GOT: The Great — Chapter 159 - The Traitor — Heartbreak

"I am a vassal of House Baratheon. Storm's End may have fallen, but I have not sworn fealty to Drogo."

"House Baratheon of Storm's End no longer exists," Brienne said. "The one sitting on the Iron Throne is a Lannister."

"Stannis abandoned the Stormlands long ago and went north. And I will kill him myself, to avenge Renly. The entire Stormlands belongs to Drogo now."

"'Belongs to'?" Selwyn's voice went cold. "He tore down the Eyrie, Ravenroost, Stonehelm, Rain House. He demolished every castle, and you call that taking them? Taking what, exactly? A pile of rubble?"

Brienne gritted her teeth. "Father—"

"I am not your enemy." Selwyn cut her off. "You came back carrying terms from an invader. Tarth answers to her now. Her ships dock in my harbor. I bow and swear fealty. Brienne, you are my daughter. Not her envoy."

The hall went quiet. The shaft of light through the window shifted slowly, falling across the star-and-moon pattern on the tablecloth, catching every frayed thread.

"She is not an invader," Brienne said. "She is nothing like Joffrey. She respects the oaths of others. She does not force people to do what they do not wish to do. She sent me here to talk with you — not to command you. To persuade you."

"Persuade me." Selwyn repeated the words.

"Yes."

He gave a short laugh, the kind that comes through the nose.

"Then tell her this: I, the Evenstar, Lord of Tarth, will not submit."

"Drogo has already taken Weeping Town. He'll be back at Storm's End soon. Tarth could be his next target. The Dragon Queen's terms are generous. You should accept them while you still can."

That lit the fuse. Selwyn's palm cracked down on the table hard enough to send breadcrumbs jumping off the plate.

"You are a traitor!" he roared. "If she trusts you so much, why didn't she send you to lead the army across the sea and take Tarth yourself? She doesn't trust you. She never did. You're a tool to her, nothing more."

"I am a sworn sword, not a general," Brienne said. "Drogo left only 3,000 Unsullied to hold the Stormlands. There are no spare troops to send against Tarth."

"Besides — you know how this works. I'm here to deliver a message. Whether you listen is your choice. I only brought you a better road."

"3,000 Unsullied." Selwyn's voice changed. The weariness drained out of it, and the softness too. What was left was something harder, like an old sword that had been honed again, its edge still catching the light. "Holding the northern half of the Stormlands."

"You cannot stop Khal Drogo," Brienne said. There was a pleading note in her voice. She heard it herself. "He has dragons."

"He is not here." Selwyn rose to his feet. "He is in the south. The southernmost tip of the Stormlands. Dragons fly fast, but men on horseback move slowly. Even if he hears of this today and rides at once, by the time his cavalry reaches the north..."

"Father!" Brienne stood up. Her chair scraped back across the stone floor with a harsh screech. "Do not do something you cannot take back!"

Selwyn looked at her. He nodded.

"Get some rest," he said, and turned and walked away.

Brienne stood alone in the hall. The sunlight threw her shadow onto the wall behind her, tall and broad, like a giant.

Her hand rested on her sword pommel. She didn't know who she would draw it against.

The knock came in the middle of the night.

She hadn't slept. Couldn't. Her armor was still on, her boots still laced, her sword propped at the head of the bed where she could reach it without thinking.

"Lady Brienne." The steward's voice, from the other side of the door. Old. Rough. Carrying the particular sound of an apology no one wanted to give. "The Lord requests your presence in the great hall."

She stood and pulled the door open.

The steward kept his eyes down.

Every candle in the great hall had been lit. Dozens of white tapers burned in bronze candlesticks, flooding the stone chamber with light that had no business being so bright at this hour.

Lord Selwyn stood before the long table in a deep blue robe, the silver sun-and-moon sigil gleaming on his chest.

Behind him stood 30 or 40 men, guards, knights, and faces Brienne didn't recognize. All of them armored. All of them with longswords at their hips. Summoned from across the island, by the look of them.

A courier stood at the table's edge, still catching his breath.

Selwyn saw her come in. He raised one hand.

"Bind her."

2 guards hesitated. They looked at Brienne, then at Lord Selwyn, then back at Brienne. They gritted their teeth and stepped forward.

She did not resist.

No sword drawn. No struggle. She didn't even step back.

She let them do it, 2 men half a head shorter than her, lifting the sword from her hip, wrenching her arms behind her back, winding coarse hemp rope around her wrists in tight, grinding loops.

Selwyn walked up to her. He had to tilt his head back to meet her eyes.

"You are my daughter," he said. "I will not kill you."

The tears came then.

She didn't make a sound. But they fell one by one from her eyes, rolling down her large, square face, dripping onto the armor at her chest with a sound so faint it was almost nothing.

The old lord turned to face the room.

"We march at dawn." His voice filled the hall, bouncing off every stone wall.

2 guards took hold of Brienne and marched her out.

The corridor was dark, torches guttering on the walls. At a corner, she looked back. Selwyn stood in the candlelight, his shadow stretched long behind him, from the far end of the long table all the way to the door.

That shadow had once seemed so large. Large enough to stand between her and everything. Now, looking at it, she wasn't sure it ever had been.

She was locked in the highest tower. The door bolted from outside, the key with the steward. The window was a narrow slit. Through it, a sliver of sky.

The stars were still out. The moon had half set. The sea below was gray and formless, the line between water and sky impossible to find.

Brienne sat on the cold stone floor, her back against the wall.

Her hands were bound behind her. She worked her fingers against the rope, slow and steady. The coarse hemp bit into her wrists. Blood seeped into the fibers, darkening them to a dull red. She didn't stop.

She didn't know how long it would take.

She didn't know, once the rope gave way, where she would go.

A horn sounded outside the window.

One long note. One short.

The signal to sail.

The fleet of Tarth was assembling.

➤ Next: He Not Only Refuses to Surrender — He Has Launched an Attack Against Us