A Storm of Swords, Jamie Six.

Jamie wield his horse around and rejoin Steelshanks Walton and his 200.

A Lord Bolton had accoutred him as a knight, preferring to ignore the missing hand that made such warlike garb a travesty.

Jamie rode with sword and dagger on his belt, shield and helm hung from his saddle, chain mail under a dark brown

certcoat. He was not such a fool as to show the line of Lannister on his arms though, nor the plain white blazon that was his right as a sworn

brother of the King's guard. He found an old shield in the armory, battered and splintered, that ship paint still showing most of the great black

bat of House Luston upon a field of silver and gold. The Lostons held Harranhal before the Wents, and had been a powerful family in their day, but they

have died out ages ago, so no one was likely to object to him bearing their arms. He would be no one's cousin, no one's enemy, no one's

sworn sword. In some, no one. Brand two, a storm of swords.

The Dragon Knight once won a tawny as the night of tears, so he could name his sister the

Queen of Love and Beauty in place of the King's mistress.

And Barriston the bold twice donned a mystery knight's armour, the first time when he was

only ten.

It was a little crannic man I bet.

No one knew, said Mera, but the Mystery Knight was short of stature and clad in ill-fitting

armour made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the

old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face. Maybe he came from the Isle of Faces, said Bran.

Was he green?

The Mystery Night.

They lay unmoving, face down in a puddle. When they helped him to his feet, he was mud from head to heel.

The Brown Dragon! Someone shouted.

Laughter ripple through the yard as the dawn washed over white walls.

...