The Warrior had been Jaime’s god since he was old enough to hold a sword. Other men might be fathers, sons, husbands, but never Jaime Lannister, whose sword was as golden as his hair. He was a warrior, and that was all he would ever be.
Sankt Petyr, renowned for his bravery, on the right; the slender,
bone-handled blade she’d named for Sankta Alina on the left. She recited
the names of her other knives, too. Sankta Marya and Sankta Anastasia
strapped to her thighs. Sankt Vladimir hidden in her boot, and Sankta
Lizabeta snug at her belt, the blade etched in a pattern of roses. Protect me, protect me. She had to believe her Saints saw and understood the things she did to survive.
No mourners, no funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.