The tapestry depicted the tale of the legendary member of the Kingsguard, Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. He was wellloved by the smallfolk and this tapestry of his heroic deeds was widely fabricated by the weavers of Oldtown. She had seen it often in the modest keeps of minor houses, upjumped nobles who had no illustrious ancestors to valorize in warp and woof. The tales of Ser Serwyn had sweetly thrilled Sansa, even as her mind would often turn over and over the contradictions of his origins. He had rescued Princess Daeryssa from giants. He had slayed the terrible dragon Urrax. He had killed many men but he never relished killing, ending his days haunted by the ghosts of all the knights he had honorably slain. That such a man had walked the earth—how she desperately wanted to believe that he had been real. The tapestries would always depict him as blonde, lithe; a handsome man with even features that bore a faint resemblance to Loras Tyrell. That was all wrong. Ser Serwyn could have never looked like that nor could he have been a knight. He was of the time of the Age of Heroes, a period that began in the mists of the past, as old as the lakes and mountains. It was long before the Kingsguard, long before the Andals came to Westeros bringing with them their Gods and their mounted men in steel armament. The real Ser Serwyn would have been dark haired, the blood of the First Men carved on his honest face. Alayne had half entertained the notion of sending a raven to the guildhalls in Oldtown to tell them of all the ways in which they were mistaken.
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