GOT: The Great — Chapter 155 - The Queensguard and the Sworn Sword's Duel

The afternoon sun slanted across the clearing outside Storm's End, stretching two shadows long and flat across the ground.

Daenerys sat in a chair with a cup of mint tea, watching the two figures trade blows.

Sansa sat to her right. Missandei to her left. All three of them silent, the only sound the ring of metal drifting from the center of the clearing.

Barristan Selmy was sixty-seven years old. His swordsmanship was not.

He sidestepped one of Brienne's slashes, clean as a fish slipping out of water. His longsword spun in his hand and swept upward from below, angling toward her ribs.

Brienne caught it on her shield. The scrape of metal was sharp as a cat's shriek. She immediately returned a backhand strike, straight at Barristan's neck.

Barristan leaned back. The blade passed inches above his chin.

He retreated a step. The corner of his mouth curved slightly.

"Good sword."

Brienne didn't answer. She pressed forward.

Her style was nothing like Barristan's. Barristan was water — agile, fluid, finding every gap.

Brienne was stone. Hard, heavy, every strike carrying the weight of something meant to split a man in two.

Her sword was two fingers wider than his longsword and considerably heavier, but she swung it like a wooden stick.

Daenerys sipped her tea, her gaze tracking the tip of Brienne's blade.

She had watched Barristan spar before. She knew he usually held back to seven-tenths of his strength. But now sweat was beading on his forehead.

Brienne's sword was simply too heavy. Every block demanded full force, and Barristan's arm was already starting to ache.

Brienne struck again. Barristan sidestepped, his longsword following through to tap her wrist guard, a crisp, clean ping.

"Your wrist is too high," he said.

Brienne gritted her teeth, pulled her sword back, and reset her stance.

They went another dozen exchanges.

Brienne's stamina was clearly the better of the two. Her sword swung faster and faster, her shield battering his blade with a clatter of clangs.

But Barristan's experience won out.

He feinted an opening, deliberately leaving his right ribs exposed. Brienne took the bait, thrusting forward. Barristan twisted sideways, letting the blade slide past his ribs, and in the same motion his left hand closed around her sword hilt — a twist, a pull — and Brienne's longsword flew from her grip, flipping twice through the air before stabbing into the dirt several feet away.

Barristan stepped back and sheathed his sword.

Brienne stood empty-handed, her chest heaving.

"You lost," Barristan said. No triumph in it.

"I know." Brienne bent down, retrieved her sword, shook the mud from the blade, and slid it home. She looked up at him. "That move you just used. Teach it to me."

Barristan nodded. "Tomorrow morning. Same place."

Brienne gave a single nod.

Daenerys set down her teacup and was about to speak when Rakharo came riding back through the gate. He dismounted and walked straight toward her.

He stopped before her and bent slightly at the waist.

"Khaleesi." He spoke in Dothraki.

Daenerys handed her cup to Jhiqui, who stood behind her, and straightened in her seat. "Speak."

Rakharo glanced at Sansa. A half-second's hesitation.

"She doesn't understand Dothraki," Daenerys said. "And she is family now. Speak freely."

"Khal Drogo is besieging Mistwood."

"He is advancing too fast. His forces cannot keep up. The Khal issued a conscription order, recruiting in the southern Stormlands. But the locals..." A pause. "No one has come forward."

Daenerys was quiet for a moment.

She knew Drogo. He was not a man who stopped to wait for supply trains. Take Griffin's Roost, and he was already thinking about Crow's Nest. Take Crow's Nest, and his mind was already on Stonehelm. His thoughts were always on the next city, always somewhere farther ahead. But war was not something a single rider could win alone. Grain needed men to haul it. Wounded soldiers needed men to carry them. Occupied ground needed men to hold it.

"Then send the troops garrisoned on Driftmark and Dragonstone to reinforce him," Daenerys said, a thread of urgency in her voice. "And send word to Meereen. Have Illyrio keep sending soldiers."

Rakharo didn't move.

"Khaleesi, we have no authority to dispatch troops."

"Khal Drogo has said the harem must not meddle in governance." His voice was measured, unhurried. "But I trust the Khal has already tasked his spymaster, Voldovar Tamade, with these matters. We need not worry."

"Understood. You're dismissed."

Rakharo bent at the waist again, turned, and walked toward the castle.

Daenerys watched him go for a few steps, then let her gaze drift back to the clearing. Barristan was uncorking his waterskin.

He tilted his head back and drank, then passed it to Brienne.

Brienne took it and hesitated. But Barristan's gaze was steady and calm, so she drank.

"You were Renly's Rainbow Guard," Barristan said. "His Kingsguard, in effect. Now we serve the same queen. I expect we'll work well together."

"No." Brienne wiped her mouth. "After Renly died, I was no longer a Kingsguard. I swore an oath to protect Sansa. I am her sworn sword. Not a Queensguard."

Barristan didn't press it. "Who trained you?"

"Renly's Rainbow Guard, for a time. And..." She paused. "I defeated Jaime Lannister while escorting him. Though his hands and feet were both in chains."

Barristan's eyebrows rose. "Jaime? The Kingslayer?"

"His swordsmanship is excellent," Brienne said. "Better than mine."

"Few are better than you." Barristan was hanging the waterskin back at his belt, about to say more, when Sansa rose from her chair.

"I'm tired."

Daenerys glanced at her and nodded. She made no move to keep her.

Sansa turned and walked away, her pace unhurried, her spine perfectly straight.

Brienne looked at Barristan and inclined her head slightly. A wordless farewell.

Barristan nodded back. Said nothing.

Brienne strode after her, boots striking the flagstones in a steady, even rhythm.

She followed Sansa into the room and swept her gaze around it.

A Myrish carpet covered the floor, deep blue, woven with gold stars and moons. The bed was a large four-poster of oak, the columns carved with twisting grapevines, pale green silk hangings falling from the tester and swaying in the sea breeze. Beside it stood a mahogany dressing table with a silver-framed mirror, the glass polished to a bright gleam. Several perfume bottles and an ivory comb were arranged neatly on the surface. A high-backed chair sat by the window, cushioned with goose down and upholstered in deep crimson velvet. A small pot of mint rested on the sill, its leaves a vivid, almost luminous green. In front of the bed, a small round table held a crystal water pitcher and two cups.

"This room is nice," Brienne said. That was the highest praise she had.

Sansa walked to the dressing table and pulled the silver pin from her hair, setting it on the surface.

It clinked softly against the mirror frame. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and somehow it made her face look even smaller.

"Drogo had it arranged," Sansa said. "Daenerys chose the furniture."

Brienne was quiet for a moment.

"Is he... good to you?"

Sansa looked at her through the mirror. Those blue eyes held no anger, no gratitude. Only a calm that was difficult to name.

"I told you already. He's gentle." She straightened the silver pin, setting it parallel to the comb. "Gentler than Joffrey, at least."

"You don't have to keep standing." Sansa watched her through the mirror. "Sit."

Brienne shook her head.

"I'm fine standing."

Sansa didn't push it.

She slipped off her outer gown and hung it on the rack beside the wardrobe, leaving a light gray linen shift beneath. Then she drew back the bed curtain, climbed up, patted the pillow twice, and lay down on her side.

"Brienne." Her eyes were closed.

"Here."

"Will you stay standing there the whole time?"

"Yes."

Sansa said nothing more. Her breathing slowed, gradually, steadily. The rise and fall of her chest grew smaller and smaller.

➤ Next: Tyrion's Apology — Words Unspoken