8 – Choosing the Sword The great sailing ship, driven by the winds of Shipbreaker Bay, heavily docked at the eastern harbor of Tarth.
The thick gangplank slammed down onto the stone quay with a heavy boom.
Pig was the first out of the hold.
The one-ton Boar King stepped onto the thick wooden plank, making it creak under the weight.
Its long tusks gleamed under the island’s bright sunlight.
Fishermen, porters, and merchants on the docks fell silent at once.
The crowd scrambled to both sides, opening a wide path.
Several pack mules simply collapsed where they stood.
Rek’Sai followed Pig down the gangplank.
His 2.4-meter height completely blocked the sun behind him.
Corded bronze muscle stood out sharply.
Two war-axes hung at his waist.
He did not even glance at the trembling people around him.
He walked straight to Pig’s side and gave the reins a tug.
“The air here is a lot better than Rain House.” Rek’Sai sniffed.
He caught the scent of sea salt and pine.
Brienne was the last to leave the ship.
She still wore the dented, damaged half-plate.
Her blond hair was messy from the sea wind.
At nearly six feet, she still stood out among ordinary folk—but this time she no longer hunched her shoulders out of habit.
Ser Goodwin came last, face dark, directing the sailors to carry down the wooden box that held squire Roland’s body.
At the far end of the docks, a group of guards carrying the banners of House Tarth approached quickly.
At their head walked a thin old woman in a gray-white robe, a wooden seven-pointed star hanging on her chest.
Septa Roelle.
She had received the raven Ser Goodwin sent ahead and had come to the docks specially to meet them.
When she clearly saw the siege-engine-sized boar and the savage giant beside it, the corner of her eye twitched hard twice.
But she quickly locked her gaze on Brienne.
“Seven save us!” Septa Roelle cried out and hurried forward, face full of pain and outrage.
“Brienne!
Look at yourself!
You look like a stablehand who just crawled out of a mud pit!” Brienne stopped.
The hand on her sword hilt tightened.
“The heir of House Tarth, daughter of the Evenstar—how can you parade around in public in this broken scrap metal?” Roelle raised the seven-pointed star and pointed at Brienne’s deformed breastplate.
“I have told you again and again not to touch swords.
You not only got your squire killed, you made yourself look like this.
Ser Humphrey Wagstaff is already waiting at Evenfall Hall.
Do you plan to meet your betrothed looking like a wreck?” Rek’Sai dug a finger into his ear and flicked away a bit of wax.
He eyed the old woman sideways and found her voice extremely irritating.
“Septa.” Brienne spoke, her voice a little dry.
“Go to the inn at the harbor and wash immediately!
I have already prepared a light purple silk gown and flower water for you.” Roelle gave her no chance to speak, rattling off orders at high speed.
“After you wash, go to the sept and kneel before the Father and the Maiden to repent.
Scrub those ridiculous notions of fighting and killing out of your head, then return to Evenfall Hall!” Ser Goodwin stepped forward and spoke in a low voice.
“My lady, the septa is right.
If Lord Selwyn sees you like this he will be angry.
And Ser Humphrey is a man who cares about appearances.” Brienne stood still.
For fifteen years Septa Roelle’s teachings had followed her.
The constant pressure, the mockery, the rules that told her she was a dull, ugly girl—that only obedience could buy her even a scrap of pity or recognition.
She lifted her head.
Rek’Sai was leaning against Pig’s thick saddle, idly tossing a gold dragon in one hand.
His green vertical pupils watched her with open mockery.
In this world, the weak beg for recognition.
Brienne drew a deep breath and deliberately straightened her chest.
She strode forward and planted herself directly in front of Septa Roelle.
Nearly six feet of height plus the bulk of armor let her look down completely on the thin old woman.
“Shut up.” Brienne’s voice was low.
Roelle froze, unable to believe her ears.
“You… what did you just say?
I am your teacher.
I speak for the gods—” “I told you to shut up!” Brienne suddenly raised her volume.
The shout echoed across the docks and made the surrounding guards take a step back.
“I don’t need to wash.
I don’t need that damned purple dress.
And I certainly don’t need to go to the sept and repent!” She locked eyes with Roelle and spoke every word clearly.
“I am a warrior.
The mud and blood on me are from battle—not shame.
Roland died protecting me.
I will take his body and go to my father looking exactly like this.” Roelle trembled with rage.
She pointed the seven-pointed star at Brienne.
“You’ve gone mad!
If Ser Humphrey sees you like this he will cancel the betrothal at once!
You will be the laughingstock of the entire Stormlands!” “Let him crawl back to his Fullview.” Brienne did not yield an inch.
“I will not marry him.
If he wants Tarth’s inheritance, let him come take it with a sword.” Ser Goodwin went pale.
“Lady Brienne!
You cannot say that—that betrothal was arranged by Lord Selwyn!” “That was the past.” Brienne turned and pointed at Rek’Sai, who was still leaning against the boar.
“Ser Goodwin.
Septa Roelle.
Look at reality.
This is Rek’Sai Storm.
From today on, he is my master.
I will learn from him how to become truly strong—not how to wear dresses and drink tea!” Dead silence fell over the docks.
Sea wind swept through.
Everyone stared in shock at the tall girl.
“Good!” A rough, booming cheer broke the quiet.
Rek’Sai swung up onto Pig’s broad back and looked down at Brienne from above, mouth curling into a satisfied grin.
“Now that looks more like it.” He patted Pig’s head.
The Boar King immediately stepped forward two paces.
Its massive body shoved Septa Roelle straight into the mud at the roadside.
The old woman scrambled away on hands and knees, barely avoiding the two deadly tusks.
“Listen, disciple.” Rek’Sai’s voice carried clearly across the entire dock.
“Strength does not care if you are man or woman, young or old.
Strong is strong.
Weak is weak.
Your father treats you like a marriage chip because you were too weak before.
He was also trying to protect you and the whole family.” His gaze swept over the silent Tarth guards, then settled on Brienne.
“House Tarth has only one seedling left—you.
You have only two roads.” He raised two thick fingers.
“One: become strong.
Become the future lord of Tarth.
Use the sword in your hand to protect your land and your gold.
Two: go back right now, wash yourself clean, put on a dress, and lie down like a good broodmare for that Humphrey.
Choose.” The crude word “broodmare” made Ser Goodwin and the freshly risen Septa Roelle turn white.
Brienne did not feel humiliated at all.
Instead she felt a fierce, unprecedented sense of release.
She drew the longsword at her waist and flung the scabbard far out into the sea.
“I choose the first road, master.”