A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3)

by George R.R. Martin

“I recall who the Hand is, Pod,” Tyrion said. “I lost my nose, not my wits.”

The old Kings of the Rock had owned such a weapon, but the greatsword Brightroar had been lost when the second King Tommen carried it back to Valyria on his fool’s quest. He had never returned; nor had Uncle Gery, the youngest and most reckless of his father’s brothers, who had gone seeking after the lost sword some eight years past.

“Refused our sweet Cersei?” That put Tyrion in a much better mood.

“I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me.”

“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.”

He was curiously calm. Men were supposed to go mad with grief when their children died, he knew.

They broke their fast in silence, until Sandor said, “This thing about your mother …” “It doesn’t matter,” Arya said in a dull voice. “I know she’s dead. I saw her in a dream.” The Hound looked at her a long time, then nodded. No more was said of it. They rode on toward the mountains.