ornate gold ring to the guard who had barred her and Arya, and the gates opened. Brienne followed in her wake, glaring at any ill-dressed person who came close to the lady’s elegant skirts, and when they reached the Viscount’s Keep, she was directed to the barracks of the City Guard, where she was given the noonday meal and invited to rest until she was needed to escort her client back to her ship.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” said a voice, as she ate the bread, sausage and cheese the barracks cook had put on a plate for her. Brienne looked up. The speaker was a red-haired woman nearly as tall as Brienne herself, wearing fine plate with enameled pauldrons and flashes of gold inlay on the gauntlets. “No, don’t let me stop you eating, I expect you’ll be called for soon enough.” She sat down across the wooden table from Brienne. “I’m Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen. You’re Lady Mervina’s new guardswoman, then?”
She shook her head, and when she had swallowed her mouthful, said, “Just visiting. She hired me on for the day, her regular guard’s ill.”
Vallen tilted her head and regarded her thoughtfully. “If you need work, the City Guard is hiring.”
Brienne blinked, astonished. In one day, hired to guard a noble lady, and then offered a job! This was truly a different sort of place from Westeros. But if she’d wanted to spend her days as a guardsman, she would have stayed in King’s Landing. “Thank you, but no. I’m only here until our ship is repaired. I’ll be accompanying my lady—I mean, Lady Arya, not Lady Mervina—on her further travels.” She hardly thought of Arya as Lady Arya these days, but the title came easily enough to her tongue.
“I see,” said Vallen, and, inclining her head, left her to her meal.
The journey back to the docks was as uneventful as the journey to the keep. Brienne accepted Lady Mervina’s thanks and her sovereigns and made her way back to The Hanged Man, where to her surprise Arya was seated at a table, drinking a tall mug of ale. Arya patted the table to indicate she should come over, then waved to the barmaid. No sooner had Brienne sat than a mug of ale was placed before her as well, the head foamy and cold. She drank it down gratefully.
“I can pay for this one,” she told Arya, holding out the gold she’d earned. At Arya’s raised eyebrow, she explained how she’d earned it.
“Keep it. You should have some money of your own.” Arya took a long drink of her own ale. “You didn’t accept the City Guardsman’s offer. You don’t like this place?”
“I serve you, as I swore to your lady mother.”
Arya folded her arms across the table. “And I release you from that oath. I’ve done what I set out to do. I found what lies on the far side of the Sunset Sea.”
A strange sort of fear gripped Brienne’s heart. “Does that mean you’re going back?”
“There’s still much to learn here in Thedas. So much to explore. But I’ve made some connections, I’ve got resources. I’m going to see Ferelden, Orlais, Nevarra, Rivain. Maybe Tevinter and Par Vollen.” Her tone was perfectly confident as she pronounced the strange names. “When I’m ready, I can find a way back to Winterfell. But I don’t know when that will be—it might be three years, and it might be ten. Wendel and his sailors didn’t sign up for an open-ended voyage. We can get a full refit in Val Royeaux, and supplies to get them home. But I’m going to stay.”
“I’ll stay with you,” said Brienne immediately.
Arya smiled, but her eyes were hard. It was an expression that Brienne had seen from time to time while they were at Winterfell, an expression that made her look much older than her years. It spoke of resolution and pain, and the secret knowledge that Arya had learned from her time with the Faceless Men, the knowledge that seemed to both motivate and haunt her. “I know you would. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. But you don’t want to go where I’m going, and I prefer to work alone.”
Brienne’s heart plummeted. “So you’re sending me back?” Back to Westeros. Back to be mocked by ladies and scorned by men. Back to being a freak instead of a respected warrior.
“Only if you want that,” said Arya. “You could take the position you were offered here, if you wanted to stay in Kirkwall. I can’t imagine the City Guard wouldn’t take you on if you changed your mind. Or you could join the Bull’s Chargers, or even the Inquisition.”
It was a good thing Brienne’s drink was nearly empty, for she startled and knocked it over, sending the dregs across the table. “You think they’d have me?” she asked, after righting her mug and apologizing to the barmaid, who had come hurrying over with a rag to mop up the mess and a fresh mug of ale.
“Of course they’d have you. Bull asked me at least once a day if we’d join his company, and Lady Trevelyan invited us as well. You’re the better warrior. They’d be overjoyed if you appeared on their doorstep.” She met Brienne’s eyes over the rim of her ale mug. “You spent a lot of time with Krem. Are you interested in him?”
“We hardly know each other,” she stammered, blushing. “Just a few days. But he’s easy to talk to. It feels like we have a lot in common.”
Arya leaned back in her chair and gave her a thoughtful look. “You think so?”
“We’re both strangers here. Neither of us fit in at home.” Arya seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, so she added, “I like him. The Iron Bull, too, and the rest of them. It’s like it was up in Winterfell, before the battle, when I felt like we were all brothers together, united to defend what we cared about. That’s good enough.”
“Huh,” said Arya. She laughed, letting her chair fall forward again. The chair legs hit the floor with a sharp rap, though there was enough noise in The Hanged Man that nobody turned to look.
“What?” She must be missing something. Or there was something Arya knew that she didn’t.
“Not my story to tell. But I expect you’ll find out eventually.” Arya shrugged. “Or you’ll never find out at all.”
Two days later, they set out westward from Kirkwall. The North’s Grace sailed easily on the narrow, protected sea, though when they arrived in Val Royeaux, four days later, Master Woolfield had a long list of things he said he needed to purchase to make her fit to take on the open ocean again. Arya and Brienne left him to it, and went to the Summer Bazaar, where they were assured they could find not only an armorer, but other merchants who could provide everything they’d need for their overland journey to Haven.
Brienne was glad of Arya’s bargaining skills, as the prices the merchants quoted seemed terribly high to her, and as they all spoke from behind elaborate masks that hid their expressions, it was impossible for her to tell whether they were negotiating in good faith. But Arya’s face, smooth and neutral, was its own sort of mask, and in the end they obtained a very fine set of plate-and-scale armor that fit Brienne perfectly, along with light leather armor for Arya, as well as warm clothes for the mountains, at what Arya pronounced a very reasonable price.
There were cries of both joy and dismay from the crew of the North’s Grace when Arya announced their plans. A few sailors complained they hadn’t yet got to bed an elf-girl, or to see for themselves the ports where the horned people lived; it was not unexpected, as anyone who would join a ship headed for unknown lands would need an adventurous streak. “We’ve got some coastwise sailing ahead ‘fore we get back to open ocean,” said Master Woolfield, looking sternly at his crew. “If that’s not enough adventure for you, you can stay behind, but don’t expect me to come back for you.”
Arya gave Master Woolfield a sum of gold for the voyage, and a small locked casket to be delivered to Bran. “It’s a coded message, so you needn’t bother opening it. My brother will pay you well for it.”
Master Woolfield nodded. “Any messages from you, Ser Brienne?”
Her mouth felt dry. It was one thing to say she wanted to stay here, to join Bull’s Chargers and Lady Trevelyan’s Inquisition; quite another to formally cut the last tie to home. Finally she said, “If you go to Tarth, tell my father I’m well,” and turned away to busy herself with her own preparations for their departure.
The repairs to the North’s Grace took less time than expected—the work done in Kirkwall was surprisingly sound—and so Arya and Brienne had the ship take them to the port of Lydes, on the southern shore of the Waking Sea, where they bought horses from an ostler whose mask was decorated with fine lines that hinted at reins. One look over their shoulders at the ship, the last memory of Westeros—and they were riding south and east, toward the white-capped mountains that rose in the distance like misty clouds on the horizon.
They passed fine castles, and prosperous-looking farms, and ramshackle cottages with broken-down fences overgrown with climbing vines. Unlike the merchants and nobles in the cities, the farmers and field-workers wore no masks as they toiled, so if Brienne let her eyes go a little unfocused, sliding over the unfamiliar architecture and blending the foreign plants into undistinguished greenery, she could imagine herself in the Riverlands, or even in Tarth. Innkeepers were innkeepers just as in any Westeros town, and nobody looked askance at either of them.
It helped that Arya was somehow able to put on whatever personality was needed as though it was a new suit of clothes. Her accent shifted to match whoever she was speaking to, her shoulders slumped or straightened depending on whether she needed to be humble or proud. Brienne didn’t mind being the silent one, the strong arm waiting to be called into action. But she did wish that Arya would talk to her about her plans, instead of simply riding beside her, deflecting any question that touched on her future.
As the road rose toward the mountains, the towns grew fewer and farther between. More and more nights were spent in their bedrolls under a tree, rather than on too-soft beds in wayside inns. After a few awkward attempts by Brienne to serve her lady by tending to the horses and cooking their meals—Arya generally got to the horses before she did, and Brienne was a terrible cook—they finally settled into cordial companionship. It was a less turbulent experience than traveling with Jaime had been, at any rate.
Which wasn’t to say that it was peaceful. In the foothills they were attacked by wolves once and by bandits twice; each time they made short work of their attackers, but by common agreement they began to stand watches at their camps, which made for little sleep. The weather got colder as they climbed higher into the mountains. Snow fell, accumulating on the ground.
Occasionally they saw, off to one side or another in the woods beside the road, the shifting green glow that indicated a Fade rift. It was easy enough to keep their distance from these uncanny phenomena—until they saw the roiling green in the clouds ahead, growing ever larger and ever nearer, and realized that it hung above their destination.
“Krem didn’t mention that,” said Brienne, unable to take her eyes from the unnatural glow, even though it unsettled her nerves and made her head throb.
“Trevelyan did,” said Arya. “It has something to do with the explosion that put the mark on her hand and created the Fade rifts. She’s planning to destroy it before it destroys Thedas.”
“Well, you could have told me,” muttered Brienne, but though Arya shot her a quick glance, she continued to grimly ride ahead, toward the stomach-churning glow. To be honest, it only strengthened her resolve to join Trevelyan and the Iron Bull, to use her sword in their service and fight whatever needed to be fought. It wasn’t just that if the tear in the sky could engulf Thedas, it might keep going, might threaten Westeros as well, though that thought had occurred to her, sending a shiver down her spine; it was that these were good people—Trevelyan, the Iron Bull and his Chargers, even Guard-Captain Vallen and Lady Mervina, on the other side of the Waking Sea—and she would do what she could to help.
If this was to be her home, she had to be willing to defend it.
“There are a lot of things I could have told you,” said Arya, after a few minutes. She reined in her horse, and beside her, Brienne did the same. “I suppose I ought to tell you now.”
Brienne swung down from her horse. “This looks like a good place for lunch,” she said, then hobbled her horses and scattered some of the feed they’d purchased on the snowy ground, to supplement what they could glean by grazing through the thin layer of snow. She and Arya sat on a clear patch of ground under a small stand of conifers, and ate the bread and cheese they’d bought in the last village.
“I am going back home. Eventually.” Arya took a bite from her food, then washed it down with water from her flask. “You were right, the Qunari will sail to Westeros, now that they know there’s something on the other side of their world. The Iron Bull’s a spy for his people. He’s already sent word to his organization, though it will take them some time to put together an expedition.”
Brienne nearly choked on her bread. The Iron Bull, a spy? He had seemed so straightforward with her, not holding back neither praise nor criticism when they’d sparred, always inviting her and Arya along on his forays along the Storm Coast. “How did you find out?”
Arya shrugged. “He told me.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If he were a spy, wouldn’t he try to hide it?”
“Not all spies creep like thieves in the night. Not all secrets are safer when they are locked away. Information is more reliable when it’s freely given.” She leaned forward, locked eyes with Brienne. “I spent a long time learning how to find things out. Like recognizes like.”
“You are a spy?” asked Brienne, incredulous.
“A girl seeks knowledge that might be useful,” said Arya. Her phrasing seemed odd to Brienne, but Arya had said it with a sort of emphasis, as though it were something she’d said many times, or maybe heard many times and repeated to make it her own. “Knowledge that will protect Sansa and Bran. That will protect Westeros.” She leaned forward and used the hilt of her knife to draw shapes in the dirt under the tree. “We’ve discovered a whole new land, new peoples, new cultures, new resources. If Westeros is to meet Thedas as an equal, rather than fight a long war against would-be conquerors, our people need to be armed with information.”
Brienne looked off into the distance, where the bilious clouds swirled. She wanted to stay. Ever since she had stepped off the North’s Grace, she’d been thinking about the decision she had made, and every mile under her horse’s hooves made her more certain that she’d chosen the right path for herself. That if there was a place where she could belong, it was here.
But she had made an oath, even if Arya had released her from it back in Kirkwall. And Westeros still held a place in her heart, even if she loved it more than it loved her. She couldn’t stand by and let it be conquered. “Yours is a noble and important mission. I should help you.”
“You can help by serving Trevelyan. She’s going to need to save Thedas before I can save Westeros, and if she’s got a Westerosi warrior at her side, it will shape what the Thedosians think of Westeros.” Arya scattered the last crumbs from her bread across the ground and got to her feet. “I’ll keep in touch with you as I can, and you’ll let me know what goes on in the Inquisition.”
Brienne snorted. “So you want me to be a spy as well.”
“Oh, no, you’d be a terrible spy! You’d always choose the noble course of action, even when what’s really needed is something underhanded. But if you want to help Westeros, this is how you can do it.” Her expression softened, and she touched Brienne on the arm. “And I’d like to know how things go for you. I’ll tell Sansa of your adventures when I return to Winterfell.” Then she grinned. “And I’ll tell Podrick, when I’m in King’s Landing. He’ll be impressed, of course.”
“You’ll tell me of your adventures as well?” said Brienne.
“Of course,” promised Arya. “So let’s ride onward, and get our adventures started!”
They could see signs of the Inquisition’s presence even before they crossed the bridge leading to the village of Haven. Military tents, like the ones at Scout Harding’s camp on the Storm Coast, lined the space between the river and the wall around Haven proper. Soldiers drilled in a rough square set off by stakes, sparring against each other with dull-edged weapons that clattered as they met. The clang of hammer on anvil rang from a blacksmith’s workshop set out under the wide awning of a tent, and the scent of horse manure and hay rose from the stables beyond. The nervousness in Brienne’s heart eased a fraction as she breathed in the familiar sounds and smells. Armies were armies, no matter which side of the world they were on.
They dismounted and began threading their way through market stalls and tent workshops toward the stables, leading the horses through the camp’s outskirts. As they neared the horse enclosure, they heard their names being called, and turned to see Krem, waving and grinning widely.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, then called toward a bald man who was sitting on the stable fence, mending some tack, “Master Dennet! Take these horses, will you? These people are here to join the Inquisition.”
“Just Brienne,” said Arya, as Master Dennet took their reins and guided their horses to stalls. “I need to talk with Lady Trevelyan first, but then I’m heading out again.”
“She’s in the Chantry, along with the Iron Bull and her other allies, talking strategy for the next mission. They should be done soon,” Krem said, leading them through the gate and up a broad flight of steps into the center of the village. “That’s Threnn, the Inquisition’s quartermaster—if you need any gear, she’s the one to talk with. Though I see you’ve already got yourself some new armor, Brienne. It suits you.”
Brienne tried not to blush. It felt odd not to hide her figure behind the flat metal breastplate and straight faulds of armor made for a man, but she couldn’t deny that it was far more comfortable. “It fits better than my old plate, at least.”
“Adan’s the apothecary, in that hut there, and—oh, it looks like they’re done.” The tall double doors of the large wood-and-stone building in the center of the town had opened, and a crowd of people spilled out. The Iron Bull, towering over everyone else, was easy to spot; he was talking with Trevelyan and an armor-clad woman with a scar on her cheek, but when Krem whistled, he looked their way, and his broad face lit up. He bent down to say something to Trevelyan, then strode toward Krem, Brienne, and Arya, the crowd parting like the sea before his bulk and Trevelyan and the other woman carried along in his wake.
“Arya! Good, you made it here. And Brienne, you’ll be staying?” He winked his one eye at her. “Got some more heads to bash in.”
She smiled despite herself. “I suppose I could bash one or two.”
“Go ahead and get yourself settled, Ser Brienne,” said Trevelyan. “I see you’ve found a guide,” she added, nodding toward Krem. “Cassandra, Iron Bull, could you put together the strike force we talked about, please? Arya, I’d like you to come with me to meet Leliana. I told her what we talked about on the Storm Coast, and she has some questions.” In a whirl, they dispersed in various directions, leaving Brienne standing with Krem in front of the Chantry, somewhat dazed.
“I guess you’re official now,” said Krem. “Come on, we should celebrate.”
Brienne followed him to a wooden building that was obviously a tavern, from the golden sign hanging on the rafter over the door to the scents and laughter that floated out as he opened the door.
“Flissa! This is Brienne, new blood for the Inquisition. Give us some ale, will you?”
They took the mugs she gave them and found a seat against the wall, between a group of dwarves playing some sort of dice game, and two women who were talking animatedly about some creature they’d seen in the woods. A minstrel strummed her instrument and sang a ballad. Krem lifted his glass and knocked it against Brienne’s. “To the Inquisition!”
“To the Inquisition,” Brienne repeated, and drank. The ale was cold and fizzy, but somehow it made her feel warm. Everything around her made her feel warm, from the singer’s sweet voice to Krem’s cheerful manner. It was a good feeling.
It had taken a voyage to the other side of the world. But she had finally found her place.