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I. The Kingsguard
Jaime Lannister was the bravest, most handsome knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, as loathed as he was admired, for he was a Kingsguard who committed treason by murdering the very king he was sworn to protect. Though Aerys Targaryen was mad and cruel, the knight received the epithet of Kingslayer, forever condemned in the sight of gods and men for his crime—but most of all he was feared for his distinguished abilities with a blade.
Many years passed with a new king, who took the Kingslayer’s twin sister, Cersei, for a wife. Peace settled in all the realms, the harvests were gathered, there was song and dance and the peasants were glad for the warm sun and quiet days. But upon the death of the king, the song of war arose to mark a new era in the continent of Westeros, and so the War of the Five Kings began.
Ser Jaime’s blood sang at every battle, for this is why he was born—to be one with his sword, to slay his enemies and protect his family, to defend his king and bathe in the blood of those who dared to defy him.
It all ended when he was captured by the enemy. His right hand was cruelly ripped from him, leaving him maimed and useless, a cripple and a burden. Upon his rescue he arrived at King’s Landing eager to see the only woman he had ever loved, the very reflection of himself. He was spurned, cast down from the Kingsguard by none other than the Queen he so cherished, his own beloved sister and the fairest woman in the world.
“You are less than a man now,” Cersei told him, disgusted at the sight of his bandaged stump. “You are not fit to protect me or my children any longer. There is naught else for you here, so you must depart from this castle and seek refuge elsewhere.” Thus she disgracefully discharged him from his position, tossing his white cloak, the symbol of his commitment to the Kingsguard, in the wildfire that forever burned in her fireplace.
And so it was that Jaime was banished from the keep he had called home, now nothing but a soldier and scorned knight. He decided his best alternative was to leave the city, but first he visited the forge of a man named Tobho Mott. He was a prestigious armorer known for his impeccable work with Valyrian blades, the most sacred of swords. “I shall ask one last thing of you,” Jaime told the old blacksmith, “and in exchange you will receive what little gold I have left.”
He handed him his legendary greatsword, Brightroar, its hilt made of gold with embedded rubies that glinted in the light of the fiery forge. Jaime asked that it be melted to obtain two new swords, for he would go into the world and search for a worthy bride who would not refuse him the way his sister had.
The blades were striking to the eye and fearsome besides, as if by sorcery they had resulted in colors of black and red that rippled in the sun. The largest he called Widow’s Wail, to be wielded by him, the lavish head of a lion decorating its hilt. The other remained nameless. He promised that he would gift it to his lady wife to hang above their mantle so she would remember him every time he rode away to battle.
All he had left were his twin swords and his faithful blood bay, Honor, so he set out to his childhood home, the fortress of Casterly Rock, to seek the aid of his younger brother in his time of hardship. Lord Tyrion held all the riches in the kingdoms—House Lannister was blessed with gold mines and precious jewels—but his brother did not receive him in his own hall.
“You are not welcome here,” the dwarf told him, standing upon the closed gate, without a hint of the affection they once held for one another. “For you no longer possess any value as a warrior, nor can you serve me as an advisor. You cannot teach the young boys to fight, nor can you work in the fields. As I consider you my brother no longer, I would take you as a servant, but there is naught you might do in this castle to earn your own bread.”
However much they had previously loved one another, Jaime had told a lie that cost Tyrion the love of his life, a young peasant maid that had become his wife. His brother had never forgiven him, and despite feeling forsaken by all his family, Jaime now understood the pain of losing the only woman you would love for all your days. In his pity the small man flung him a golden dragon, his only parting gift before he rode away to the unknown.
II. Bearskin
For weeks the young knight wandered, inn after inn and meal after meal, until his only coin ran out. He found himself defeated, handless, unworthy of his blades and the dagger at his hip, unloved and alone without any prospect for his future. As his wound healed and scars began to cover his stump, he realized that he was good for nothing, and found himself thinking that perhaps only death would release him from his wretched existence.
One sundown he rode aimlessly in the Riverlands. When it was time to dismount and water his horse, he chanced upon a big abandoned castle, and his knowledge of the lands and terrains told him it was Raventree Hall. Its ancient stone walls were deteriorated and covered in moss, and the battlements were barely discernible, most of them torn down by boulders. The heavy gatehouse door creaked when he pushed it open, and a group of feral dogs ran off at his approach. The last of the sun was now setting and the air became cold; a wind took hold of his blond hair, tangling it into curls. Instinct drew him to the godswood, where he beheld the largest weirwood in the Seven Kingdoms rotting away in its lifeless soil. He saw a shuffle of black wings near him and turned inadvertently at the sight.
High and low, the raven flew, over past his head. The breeze roused in him a chill, though this was not a man to know fear. He felt a presence, as if he were being watched. He was once a knight, a lifetime ago, and his gut detected the enemies around him. A low growl confirmed his suspicion, and he felt as though the gods had heard his prayer, as though he would obtain the last fight he sought before his coveted demise. Drops of rain fell, clashing against his head, his cheeks, his shoulders, and he shut his eyes, wishing they would wash away his misery.
“Come forward,” he enticed the beast, wherever it may hide, “face me in a fair fight, not behind the shadows.” A roar arose from the bushes, and then another, but no eyes shone, no light from a torch, no stars yet in the sky. Thunder came forth, and rain, and wind, and the face upon the weirwood shifted, settling into one of horror. From its mouth came such a dark red sap that Jaime thought it must be blood. The rain sunk deep into his golden locks, washing off the dirt from the road, the stench of over a fortnight as a wanderer, a lost soul.
A thunder, a rumble. One, two, three ravens approached, all settling on the branches of the sacred tree, their wings spread wide and their shrill calls digging deep into his ears. Ten, fifteen ravens now, and more continued to approach. The darkness covered it all like a blanket. The first stars emerged in the sky, and with them came thunder, and with the thunder came the Stranger himself.
To Jaime he was naught but a shadow, a hooded figure in the gloom, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the voice was so deep that the knight felt the ground shake under his feet. “Jaime of House Lannister.” Though he could not see his face, hidden beneath the cowl of his pitch-black robe, he saw maggots pour out on the grass with every word. Even the ravens protested his presence.
“Have you come to claim me at last?” Jaime asked fearlessly, a smug smile across his lips as the strands of his damp golden hair stuck to his temples. The knight had not feared death in all his days, not when he had something to lose, not now that he had lost it all. Now he would bid it welcome, the way a flower greets the first ray of sunlight in the dawn.
“I have come to be of service, to offer you a pact, but first you must needs prove your worth.”
“I am the worthiest knight in all of Westeros,” he replied at once. “Any who dare deny it shall die by my sword.” The knight sought to unsheathe Widow’s Wail, but his sword hand was gone; it had belonged to a different man in a different life. Awkwardly he used his left hand in its stead, unaccustomed to the weight and balance.
The earlier roar came again and he heard the leaves rustle behind him. Yellow eyes greeted him first, then the creature’s body, an enormous bear with fur of black and brown. Jaime remained unafraid. He might be weak and inexperienced with his left arm, but he could surely overpower the beast with his formidable Valyrian steel.
When it reached him it stood on its hind legs, its mouth wide open, sharp teeth dripping with slobber in anticipation. It went back to all fours and charged, and Jaime’s blood began to pump, his instinct coming forth as his heart raced with the fever of the fight. He dodged the bear and used the shift in directions to slash him with the tip of the blade on the back, seeking to instigate it into a rage, to make the combat more of a challenge.
The beast became furious, turning and charging once more at twice the speed, its weight shaking the ground with every step. This time when Jaime moved back it attempted to rake him on the leg—and nearly achieved it—but the knight rolled back and got to his feet in one swift motion. As the bear stood once more to face its opponent, Jaime drove Widow’s Wail straight into its heart. The brute roared one last time, tumbling to the ground with a growl. The sight of the blood upon his blade made Jaime’s heart sing; he was once more a man, once more alive.
“I see you are courageous,” the Stranger told him, every word awash with worms. “So it is my will that we shall make a pact. You must meet every condition, for if you fail I shall claim your soul as mine own. In exchange I will transform you into a whole man once again, and wealthy for all your days besides.”
“And the conditions?” Jaime asked warily.
“For the next seven years you are forbidden to bathe, comb or cut your beard and hair, or pray to the Old Gods or the New. You will take the leather vest I provide you and wear it at all times. Whenever you reach into the pocket, your hand will be filled with gold. I will also restore your right hand, but should you fail, you will lose it all.”
The ravens cawed loudly and flapped their wings; the sky was torn by thunder. The blood upon Jaime’s sword disappeared as if by sorcery, and the lifeless bear was stripped of everything but its skin before his eyes. The knight witnessed his right hand grow back, feeling every finger, clenching and unclenching it, wondering if it was naught but a dream.
The Stranger continued, “You must take this skin with you to wear as a cloak; you are to sleep on it and nowhere else, and for it you shall be named Bearskin.”
III. The Old Man
The first year was not so difficult. Bearskin now had enough money to sleep comfortably and eat well during his travels, and having his right hand once more made him feel whole. He was of a mind to go back to his sister, while at the same time feeling reticence—she had rejected him at his most difficult time, so who was to say she deserved him at his best? Furthermore she would be appalled by his unkempt appearance, and when he thought about her beautiful face and alluring lips, all it summoned inside him was rage.
So all he did was subsist, visiting city after city. He would distract himself by taking work as a sellsword in spite of not needing the gold; he would work at this or that castle just so he could spar day and night with the other knights. He became commonly known as Bearskin, never recognized as the Kingslayer.
Soon his presence became intolerable for all the lords and ladies and it grew harder to find refuge with the passage of time. It was the fourth year of his journey when he ventured into one of his customary inns, located on the Kingsroad near Storm’s End, but by then he looked more beast than man. His hair was well past his shoulders, tangled and dirty; he was covered in his own filth, forbidden to bathe, and he must surely reek, though by then he was insensitive to the smell. The scruffy, plump innkeeper turned him away as soon as he walked in, horrified by the sight.
Bearskin had not been given shelter for weeks, left to sleep in hedges and woods. He had managed to stay in King’s Landing for a while, conjecturing that no place on Flea Bottom would turn anyone down, even such as him. He was mistaken. Every door in the city had slammed on his face, so he had headed for this one, his very last hope.
The innkeep would not be swayed by gold; he even denied Bearskin the stables because he would spook the horses with his monstrous exterior. The ragged knight could not bring himself to name him a liar, for Honor had run away from him days before, taking him for a fierce predator. Still at the end the innkeeper took pity on him, allowing him to set his bearskin bed in an abandoned shed full of cobwebs and obtaining a skin of wine in exchange for his gold.
He had barely slumped down atop the skin, taking a gulp of the red liquid and wishing he could will his seven years to end, when he heard a loud groan in a corner of the shack. Bearskin headed that way, using the candlelight to study the figure and discovering a man curled up against a wall. The stranger screamed at the sight of him, thinking he was a great beast come to devour him.
“Stop,” Bearskin told him, keeping enough distance not to scare him off. “I’m just a man. A badly groomed one, but a man nonetheless.”
He was an old gentleman, with eyes as blue as the sea. Though he wore rags and his face looked worn, his gray hair and beard were well trimmed and his gaze was kind. As soon as he spoke, Bearskin knew he was not a peasant. “Forgive me, young man, I took you for a bear. In the darkness of this shed and with such long hair, it is difficult to discern your face. My name is Selwyn Tarth.”
He could see that the man had been crying, and for all his wrongs Bearskin had learned to be compassionate. Now more than ever he understood what it felt like to be lost. So he sat near him, though not close enough to repulse him with his stench. “What is it that causes you such grief?”
Selwyn shook his head, despair written across the lines of his face, “I was a great lord, overseeing the Sapphire Isle. The Evenstar, I was called. The Queen has declared that I shall pay tribute to the crown, but my lands have become infertile and the fish have swum away. I have no means to pay the tax, so I will be imprisoned in the black cells for all my days, and my daughters will starve.”
After so many hindrances an issue of gold seemed a trivial thing for Bearskin, so he put his hand inside his pocket and it was filled with golden dragons. He did it again and again, placing them inside a pouch until it was almost overflowing. The impoverished lord marveled at the sight, a glint in his eyes expressing his utter gratitude.
“You are too kind,” Lord Selwyn told him, “I will offer you everything at my disposal to repay this debt. Sail with me to Tarth. I have beautiful daughters; you may have whichever one of them you wish for a wife, and you will always be most welcome to my hall and hearth.”
Bearskin felt quite satisfied by the offer, for it would finally get him a lady wife to share his life with, now that the war was over and his sword was no longer needed. At daybreak they departed, his spirits high for the first time in years.
IV. Tarth
The seas that surrounded the island were more beautiful than he imagined, sunlight glinting off the surface and highlighting its most stunning shades of blue. The land was nearly dead, however, the fields ravaged as if by a storm; the trees grew no fruit and the fish stayed far away from the shore. For years they had gotten by with their previous harvests and the kindness of some seamen who fished in Shipbreaker Bay, but it was risky business, and unprofitable besides.
Lord Selwyn sat Bearskin at the kitchen table with his daughters, for his great hall was abandoned without servants to maintain it. He served Bearskin fish stew, and though it was plain, to him it felt as if he were at home after a long journey.
The old man’s daughters were as stunning as he had promised. Lady Arianne, the eldest, had long hazelnut curls that fell down to her back, big brown eyes and a womanly figure. Lady Alysanne’s eyes were dark, with hair the color of honey and fair skin. Neither of them showed him the kindness their father had; they had not said a word after they were presented to him, and he had caught them wrinkling their noses and looking away from his foul presence.
When the meal was done, the father announced with a smile, “Dear daughters, this man has saved our island from a disastrous fate. It is for his compassion that I sit amongst you this afternoon. In appreciation for his aid, I have sworn that he shall take one of you to wed and become the heir to our Sapphire Isle.”
Lady Arianne was the first to react, crossing her arms over her chest, disgust written in her delicate face. “There is nothing worse than a pretender, and this is no man! He is naught but a bear passing for one. I cannot take a husband who will wear these rags and refuse to shave, reeking worse than the dead fish on the shore.” She turned her head away, her nose held high, and left the room.
Lady Alysanne was next, her big eyes full of tears, shaking her head in denial. “I will never wed this monster!” she exclaimed, enraged to her very core. “He is a terrifying beast, and I am meant to marry a shining knight in golden armor who will give me beautiful children and take me to live in a vast castle. I cannot taint my fate by offering my hand to . . . this.” And so she followed her sister out.
Lord Selwyn was at a loss; he had evidently not considered that his daughters might refuse the man. Ashamed by the girls’ behavior, he looked down at the ground with a forlorn expression. “I am so abashed by their unkind words,” he told him. “They have grown so beautiful that it has turned them fickle and demanding. They possess none of their late mother’s gentle nature, or mine own.”
Bearskin was not sure what to say at that, seeing his plan come apart.
The old man cleared his throat at last. “I have one more daughter, young man, but . . .” There was something he sought to conceal. “I do not believe she would please you.”
It was then that the third daughter reluctantly entered the room. She had been listening to the conversation; he could tell by the pink blush that decorated her freckled cheeks. Bearskin might have taken her for a man had she not spoken right then. “Father,” she said with a soft, pleasing tone, “you have made this man a promise, and your honor hangs upon your word. He did us a kind service, so he must be paid back in turn.”
When she stood closer, he inspected her in detail. She was of a height with him or perhaps taller; her body was as muscled and thick as a man’s. Instead of wearing a simple wool dress like her sisters, she wore breeches and a roughspun tunic, with boots laced up to her strong calves. She seemed more a stableboy than a proper lady.
Her face was the worst part, however: her skin was pale as milk and hundreds of freckles covered her cheeks. Her nose had been broken several times—he had seen it in many soldiers before—and her mouth was wide. He could not think of a worse wife to have, but he was surprised that she did not look away from his coarse features, or even give a sign of disgust at the smell of his filthy skin. Even the toughest men always showed contempt upon meeting Bearskin.
“This is my youngest daughter, Lady Brienne,” the old man pointed out. Bearskin sensed a distinct affection upon calling her name that he did not have with the other girls. Clearly the lord held her in high regard in spite of her dreadful appearance. Perchance being overshadowed by her fair sisters had made her gentler; it had unquestionably made her timid.
“Your sisters have rejected me, Lady Brienne,” he told her scornfully. “Yet you would so willingly have me?”
The young woman shrugged in response. “I care not for beauty, for there is no one uglier than I.” The knight’s eyes glinted in amusement at her admission, relieved that at the very least she was aware of her abundant flaws. “Nothing matters more than honor, and it would wound my father’s not to keep his promise to you. So I will wed you if it is your wish.”
Declining her at once would insult Lord Selwyn, so Bearskin inquired, “May I have some time to consider it, my lord?”
Her features became indignant at that, but soon the expression faded and became neutral, as it previously was. She must be offended to feel rejected by a monster such as him.
“Yes, young man, as you have saved us all from a tragic end, you may take your time to decide.”
V. Warrior
Bearskin’s life became much easier once he finally had a roof over his head, allowing him to rest from his years as a wanderer in the Seven Kingdoms. In exchange for all his meals, he continued giving gold to Lord Selwyn, understanding his dire position and how difficult it was to obtain supplies for him and his vassals.
It was a few days after his encounter with Lady Brienne that he met her for a second time. She was not wont to share meals with her sisters and their father, and she did not wander about the castle, either. Bearskin thought perhaps being close to them made her feel uglier in comparison, and in any case she was a very withdrawn young woman.
He chanced upon her in the old training yard while exploring the abandoned part of the castle. She was using a blunted sword to practice her moves against a well-built man, and she was so focused that she did not notice Bearskin’s presence. The lad was of his own stature, though far more muscular; he had black hair and blue eyes. From his stance Bearskin could tell that he was experienced—maybe he had been a soldier once—so he was no easy target for a woman to pick for sparring. Her movements were quite swift for a lady of her size; every stroke was calculated. She was patient as well, defending against every attack for a long time before performing a number of impressive feats of her own, disarming her opponent with all the grace she lacked outside of combat. Once the match was over, she gently pointed out her opponent’s mistakes, seeking to instruct him on how to become a better swordfighter. Then the young peasant retired, picking up his set of tools from the ground, and he understood the lad was a blacksmith in the service of Lord Selwyn.
In her actions Bearskin discovered a warrior, a lady who knew the ways of war, with scars of her own and admirable skills with a blade. Furthermore, with her kind nature and willingness to help others, she would make a good mother for his children. Remembering the ease with which she agreed to help her father keep his promise, the ragged knight became sure that she would be a suitable wife for him.
With a startle she acknowledged his presence, putting away the tourney swords and straightening her garb. “You are here, my lord . . . Ser . . . ? Forgive me, I do not know what you would have me call you.” In every one of their interactions her gaze remained firmly fixed upon the ground.
“You may call me Bearskin,” was his reply, “or you may call me your future husband.”
Brienne looked up at that, and when her eyes met his, she was not just suitable anymore, but everything he could ever want.
They were the most beautiful eyes he had seen in his life: bluer than the clearest of skies and the deepest of seas, blue as sapphires, blue as the very waters of the isle they stood on. They had more shades than the feathers of a peacock and shone brighter than the full moon, rich with an emotion unbeknownst to him as she received from his lips the first words of genuine acceptance in her life.
So Bearskin knelt before her, unsheathing both of his blades and handing her the unnamed sword hilt-first. She marveled at the sight and held it as if it were the most fragile of birds, and he touched the tip of Widow’s Wail against it and promised himself to her, as she did to him. Right before he stood he spoke the words, “I would have you name this blade Oathkeeper, and hold onto it until we meet again, for I must continue to wander the kingdoms. Should I not return three years henceforth, you will be free of our betrothal, as I will be dead. If you find it in your heart to do so, pray to the Seven for my safe return.”
Thus he resumed his travels and Brienne’s routine became much harsher. Upon his departure she continued tolerating the constant jests about her appearance, her lack of grace and her insistence to fight with sword and mace, but additionally her sisters mocked her often for her betrothal to Bearskin.
“You must be observant during the bedding,” Arianne would jest, “or you will mistake him for a fur coverlet.”
Alysanne would laugh prettily and add, “You should make sure to shelter your face with a veil as well, dear sister, or you might become sick from his stench.” Their giggles would fill the kitchen and she would continue, “It will certainly be a joyous wedding. It is a luxury to have your own dancing bear!”
“And what a bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!” the brunette would exclaim, holding her cup of wine high in the air. “They shall have to wear scrolls with their names, so we can tell which hairy beast is which!”
Brienne would endure it with her head held high like she had every day of her existence, and afterward she would head to the yard and train and train, holding Oathkeeper close to her heart every night, still unbelieving that she was worthy of a Valyrian steel blade, or that a man would be willing to wed her someday.
VI. The Wanderer
Bearskin continued to wander for years, sleeping mostly in the woods and hunting for his meals, for no inn would welcome him in spite of his riches. Time passed and passed, and on the dawn of the seventh year, he greeted the morning standing next to the old weirwood in Raventree, where the birds received him with their cawing and nervous flapping of wings.
He could hear the Stranger’s anger as he materialized before him, the very air around the god filled with spite. The skin of the bear vanished along with Bearskin’s dirty vest and Jaime demanded to be cleaned, his hair cut and his garb traded for something appropriate. When his beard was removed from his face he knew he was much handsomer than before; his golden hair shone in the first light of the morning, and he felt like a true knight once again.
As the Stranger left, infuriated by the loss of the soul he so coveted, Ser Jaime rushed to King’s Landing, aiming to acquire a present for his betrothed and quick passage to Tarth by sea. He dressed himself in velvet, leather and a silk tunic, a crimson cloak with an embroidered golden lion clasped about his shoulders. He thought of bringing a century of red roses for his lady, but she hated them since they had all died on the fields the day of her mother’s passing. Instead he acquired the two finest white destriers in the kingdoms.
As he went about his business he ran into the Queen’s litter. Upon seeing him riding the striking mount, having recovered his right hand, she stepped out to regard him with a splendid smile.
“My dear brother!” Cersei exclaimed, her beautiful golden dress dancing with every step. “You have come back to me at last, and with your new hand you will be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, as I always dreamed! How handsome you look, how wise!”
But this time the knight knew of her wickedness and replied, “I have not come back for you or the Kingsguard, as I was unceremoniously discharged seven long years ago. Now I have promises to keep and a long joyful life awaiting me.”
Even with her shrieks Ser Jaime left her to stand there, grasping the reins of the other horse and making his way to the docks to board a ship bound for Tarth.
VII. Oathkeeper
As soon as he arrived at the Sapphire Isle he headed for Evenfall Hall, now a man and not a beast. As the gates opened Lord Selwyn received him, taking him for a knight and offering his hospitality. No one would recognize him as the unkempt beggar who had visited the island three years past.
At the dinner table he was greeted by all three sisters. Arianne and Alysanne wore their best dresses, though they were still simple enough given their father’s limitations. Their hairstyles were so elaborate that he understood why it took them hours to present themselves in front of him. Their glances were lovely, all their words were pleasant and polite, and they easily giggled at his stories and words.
Brienne was forced to sit at the table, absently prodding her food with a fork, her gaze lowered, as it had been when he first met her. She kept Oathkeeper close to her; even during meals she refused to remove her sword belt. Though her breeches and boots were the same, her tunic was now black, and he understood she was in mourning for Bearskin, for the seven years had now passed.
While the girls continued to be charming, now aware that he was Jaime Lannister, the most desirable knight in all Seven Kingdoms, he asked Lord Selwyn if he would be allowed to take one of his daughters for a wife. The man’s face lit up at the request; he accepted without hesitation, leaving Jaime to take his pick. He agreed to announce his decision on the morrow, and the two pretty sisters erupted into chatter and left the room to prepare for the following morning.
As Brienne stood to leave, never saying a word or stealing a glance, he requested a moment alone with her. The lord agreed, trusting his knight’s honor, but it all served to make the lady more uncomfortable than she already was. He sat beside her and touched her chin softly, prompting her to look into his eyes, and felt perhaps a hint of recognition in her gaze. Once he had her full attention he set aside his cloak, showing her the hilt of his sword, and a gasp escaped her lips. They both stood and unsheathed their twin swords, the unequivocal symbol of their union.
He had envisioned her becoming glad at the revelation, receiving the best warrior in all the land in exchange for the filthy Bearskin, but he could spot the disappointment in her features.
“What is the matter, my lady?” he asked in a soft tone. “Is aught amiss? Is it not your wish to wed me, now that I am again a man and a knight besides?”
Brienne was hesitant to reply, “That is not the issue, ser . . .” She looked away and he thought he might perish from the pain of missing her glorious eyes. “I made a commitment that I must maintain.”
“I would die before wedding a maiden without her consent,” Jaime told her, his features obscured by the rejection. “Ask of me anything and I shall provide it.”
“It is not a matter of gold, Ser Jaime,” the Maid of Tarth told him, her brow furrowed. “But you are the Kingslayer, and it is a great crime to murder the king you were sworn to protect.”
And so he sought her father’s permission to walk with the Lady Brienne down the beach, to tell her the story of how he had slain Aerys Targaryen to save them all from the wildfire that was meant to burn the whole capital.
The Mad King had died by his sword in order to prevent the massacre, but when Jaime had drawn first blood the king had shrieked in his insanity, and every drop of the crimson liquid had served as a sacrifice for him to become a great dragon. He had soared across the skies, raining fire down on the city in screeching roars. It took an army seven days and seven nights to slay him by arrows, by crossbows, by swords. No one had ever known that black demon had been the king himself, for Jaime’s pride had forbid him to say the words, and since the Great Hall had been scorched by the dragon, it was thought that the body of the king had become ashes, later scattered by the wind, forever lost though never forgotten.
Upon hearing his words and finding it in her heart to believe them, Lady Brienne finally gave him an answer, “I shall wed you, for my honor and for my father’s.” She stood tall and proud, her blue eyes filled with determination. “Nevertheless I would ask one thing of you, Ser Jaime.”
“You would request more, my lady?” he asked her, his features settling into an amused smile. “You are a most demanding bride.” She blushed at his words, almost seeming like the young woman her frame so contradicted. “What would that be?”
“I would hope that you meet me in a swordfight, for I have sworn not to wed a man who cannot beat me in combat. Though I have made an oath to be your wife and I will keep it, I would further respect you as a knight if you would fight me.”
Jaime would have guffawed, had he not already observed her with a blade at hand. There would have been no other way for him to gift her his sacred sword of red and black. “It sounds fair, my lady, I shall gladly concede you what you request.”
The following morning the horn blasts woke the town, summoning the peasants to the yard of the very humble Evenfall Hall. They all thought they were attending the official choosing of Ser Jaime’s bride, but as soon as they arrived they understood that a fight would take place first. He made sure that banners of House Tarth and House Lannister flew on both sides of the yard, and the knight was glad to provide his now endless gold to welcome them with food and drink and trumpets.
From the crowds there came a gasp when Lady Brienne proudly walked to meet him, wearing her mail and armor of bronze and blue; it was her only prized possession, passed down generation by generation and fitted to her size before Lord Selwyn had become impoverished. Jaime himself wore his gold plate armor, catching the first rays of light and shining like the sun itself, with a red Lannister cloak flying with the wind. His golden curls rested upon his shoulders, and his green eyes glimmered with delight at the prospect of fighting for his lady’s hand.
Lady Arianne and Lady Alysanne sat at both sides of their father on the bench of honor, wearing their most lavish dresses yet, undoubtedly acquired with the last of their gold in order to charm him into choosing one of them. Arianne’s dress was jade, with a tight bodice that emphasized her generous bosom, while Alysanne wore a gown of grey that beautifully shaped her slender figure, with elegant sleeves that almost brushed the ground. Lord Selwyn’s only extravagant piece of clothing was his cloak, embroidered with the sigil of his house from the day of his own wedding. The peasants and other guests gathered merrily around them in a circle, leaving enough distance for the match to develop comfortably.
At the last blow of the horn they drew their swords, twins in opposing hands, kissing each other and coming apart, sparks flying in every direction. Brienne swung high; Jaime parried and thrust back towards her sword arm, but she dodged with impressive ease for a woman of her proportions. He tried once more but she trapped his blade with hers and knocked it aside, drawing closer and pushing him with her shoulder, forcing him to move back. He saw the chance to swing his blade up from the ground, catching her off guard and slashing her left shoulder.
Brienne walked back a step and he almost lost himself in her bright blue eyes, calm as the sea on a windless day, calm as the silence after the storm has subsided, calm as death. With a sure stroke she pushed him back, back once more, back another step, Widow’s Wail met her sister at every turn, until one of his parries was too slow and Brienne deftly knocked him to the ground, his blade slipping out of his fingers and the tip of her sword at his neck.
Her expression betrayed her disappointment at his mistake, and he knew he must wed this woman at all cost. She would give him all he could wish for, a partner to fight, a challenge to keep his heart beating, an opponent and a friend and a lover that would make his blood boil, if she would love him in the bedchamber the way she fought in the training yard.
So he managed to slip from the reach of her sword at the cost of a shallow cut on his neck, pulling her legs out from under her and coming to sit atop her. He took the dagger he kept at his back, placing it firmly against her throat. At the gesture she dropped her grip on Oathkeeper.
The blood dripping from the wound at his neck mixed with the blood pouring from the slash on her shoulder, binding them forever in life and death. Once it was announced that he was the victor, he stood and helped her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her and covering her lips with his in a chaste, sweet kiss that brought an innocent blush to her cheeks.
The crowd rose and broke into applause and cheers, understanding that this was the confirmation of a great wedding to come, with many years of prosperity for the Sapphire Isle, for the knight would now become its protector and set it to rights.
At the sight of their kiss there were two shrieks, and Jaime and his bride watched her sisters screaming their despair at witnessing the knight of their fantasies choosing to wed their grotesque sister.
“I shall not live in a world where this monstrosity weds before me!” Arianne exclaimed, ripping apart the delicate green veil that adorned her long hazelnut curls. In her anger she approached the nearest well and jumped inside without another word. A splash was heard moments after, and she was drowned by her ambition.
“I shall not live in a world where my shining knight sets me aside in the name of the Maid of Tarth,” said Alysanne, her face full of infuriated tears. “I shall live and die in a song, where no knight will ever deny me.” And so she headed for the godswood, a forgotten place, and hung herself from a branch while the face etched upon the weirwood wept crimson tears.
The ravens appeared once more, dozens of them, filling the sky with the black of night. Some landed on the branches of the white tree, while others came to rest on the edge of the well; and so it was that the Stranger materialized before them.
“I have come to claim my payment,” his voice boomed for all to hear, moths flying out at his every word. Then the yard was filled with deep, malicious laughter. “You see, I have now taken three souls instead of your single one.”
“’Tis not three, can you not reckon? Lady Brienne has but two sisters,” the knight told the Stranger.
“Why, it is you who are mistaken! Your sweet twin has leapt from the highest tower of the Red Keep upon hearing news of your betrothal,” the villain replied with a mocking tone, “and all their souls belong to me now.”
The god abandoned them, his desire now satiated, and the malice of the spirits of Lady Brienne’s sisters faded from Evenfall Hall. The air became filled with sweetness as a thousand roses blossomed around them, awakening the land from its long, painful slumber.