ASOIAF: The Rise of House Ashenblade.

The sound came again from the bend ahead: steel on steel, then laughter; a woman’s grunt of pain followed it. Arlan raised one hand and the caravan stopped, and drivers pulled the wagons close while guards turned their horses toward the tree line.

”Wayne. Two men. See what it is.” The captain disappeared between the pines with two guards and returned several minutes later.

”Dozens of mercenaries. A few young nobles on horses, and they’re surrounding one woman. Tall, plate armor, greatsword. She’s hurt but still fighting.” Wayne hesitated.

”They’re calling her the Maid of Tarth.” Arlan’s attention sharpened; Brienne of Tarth.

Arlan knew the name even before memory supplied the face, and Tarth was no tiny landed holding like FireStorm. Brienne was Lord Selwyn Tarth’s heir, and hurting her was therefore more than tavern cruelty, yet the men ahead were behaving as if numbers, money, and connection to Nightsong made consequences optional.

Daughter of Lord Selwyn Tarth, known across the Stormlands as much for the mockery aimed at her as for the fact that she kept putting on armor anyway. ”How many attackers?”

”Several dozen if you count every mercenary. The nobles are mostly watching.” Arlan dismounted.

”Wagons stay here with five men. The rest form on me.”

The guards advanced through the trees in compact groups rather than charging toward noises they did not understand. When the path opened into a small clearing, the scene became visible. Brienne stood near its center.

She was taller than most of the men around her and wore worn steel armor marked by fresh cuts, and short fair hair clung to her forehead with sweat. Blood had soaked the cloth beneath a wound on her left arm and marked the back of her armor where another blade had struck.

Her greatsword still moved with frightening force; even wounded, she kept the blade between herself and the closest attackers, forcing men with lighter weapons to respect its reach. Fresh blood marked the fallen leaves near her boots, showing how long she had already been giving ground without breaking.

The weapon was not ornamental, and she used its reach to stop the mercenaries from crowding her, shifting her feet despite blood loss and forcing attackers to approach through the danger of a full cut. What failed her was not technique so much as arithmetic and exhaustion; every man she drove back gave another one time to move around her.

A mercenary stepped too close and had to throw himself backward when she swept the blade across the space in front of her; another tried from behind while her attention remained forward. His sword struck armor and opened a line that immediately filled with blood.

Brienne stumbled to one knee, and the mounted young men around the fight laughed. ”So much for Tarth’s great warrior.”

”Put down the sword and perhaps someone will teach you what women are supposed to do.” Their words grew filthier from there.

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They mocked the title by which people had taunted her before, called her too ugly for marriage, too large for a lady, and ridiculous for wanting the honor associated with knights; one voice twisted the courtesies usually paid to Lord Selwyn’s heir into another joke, while another jeered that a noblewoman belonged with needlework rather than a greatsword. None of it had anything to do with the fight in front of them, and that was the point. They wanted to turn a wounded opponent into entertainment before finishing what their hired men had begun.

The cruelty was practiced rather than spontaneous, and Brienne had heard versions of it before from men who praised her to her father’s face and laughed once they were among friends. Here, with mercenaries surrounding her and blood already leaking beneath the armor, the same old mockery became part of the attack: exhaust her body, then make anger exhaust what discipline remained.

Brienne’s shoulders shook once. A stranger might have mistaken it for fatigue, but Arlan had watched her hold the sword through worse pain. She used the greatsword to push herself upright as the laughter continued.

No plea came from her, and Arlan had seen enough.

”Stop.” The word cut through the clearing; mercenaries turned toward the new line of shields and spears moving out from the forest. The leading young noble pulled his horse around.

”Who are you?” Arlan kept walking.

”Someone telling you to stop.”

”This is none of your affair. We’re guests of Nightsong.” That explained the confidence more than it explained the attack.

Arlan glanced at Brienne; she watched him with wary blue eyes and kept both hands on her sword. She had kept her guard up even as help arrived. Arlan preferred her caution.

Wayne brought the FireStorm shields together, and spears extended through the gaps. The mercenaries who had been willing to crowd one wounded woman began reassessing the price of their employment.

The guards did not charge; they advanced three paces at a time and stopped together, giving the mercenaries room to withdraw without forcing a fight. Wayne’s formation made the choice visible: anyone who continued toward Brienne would have to cross a prepared spear line instead of joining a mob around one exhausted target, and several hired swords immediately shifted backward, glancing toward the mounted nobles as if waiting to learn whether the promised coin was worth dying for.

The young noble pointed his riding crop at Arlan. ”Do you know who I am?”

”No.” The answer offended him more than an insult would have.

Another noble leaned from the saddle. ”That’s Arlan Ashenblade. The upstart from FireStorm.” Recognition moved through the group; the first man’s face flushed. Rickard Weil, someone called him. Auston Weil’s younger brother was a distant relation within Elton Caron’s network.

That made the afternoon irritatingly consistent, and Rickard looked at FireStorm’s guards, then at the wounded Brienne, and found courage in the fact that nobody had attacked him yet. ”So the glass seller wants to play knight now?” His companions laughed.

The jokes shifted toward Brienne again: her height, her face, her armor, her refusal to live as they believed a noblewoman should. They called her ugly, unwomanly, unwanted, and repeated the Maid of Tarth title as though it were an obscenity.

Rickard made the cruelty louder because an audience had arrived; he asked whether Arlan had taken a fancy to her and suggested only an uncultured minor lord would find anything worth defending. His friends laughed on command, and the performance said more about Rickard’s need to recover control of the clearing than about Brienne.

Arlan watched Brienne’s grip tighten, and the mockery hurt more visibly than the blood running down her arm. She raised her head. ”Shut up.” The laughter sharpened; Rickard urged his horse a step closer.

”What was that?” Brienne planted the point of her greatsword against the earth and stood fully upright.

”I said shut up.”

Her armor showed the cost of that refusal, and one plate had been scored near the shoulder, another strap hung partly cut, and the blood beneath her left arm had begun darkening the steel at her side.