Game of Thrones

Brienne put his age at ten, but she was terrible at judging how old a child was. She always thought they were younger than they were, perhaps because she had always been big for her age. Feakish big, Septa Roselle used to say, and mannish. "This road is too dangerous for a boy alone."

"Not for a squire. I'm his squire. The Hand's squire."

"Lord Tywin?" Brienne sheathed her blade.

"No. Not that Hand. The one before. His son. I fought with him in the battle. I shouted 'Halfman! Halfman!'"

The Imp's squire. Brienne had not even known he had one. Tyrion Lannister was no knight. He might have been expected to have a serving boy or two attend him, she supposed, a page and a cupbearer, someone to help dress him. But a squire? "Why are you stalking me?" she said. "What do you want?"

 "To find her." The boy got to his feet. "His lady." You're looking for her. Brella told me. She's his wife. Not Brella, Lady Sansa. So I thought, if you found her..." His face twisted in sudden anguish. "I'm his squire," he repeated, as the rain ran down his face, "but he left me."

-- George R.R. Martin, A Feast for Crows