A Book of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones : Magic Network

On the docks of King's Landing, Brienne of Tarth stood rigid as a spear, forcing herself to ignore the curious stares of the smallfolk that gathered along the waterfront. Instead, she fixed her gaze upon the rows of warships that swayed gently on the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.

Most magnificent among them was Robert's Hammer—the pride of the royal fleet, named for the weapon that had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate on the Trident. Its massive sails of gold billowed in the salt breeze, causing the proud stag emblazoned upon them to ripple and dance as if alive. The dense rows of oars that hung from both sides of the hull began to dip and rise in unison, cutting through the waters with metronomic precision as the great vessel made its way toward the channel.

Brienne knew that this display of naval prowess required the coordinated effort of more than four hundred oars, each one pulled by men whose muscles burned with the strain of it. The flagship raised its gleaming banners, and as if responding to some silent command, dozens of warships in its wake began to move in perfect formation. This was merely a training exercise, she realized—not unlike those her father's modest fleet performed in the waters surrounding Tarth.

Her eyes drifted rightward, where another flotilla of warships lay moored near the inner river. Their flagship was Fury, a monstrous galley with three hundred oars. Once it had been the pride of Duke Stannis, Master of Ships and Lord of Dragonstone, but now it rested at anchor, its sails furled tight, as docile as a tamed beast in the harbor of King's Landing.

Earl Monford Velaryon had informed her that Fury now sailed under the command of Davos Seaworth, a former smuggler risen to captaincy of the Third Royal Fleet. The man who had once been called the Onion Knight now fought for the Iron Throne—and for little Shireen Baratheon, the daughter of his dead lord.

Brienne turned her gaze leftward, where a third fleet of warships remained docked in berths closer to the sea. The banners flying from the first three vessels were indistinct at this distance—only a silver field scattered with small golden specks could be made out.

Yet she already knew these to be the ships of Earl Gunther Sunglass of Gulltown—the Piety, the Prayer, and the Dedication. Names as pious as their lord.

The entirety of the Dragonstone fleet had gathered in King's Landing. With such naval might arrayed against him, how could Lord Renly possibly hope to cross the river when the time came?

Anxiety gnawed at Brienne's heart. At this very moment, she should have been standing at Storm's End, guarding Lord Renly's safety, silently watching over him—treasuring each smile that graced his handsome face.

Even if it meant enduring the mockery and pity of every courtier and servant in his service, she would have welcomed such a fate.

Her uncommon height—she stood taller than six feet—and her rough-hewn features had been a torment throughout her life. Men called her "Beauty" behind her back, though sometimes even to her face when cruelty overcame courtesy. She was not so naive as to believe the nickname sincere. They did not even see her as a woman—merely as some jest the gods had played upon House Tarth.

"Beauty" Brienne had understood her place in the world from an early age.

She had never dared to dress as befitted a highborn lady; such finery would only make the laughter grow louder. Yet her efforts to arm herself as a warrior earned her no respect either. When she donned mail and took up sword and shield, men suddenly recalled that she was, after all, a woman.

Her lord father had arranged three marriage contracts for her, each one an attempt to secure her future—and, if truth be told, the continued prosperity of House Tarth.

But these matches had been pursued solely for the sake of Evenfall Hall and the lands that came with it. Not one of these men had offered her so much as a hint of love, nor even the smallest measure of respect.

After she had bested Ser Humfrey Wagstaff—her third betrothed, a man of sixty-five years—in single combat, breaking his collarbone and two ribs in the process, her father had never again spoken the word "marriage" in her presence.

Brienne could not imagine who might one day share her life, who might draw genuine laughter from her lips, who she might long for during times of separation. Nor could she picture how, when her time came, she might leave the world behind.

Then Lord Renly had visited Tarth during his coming-of-age tour of the Stormlands. His smile had been neither false nor mocking, his words gentle and sincere. In his eyes she had seen a light unclouded by judgment or disdain—unlike any man she had known before.

When her father had sent her to Storm's End, Brienne had gradually discovered a purpose to her existence.

By the grace of the Seven, so long as she could protect Lord Renly with her sword, rejoice in his smile, and, if need be, die in his service, surely that would constitute a life well-lived—a life of meaning.

But now...

Everything had dissolved like morning mist before the rising sun.

Standing in the shadow of a warehouse, Brienne gazed up at the Pride of Driftmark that rode at anchor before her. Two weeks past, this very vessel had led a fleet of forty warships to besiege Tarth itself. Her home, isolated across leagues of open water, had been utterly defenseless, with no allies to call upon. Her lord father had been given no choice but to yield—and to surrender his only daughter to Velaryon's fleet.

Amid the salt spray and the creaking timbers of warships in full sail, Brienne had been forced to confront a harsh reality.

Not only could she no longer remain at Lord Renly's side, but her father and House Tarth might well be compelled to remain neutral in the coming conflict—or worse, to bend the knee to the Iron Throne.

Though the allegiance of Tarth would scarcely affect the wider struggle for the Seven Kingdoms, even so small a loss might prove harmful to Lord Renly's cause.

And if Earl Monford's boasts held even a grain of truth, the power at the Iron Throne's command surpassed anything the realm had witnessed in living memory—a force to rival an army of one hundred thousand strong.

This King Joffrey, whom Earl Monford described as a heroic monarch and champion of the gods, who would save the world from the Long Night, who carried divine favor like a banner—how much of this was true?

And should the Iron Throne prevail, what fate might await Tarth? What punishment might be visited upon Lord Renly?

The future lay shrouded in mist too thick to penetrate, and Brienne found herself adrift without compass or star to guide her.

Earl Monford approached, his voice cutting through her troubled thoughts. "Lady Brienne, shall we proceed? King's Landing has changed since you last saw it. I hope you will find the improvements to your liking."

I am Brienne of Tarth, a warrior, my own knight, and most certainly not a lady, she thought. But she had grown weary of correcting such errors. "I hope so as well," she replied, her voice flat.

Their party advanced under the protection of the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, meeting no resistance until they reached the Mud Gate.

Brienne could not suppress a small smile of satisfaction. "It seems much has changed indeed. Even the noble Earl Velaryon must dismount and submit to inspection by common gold cloaks."

Earl Monford's expression remained untroubled. "For the sake of His Grace's grand design, such minor inconveniences are hardly worth mentioning."

Since receiving divine grace on Dragonstone, Earl Monford had learned much about the transformations taking place in King's Landing. The sacred coronation, the manifestation of divine will, the purification of city and citizenry, the meticulous screening of all who passed through its gates...

The light screen of divine grace—what a miracle beyond comprehension.

With each passing day, Earl Monford grew more certain of the wisdom of his choice. A king blessed with such divine power would surely achieve final victory, and those who served him faithfully would share in his glory.

"Name? Age?" The gold cloak eyed Brienne suspiciously, then added with evident discomfort, "Gender?"

Though she had faced such questions countless times before, Brienne could not help the flush of anger that crept up her neck. "Brienne of Tarth, nineteen years of age. And I am a woman—a woman. Look more carefully next time."

The gold cloak—Gendry was his name, sewn onto his uniform—nodded awkwardly and continued with his questions, following some procedure known only to the city guard. He consulted a strange black sphere in his hand, which seemed to be recording Brienne's likeness somehow. Only when the sphere emitted a faint chiming sound did he wave them through.

Beyond the gate, the city appeared much as Brienne remembered it—the same narrow streets, the same stench of too many bodies pressed too close together, the same clamor of merchants hawking their wares.

She maintained an impassive expression, though inwardly she marveled at the black, shining sphere the gold cloak had wielded. It appeared to be crafted from dragonglass, and clearly performed some vital function in this new order.

What purpose could a ball of dragonglass possibly serve?

Earl Monford leaned closer, pride evident in his bearing. "Do not underestimate the dragonglass orb, my lady. Through divine grace, it has been imbued with wondrous powers. It captures a person's likeness and all manner of information about them. Henceforth, similar devices will be used for identification throughout the city. Nothing will remain hidden."

Brienne remained silent, though she had noted how the gold cloak had seemed to recognize something in Earl Monford when they'd been inspected. The man had been released promptly after exchanging a blessing: "Eternal Light."

Was this somehow related to the invisible divine grace of which Earl Monford spoke?

Their party proceeded directly toward the Red Keep, moving deeper into the eastern half of the city.

The further east they traveled, the more somber the pedestrians appeared, the more deserted the center of the street became, and the more numerous the soldiers in gleaming mail and plate.

During their journey of perhaps a quarter-hour, Brienne witnessed five separate inspections at various intersections. Each one centered around those same black dragonglass orbs.

Even the taverns and bakeries they passed had soldiers stationed at their doors, each one clutching a dragonglass sphere as if it were some talisman against evil.

Earl Monford surveyed the scene with undisguised pride, as though he himself were responsible for these changes. "None can escape divine grace now. No travel, no purchase of bread or wine, and random searches throughout the city. The glory of the gods will illuminate every corner of King's Landing!"

Brienne's sense of foreboding grew stronger with each passing moment. It seemed that Earl Monford's boasts might not have been mere fancy after all.

They had scarcely arrived at the outer courtyard of the Red Keep when a knight in gleaming armor approached them.

"His Grace summons you," he announced without preamble.

Brienne felt her stomach clench. The time had come to face the king whose name was spoken with such reverence—and such fear.

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