The inn door slammed open with a violent thud, rain and cold wind howling into the common room. Willow held her crossbow with trembling fingers, the bolt leveled at the strangers stepping out of the deluge.
"Get out! You aren't welcome here!" her high, thin voice rang out, only to be swallowed by a sudden crack of thunder.
As the echoes faded, a one-eyed man growled with a voice like grinding stones. "You loose that shaft, girl, and Timmett will shove it into your belly and make you watch while he carves out your eyes for his supper."
The malice in his words made Willow shiver, her boots sliding back an inch on the damp floor.
Seven. Brienne's heart sank. Seven fully armed men. Even if some were wounded, the odds were a death sentence. There was no hope and no choice. She stepped in front of Willow, Oathkeeper shimmering like a pale flame in her hand.
"Leave the child. If you want a fight, come to me."
In the corner, the three card players—Vito, Gaston, and Ser Hyle—stood up as one, drawing their steel and shielding the children.
"To the stairs! Go!" Septon Meribald barked. The orphans scattered like frightened rabbits, their small feet pounding on the wooden risers.
Four against seven. Four unarmored men against seven scarred, desperate warriors. The air in the hall turned electric, heavy with the scent of wet wool and impending blood.
"Horses!" one of the wounded intruders shouted. "We need fresh mounts and grain! The outlaws are behind us! Give us the horses and we leave you alive!"
"Timmett does not negotiate with flatlanders!" the one-eyed leader roared, pulling a heavy battle-axe from his back. His face was a ruin of melted skin and a jagged hole where his left eye should have been. "Timmett will take your legs first. He will make you crawl while he takes the little bitch with the crossbow."
Brienne didn't flinch. She let out a cold, mocking laugh. "With what, Burned Man? I heard your kind cut off what matters to prove your courage. I wager you threw your manhood into the fire along with your eye."
The insult struck home. The Burned Men of the Moon Mountains lived by a code of self-mutilation; the more vital the part burned away, the higher the prestige. Timmett son of Timmett—the "Red Hand"—was a legend among the clans for plucking out his own eye.
With a feral shriek, Timmett lunged. He was the pack leader, and Brienne, by her height and steel, was the alpha of the inn. The others held back, instinctively allowing the trial of single combat to decide the room's fate.
Brienne stood like a pillar of sapphire. Tables and chairs lay scattered in the gloom, and she prayed for a stray leg to trip her foe. But the gods were silent. It was down to her and the Valyrian steel.
Five paces. Four.
Oathkeeper lashed out. Steel met wood and mail with a deafening clang. As Timmett's axe swung down, Brienne's blade bit through his rags, opening a red furrow across his chest. She spun away, her boots finding purchase on the slick floor, and lunged for his throat.
"Harlot!" Timmett spat, blood spraying from his lips. "Flatland filth! I'll give your meat to the hounds!"
Brienne had no shield. She was forced into a desperate dance of parries and retreats, every flash of lightning illuminating Timmett's axe as it carved lethal arcs through the air. Once, her heel slipped. She recovered with a grunt, but the axe caught her shoulder, a searing white heat blooming under her tunic.
"She's hit!" one of the clansmen cheered.
But Brienne held her ground. She remembered the words of old Ser Goodwin: "Men will always underestimate you. Their pride makes them swing too hard, fearing the shame of being bested by a woman. Let them burn their strength. You just wait, child. Wait and watch."
She watched. She waited. She forced Timmett to turn, putting the driving rain at his back and the stinging water in his one good eye. He charged again, stumbling over a broken bench. Brienne lunged with the weight of her whole body. The blade hissed through his leather jack and mail, burying itself in his gut and scraping against his spine with a sound like a file on iron.
Timmett's axe fell from nerveless fingers. They slammed together, his ruined face inches from hers. She saw the agony, the shock, and finally, the dark void of the grave in his remaining eye.
"Brother!"
A massive brute of a man—one of Timmett's kin—charged like a falling wall. He slammed into Brienne, lifting her off her feet and throwing her across the room. She smashed into a heavy oak table, the impact rattling her teeth. Pottery shattered, water stinging her eyes.
The brute was on her before she could breathe, his weight crushing the air from her lungs. He pinned her face to the floor, one hand tangled in her hair, the other reaching for her throat.
The room erupted into a general melee. Vito, Gaston, and Hyle charged the remaining clansmen. Steel rang on steel, and the screams of the dying joined the thunder.
Brienne punched upward, her fist striking the brute's face, but he didn't even blink. He began to squeeze, his fingers like iron bands around her windpipe. She clawed at his wrists, drawing blood, but the world was already beginning to gray.
My dagger...
She groped between their bodies, her fingers finding the hilt of her dirk. She couldn't thrust, so she carved. She dragged the edge across the man's belly. Warm, wet life spilled over her hand. The brute shrieked, his grip loosening for a heartbeat as he hammered a fist into her face.
Brienne heard her own bone snap. Her vision fractured into sparks. He caught her wrist, snapping her forearm with a sickening pop, and went back to her throat, intent on tearing her head from her shoulders.
As darkness closed in, she saw the brute extend his tongue—a long, wet, dripping thing that looked like a red snake. It seemed a foot long in her delirium, a shimmering blade of meat. She felt the cold kiss of death.
"Easy, child. It's Meribald. Do not move."
Pain—sharp and brilliant—pulled her back from the abyss. Brienne blinked, her vision clearing. Septon Meribald's hands were hovering over her broken arm, radiating a soft, golden warmth. The agony in her throat and ribs was fading into a dull throb.
"I have used much of my strength to stop the bleeding," Meribald whispered, his face pale with effort. "The rest must wait for the Sun to rise."
"I'm fine," Vito's voice came from the shadows. "We've had worse in the training pits."
Ser Hyle sat on a bench, his face a mask of blood. Gaston lay unconscious on a table, but he was breathing. The seven clansmen were heaps of silent meat on the floor.
"Is this... the Light?" Brienne rasped. "I saw a man... a commander... use this at the Gods Eye. Aldric Cerese."
"He is the Lightbringer," Meribald said reverently. "He gave us the Word, and the power to save the innocent."
"Don't just sit there," Ser Hyle grunted, gesturing to the bodies. "Strip the steel and toss the meat into the rain. The smell is turning my stomach."
Podrick emerged from the stairs, a dagger in one hand and a rag pressed to a gash on his forehead. Behind him, the orphans peered out with wide, terrified eyes.
Suddenly, the sound of a dozen horses thundered into the yard. Brienne scrambled for Oathkeeper, her heart hammering against her bruised ribs.
A massive warrior in scorched black plate stepped through the doorway. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace, his eyes scanning the carnage. He paused, removing a helm shaped like a snarling hound.
Beneath was a face—not the ruin of melted flesh she remembered from the capital, but a plain, unscarred man with cold, weary eyes.
"Vito," the man rasped. "Is Gaston whole? Tell me what happened in my house."
Brienne stared, her breath hitching. This cannot be the Hound.
70+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/zefyrus