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When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne’s breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero.
“My lord,” the lad asked, “will you be wanting your new hand?” “Wear it, Jaime,” urged Ser Kennos of Kayce. “Wave at the smallfolk and give them a tale to tell their children.” “I think not.” Jaime would not show the crowds a golden lie. Let them see the stump. Let them see the cripple.
“You are speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.”
“She says that you must choose. Take the sword and slay the Kingslayer, or be hanged for a betrayer. The sword or the noose, she says. Choose, she says. Choose.”
“Podrick has never harmed you. My father will ransom him. Tarth is called the sapphire isle. Send Podrick with my bones to Evenfall, and you’ll have sapphires, silver, whatever you want.”
She screamed a word.

