GOT: The Great — Chapter 157 - The Sole Daughter of Tarth

Tyrion Lannister strolled along the stone corridors of Storm's End, Shae holding his hand like she was leading a child.

These were the most pleasant days he'd known since being placed under house arrest.

No need to watch Joffrey's moods. No need to endure Cersei's biting sarcasm. No need to argue with those fools at the Small Council.

The whole castle was one big cage, but the cage was large enough. Large enough that he could walk from east to west, from south to north. Large enough that he could walk side by side with his woman, like a bird that finally didn't have to hide anymore.

"What are you smiling about?" Shae asked.

"At myself," Tyrion said. "Locked in a cage, and yet far more at ease than before."

They passed through a corridor and caught Podrick Payne emerging from around a corner, trailing three steps behind Brienne.

Brienne was striding briskly toward Sansa Stark's room. Podrick jogged to keep up.

"Podrick!" Tyrion called.

Podrick stopped and turned. His face had gone slightly red. "M-my lord."

"Who are you serving now?"

"Lady Brienne told me to follow her." Podrick scratched his head. "She said she needs someone to run errands."

Tyrion glanced at Shae, then back at Podrick.

"Fine. Following her beats following me. At least she can teach you a few sword moves, better than fetching tea for me all day."

Podrick nodded, turned, and hurried after her.

In the days that followed, Storm's End was like a pot of broth left to simmer, calm on the surface, something churning underneath.

Sansa stopped shutting herself in her room the way she had those first few days.

She began moving through the castle. Sometimes she climbed to the top of the tower to look out at the sea. Sometimes she sat on a stone bench in the inner courtyard and let the sun warm her face.

Brienne always followed three steps behind.

Podrick followed behind Brienne. A shadow behind a shadow.

One afternoon, Sansa stopped beneath an old oak tree in the inner courtyard. The canopy spread wide, blotting out more than half the sky. Nailed to the trunk was a rusted iron plaque engraved with the stag antler sigil of House Baratheon. She reached out and touched it, her fingertip tracing slowly across the rust.

"This tree is older than Storm's End," she said.

"I heard the old maester say that before Storm's End was built, there was an oak grove here. As the castle grew, the trees were cut down one by one until only this one was left." Sansa turned and looked at Brienne. "How many kings do you think it's seen?"

Brienne considered. "Many. Too many to count."

Sansa smiled. It was a faint smile, but a real one.

"What?" Brienne asked.

"You," Sansa said. "When you said 'too many to count,' your face was completely serious. Like you were actually trying to count them."

Another evening, the three of them stood on the western wall and watched the sun go down.

The sea burned orange-red to the horizon. Fishing boats rocked in the shimmering light, their dark shapes drifting like scattered ink.

Sansa leaned against the battlements.

"When I was at Winterfell, sunsets were my favorite," she said. "Winter sunsets came early. Once it got dark, everyone would gather in the great hall by the fire. Robb and Jon would spar. Arya would cause trouble on the side. Rickon was too small — he could only sit in the wet nurse's lap and watch."

She paused. "I thought it would always be like that."

Brienne listened without speaking.

"What family do you have?" Sansa asked.

"My father," Brienne said. "I had an elder brother, Galladon of Tarth. He drowned when I was four. And two younger sisters, but both died in the cradle."

"Do you miss him?"

Brienne nodded.

A few evenings later, a long table was laid in the great hall of Storm's End.

Sansa sat at Daenerys's left hand, Brienne standing behind her. Podrick stood a little farther back, hands clasped in front of him.

Tyrion came in with Shae and sat down across from the head of the table. Shae settled beside him, her black braid draped over one shoulder, wearing a light green gown, a gift from Sansa.

The dishes came out one by one: roast wild boar with pepper sauce, honey-glazed boar, caramel apple pie, a steaming pot of thick mutton stew.

Daenerys picked up her wine cup and tapped it once against the table's edge. The room went quiet.

"I have good news." Her violet eyes were bright. "Drogo has taken Weir City at the southernmost tip of the Stormlands. Aside from the Dornish Marches, the entire Stormlands is now under our control."

Scarlet laughed first, reaching down to rest a hand on her belly. "The Khal always keeps his word. By the time he gets back, this child will probably already be here."

Missandei gave a slight bow. "Congratulations, Your Grace."

Sansa lifted her cup, took a sip, and said nothing. But the corner of her mouth curved.

Tyrion raised his cup. "To Khal Drogo. A man who treats storming castles like an afternoon walk."

He drank and smacked his lips. "Honestly, I'm a little envious. Tall, handsome, brilliant at war and statecraft and trade. Is there anything he can't do?"

Barristan stood behind Daenerys, his voice measured. "The castles of the Stormlands are each harder to crack than the last. To sweep every stronghold from north to south in this short a time — that is genuinely remarkable."

Brienne's expression looked like she'd swallowed something unpleasant. Lips pressed tight, brows knotted.

Daenerys noticed. "Brienne. Are you not pleased by this news?"

"I am pleased, Your Grace." Brienne's tone shifted. "Storm's End is very close to my homeland, the Isle of Tarth. I would like to request Lady Sansa's permission to return there for a visit."

Every eye in the room turned to her.

Sansa turned and set down her cup. "You're homesick?"

"My father is getting on in years. Tarth has always kept to itself, but war will reach it sooner or later. I want to go back and see him. Make sure he's safe."

Sansa nodded without hesitation. "Go, then. How long?"

"A few days."

Barristan spoke. "The Isle of Tarth falls under the direct jurisdiction of the Crownlands. With both sides at war, Brienne — if you return now, Khal Drogo may well consider you a traitor."

Brienne's lips pressed tighter.

Daenerys set down her cup and leaned forward slightly. "Brienne. I have a proposal."

Brienne looked at her.

"The Isle of Tarth lies northeast of Storm's End, on the outer edge of Shipbreaker Bay. It guards Storm's End from the sea, and it is the largest island in the Narrow Sea," Daenerys said. "It sits closest to the Free Cities of Tyrosh and Myr across the water. A key waypoint between the eastern and western continents."

She paused. Her violet eyes were gentle, but there was no give in them.

"I hope you will persuade your father to pledge his allegiance to me."

Brienne said nothing.

Daenerys continued. "I want to make the Isle of Tarth part of the Dragonfather's domain. Your father need not fight. He need only acknowledge my rule and allow my ships to use Tarth's harbor. In return, I will protect the Isle of Tarth from anyone who would threaten it."

Tyrion cut in from the far end of the table. "Sounds fair to me. A small place like Tarth, caught between the great powers, will have to pick a side eventually. Pick Drogo, and at least you won't be paying taxes to the Iron Throne."

Shae kicked him under the table. He closed his mouth.

Brienne looked at Daenerys for a long moment.

"Your Grace, I cannot make this decision for my father."

"I know," Daenerys said. "That is why I am asking you to go back and persuade him, not commanding him. If your father refuses, you come back. You remain Sansa's sworn sword."

Brienne turned to look at Sansa.

Sansa nodded. "Go. I'm safe here."

"Then I'll go."

The next morning, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, Brienne stood at the docks of Storm's End.

A small boat was moored beside the pier. Not large, but solid. Podrick hauled a sack of dried provisions and a barrel of fresh water aboard.

The boat pushed off from the dock and eased out into the gray-green sea. Brienne sat at the stern, both hands on the oars, pulling stroke by stroke.

On the shore, Podrick grew smaller and smaller. The gray walls of Storm's End faded into the morning mist, like a painting left out in the rain.

➤ Next: Pressing for Marriage