The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

32.

Chapter Thirty-Two.
Fire in the Sky.

Renfri wiped the blood from her blade, seated atop a crate on the outskirts of camp.

Her reflection stared back at her, the golden inlays of Staghorn's hilt glinting in the afternoon sun. 

"That's a nice sword." Came a voice. She looked up, seeing a soldier approaching. "You had to have sold your soul for it."

The soldier took a seat on the crate opposite her, offering her the open flask in his hand. The stench of foul wine hit her nose and she shook her head, holding up a hand in refusal.

Renfri eyed him through the holes in her helm, something buzzing in the back of her brain. He was awfully familiar, but she could not place him.

He saw her staring. 

"Ah, the scars." He clicked his tongue. "So that's how you got the sword."

His grey eyes regarded her, and he reached up, scratching his scruffy beard. 

"You got a name?" He asked, relaxing. "With the pace we're moving at we might be sitting here all night, so we may as well get acquainted."

Still, she remained silent. She wanted him to go away, to leave her alone. Opening her mouth would just draw attention.

"Not much of a talker, then." He mused, leaning forward on the crate. "Say, you've got the most familiar eyes-"

He reached for her sword. Renfri shot to her feet, backing away, the crate crashing to the side as she scrambled back.

Noticing the commotion, one of the commanders pulled his horse over to them. He was tall and broad, with a smushed face and short brown hair. 

"Lord Milligan." The commander's voice boomed as he approached. "Leave the man alone."

Lord Milligan. Where had she heard that before?

"Doesn't look like much 'a man to me, Lord Tarly." Lord Milligan looked up. "More a lad. No hair on his chin."

Lord Tarly, who could not be much older than Renfri herself, looked to her, raising an eyebrow.

"Is that right, then?" He nodded. "All that matters is that you're strong enough to swing a sword. Still, lad, grab your horse. You can ride near the front with me, away from ingrates like Lord Milligan here."

Reluctantly, Renfri sheathed her sword, moving to where the horses stood beside the crates. She climbed atop the brown stallion, ignoring the splinters of pain in her groin. 

Giving one more aggravated glance to Lord Milligan, the young Lord Tarly led her off towards the front of the slow-moving party. She bowed her head low, riding a considerable distance behind him, hoping to blend in with the other Lannister soldiers mucking about.

"Ser Jaime." She heard Lord Tarly's voice in greeting as the sounds of hooves approached. 

"Rickon." Her uncle's voice responded. Renfri tensed, her hands tightening on the reins.

"Dickon." Lord Tarly corrected.

Renfri snorted quite loudly, but scrambled to cover the sound with a cough. Luckily, Jaime's companion covered her snort with loud, obnoxious laughter.

"I hear you fought bravely at Highgarden." Jaime interrupted the man's laughter. "Your first battle? And?"

"It was glorious." She could hear the hesitation in his voice.