"Cripples are not bandits in the usual sense." When Dany asked what "Cripples" meant, Brother Meribald's expression turned complex, as if lost in deep memory.
After a moment, he sighed and said, "They were once simple, honest folk who had never strayed even three kilometers from their straw huts—until one day, the call of the lord arrived.
They bid farewell to their wives and children, donning tattered shoes and ragged clothes, and set out under the splendid banners of their lord.
They carried sickles, sharpened hoes, perhaps a hatchet, or worse, makeshift hammers fashioned by tying stones to sticks with leather straps.
Brothers, fathers and sons, and friends set out together.
Though they were from the countryside, they had heard tales of legendary heroes. When they departed, their hearts were full of urgency and excitement, dreaming of witnessing wonders, gaining wealth and glory—some even imagined themselves becoming the protagonists of those tales one day.
Unfortunately, war is a nobleman's game—seemingly grand, yet unimaginably cruel. Most of them had their dreams shattered on the very first day of battle, with many not even getting the chance to wake from the illusion.
Those who survived by luck—some went mad, but more simply numbed themselves, trudging on day after day, year after year, fighting in battles too many to count. A younger brother would watch his older brother die, a father would lose his son, a man would see his friend's stomach split open by an axe as he tried desperately to stuff his intestines back in.
Scenes like that—no matter if someone survived a hundred battles, the hundred-and-first could still break them.
They would see the lord who had led them into battle be cut down, only for another lord to declare loudly that they now belonged to him.
Their wounds would barely start to heal before new ones were inflicted.
They never ate their fill. Their shoes fell apart from endless marching, their clothes turned to rags, and many fell ill from drinking foul water, soiling themselves in sickness.
They wanted new boots, warmer cloaks, and if they could get even a rusted iron half-helm, they'd feel safer. But the lords never provided such things. So, they began looting corpses.
Not long after, they grew used to stealing from the living—ordinary folk just like they once were. They stole livestock and goods, killed cows and sheep, and took the daughters of peasants. If they were caught, they didn't care. They were soldiers, armed with their lord's grain levy notice, while the other was merely a commoner.
One day, they looked around and suddenly awoke from their stupor—every friend and loved one was gone. Only strangers remained by their side, and even the banners above their heads had become unfamiliar.
They were lost, unsure of where they were, how to return home, or even what home was anymore. It seemed like it belonged to someone else's memory.
They fought for lords who didn't even know their names—lords who barked orders in commanding voices, telling them to form ranks, pick up spears, sickles, and sharpened hoes, and hold the line.
Then came the knights—fully armored, faceless knights. When they charged, the thunder of steel filled the world...
Eventually, they broke. They planned to flee—crawling away over corpses after battle, sneaking out of camp in the dead of night, trying to hide somewhere.
They became deserters—cripples.
By then, all notions of honor and tradition had vanished. Kings, lords, and gods meant less to them than a piece of rotten meat, at least meat could keep them alive another day. Even a sack of cheap wine held more value—it could drown out their fear for a while.
The life of a deserter knows no tomorrow—one meal to the next, more beast than man."
The cabin fell silent. Only the sound of the river flowing past the hull could be heard. At last, the old septon took a few deep breaths and said sorrowfully, "There are many Cripples in the Riverlands now. We must be wary of them. We may execute them if they commit crimes, but it is best to offer them understanding and compassion first."
"They are indeed worthy of sympathy," Dany said with a conflicted expression. "The farmers of Westeros seem worse off than slaves. Reforms will have to be drastic. I must give this serious thought—"
Bang!
The pockmarked youth struck her on the head again. Before Dany could summon a dragon to scorch his face, he choked out, "Sympathy? Three Northerners came into my family's estate. My father thought they were allies, so he offered them bread.
But after they'd eaten and drunk their fill, they turned into beasts. They hacked my father and elder brother to death, and raped my ten-year-old sister. Can you still call them human? All Cripples deserve death!"
Forget it, Drogon, no need to come down.
The ferry wound through the river, twisting and turning, eventually drifting into a dense patch of reeds. The Brotherhood pulled out leather hoods and blindfolded Dany and her companions, leading them ashore through uneven terrain. A few horses were waiting nearby. They were helped into the saddles and rode through a cold, damp forest for more than an hour.
At last, the hoods were removed. They had arrived before a low cave, surrounded by bare trees—fallen leaves scattered on the ground, branches like bony, shriveled fingers.
The air inside the cave was cold and heavy, filled with the scent of earth, insects, and mold. Above them were rocks and tree roots poking through cracks; underfoot were stones and yellow mud.
It seemed like there were tunnels, cracks, and passageways everywhere, spreading out like a spiderweb. Members of the Brotherhood held torches as they led the way, occasionally passing guards posted at turns.
"Why choose a place like this?" Grand Maester Perestan grumbled. "Caves are narrow. They're not safer than open plains."
He had wounds on his hip and thigh, making movement difficult, and was carried on Barristan's back.
Dany understood his concern, but even though the old maester had witnessed her "True Dragon Roar" slay wolves, he still didn't fully grasp her hand.
True, dragons couldn't enter caves—but in such tight spaces, her "True Dragon Roar" was even more deadly. And with Barristan in Valyrian steel armor as a meat shield, Dany was confident she could protect herself.
Well... if things went terribly wrong, she might not be able to care for the old maester—his concern wasn't entirely unreasonable.
They passed through a low tunnel and entered a massive cavern, around four or five hundred square meters wide, filled with bandits.
Cough, cough, cough—before Dany could even step inside, she was already coughing from the curling blue smoke drifting in the air.
The bandits had dug a large fire pit in the middle of the muddy ground. Many people huddled around the flames for warmth, trying to resist the cave's chill. But in such an enclosed space, the smoke hung heavy in the air, unable to escape in time—the air quality was awful.
Dany and her companions' arrival startled the sleeping people lying on straw mats. There were men and women, and even a few children peeking out from their mothers' arms, all with sallow faces and skinny frames, looking pitiful and frail.
They didn't go down to disturb the refugees. Instead, they walked along the wall to a rocky crevice on the other side.
The narrow space, about thirty square meters, held a makeshift table, behind which sat a woman in grey robes, cloaked and hooded. The light was too dim to see her face clearly, but there was a glint of coldness in the eyes beneath her hood—an aura perhaps even more terrifying than Dany's when fused with her dragon soul.
Though it was already late at night, the woman showed no intention of resting. She was toying with a bronze crown encircled by black iron swords, examining it closely as her fingers ran along the blades, seemingly testing their sharpness.
"My lady, I've brought them," Lemon, wearing a dog-head iron helmet, shouted.
The large man guarding the entrance cast a sweeping glance at Dany and her group, then pointed at Brienne. "Judge the kingslayer's whore first."
"What? What did you just call me?" Brienne said, stunned.
"You're a lion!" a young man with a northern accent stepped forward, placing Brienne's Oathkeeper sword on the table before Lady Stoneheart. The hilt bore a golden lion's head, with ruby eyes that gleamed like two red stars.
"There's also this," an elderly man with grey hair placed a parchment beside the sword. "It bears the little king's seal. It says the bearer is acting on his behalf."
Yet it was this man who drew Dany's particular attention—he wore a tattered old robe of faded red and white, had long, unkempt grey hair, loose and sagging skin on his cheeks and chin, and a rough beard covering his weathered face—truly unremarkable in appearance.
But in his eyes burned a blazing fire, like twin volcanic eruptions—only slightly less dazzling than her own nine-colored vortex. He was the most powerful sorcerer she had ever seen, and also the strongest Red Priest—aside from Benerro, whose true power remained unknown.
This man must be Moqorro of Myr.
Lady Stoneheart set the sword aside and began to read the letter.
Brienne seized the moment to argue, "I'm not a lion—I served Lady Catelyn Stark. The sword was given to me by Ser Jaime. He swore—"
"The third Hound," Lemon, cut her off. "Who in Westeros hasn't heard of the Kingslayer and his oaths?"
"He promised Lady Catelyn to return her daughters. But by the time he reached King's Landing, they were gone. Then Ser Jaime sent me to search for Lady Sansa…"
"And if you had found her?" the Northerner sneered. "What would you have done?"
"Protected her. Taken her somewhere safe," Brienne said firmly.
The big man burst out laughing. "And where would that be? Cersei's dungeon? Even we know the Queen has a bounty on the girl—one hundred gold dragons!"
"No! I would've taken her to Riverrun, to the Vale, even back to the North. I swore to keep her safe," Brienne said hastily.
"Lies!" the large man bellowed. "You carry a Lannister sword, a letter from the little king, and travel with two lions. How stupid do you think we are to believe your crap?"
"Bring them forward," he ordered, pointing at Hyle Hunt and Podrick.
"This boy's the Imp's squire," he sneered at Podrick, then pointed to the scar-faced knight. "And this one's a sworn sword to 'Bloody' Randall—clearly a lion's man. His hands are soaked in blood. That Tarly bastard has already hanged twenty of our brothers."
"Do you admit your crimes?"
"Yes, I served Lord Tyrion," Podrick stammered, panicked. "But I have no quarrel with the Brotherhood."
"Being a lion is crime enough."
Hyle Hunt sighed, his face ashen. "These outlaws have no respect for sacred vows. The Freys paid ransom and still got hanged. My family's already poor—we can't afford another payment."
"Two hangings!" the big man declared.
Then he approached Septon Meribald, frowning in annoyance. "Why'd you bring this old thing again? Isn't he a hassle? Let him go—he can leave with his donkey and dog."
He then turned to Dany, scrutinizing her for a long moment. "And you… Your face is oily, your cheeks are fat—"
"What?" Dany exploded with rage. "Did you just call me fat?!"
(End of Chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09