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Or free me to protect myself.”
    The galley was skimming downriver, a great wooden dragonfly. The water around her was churned white by the furious action of her oars. She was gaining visibly, the men on her deck crowding forward as she came on. Metal glinted in their hands, and Jaime could see bows as well.
Archers
. He hated archers.
    At the prow of the onrushing galley stood a stocky man with a bald head, bushy grey eyebrows, and brawny arms. Over his mail he wore a soiled white surcoat with a weeping willow embroidered in pale green, but his cloak was fastened with a silver trout.
Riverrun’s captain of guards
. In his day Ser Robin Ryger had been a notably tenacious fighter, but his day was done; he was of an age with Hoster Tully, and had grown old with his lord.
    When the boats were fifty yards apart, Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back over the water. “
Come to wish me godspeed, Ser Robin?
”
    “
Come to take you back, Kingslayer
,” Ser Robin Ryger bellowed. “
How is it that you’ve lost your golden hair?
”
    “I hope to blind my enemies with the sheen off my head. It’s worked well enough for you.”
    Ser Robin was unamused. The distance between skiff and galley had shrunk to forty yards. “
Throw your oars and your weapons into the river, and no one need be harmed
.”
    Ser Cleos twisted around. “Jaime, tell him we were freed by Lady Catelyn . . . an exchange of captives, lawful . . .”
    Jaime told him, for all the good it did. “
Catelyn Stark does not rule in Riverrun
,” Ser Robin shouted back. Four archers crowded into position on either side of him, two standing and two kneeling. “
Cast your swords into the water
.”
    “
I have no sword
,” he returned, “
but if I did, I’d stick it through your belly and hack the balls off those four cravens
.”
    A flight of arrows answered him. One thudded into the mast, two pierced the sail, and the fourth missed Jaime by a foot.
    Another of the Red Fork’s broad loops loomed before them. Brienne angled the skiff across the bend. The yard swung as they turned, their sail cracking as it filled with wind. Ahead a large island sat in midstream. The main channel flowed right. To the left a cutoff ran between the island and the high bluffs of the north shore. Brienne moved the tiller and the skiff sheared left, sail rippling. Jaime watched her eyes.
Pretty eyes
, he thought,
and calm
. He knew how to read a man’s eyes. He knew what fear looked like.
She is determined, not desperate
.
    Thirty yards behind, the galley was entering the bend. “Ser Cleos, take the tiller,” the wench commanded. “Kingslayer, take an oar and keep us off the rocks.”
    “As my lady commands.” An oar was not a sword, but the blade could break a man’s face if well swung, and the shaft could be used to parry.
    Ser Cleos shoved the oar into Jaime’s hand and scrambled aft. They crossed the head of the island and turned sharply down the cutoff, sending a wash of water against the face of the bluff as the boat tilted. The island was densely wooded, a tangle of willows, oaks, and tall pines that cast deep shadows across the rushing water, hiding snags and the rotted trunks of drowned trees. To their left the bluff rose sheer and rocky, and at its foot the river foamed whitely around broken boulders and tumbles of rock fallen from the cliff face.
    They passed from sunlight into shadow, hidden from the galley’s view between the green wall of the trees and the stony grey-brown bluff.
A few moments’ respite from the arrows
, Jaime thought, pushing them off a half-submerged boulder.
    The skiff rocked. He heard a soft splash, and when he glanced around, Brienne was gone. A moment later he spied her again, pulling herself from the water at the base of the bluff. She waded through a shallow pool, scrambled over some rocks, and began to climb. Ser Cleos goggled, mouth open.
Fool
, thought Jaime. “Ignore the wench,” he snapped at his cousin.