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Chapter Text

‘Tyrion will plead guilty and join the Night’s Watch,’ Tywin pronounced.  Jaime flinched. Life on the Wall was brutal and depressingly short. ‘In exchange, you will renounce your place in the Kingsguard--’

‘I took a vow for life,’ Jaime objected.

‘Do you want to save your brother or not?’  Tywin leaned back, giving Jaime a beady glare that made Jaime feel as if he was clearly in the sights of a ruthless bird of prey.  ‘I’ll have the High Septon brought over at once. A sizeable donation can ease any misgivings he might have.’ He folded his hands together.  ‘You will leave the Kingsguard, return to Casterly Rock as my heir, and marry a suitable woman to produce legitimate heirs.’

‘I choose the woman,’ Jaime countered.  He didn’t want to marry anybody, but if he had to, he wanted a say in who she was.

‘With my approval,’ Tywin retorted.  Jaime’s hand clenched into a fist, but he nodded once in acquiescence.  Tywin rose from the chair behind the desk, and opened the door. He spoke to someone in the corridor, then returned to the desk.  He picked up a quill, and dipped it into the inkpot, then held it poised over a sheet of parchment. ‘Do you have any potential candidates?  Surely you must know of one or two eligible ladies.’’

Jaime’s chest felt as if it had a strip of linen wrapped tightly around it and forced himself to take a deep breath.  ‘Just one,’ he heard himself say. ‘Lady Brienne.’

Tywin slowly lowered his hand.  ‘Lord Selwyn Tarth’s daughter?’ he asked skeptically.

‘Yes.’

Tywin’s eyes narrowed.  ‘I see you’ve discovered how to use your mind after all.’  Jaime’s brows drew together in an unspoken question. ‘With Renly Baratheon gone and Stannis all but done for, we’ll need a new alliance in the Stormlands.  Tarth may not be a major house, but Lord Selwyn’s a respected man. Tarth is an excellent strategic location to protect Westerosi interests in the Narrow Sea.’

‘That’s not why…’  Jaime closed his mouth hard enough to make his teeth clack painfully together.  Tywin would never believe him anyway. He turned away from the desk, left hand reaching to his opposite shoulder, fumbling at the buckle of his Kingsguard armor.  Tywin shoved his chair back, impatience clearly written on his face and tried to brush Jaime’s hand aside. ‘I don’t need your help,’ Jaime snapped. Tywin’s chin lifted, but he gave Jaime a long, appraising look.  He walked to the door and beckoned to a page, murmuring something Jaime couldn’t hear. The leather strap slithered from the buckle, and the armor fell to the floor with a clatter.  

Unable to sit or stand still, Jaime prowled around the room, ceasing only when the door opened to admit a rather confused -- albeit teetering on the brink of rage -- Brienne.  Jaime crossed to her and stood so his mouth was next to her ear. ‘I’ll explain everything later.’ He gripped her hand in what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, but his palm was sweaty and cold.  ‘My father’s agreed to let Tyrion plead guilty and take the black. If I leave the Kingsguard and marry,’ he told her quickly in a low voice.  

Before he could say another word, the High Septon swept into the room.  Brienne turned her large blue eyes on him, swimming with disbelief. Jaime felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.  He would have bet his gold hand that Tywin had the man awakened and brought to the Red Keep at dawn, just to have him on hand for this.  And he’d walked right into the trap. Tywin gestured for the two of them to come to where he stood with the septon, the severe expression he wore stated he would brook no arguments from either one of them.  It was a familiar sensation Jaime knew well from his childhood. The blood drained from Brienne’s face until the only color left was the sapphire blue of her eyes. His body moved without conscious thought until he stood in front of the High Septon.  The septon’s mouth formed words, but Jaime couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears. He managed to make out the words, “Kingsguard” and “vows,” followed by “in the Light of the Seven.” Jaime expected the High Septon to leave, then, but man was still blathering on about something.  He just wanted the man to stop talking and leave so he could whisk Brienne away to a quiet corner of the garden and tell her everything.  The septon took Jaime’s right wrist -- or what remained of it -- and tried to place Brienne’s hand on his golden one.  Jaime jerked it back, comprehension dawning.

Tywin meant for Brienne to marry him.  Now. 

Jaime twisted awkwardly and tried to offer his left hand, but the High Septon shook his head.  ‘The right, if you please, Ser Jaime.’

Jaime attempted to shove the sleeve of his surcoat back so he could remove the golden hand, but it wouldn’t stay up. He would willingly marry Brienne this moment if it meant Tyrion would live, but not while wearing the despised golden hand.  Brienne laid gentle fingers over his, stilling his increasingly frantic actions in a manner reminiscent of how he’d prevented her from snatching up the knife next to her plate at Harrenhal and driving it into Roose Bolton’s throat. She folded back the cuff and picked apart the knot in the laces binding the hand to his arm.  Jaime yanked the hand off his stump, and flung it to the floor, and then thrust out his stump toward the septon. Brienne’s right hand settled over his stump. The septon produced a finely woven strip of silk, richly embroidered with seven-pointed stars and wrapped Brienne’s hand and Jaime’s stump. ‘Let it be known that Jaime of House Lannister and Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.  In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.’  The septon untied the silk with a flourish. 

They both stood, numb and mute until the septon loudly cleared his throat.  Jaime and Brienne stumbled over the words of the vows. ‘Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…  I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days,’ Jaime murmured, Brienne echoing the words.  

‘You have until dawn to produce proof you’ve consummated the marriage,’ Tywin warned.  ‘None of this silly waiting like your brother.’

‘Proof?’ Jaime choked.

Tywin’s pale green eyes flicked over Brienne.  ‘Are you a maiden, girl, or not?’ he demanded. Brienne’s cheeks slowly reddened as she nodded, gulping, her lips pressed together.  Tywin rounded on Jaime. ‘The bedsheet will do.’ Brienne’s face darkened with unrestrained fury. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of having your things in the White Sword Tower packed and sent to your lady wife’s chamber.’

Jaime began to leave, towing Brienne behind him.  He paused his hand on the latch of the door. ‘One more thing,’ he said flatly. ‘Brienne and I escort Tyrion to Castle Black.  And the Lady Sansa will retire to the Rock with us.’

‘You haven’t earned the right to make demands of me,’ Tywin growled, low and dangerous. 

Jaime lifted his stump, Brienne’s fingers still clutched around it. You want me to use my mind, Father? ‘You agree to this now, or I swear by the old gods and the new, that I will find the closest septon, set this marriage aside, and take the black myself.’  Leaving you with no legitimate heirs.  So much for your thousand year dynasty, Father.

Tywin glared at Jaime. ‘Very well.’

Chapter Text

Brienne drew up short at the number of people scurrying around her chamber.  Correction. Their chamber.  Someone set a sword on the mantle of the fireplace next to a lion carved from snow white marble.  Two older pages arranged a set of Lannister armor on a stand in the corner. Another stand sat next to it, the armor hidden under one of Jaime’s spare Kingsguard cloaks.  One of the maids layered his clothing into the cupboard next to hers. It was all suddenly far, far too much. And so very real. The room began to spin, while the floor heaved like the sea during a storm.  Her mouth flooded with saliva and cold sweat beaded along her hairline. She made a soft choking noise. Jaime inspected her with evident concern, then barked, ‘Leave us.’ To their credit, the servants and pages withdrew with no little haste.  Jaime made Brienne sit on the edge of the bed, then pushed her head between her knees. ‘Breathe,’ he told her, his hand stroking the length of her back. ‘Slowly.’ The nausea eased and Brienne looked up at Jaime. ‘Why?’ she asked in a plaintive voice.

Jaime sighed and continued to run his fingertips down Brienne’s back, stroking her like a cat.  It only troubled her slightly to realize if she had been a cat, she would have purred. ‘My father asked if I wanted to save Tyrion.  I told him I would never survive a trial by combat. Not fighting with my left hand. He said not to be stupid, that would deprive him of his heir.’  Jaime spat the last word as if it tasted foul. ‘The only way to spare Tyrion’s life was to agree to be his heir and marry.’ Jaime’s eyes closed and he hunched forward, exhaustion lining his face.  ‘I told him I reserved the right to choose the woman I married, so he asked for a list of ladies I might consider marrying.’ He rubbed his hand over his face.  

‘And I happened to occupy a space on your list?’ Brienne asked askance.  ‘And your father chose me because I was already here.’

‘You were the only name,’ Jaime corrected quietly.

Brienne sat up.  ‘Surely there were others.’

Jaime shook his head.  ‘You’re the only person in this world besides Tyrion who doesn’t look at me and see the Kingslayer.  You see me.’ He paused and cupped Brienne’s cheek in his hand. ‘The real me. Flaws, mistakes...’

The tip of Brienne’s tongue inched across her dry lips.  ‘And your sis-- Cersei?’ She didn’t want to hear that Jaime had left Cersei’s bed just hours before agreeing to marry her, but asked all the same.  ‘Did you…? Since we arrived?’’ She gave the bed behind them a significant look.

‘Not since Robert made the trek to Winterfell to ask Ned Stark to be his Hand.’  Brienne nodded, then abruptly stood and reached for the laces of her tunic at the small of her back, loosening them until she could wriggle out of it.  She emerged from the swathes of blue wool to find Jaime staring open-mouthed at her. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘Your father wants proof.’  She undid the laces at the neck of her shirt and pulled it over her head.  ‘The sooner we get it over with…’ Brienne dropped the shirt and bent her head to work on the laces of her trousers.  

Jaime reached out and touched the back of her hand.  ‘Wait.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the toes of his boots, which Brienne felt was unnecessary. He’d seen her naked in the baths at Harrenhal, after all.  His hand slid to the slight curve of her waist, burning a path over her skin. ‘Not like this…’ He swallowed hard, then let his gaze roam over her, taking her in at his leisure.  Brienne’s arms tensed with the warring sensations of wanting to cross them over her bare breasts and keeping them at her sides.  

‘But your father said...’ Brienne stammered.  

‘My father can fuck himself with that golden hand,’ Jaime snarled.  He held up his hand and took in a deep breath. ‘I’m not angry at you.’  He bent forward and rested his forehead against Brienne’s stomach, exhaling slowly.   ‘I am sorry. I didn’t know he was going to produce the bloody High Septon and to perform the wedding at that very moment.’

Brienne haltingly lifted a hand, and then tentatively combed her fingers through his hair.  Jaime hummed and she felt some of the rigidity leave his shoulders. ‘What do you think will happen if we fail to produce sufficient proof we’ve consummated this… marriage?’

Jaime’s hand gripped one of hers hard enough to make the bones in her knuckles grind together.  He shuddered. ‘Tyrion will have a trial. He will be found guilty; my father will make sure of it.  He will die.’

‘Do you find me so repugnant that you cannot just…’  Brienne bit her lip, feeling the nausea rise in her throat again.  ‘Close your eyes, think of someone else -- some other woman -- and do it?’

‘Close my eyes and do my duty, is that it?’  

‘Yes.’  And why not?  Women had been forced to do the same for millenia.  They would only have to do it once. And then he would never need to grace her bed again.  Unless children were part of the bargain. Naturally they would have to be. Men like Tywin Lannister wanted sons and grandsons as their legacy.  Perhaps the gods would be merciful and their first -- and hopefully only -- child would be a son. 

Jaime stooped and retrieved Brienne’s shirt and held it out to her. She silently took it and stiffly pulled it over her head, jabbing her arms into the sleeves. He leaned to one side, peering out the window to judge the angle of the sun.  ‘We have plenty of time.’ He propped his back against one of the bedposts and studied Brienne so intently, she felt a flush creep up her neck. ‘Have you had breakfast yet?’ he inquired suddenly. 

‘No.’

Jaime snorted. ‘No wonder you’re so pale. An ambush of a wedding on an empty stomach.’  He pushed himself to his feet, hand working at the fastenings of the Kingsguard surcoat.  He shrugged and let the surcoat slip from his shoulders. ‘I’ll have some food brought up.’  He went to the cupboard and pulled out a pair of dark brown roughspun trousers and a dark red leather doublet. 

‘Where are you going?’  Brienne winced. She sounded like a possessive shrew. 

‘I need to see Tyrion before anything else happens.’  Jaime toed off his boots and fumbled with the laces of the Kingsguard trousers, kicking them off. ‘If he’s not willing to plead guilty, then you and I are going to find a septon and have this marriage set aside.  There’s no use in ruining you for nothing.’

Brienne felt the sting of unexpected tears. Of course it’s only for Tyrion.  ‘As you wish,’ she said tightly, willing her voice not to break. 

Jaime stood, the doublet dangling off one arm.  ‘I only meant --’ he began, but Brienne shook her head, feeling unaccountably hurt.  She climbed into the window sill and wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest.  ‘Just go.’ She laid her cheek on her knees and stared out of the window until she heard the chamber door open and close.

Chapter Text

Jaime stared at the back of Brienne’s head, a thousand words dying in his throat.  He slid his other arm into its sleeve and pulled his boots on, feeling rather baffled.  What did I say…?   He recognized the stiff set of Brienne’s shoulders.  She wouldn’t hear a word he said just now. Jaime heaved a sigh, and opened the door.  Two Lannister guards stood sentry on either side of it. He stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him.  ‘Are you to keep me in or keep anyone else out?’ he asked, feeling his shoulders inch toward his ears.  

‘We’re to see you’re not disturbed,’ one of them muttered.  ‘M’lord Tywin’s orders.’

Jaime dragged his hand down his face.  It was far too early for so much turmoil and upheaval.  He sent a brief prayer to the Warrior, that He might keep Cersei away from Brienne until he returned.  Guards wouldn’t stop her. Cersei’s hatred of Brienne was a particularly vile poison. She blamed Brienne for everything that was different about Jaime, from his lack of a right hand to his changed regard of Cersei and outright refusal of her expectation that he warm her bed. His time in the Riverlands had afforded Jaime the opportunity to reevaluate his relationship with his sister.  She still viewed him as some sort of possession that was hers to do with as she pleased. 

Losing his hand sent him into a spiral of despair, and he had Brienne to thank for his life.  She’d goaded and coaxed him into living in the immediate aftermath of losing his hand. She’d helped nurse him back to health in Harrenhal, after he’d collapsed, burning with a raging fever.  She had talked to him, when she thought he was too delirious to comprehend what she’d said. She talked about Tarth and her favorite spot to hide near a waterfall, sheltered by a stand of cypress trees.  She spoke of Goodwin, the master-at-arms of Evenfall, who had taught her how to fight with a sword. Her father, who had no knowledge of how to raise a proper lady and eventually acquiesced to her desire to learn how to fight.  He’d awakened more than once to find himself shivering with chills, cradled in her arms as she desperately tried to keep him warm in the drafty chamber he’d been given in Harrenhal. When he woke after his fever broke, she was gone, and he felt inexplicably bereft without her presence. 

Cersei would have left him lying face-down in a mud puddle, retching up horse piss, if it served to save her own skin. 

He stopped in the kitchens and arranged for enough food to be sent to their chamber for both himself and Brienne, and then continued to the dungeons. 

Jaime roughly shook the dungeon guard awake. ‘I want to see Lord Tyrion,’ he demanded. 

‘But Lord Tywin—‘

Jamie bent until his nose was a bare inch away from the guard’s.  ‘Let me in to see Lord Tyrion this instant or I will personally drop you off the top of the Wall into the hands of the wildlings,’ he threatened in a low growl. The guard scrambled for the key and unlocked Tyrion’s cell.  Jaime stepped into the small, dim room. The door closed behind him, but the guard didn’t lock the door. 

Tyrion rolled over on the stone ledge that served as a bed, sitting up when he saw who had come into the cell.  He examined Jaime, squinting in the semi-darkness. ‘That isn’t regulation Kingsguard attire.’

‘I’ve left the Kingsguard,’ Jaime said wearily, crossing the cell and folding himself to the floor next to Tyrion. 

‘You can’t just leave the Kingsguard.’

Jaime laughed, but it was hollow and tinged with bitterness. ‘You can when Tywin Lannister desires it.’  He let his head rest against the wall. ‘Did you do it?’ he asked, staring straight ahead as if the post in the center of the cell was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. 

Tyrion scowled. ‘Of course not. I’m not stupid enough to attempt murder at a wedding feast in full view of hundreds of guests.’  

‘Had to ask.’

Tyrion poked Jaime hard in the shoulder. ‘You know me better than that.’  Tyrion leaned forward. ‘It must be difficult for you to lose a child,’ he said in a bare murmur.

‘Not as much as one might think,’ Jaime snorted, thinking he ought to feel something about Joffery’s death.  His initial reaction to watching the life leave Joffery’s eyes was one of abject relief.  He might have sired Joffery, but the boy wasn’t his in any way that counted. He’d only held Joffery once, when he was a day or two old for the space of a heartbeat. Joffery had Robert Baratheon’s name, but Robert had little hand in raising him.  He was completely and totally Cersei’s creature. Even Jaime’s rather tarnished sense of honor and decency had been appalled by Joffery’s behavior since he’d returned to King’s Landing. The triumphant gloating about the Red Wedding. The pleasure he took in tormenting those he saw as beneath him.  In truth, Jaime viewed Joffery’s death as no great loss. His brief reign had threatened to tip the entire country into outright revolt. He wasn’t the only one. Tommen hadn’t seemed very upset at Joffery’s death, either. Realizing he would sit on the Iron Throne was what made Tommen’s rosy cheeks blanch. Jaime felt sorry for him. The poor lad hadn’t been prepared, nor educated for this. The Tyrells were already making noises about marrying Margaery to Tommen after an appropriate period of mourning. Jaime entertained the idea of taking Tommen with him when he left the capital, but the boy was just old enough to not have a regent, and one simply did not kidnap the king.  

Jaime leaned back against the wall.  ‘I need you to listen to me.’ He stayed silent until he was certain he had Tyrion’s full attention.  ‘Father will offer you the opportunity to plead guilty in the morning. You will then be allowed to go to the Wall and take the black.’

Tyrion stiffened.  ‘The same way Joffery allowed Ned Stark to go to the Wall and take the black?’

‘No.  You will leave this city unharmed.’

Tyrion gazed at Jaime, skepticism clearly written on his face.  ‘And how do I know my minders won’t slaughter me on the Kingsroad?’

‘Because I will escort you.’

Tyrion slid off the ledge and stood in front of Jaime.  ‘And what does Father receive in return?’ he asked, dread making his voice tight.

Jaime looked up and met his brother’s solemn eyes.  ‘Me.’

‘You daft, stupid son of a gutter whore!’ Tyrion moaned.

‘I understand you’re upset, but that’s no way to speak of our mother,’ Jaime said with a weak smile.  

‘What do you mean he gets you?’

‘I left the Kingsguard and will take up my rightful position as the heir to Casterly Rock,’ Jaime said dully.  ‘Oh, and I said I would marry someone to produce legitimate heirs,’ he added in an off-handed manner.

‘Fuck,’ Tyrion spat quietly.

‘It’s not as bad as all that,’ Jaime insisted.  ‘I demanded to choose the lady. If I had to marry someone, I wanted to marry someone that can tolerate my presence.’

Tyrion dropped to the floor next to Jaime.  ‘Oh, don’t tell me…’

‘The lady happens to be in residence at the moment, so the moment the High Septon released me from my Kingsguard vows, she and I were married.’

‘At least you were able to choose your wife.  Poor Sansa was forced to marry me.’ Tyrion massaged his temples.  ‘What unfortunate woman is going to be saddled with you for the rest of her life?’

‘Lady Brienne of Tarth.’

‘And Father approved?’

‘Clearly.’  Jaime touched Tyrion’s sleeve.  ‘But wait. There’s more.’

‘I don’t know if my heart can take it,’ Tyrion muttered sourly.

‘We have to produce evidence we’ve consummated the marriage by sunrise or the deal is off.’

Tyrion’s mouth dropped open, and he gawked at Jaime for an uncomfortably long time before breaking into peals of near-hysterical laughter.  ‘Father’s tied your hands — pardon me — hand rather neatly hasn’t he?’ he wheezed.  

Jaime gripped Tyrion’s elbow in his hand, hard enough to make Tyrion stop laughing.  ‘Will you shut up and listen to me for once in your life?’ he hissed, his mouth close to his brother’s ear.  Tyrion covered his mouth with his hand, and sagged against Jaime, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.  ‘I have a plan. But I need you to plead guilty.  Then Brienne and I can get you and Sansa Stark out of Father’s clutches.’

‘And Podrick,’ Tyrion blurted.

‘Who?’

Tyrion sighed with evident exasperation.  ‘You remember Podrick. My squire?’ At Jaime’s nod, he continued.  ‘He saved my life at Blackwater. He’s got no one else, and I refuse to leave him amongst the vipers.  One viper in particular.’ He fiddled with the cuff of one sleeve. ‘He said she’s offered him a knighthood, lands, and gold in exchange for his testimony against me. Which he won’t give,’ Tyrion added. 

‘We’ll take Podrick as well.’

‘So Lady Brienne of Tarth.’  Tyrion stroked his chin. ‘I don’t know much about her.’

‘She’s stubborn, pig-headed, mulish…  Refuses to listen to me,’ Jaime grumbled.

‘She sounds perfect for you,’ Tyrion interjected.  ‘You need someone to challenge you every so often.’

‘She bested me with a sword,’ Jaime admitted, with more than a little chagrin.  ‘I could diminish it, diminish her by offering excuses.  I was out of practice. I’d spent months chained to a pole with the Starks.  I was weakened by captivity. All of that’s true. But she’s good. She’s very good.’

‘For a woman.’

‘For anyone,’ Jaime corrected.  He didn’t see Tyrion’s brow sweep upward in surprise.  He shifted in the straw on the floor. ‘I told her about Aerys.  All of it.’ He blinked and swallowed hard. ‘And she believed me.’  He sniffed and rubbed his stump under his nose. ‘She calls me Ser Jaime.  With no scorn or mockery.’ He smiled, a little wistfully, picturing Brienne in that ridiculous pink dress.  It was far too short and too snug, and it did her no favors, but she refused to let it unnerve her. She sat across from Roose Bolton, head held high.  ‘Lord Bolton released me, then gave Brienne to his men for entertainment. I went back for her. They’d thrown her into a bear pit with a wooden sword. I jumped in after her like a fool, with one hand and no weapon save my own wits.’

‘So you went in quite unarmed, then?’ Tyrion laughed heartily at his own joke.  

‘And now she is inexorably bound to me,’ Jaime muttered.

‘She doesn’t have to be,’ Tyrion said, fingering a rip in his trousers.  ‘Father caught the both of you by surprise. She could refuse you her bed out of spite.’

Jaime shook his head.  ‘She’s so bloody honorable, that refusing is not an option.  Not when someone else’s life is at stake. Vows are inviolate to her.  All those vows I swore when Arthur Dayne knighted me, she lives and breathes.’  He rubbed the end of his stump. ‘We only have to… Once. And when you’re safe, then perhaps we can have the marriage set aside.’

Tyrion inhaled deeply through his nose.  ‘Jaime, might I make an observation? It appears to me that you respect and even admire this woman.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Why would you want to set it aside?’  Tyrion plucked a bit of straw from the pile underneath them, and began to doodle in the packed earth of the floor.  ‘Unless my sister is still a factor in your decisions?’

‘That’s a topic for a different conversation,’ Jaime mumbled.  ‘And no, she’s not a factor in any of this.’

‘Then why does it sound as if you don’t want Lady Brienne?’

Jaime flung a piece of straw at the wall with barely suppressed irritation.  ‘That, my dear brother is the problem. I want her. But she can’t spend the rest of her life married to the Kingslayer.  She deserves better than me.’

‘I don’t know Lady Brienne well, but I imagine if she chooses not to do something, she won’t do it.’  Tyrion got to his feet and began to pace slowly around the cell. ‘She could have told Father no, and she did not.’  He scrubbed both hands over his face. ‘There’s something else bothering you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Jaime muttered.

‘Why are you sitting in my charming accommodations when you could be with your lady wife?’  Tyrion gave him a knowing look.  

Jaime glared at the wall so he didn’t have to look at his brother.  ‘I don’t… I don’t know how…’ He was deeply mortified by what he was about to say, and felt a flush spread up the back of his neck to his cheeks and ears.  He was certain Tyrion could see it glowing in the gloomy light of the cell. ‘I’ve only ever been with one woman,’ he confessed.  

Tyrion leaned against the wall next to Jaime, comprehension dawning on his features.  ‘You’re nervous.’ Jaime’s shoulder jerked, and he tried to avoid Tyrion’s deeply amused gaze.  ‘Don’t know why. You do have experience, such as it is.’

Jaime’s jaw clenched.  ‘Not nearly as much as one might think.  I never had to seduce her. And when Robert was alive, we had to be cautious, so the opportunities were somewhat few and far between.  Especially if we didn’t want to arouse suspicion.’ He rubbed his thumb between his brows. ‘And Brienne’s a… Well, you know…’

‘I see…’  Tyrion plucked up another piece of straw and began to twiddle it between his fingers.  ‘I have this game,’ he pronounced.

‘Does it involve copious amounts of wine and humiliation?’ Jaime interrupted.  He didn’t recall Brienne drinking wine during their travels. And he’d never been able to maintain an erection after more than a few cups of wine.  Especially now that he was getting older.

Tyrion paused, mouth half open.  ‘Yes. I believe it does.’

‘That’s a no from me,’ Jaime murmured.  ‘I don’t know how you can drink that much wine and still fuck like an overeager fifteen year old.’

‘It’s a gift,’ Tyrion retorted.  ‘There’s a book in my chamber.’

Jaime snorted.  By the time he managed to read half of it, it would be the next week.  ‘I hope you have another suggestion.’

‘I do.  And this is the very last thing I can offer.’  Tyrion slapped Jaime on the shoulder. ‘Go have this discussion with your wife.’

Jaime got to his feet and crossed the cell to the door.  ‘Don’t forget to plead guilty, or all this is for naught, hmmm?’

Chapter Text

Brienne pressed her cheek to her knees and stared out of the window until her vision blurred, waiting for Jaime to leave.  She half expected him to slam the door, but he closed it gently behind him. Only then did she exhale with a shudder and unfold herself until she could lean against the side of the window frame.  If she were honest with herself, she couldn’t fault Jaime. There was no benefit in yoking himself to Brienne the Beauty. She was likely to embarrass him as the lady of Casterly Rock. Say the wrong thing.  Do the wrong thing. Birth daughter after daughter instead of a son. Undermine his authority with the Lannister army. He was on friendly terms with her, but how long would that last? Until he realized his taunts were, in fact, true?  That she was as boring as she was ugly? Would he send her home to Evenfall in disgrace?  

Brienne set her feet firmly on the floor and squared her shoulders.  ‘Do stop moping,’ she said sternly to herself. There was very little she could actually control at this very moment, other than her own emotions.  She stood and began to wander aimlessly about the chamber, examining the bits and pieces that belonged to Jaime. His Lannister armor stood silent sentry in the corner near the fire.  She let out a soft, scoffing snort. What was it with the Lannisters and plastering lions over anything and everything they wore? A sigil was one thing, but this nearly bordered on the ridiculous.  The gorget, pauldrons, and couters all had lion heads. Even the etched designs of the crimson breastplate echoed the lion on the gorget. Brienne’s head tilted to the side as she tried to imagine herself in such fanciful garb.   She resolved to remove all but a single lion as a nod to the family’s sigil. If she were forced to. Perhaps she could talk a smith into etching suns and crescent moons around it. Or none at all, which would have been her preference.  Brienne abandoned the armor, and ran a finger over the sinuous curves of the lion on the mantle. She’d heard rumors that there were lions in great cages under Casterly Rock. She wondered if the rumors were true. Her gaze shifted to the sword.  It was beautiful. She stroked the flat of the blade with a delicate touch, tracing the patterns in the metal. The peculiar dark grey proclaimed it to be Valyrian steel. The hilt was gilded with gold, the pommel and quillions shaped into snarling lions, with a ruby set just under the crossguard.  It all but shouted Lannister. Even so, she longed to use it someday. Brienne worried her lower lip between her teeth for a moment and then with a decisive nod to herself, wrapped her right hand around the sword and lifted it from the stand. The sword was lighter than the ones she’d used before. So much so that it felt like an extension of her arm.  Brienne pivoted on a heel to Jaime’s armor and saluted it with the sword before indulging in a bit of swordplay. She felt unbeatable with it in her hand. After several minutes, Brienne reluctantly returned the sword to its stand, giving it one last reverent caress. She glanced around the chamber, then bent and retrieved the trousers Jaime had removed earlier and folded and stowed them in the cupboard, more for something to do than a desire to tidy anything.  She picked up the Kingsguard surcoat and after a moment’s hesitation, held it to her nose, rubbing the soft leather with her thumbs.  

The door rattled, and Brienne turned to face it, draping Jaime’s surcoat over the back of one of the chairs.  She hoped it was the food Jaime had promised, because she was famished. Perhaps this will all look better on the other side of breakfast , Brienne mused.  But rather than the expected kitchen maid, the last person Brienne had wanted to see swept through the door, cloaked with simmering fury.  ‘Leave us,’ Cersei said shortly, with the air of someone who expected their orders to be followed without question. She didn’t so much as glance at the guards that had trailed in after her or raise her voice above the cultured murmur she tended to employ in public.  One of the guards, a man roughly Jaime’s age with longish chestnut hair gathered into a tail at the nape of his neck, met Brienne’s eyes, with an upraised brow. Brienne gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. Cersei couldn’t hurt her physically. She might try emotionally, but truly, what could Cersei say that she had never heard from her childhood septa?  Or what Brienne had told herself in some of her lower moments. The guard sketched a bow in their direction. ‘Your Grace,’ he muttered. ‘My lady,’ he added with far more graciousness. He withdrew and closed the door behind him. Once they were alone, Cersei seemed to swell with indignation. Brienne had to smother an unseemly giggle. Cersei reminded her of the frogs she played with on the banks of the brooks near Evenfall.  

‘How dare you?’ Cersei hissed.

‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but to what do I owe the honor of this visit?’ Brienne asked flatly.  She couldn’t spar with Cersei verbally, but she wasn’t going to give the bloody woman the satisfaction of knowing anything she said bothered her.  It’s just like fighting…  let her wear herself out against you. 

‘You stole Jaime,’ Cersei said, the tendons of her neck stiff and rigid with the effort to not shout.  

‘I did no such thing,’ Brienne said blandly.  ‘He’s not a bauble I could shove into a pocket and hide.’

‘You cannot come between us,’ Cersei pronounced peevishly.  ‘We shared a womb. We are closer than anyone else in the world.’  She glared at Brienne, who simply presented a blank face that gave away nothing.  ‘He will tire of you and return to me.’

‘If that occurs, then I will wish you joy of him,’ Brienne returned in a bored voice, noting with grim satisfaction that Cersei’s eyes widened in surprise.  Oh yes, I know he used to fuck you, Brienne thought.  She’d known for more than a year, since Jaime confessed his fidelity to Cersei to Catelyn Stark, taunting her for Ned Stark’s apparent faithlessness, as evidenced by the presence of his bastard Jon Snow.  ‘None of this was my idea.’ Brienne made her way to the window and sat on the sill, fingers gripping the edge so she didn’t lose control of herself and clout Cersei, as she so richly deserved.  

‘It certainly wasn’t Jaime’s,’ Cersei retorted, two spots of color appearing high on her cheeks.  ‘There is nothing -- nothing -- that Jaime could possibly see in you.  You’re nothing more than a great, shambling, ugly beast.’  Her voice gradually grew louder the longer she spoke. Brienne had to suppress a yawn.  So far, Cersei had not added anything new to the litany of insults Brienne had heard her entire life.  ‘Jaime is mine !  Mine.  Some promise he’s made to our father will never change that,’ she snarled.  

The door flew open so hard it crashed into the wall.  Jaime strode into the chamber, and took Cersei’s elbow in vice-like grip.  He spun her around, cold fury written all over his face. He’d heard everything in the corridor, nearly frozen with shock at the vehemence with which his sister had spoken.  ‘I am not your plaything,’ Jaime said softly, dangerously. ‘Lady Brienne had nothing to do with this. It was all my doing. If you’d like to take your displeasure out on someone, let it be on my head.  Because if you so much as breathe in the direction of my wife, I will ensure it will be your last.’ He glanced up at the guards milling in the corridor. ‘Escort Her Grace back to her chambers.’ He caught the attention of the one who’d been in the room before.  ‘And do not let her near my wife for any reason.’

‘Of course, m’lord,’ the guard said.

‘You cannot order me about like I’m a common serving maid,’ Cersei said, yanking her arm from Jaime’s grasp and drawing herself up to her full height.  ‘I am the queen.’

‘You were the queen,’ Jaime corrected.  ‘But no more.’

Cersei flounced from the chamber is a rustle of heavy silk.  Jaime closed the door and slumped against it. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.  Brienne nodded. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to apologize for my father and sister even more before we leave.’  He pinched the bridge of his nose to try and ward of the incipient headache.  

‘What did Lord Tyrion say?’  Brienne rose from the window and crossed the room to Jaime.  

‘He’s agreed to everything.’  Jaime peered around the room. ‘Have they not brought the food yet?’ he grumbled with exasperation.  He pushed himself off the door and opened it to find a surprised-looking kitchen boy, carrying a large basket in each hand.  He thrust them at Jaime with a mumbled, ‘M’lord…’ Brienne took the baskets and the kitchen boy scampered off. She set them on the table, breathing in the comforting scent of freshly baked bread.  Jaime joined her at the table and they each took a roll, already dripping with melted butter and honey, that they devoured standing up. Brienne began to unpack the baskets, and the movements of her shoulders caught Jaime’s eye.

The unlaced neck of Brienne’s shirt exposed the scars left by the bear on her throat and collarbone.  Jaime unthinkingly reached out with his stump, grazing over them with the edge of it. He let out the pent up breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when she didn’t flinch with disgust.  Stupid of him to think she would only because everyone else tried to avoid it. His eyes filled with a swirl of regret and remorse. ‘I should have fought harder for you,’ he murmured. ‘Demanded your release.’

Brienne’s hand drifted up and her fingers closed around his wrist.  ‘You were in no position to demand anything.’ Her thumb began to move in small circles, an unconscious gesture and feather-light caress.  ‘Why did you return for me? You could have left and been free of me,’ she whispered.

Jaime’s breath caught.  ‘I could no more leave you behind than I can allow my brother to be executed for a crime he did not commit.’  He shrugged with a bashful half-smile. ‘I couldn’t leave one of the only friends I have to the not-so-tender mercies of men who willingly served Roose Bolton.’  Brienne’s face burned with a deepening flush. The fact that Jaime considered her a friend and not an annoyance added a new wrinkle to her already disordered day.  The tip of Jaime’s finger briefly traced the scar over Brienne’s lip just before his mouth brushed over it in a fleeting kiss.

Brienne jerked back, mouth tightening in bemusement.  ‘Don’t,’ she choked. ‘It would be easier if we did not…’  She groped for a word. ‘Complicate matters.’

‘Can’t you close your eyes and think of Renly?’ Jaime sneered. He regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth.  ‘My apologies, my lady. It was unkind…’

Brienne only looked at him with a level gaze. ‘I know I’m ugly and boring, but I’m not stupid,’ she said slowly, enunciating each word with care. ‘I am quite aware that Renly preferred men.’

‘Then why do you love him so?’ Jaime asked, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly out of jealousy, to his utter surprise.  He threw himself to the bed and toed off his boots. ‘Knowing he could never return it…’ Jaime swung his feet up and lounged against the pillows.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Brienne sighed, turning back to the baskets to inspect the assortment of food the kitchens had sent.  

‘Try me.’

Brienne’s shoulders hunched and she tucked a cloth around the cheese with a little more force than necessary.  ‘You wouldn’t understand because you’re you.’   

Jaime frowned at Brienne’s back.  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

Brienne spun around to face the bed where Jaime lay like a pampered cat.  ‘Because no one would dare to laugh at you,’ she muttered.

Jaime slowly sat up and slid off the bed.  He walked to Brienne and cupped her elbow in his hand, guiding her to one of the chairs before the fire, and after a silent battle of wills, coaxed her to sit in one.  ‘Whatever it is, I swear, I won’t laugh at you,’ he promised, taking the other chair.  

Brienne ran her fingers through her hair.  She thought, with an edge of hysteria, that this conversation might be best held with both of them in a bath, their physical nakedness aligned with their emotional nakedness.  ‘My father held a ball in my honor and invited dozens of young lords. To try and find a husband for me. I didn't want to attend, but my father had a new dress made for me, and one of the maids who had served my mother styled my hair.’

Jaime’s eyes flicked to Brienne’s cropped hair.  ‘Styled your hair…?’ he blurted in obvious bemusement.

‘It was longer,’ Brienne told him, her hand brushing the bottom of her ribcage.  ‘Just there. She didn’t do something elaborate like highborn ladies do in King’s Landing, but she’d braided ribbons that matched my dress in it, and tucked these tiny white flowers in the braids.’  Brienne shifted slightly in discomfort. ‘My father came to my chamber to escort me to the hall. If he hadn’t, I would have stayed in my chamber or snuck out to hide in the stables. The entire way, I kept telling him how much I didn’t want the bloody ball in the first place.  But when we walked into the hall…’ Brienne sighed, looking not at Jaime, but at a point beyond his shoulder. The room faded and she no longer saw the chamber in the Red Keep, but the hall of Evenfall. ‘All the lords began to shove one another in their haste to have their turn to dance with me.  None of them seemed to notice how cantankerous I’d been when I entered the hall. Or that I was taller than they were. Some by more than a head. And each one would tell me how they wanted to marry me and make me their lady. And my father was so pleased. And I began to hope that perhaps, just once, I could make him proud.’  Her lips pressed together and her nostrils flared. ‘Of course it didn’t last. They couldn’t manage to keep the charade going. Eventually, they began to snicker, calling me Brienne the Beauty.’ The corners of her mouth turned down as she struggled to maintain a grip on her emotions. ‘Renly was there, not because my father thought he would be a good match, but because he was on a tour of the Stormlands and was staying at Evenfall.’  Brienne inhaled deeply through her nose. ‘He caught me before I could flee the hall in humiliation, dried my tears, and asked me to dance. And he said not to let the others see me cry. That they were nasty little shits who didn’t deserve me anyway.’ She blinked several times and met Jaime’s gaze. ‘Renly knew what it was to be the butt of other people’s jokes. He was too kind to want to see someone else undergo that.’ She abruptly stood and strode to the window, recalling how her father had gently informed her that she and Renly wouldn’t suit one another and why in no uncertain terms.  She shook herself and turned back to Jaime. ‘After the ball ended, I ripped the dress off and wadded it into the corner of a cupboard. And then found one of my daggers and used it to cut my hair.’ She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I was going to live on my terms from there on out. No more dresses. No ribbons in my hair. The next morning, I challenged every last one of them to spar with me in the yard.’

‘How did that turn out?’ Jaime asked.

Brienne allowed a small, cold smile to cross her face.  ‘I defeated the ones who dared to take me up on it.’

‘I would have liked to see that.’  Jaime looked up at the mantle, then at Brienne.  Once again, she reminded him of Tyrion. Taking insults and turning them into armor.  He hoped they would get on with one another. He stood and picked up the sword, bobbling it a bit with his left hand.  He rested the blade against his opposite shoulder, then gave the hilt a little toss, so he could shift his grip to one of the quillions instead.  Jaime offered it to Brienne, who took it with a slight smile.

‘It is beautiful,’ she told him.  ‘The hilt is a little ostentatious, but the blade is a work of art.’  She turned the sword to and fro a little, letting the morning light play over the swirling marks that characterized Valyrian steel.  ‘Valyrian steel, is it not?’

‘It is.’  Jaime gestured to the sword.  ‘It’s yours.’

Brienne’s mouth fell open.  ‘I cannot accept this. It’s a family heirloom.’

‘And you’re my wife,’ Jaime told her.  ‘Consider it a wedding present.’

Brienne gaped at him.  ‘It’s far too much. And far too fine a weapon for the likes of me.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Jaime replied.  ‘Not nearly enough.’ His head tilted to one side, watching Brienne proceed to lovingly examine every inch of the sword.  He cleared his throat. ‘It was reforged from Ned Stark’s greatsword, Ice. You’ll use it to defend his daughter. It belongs in the hand of one who can wield it with honor and courage.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Brienne breathed.  

‘Don’t thank me yet.  I have one more gift for you,’ Jaime said.  He tugged at the cloak covering the second armor stand until it slithered off, revealing a second set of armor.  Brienne slowly walked toward him, her shining eyes fixed on the armor. Jaime resolved to send Tobho Mott an additional bag of gold, purely for the look on Brienne’s face.  She lifted the sleeve of the mailed shirt, studying the studded leather patches. They had been embossed with a sun, but the studs in the center of each sun were small, rather simple lion heads.  ‘When did you have this made?’ she asked, fingering one of the studs.

‘Weeks ago,’ Jaime admitted.  ‘I thought about having that remade,’ he told her, running a finger over the mailed shirt, ‘but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’  He looked at Brienne. She was never going to be stereotypically beautiful or pretty, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. ‘I found I rather liked the idea of you carrying something of me when you wore it.’  She moved her hand to the breastplate. ‘I hope I got the measurements right.’  

Brienne let out a soft laugh.  After all the days and weeks they spent tied to one another, huddling together for warmth at night, he probably knew her measurements quite well.  Jaime had chosen the design well. There was nothing extraneous about it. He had taken the bones of the armor her father had given her and kept only the best of it.  Streamlined it. Even the color was perfect. The deep blue of sapphires. ‘You said you ordered this weeks ago?’

‘When we first arrived in King’s Landing.’

Brienne replaced the sword on the stand, and stood with her hand resting on the mantle.  She turned her head to find Jaime almost staring at her.  

Brienne swallowed hard.  You see me, he’d said to her.  The real me… flaws, mistakes.  And yet, despite them, she respected him.  Admired his love for Tyrion. Her eyes flicked back to the armor stand, and then the sword.  He saw her. Who she was. Who she could be.

She slid one hand over his cheek, and shyly pressed her mouth to his.  

Chapter Text

Jaime drowsily contemplated Brienne while she slept next to him.  It was probably unseemly to think of another woman while he was in bed with his wife, but his thoughts turned invariably to Cersei.  Not because he missed her. He certainly did not, nor did he ever want to be in her bed again. But he had nothing else with which to compare.  

It had been awkward and he bumbled about far more than he felt he should.  He kept instinctively trying to use his missing right hand. They bumped noses.  Laces that should have come undone with the merest tug stayed stubbornly tied. Brienne erupted into a spate of nervous giggles when he settled between her legs, mouth pressed to inside of her thigh.  He nearly came when he entered her, like an inexperienced boy. It was over long before he wanted it to be.

But…

But it was extraordinary all the same.  Satisfying in a way that left him dazed and shaken.  

Fucking Cersei had never felt like that.  He did it out of a sense of obligation. Lessons of familial loyalty learned as a small child.  Bedding Cersei had always been hurried and furtive. They’d rarely removed more clothing than necessary.  There were times when Jaime had felt more like a prize stud, especially when she wanted to have a child, because Cersei didn’t want her children to be Robert’s get.  More often than not, she demanded to have him as a means of personal revenge against Robert. For his drinking and his whores. For his bastard children. The tower in Winterfell had been Cersei’s retaliation against Robert for pawing at the serving maids and humiliating her in such a public fashion.  Jaime had merely wanted to be with her, like they had done when they were children. To know someone loved him, when all he’d heard were whispers and murmurs of “Kingslayer” behind his back.  

Brienne knew him better than anyone else in this world.  She understood the conflict between his oath as a knight and his vow as part of the Kingsguard.  She saw through the bravado and swagger. She knew his secrets. And she didn’t look away or flinch.  The protected each other with a ferocity Jaime never thought to question. He owed his life to Brienne in more ways than one.  She could be a cold-blooded ruthless killer when her sense of justice demanded it. She could be hard and unyielding. And yet, in his half-remembered fever dreams from Harrenhal, he could feel her hands on his face, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead, her voice a lilting counterpart to the demons that chased each other inside his mind.  And gods help her, she was loyal to a fault. She was always so solemn, that Jaime considered it a personal victory if she allowed a smile, however small, to form on her lips at one of his jests. She’d smiled at him earlier, fingers tracing the planes of his face; her face glowed with the light of the thousand candles in the Great Sept of Baelor.  He’d realized in the hazy aftermath, her arms and legs still clasped around him, that Brienne had chosen him as much as he had chosen her. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d chosen Brienne. When she’d put a sack over his head in the Riverlands and boosted him onto a horse? When they were captured? When he’d lied through his teeth about the nonexistent sapphires on Tarth to save her life?  When he unsuccessfully tried to persuade Roose Bolton to allow him to take Brienne back to King’s Landing with him? When he had leapt into the bear pit, determined to save her or die trying? Returning to King’s Landing had forced him to look into the mirror that had once been his twin, and he no longer recognized himself in Cersei. He’d chosen Brienne every day since then.

A series of peremptory knocks rattled the door. Jaime slid from the bed, stooping to retrieve his discarded trousers. He pulled them on, not bothering to tie the laces.  They were snug enough to stay up. Jaime paused long enough to ensure his cock was securely tucked inside, and then yanked the door open before the person on the other side could wake Brienne. 

Lady Olenna Tyrell glared at him with an air that reminded Jaime of a displeased hen.  The many layers of her gown and veils did nothing to dispel the image of her as ruffled and vexed chicken.  Jaime had to choke back the laughs that rose in his throat. He glanced at the guards. ‘I thought we weren’t to be disturbed,’ he stated, eyeing his old friend Addam Marbrand, standing to the left of the door.  

One of Addam’s brows swept upward in an exasperated expression Jaime knew well.  ‘Have you ever tried to stop Lady Tyrell from doing what she wanted?’ he muttered.

‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ Olenna barked, not bothering to lower her voice.  

‘Lady Olenna,’ Jaime murmured, sketching a bow in her direction. 

‘It’s not every day the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is released from his vows. And then married immediately after,’ Olenna continued, her voice ringing in the corridor.  Jaime gritted his teeth. If the entire castle didn’t know what had happened, they did now.

‘How did you know?  It occurred just after daybreak.’  Jaime already knew. Gossip travelled swiftly in the Red Keep. No doubt half the inhabitants knew before all his belongings had been moved into Brienne’s chamber. 

‘And it’s midday now.  I know everything, boy.’ Olenna chortled. ‘Did anyone bother to ask the girl what she desired, or did your father force her hand?’

Jaime straightened his spine, glaring down his nose at the older woman.  ‘I may be many things, Lady Tyrell,’ he told her through stiff lips. ‘Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Man Without Honor,’ he spat. ‘But I am not a rapist,’ he hissed.  ‘I swear to you on my mother’s memory, that if Lady Brienne wanted no part of this, we would have ridden out to find the nearest septon and had the marriage set aside.’  He glanced over his shoulder when the bedding rustled. Brienne sat upright, the sheet clutched to her chest.

Olenna harrumphed with a noise that would have done credit to a man twice her size. ‘How do I know you don’t have the girl bound and gagged?  I haven’t lived this long by merely taking someone at their word.’

‘Her name is Brienne,’ Jaime snapped, provoked by Olenna’s incessant referral to Brienne as “the girl.”  He pressed his forehead against the edge of the door and inhaled deeply, counting to ten, then exhaled. ‘Do you wish to speak to Lady Brienne?  I can wake her.’ He heard a muffled squeak, and saw an explosion of bedclothes from the corner of his eye. Brienne sprang from the bed, and frantically yanked her trousers on, then pulled her shirt over her head as she padded to the door.  

‘Lady Olenna.’  Brienne’s greeting sounded breathless.  She ran her hands over her hair to try and smooth it down, but it stubbornly remained fluffed around her head.

Olenna merely grunted, and reached out with one hand.  She tweaked the unlaced collar of Brienne’s shirt aside, revealing the dusky purple mark Jaime had left at the base of her throat.  ‘Aren’t you a little too old to do that sort of thing?’ she asked Jaime.

‘Apparently not.’  Jaime tried not to smirk.  He failed miserably.  

Olenna turned to attention to Brienne and jabbed a gnarled finger toward Jaime.  ‘That one rather smugly informs me you entered into this union willingly.’ 

Brienne coughed, feeling a prickling burn creep up the back of her neck.  ‘I did.’

Olenna gave Brienne another long, pensive look.  ‘Tea. Tomorrow afternoon. Just the two of us. I’ll send someone to fetch you.’

‘I would be honored, my lady,’ Brienne replied, falling into the formal speech patterns she used when nervous,  unable to keep the bewildered frown from her face.  

Olenna pursed her lips.  ‘Hm.’ She turned rather unexpectedly and sailed away in a flutter of veils and skirts with a stately pace.  Brienne gaped after her, until the older woman disappeared around a corner.

Jaime sagged against the doorframe.  ‘I don’t care if the Seven demand to be let in,’ he told the guards.  ‘Tell them to piss off until tomorrow.’ He closed and bolted the door with a groan.

‘What does she want?’  Brienne stood rooted to the spot.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jaime shrugged.  He shoved his trousers down and kicked them across the room.  Brienne hastily averted her gaze, face turning a rich shade of scarlet.  ‘Oh, come now,’ Jaime chided. ‘You’re going to be bashful now?’  He rocked back on his heels, preening.  ‘You weren’t quite so modest a few hours ago.’

Brienne glanced up through her lashes.  ‘You look much better than you did in the bath,’ she allowed, marching to the bed and jerking the bedding back into place.  

Jaime grinned and picked up an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table.  ‘Less dirt.’ He ran his stump over his head and chin. ‘Less hair. I evicted the lice and fleas.  A few decent meals and sleep in a real bed and not the ground or some pathetic excuse for a bed in some village inn.’  He took a bite from the apple with a noisy crunch. His grin shifted from amused to outright smug when he caught Brienne examining him from the corner of her eye while she fiddled with the covelet of the bed.  ‘You needn’t be so prudish, my lady. We are married. Blessed by the High Septon, no less.’

Brienne’s hand slowly rose to cover her mouth.  ‘We’re married,’ she whispered in disbelief, face slowly draining of color until she was as white as the bedsheet.

Jaime slowly lowered the apple.  ‘Brienne…?’

‘We’re married,’ she repeated.  She buried her face in her hands.  ‘How am I supposed to tell my father I’m married?’   

‘How long does it take to sail to Tarth from King’s Landing?’

Brienne began to aimlessly fluff pillows.  ‘A day if the weather is fair. Perhaps two.’

‘We can find a boat sailing to Tarth in the next few days.  You can properly introduce me to your father, and…’ Jaime’s voice trailed off in bemusement, at Brienne’s exasperated expression.  ‘What?’

‘Do you think it’s wise to leave Lady Sansa and your brother alone?’

Jaime’s shoulders hunched a little under the realization that it would be some time before he could meet Brienne’s father.  ‘You’re right.’ He took a bite of his apple, and chewed it slowly, wondering how rapidly gossip would travel from the mainland to the island.  And how soon he would find Brienne’s irate father on the other side of the door with a blade in his hand. ‘You could write to him.’

Brienne snorted.  ‘Yes. I’m going to send my father a letter telling him that not only am I married, but I’m married to you.   He’ll never believe me.’

‘It’s because I’m the Kingslayer, isn’t it?’ 

‘No.’  Brienne paused.  Her father had no qualms about expressing his opinions, and she was certain he would have some rather forceful ones regarding Jaime.  ‘Partially.’ Brienne waved aside the question of Jaime’s reputation. ‘You’re far too pretty for Brienne the Beauty.’

Jaime threw the core of his apple into the fire.  ‘And you’re far too noble for the Kingslayer. Evens things out, don’t you think?’  He clambered into the bed, and patted the mattress with what he hoped was an enticing smile.  ‘Come back to bed, wench.’

‘You’re not as charming as you believe,’ Brienne scoffed, unlacing her trousers.  She shimmied out of them, and slipped into the bed.  

‘I am the epitome of charming,’ Jaime argued.  

Brienne yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor.  ‘And my name isn’t wench. It’s Brienne.’

Jaime thrust his face into hers, their noses just touching.  ‘Wench.’

Brienne’s eyes narrowed and a brief scuffle broke out, sending bedclothes and pillows flying, that only ended when Brienne straddled Jaime, her hands pinning his wrists to the bed.  ‘Do you yield?’ she asked.

Jaime’s eyes creased into amused triangles.  He lifted his head so his lips brushed over hers as he spoke.  ‘This time.’ He smirked and kissed her. ‘Wench.’

Brienne woke up slowly, the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s bare skin sliding against hers.  She carefully extricated herself from underneath Jaime’s arm that draped heavily over her waist. He grunted and burrowed into her abandoned pillow.  She found her clothes and eased into them, and then found a taper and began to light a few candles to combat the lengthening shadows in the room. Brienne stood in front of the small writing desk tucked into a corner and lit the candle under the spoon that held sealing wax.  As much as she hated to admit Jaime was right, she should be the one to break the news to her father. Brienne lowered herself into the chair and picked up a quill from the inkstand , a blank piece of parchment staring expectantly at her.  

Brienne knew what people thought of her.  They thought her reticence and severe demeanour meant she was cold and unfeeling.  That virginity meant she was as naive as a young girl. She was by no means an avid reader, but her father had given her free run of the library at Evenfall after she’d come of age, and Brienne had encountered a number of volumes that gave her quite an education apart from her old septa.  She’d seen soldiers with camp followers and whores in both Renly Baratheon and Robb Stark’s camps. She knew well the curling ache of want. It simmered under the contempt and barely constrained anger she felt for Jaime at the beginning of their journey. Fighting with him made her blood sing, loathe as she had been to admit it.  He hadn’t held back during their fight. Yes, he was in chains, weakened by captivity, and out of practice, but swordplay was such a deeply ingrained part of him, that it almost hadn’t mattered. He gave her no quarter, and she expected none. She had seen the flash of appreciation under the mockery and pointed criticism. He hadn’t thought her a freak in that moment.  She’d tried to conceal the desire pooling deep in her belly when he had doffed his ragged clothes in front of her in the bath. Jaime Lannister was an undeniably beautiful man. Even under the layers of grimy dirt and crusted blood. 

And then the very foundations of her sense of honor shifted.  The man she had abhorred her entire life disappeared in a wisp of steam.  Under the flippant facade lived an idealist who wanted someone to recognize that he’d sacrificed his honor for the lives of hundreds of thousands of people who would neither know, nor care.  He’d offered her trust. Respect. She offered him the same in return. So too did their relationship shift into something less combative. Unbeknownst to Jaime, she had argued and cajoled her way to his bedchamber in Harrenhal.  It hadn’t been too difficult to convince the guards to allow her to care for him. It was “women’s work” after all. She doubted that he had been aware she was there. If he had, he more likely than not attributed it to the delirium of his fever.  She had slept in the hard chair next to his bed until his fever broke and he was more aware of his surroundings. She didn’t trust Qyburn. He’d come to tend to Jaime when he’d passed out in the bath, and waxed poetic about Jaime’s severed hand. Brienne had rather gotten the impression he wouldn’t have been terribly put out if Jaime died.  Why, she didn’t know, but she was damned if she was going to lose someone else she had sworn to protect.  

Somewhere between a rainswept bear pit and the gates of King’s Landing, he had become her closest friend.  She believed in him when it seemed no one else did. She had often lain awake at night, staring at the stars, listening to the sounds of Jaime breathing next to her, wondering if his brother and sister knew this side of him.  Wondering if anyone knew who he was. He was a bundle of contradictions. Blunt and caustic in his speech, but capable of deep introspection. She couldn’t deny he had done terrible things in defiance of the laws of gods and men, and yet…  He could have walked away from her and let Locke and his men tear her to pieces, and did not. He could not stand idly by and let his brother die for a crime Jaime believed he did not commit. He could declare his vow to Catelyn Stark null and void, but he had not.  

Brienne twirled the quill between her fingers.  She reckoned they would be able to hear his roars of displeasure from Tarth within the walls of the Red Keep.  

Like the rest of the kingdom, Selwyn only knew the  facade.  

Dithering isn’t going to make this easier…   Brienne dipped the quill into the inkpot and began to write, taking care to craft each word.

Father -- I hope this reaches you before the gossip does.  For reasons I am unable to explain here, I am married. Please believe me when I say I was not forced or otherwise coerced, nor was my honor besmirched.

Although his reputation says otherwise, he is a good and honorable man…

‘Are you going to mention my name, at least?’ 

Jaime’s voice, roughened with sleep, startled her.  So engrossed was she in writing that she hadn’t realized he had come to stand behind her, reading the letter over her shoulder.  ‘Of course.’ Brienne glanced over her shoulder. Jaime lazily scratched his stomach. Brienne’s brow rose. ‘Could you put something on?’ she asked.

‘Why?’

‘You are a distraction,’ she confessed, face burning.

‘A distraction?’ Jaime sounded positively gleeful, the wretched man.

‘I never said I was not so affected,’ Brienne murmured, bending her head over the parchment.

‘Get up.’  The stinging slap on his arse made Jaime snort and he propped himself on his elbows and peered in the dim candlelight at Brienne.  She glowered at him, rather like when they had first met.

‘I was sleeping,’ Jaime protested, flopping back into the pillow.  

‘Were you?  I hadn’t noticed,’ Brienne replied dryly.  She dropped a bundle of clothing on Jaime’s head.  ‘Get dressed.’

‘It’s the middle of the night,’ Jaime whined.  He poked his arms into a shirt and pulled it over his head.    

Brienne shoved her feet into a pair of boots, tugging them over her calves.  ‘And you call yourself a soldier,’ she scoffed. ‘We’re going to see your father,’ she added, with a pointed glance at the bedsheets they had bundled together earlier.  

Jaime rooted through the clothes Brienne had deposited on the bed and found his smallclothes.  She looked as she always did: trousers, boots, shirt, and leather jerkin, hair smoothed back from her face.  It was the pensive glare she directed at the bedsheets that gave him pause. Jaime concentrated on tying the laces of his clothes.  ‘All right?’ he murmured.

‘What if your father refuses to uphold his end of the bargain?’

Jaime wriggled into his own trousers.  ‘He will.’

Brienne’s mouth tightened, clearly vexed.  ‘I know he’s your father, but how do you know?’

Jaime left the leather surcoat on the bed and found his boots.  ‘Because Tywin Lannister does nothing unless it serves his own interests.’  He stamped one foot, settling it inside the boot. ‘I highly doubt he believes Tyrion is guilty, but he’s allowed it to go this far, just so he can remove him from the line of succession to inherit Casterly Rock and the title.  He never accepted Tyrion as his heir after I joined the Kingsguard.’ He stamped his other foot in the boot. ‘Now he won’t have to.’ He reached for the bedsheets. ‘He knows Tyrion wouldn’t last a year on the Wall,’ Jaime added grimly.  He gestured to the door. ‘Shall we?’

Brienne opened the door and followed Jaime to the Tower of the Hand.  They didn't speak again. There were far too many hidden ears in the Red Keep.

Jaime pounded on the door to Tywin’s bedchamber, waited the space of several heartbeats, then commenced with another round of pounding his fist against the door.  Another pause. Then another round of fist-pounding. Jaime drew his fist back, but the door opened just enough to reveal Tywin, dressed simply in trousers and an unlaced shirt, his feet bare.  ‘Sorry to wake you,’ Jaime drawled, not sounding a bit sorry at all. He thrust the bundled bedsheets into his father’s chest. ‘I hope this will suffice.’ Tywin unwound the loose knot that bound the sheets together and unfurled them, holding the sheet to the torchlight and carefully examined it.  He rubbed a fingertip over the rusty smear that constituted his preferred evidence, although the myriad other stains on the linen served as a testament to the marriage’s consummation. Jaime’s face reddened in mortification. ‘Gods’ sake, Father…’ as Tywin brough the sheet closer to his face, squinting in the flickering torchlight.

‘I’m waiting, my lion…’  A feminine voice drifted into the corridor.  Jaime reached around Tywin and shoved the door, opening it fully.  A naked woman lounged across the bed, and the garment draped over a chair clearly marked her as a maid at the very least, but Jaime would bet his fortune she was a whore by the practiced arrangement of her limbs.  She hadn’t even bothered to cover herself at his intrusion.   

Jaime’s eyes swiveled between his father and the woman in his bed.  He met Tywin’s cold gaze and reared back. ‘You hypocrite,’ he breathed.  ‘At least when Tyrion sleeps with whores, he doesn’t keep it a secret while bleating about upholding the family honor.’

‘You dare to pass judgement on me?’ Tywin asked, with only a hint of incredulity.  ‘With the rumors that swirl around you?’ He closed the slight distance between himself and his older son.  ‘Rumors that could destroy everything,’ he hissed.

Jaime’s lip curled in revulsion, staring at his father as if he had never seen him before.  ‘Fortunately for you, the more disappointing aspects of your gods-be-damned legacy will remove themselves from your presence as soon as it is feasible to do so.’  He performed a precise about-face and strode away, Brienne falling into step beside him as he passed her.

‘I know he’s your father, but I don’t like him,’ Brienne remarked, so quietly that Jaime had to strain to hear her.

Jaime smiled sourly, the shadows populated with the ghosts of people Tywin had betrayed, manipulated, bullied, and coerced into doing his bidding.  Tywin wasn’t loyal to anything or anyone save himself. ‘You’re not alone,’ he replied, just as quietly. ‘You’re just the latest one.’

Chapter Text

Brienne smoothed the tunic over her hips and bent to look in the mirror.  Her fingers stole over the Tarth sigil, caressing the curve of one of the crescent moons.  This would probably be one of the last times she would wear it. She tried to picture the rampant lion of House Lannister in its stead, but it felt wrong.

‘Are you ready for this?’  Jaime appeared behind her, straight-backed in severe black.  The only hint of his House color was the dark red scarf that peeked over the high collar of his surcoat.  He had even eschewed a sigil.

‘No.’  Brienne hated to be the center of attention, and knew Jaime felt the same since returning to King’s Landing.  Without a doubt every eye in court today would land on them the second they set foot in the throne room, the speculative gossip an undertow to Tyrion’s guilty plea.  

‘With any luck, Mace Tyrell will draw people’s attention from us, and say something spectacularly idiotic.  And long-winded. I’ve never known a person who could speak as long as he without drawing breath, and end up saying absolutely nothing at all.’  Jaime offered his arm to Brienne, who hesitated a great deal more than she ought. Playing the lady had never come easily to her. The delicate mannerisms of highborn ladies usually looked odd on her, especially when she didn’t particularly look the part of a highborn lady.  ‘You don’t have to,’ Jaime said quietly. ‘I won’t be insulted.’ Brienne haltingly slid her hand into the crook of Jaime’s elbow. Jaime started to walk to the door, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. He laid his hand over hers. ‘We can do this.’

Brienne made a moue of distaste.  ‘There is a vast difference between can and want,’ she stated.  She rolled her head on her neck, releasing a long, slow breath. ‘Neither of us want to be a spectacle, but your father’s rather boxed us in.’  Brienne then squared her shoulders. Jaime recognized the stance of a warrior preparing for battle.  ‘We can do this,’ she repeated, and took a step toward the door.

They had hardly gone more than a score of steps before they were intercepted by Oberyn Martell, in his shimmering yellow robes.  ‘Ser Jaime.’ The Dornish prince inclined his head. Brienne almost envied him his natural grace. Oberyn turned to Brienne. ‘I do not believe I’ve had the…’  His dark liquid eyes, swept over Brienne from her head to her toes in a way that made Brienne feel he would enjoy doing the same with her unclothed as well. ‘Pleasure.’  He took Brienne’s free hand and brushed a languid kiss over the back of it, his thumb sweeping across her palm. Brienne resisted the urge to yank her hand away, hoping it was only a game on Oberyn’s part.  Jaime didn’t miss the seductive nature of it and cleared his throat. 

‘Brienne of Tarth.’  She couldn’t suppress the underpinning of pride at stating her name. Her name, not Lannister. She might have married Jaime, and would have to don his sigil, but nothing would entice her to give up her name. 

Oberyn grinned wolfishly at her before releasing her hand.  ‘I understand congratulations are in order.’

‘Is there anyone in this castle who does not know?’ Brienne sighed, continuing down the corridor.

‘Perhaps the poor souls in the black cells.’  Oberyn’s smile widened. ‘I am one of the judges for Lord Tyrion’s trial, along with Mace Tyrell and Lord Tywin.  Lord Tywin saw fit to inform us yesterday Lord Tyrion might plead guilty this morning. He also let slip that Ser Jaime left the Kingsguard to take up his position as Lord Tywin’s heir and marry a suitable woman.’  He fell into step next to Jaime and Brienne. ‘It is a sacrifice to give up a life vow,’ he commented to Jaime. ‘But to save the life of a beloved brother, it does not seem such a great sacrifice.’

‘It wasn’t a sacrifice at all,’ Jaime replied.  ‘My brother is guilty of many things. Drunkenness and indiscriminate whoring, among them.  But in this, he is innocent.’

‘I myself never believed the accusations against Lord Tyrion were true,’ Oberyn observed.  

‘Never?’ Jaime asked with great skepticism.

Oberyn shook his head.  ‘Your brother is a clever man, Ser Jaime.  When a clever man desires to poison another, he does not poison the other man’s goblet.  He poisons his own and contrives of a means to give the other man the wine therein without arousing suspicions.  That is, if he wants to do it in front of people. And a clever man will know his poisons. How they work. How long they take.  A clever man would have given Joffery a poison that took hours to take effect. Thereby giving him plausible deniability. Whoever did slip the poison into Joffery’s wine, was quite clever in that.  But was it your brother?’ Oberyn shook his head. ‘No.’ A crease appeared between his brows. The poisoner was quite desperate, I imagine…’ Oberyn mused.

‘Then you also know he would not have a fair trial,’ Jaime stated.  ‘My sweet sister wouldn’t allow it,’ he spat.

Oberyn stopped just outside the throne room.  ‘You look like a Lannister. Speak like one. And yet, you do not behave like one.’  His head canted to the side. ‘Your father, sister, and even your brother all have a streak of ruthlessness that you seem to lack.  Or disdain.’  

‘Much to my father’s eternal disappointment,’ Jaime quipped.

Oberyn bowed slightly.  ‘Here is where I must leave you.  Ser Jaime. Lady Brienne.’ He turned down a hidden corridor that would allow him to enter the throne room near the dias.  

They approached the open doors of the throne room.  Brienne’s heart began to beat faster.  ‘Breathe,’ Jaime murmured. Brienne nodded mechanically, her face set into resolute lines.  ‘Can you really not curtsey?’ he asked, as they walked through the doors, hoping it would keep her attention on him and not the people pretending they were not staring and whispering as they passed.

‘I can,’ she allowed.  ‘I do not do it very well.  So I choose not to do it.’ She glanced down at the floor. ‘Of all the insults your sister threw at me, lumbering is less of an insult and more of an accurate description.’

Jaime snorted.  ‘One cannot fight as well as you and lack grace.’

‘My septa would have disagreed.’  Brienne huffed through her nose. ‘She considered learning to fight a waste of my time.  She would find fault with everything I did. And the more she criticized me, the clumsier I was.’  One finger brushed over the bridge of her nose, feeling it slam into the stone floor when she was a child and her feet tangled together when she’d tried to curtsey to her father one afternoon.  She hadn’t broken her nose, but the humiliation was far more painful than the injury itself. She’d spent the rest of the day hiding in the woods, sobbing until she could hardly see.  

Jaime ushered her to the seats near the dais that had been set aside for them.  Sansa already occupied one, looking wan, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Jaime surreptitiously sniffed the air over her head, but he could only smell the sweet scent of lilacs and not the stale fumes of wine.  Sleeplessness, he reasoned. ‘Lady Sansa,’ he murmured.

Sansa jumped as if someone had jabbed her in the side with a dagger.  ‘Ser Jaime,’ she stammered.  

Jaime turned to Brienne.  ‘I don’t know if you’ve been properly introduced.  Brienne, Lady Sansa Stark. Lady Sansa, this is Lady Brienne Lannister.’

‘Tarth,’ Brienne interjected.

‘Lannister,’ Jaime countered.

‘Tarth,’ Brienne insisted.   She refused to lose this fight.  There would be many more to come, she imagined.  Her father had once told her she was even more stubborn than the goats, and Jaime was an arrogant ass at the best of times.  They were sure to clash. Like now. Brienne knew she would lose some and seek a compromise on others. But not this time.

‘Really?’ Jaime sounded far more surprised than he supposed he ought.  ‘Not Lannister?’ He scratched the back of his neck. ‘You said Tarth to Prince Oberyn, and I thought you spoke out of habit.’

Brienne rolled her eyes and pushed past Jaime.  ‘Pay him no mind,’ she told Sansa. ‘I certainly do not.  Brienne of Tarth, my lady. I served your mother.’

‘You knew my mother?’  Sansa’s face brightened just a little.

‘I was sworn to her service,’ Brienne said, sitting next to Sansa, angling her body so as to hide the girl from the rest of the throne room.  ‘Your mother was very kind and gracious to me.’

A commotion arose at the doors and Cersei swept into the throne room, dressed in her most elaborate gown, of gleaming crimson silk, encrusted with heavy embroidery of lions in gold.  Her hair was done up in an intricate style, braided with pearls. Two Lannister guards preceded her, and two more trailed in her wake. Jaime deliberately turned his back to her, eliciting muted gasps from a few knots of people.  It would reach Tywin’s ears of course. He would be furious at such a public display of a rift within the family, but Jaime didn’t care. He didn’t take his own seat until Cersei lowered herself to a chair at the edge of the dais, emanating wounded dignity.  Jaime had to stifle a guffaw. It was an old and worn maneuver of hers, going back to when they were young children, especially when she had been chastised or punished. It was, by design, meant to elicit sympathy. In this very moment, however, Jaime couldn’t manage to dredge up even a shred for her.  Perhaps it made him a monster, but he found it didn’t bother him at all.  

Tywin emerged from a side door behind the dais, followed by Mace Tyrell and Prince Oberyn.  Twyin moved to stand in front of the Iron Throne, and Mace and Oberyn stood in front of chairs that flanked it on either side.  Tywin sat in the chair with the sort of ease that Aerys and Robert had lacked. He nodded to the guards at the back of the throne room.

Jaime stiffened when the doors opened.  Tyrion walked into the throne room, surrounded by Lannister guards, chains binding his hands together.  They hadn’t bothered chaining his feet, Jaime noted. At least Tyrion had been allowed that small measure of mercy.  He wouldn’t be able to walk under his own power otherwise. Tyrion climbed into the stand and his head turned slowly, scanning the assembled witnesses, searching for a friendly face.  He saw Sansa first, pale and subdued. Brienne sat next to Sansa, one hand curled into a fist on her knee. Tyrion wondered if she would simply punch anyone who had the temerity to insult Sansa.  He hoped so. Sansa should have a defender who looked after her best interests. Certainly no one else did. Then Jaime on Brienne’s other side. Their gazes locked and Jaime swallowed hard, then mouthed, Please.   Jaime’s eyes flicked to the two women on his left and Tyrion exhaled slowly and gave Jaime a single nod.  He cleared his throat. ‘I wish to confess.’ He didn’t miss Tywin’s self-satisfied smirk, nor Oberyn’s troubled frown.  

‘Go on.’  Tywin’s hand gripped the pommel of one of the swords in the Iron Throne.  

Tyrion glanced back at Jaime, who leaned forward slightly, eyes boring into his.  Say it, Jaime seemed to say.  ‘I wish to confess that I am guilty of that which I have been accused.’  Tyrion had to swallow back the rising tide of vomit surging in his throat.  

Tywin stood.  ‘The judges have decided that in light of your guilty confession, you shall be allowed to keep your miserable life, such as it is, and live out what remains of it on the Wall as a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.’  Tyrion’s face flushed as the assembled witnesses began to titter, with some outright laughing. Tywin held up a hand. ‘Ser Meryn. Take the prisoner back to his cell.’

‘Wait!’  Jaime stood so hastily, he nearly tripped over his own feet.  

‘You have something to add?’ Tywin asked, clear displeasure on his face.

Jaime’s chin lifted a little.  ‘Is it really necessary to return Tyrion to a cell?  You can order him confined to his chamber. Move his chamber to a tower, if you must.  Keep guards on him.’ Jaime gestured to Tyrion. ‘He can’t really move about the castle.  He’s too easily recognizable.’

Tywin’s face darkened.  ‘Very well. Remove Tyrion to the chamber he occupied after the Blackwater.  You remember the one, Ser Meryn.’

‘And have his fetters removed,’ Jaime interjected.  

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but he motioned to a page and murmured something in the boy’s ear.  He then spoke to one of the Lannister guards, and a line of men soon circled the stand, blocking Tyrion from view.  

Jaime exhaled.  He would pay for that later.  He beckoned to Brienne and Sansa.  ‘We should get out of here,’ he murmured. He looked pointedly at a side door that was free of people.   They both quickly stood and Brienne scanned the room. The looks and whispers were daggers directed Sansa, who had begun to shrink into herself.  She nodded in agreement.

Tywin approached Jaime, Brienne, and Sansa, who stood in a small, silent knot.  Brienne repressed a shudder as he inspected her from the top of her head to the tips of her boots, taking his time about it.  His cold, pale, unblinking, green eyes reminded her of a serpent. ‘When do you think you will be ready to leave?’ he asked.

‘A fortnight, perhaps a bit longer,’ Jaime promptly replied.  ‘If all goes according to plan.’

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, save for a faint flicker of an upraised brow.  ‘That long?’

‘We’ll need provisions, warmer clothes,’ Jaime told him.  ‘None of that can be arranged overnight, even if your father happens to be the Hand of the King.’

Tywin merely grunted.  ‘Dinner. The Tower of the Hand.  Next week. All of you.’ It wasn’t a request, but the command of a father who was used to having his orders followed without question.

‘Including Tyrion?’ Jaime shot back.  

‘If I must,’ Tywin muttered after a prolonged apprehensive silence.

‘I insist.’  Jaime’s eyes flicked to where a guard removed Tyrion’s fetters.  ‘He’s still your son, regardless of what you might think.’ He leaned closer to Tywin.  ‘And we both know he’s innocent of these charges. I know it, and you know it,’ he murmured.  

Tywin’s jaw tightened.  ‘I’ll double the guards.  Your sister and the king will be there.’

‘Lovely. So no one will have an appetite,’ Jaime sighed.  

Tywin began to walk past them, but stopped, and turned his reptilian gaze on Brienne.  ‘See that you’re dressed in the manner appropriate to your station,’ he said, with a pointed glance at the Tarth sigil embroidered on her tunic.  Brienne said nothing, but clenched her teeth together, so as not to say something rude.  

‘What happens now?’ Sansa’s plaintive voice jerked them back to present matters.  

‘Now, you’ll keep doing what you normally do,’ Jaime told her.  

‘I’m still a prisoner of the Lannisters, then,’ Sansa said bitterly.

‘No.’  

‘Ser Jaime and I promised your mother we would keep you safe,’ Brienne told her.  

‘My mother is dead.’

‘But my -- our -- oath did not die with her,’ Brienne replied.  

‘Lady Sansa…’  The oily voice of Petyr Baelish made Sansa’s shoulders creep toward her ears.  Brienne’s hand automatically flew to her left hip, groping for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there.  Brienne didn’t know Littlefinger well, but she didn’t care for the way he looked at Sansa. As if he could strip away the layers of Sansa’s dress to see what was underneath.  He took Sansa’s hand and kissed the back of it, lips lingering far too long for Brienne’s comfort. Sansa snatched her hand away, and inconspicuously wiped the back of her hand on her skirts.  ‘It seems as though your marriage will be set aside, when your… husband… leaves for the Wall. I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you to your family.’

‘What family?’  Sansa took a small step closer to Brienne.

‘Your aunt Lysa.  In the Vale.’ Littlefinger closed the space between them, his nose nearly in Sansa’s hair.  That was enough for Brienne. She swiftly drew up a knee and retrieved a small knife from the top of her boot.  The tip of the blade pressed against the tender skin under Littlefinger’s chin. ‘Lay another hand on Lady Sansa, and I will personally remove it from your body,’ she murmured, pinning him with an icy stare.  Littlefinger wisely took the hint and stepped back. Brienne pointedly didn’t replace the knife.   

‘Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne will retire to Casterly Rock,’ Jaime said, maneuvering himself between Brienne and Littlefinger.  ‘While I escort Lord Tyrion to the Wall.’ Sansa’s expression shaded with something less than outright mutiny. Jaime shook his head slightly, hoping she realized she ought to keep her mouth shut and her face neutral around Littlefinger.  He didn’t have high hopes. Sansa came off as more than a little vacuous. The last thing he needed was for Littlefinger to poke his nose into things. Paying attention to court politics had never been something he pursued, but for as long as Jaime could remember, Littlefinger always seemed to hover on the edges of whatever scheme had unfurled in the hidden corridors of the Red Keep.  The man enjoyed stirring up trouble far too much for Jaime’s taste. He saw the guards lead Tyrion away from the corner of his eye. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Lord Baelish.’ Brienne guided Sansa to one of the side doors of the throne room. ‘Lady Brienne and I were going to enjoy a stroll. We thought Lady Sansa could use a bit of fresh air. Sunshine.’ Jaime clapped Littlefinger on the shoulder, and hustled Sansa and Brienne from the throne room.

‘You didn’t tell me you carried a knife in your boot,’ Jaime said with a slight grin.  He didn’t know why he was so surprised. He wondered where else Brienne might have hidden a weapon.  Perhaps he could suggest they wile away the afternoon while he guessed where the other weapons were.

‘You never asked,’ Brienne retorted, twirling the knife in her fingers with an even slighter smile before she returned it to her boot.

‘Must I go for a walk with you?’ Sansa asked, trying desperately not to sound like a truculent child.  She was exhausted. She’d hardly slept since the ill-fated wedding, terrified that she would be left even more alone in the capital than she already was.  

‘Of course not,’ Brienne assured her.  

‘But I would like you to join us for dinner tonight,’ Jaime added.  ‘Just Lady Brienne, you, and me.’

‘Why?’  Sansa eyed him warily, waiting for the trap to spring.  She hadn’t had the best experiences with Lannisters 

‘You’re my brother’s wife.  I should like to get to know you.  Nothing more sinister than that,’ he promised.

Sansa closed the door and leaned against it.  Tyrion would go to the Wall, and she would be left alone, once again, without anyone to trust.  She couldn’t quite bring herself to completely trust Brienne, even though her instincts screamed at her to do so.  She wanted to believe Brienne had served Catelyn, but Sansa only had Brienne and Jaime’s word for it. Jaime was a Lannister and Brienne had married him.  There had to be an ulterior motive. Ever since her father’s execution, Sansa had learned what he did not. To trust no one. 

The scrape of a chair across the floor made Sansa jerk with trepidation.  ‘Sorry, m’lady.’ She exhaled, hands shaking. It was only Podrick, Tyrion’s squire.  ‘I’m just packing up a few of m’lord’s things.’

Sansa slid abruptly to the floor, vision going hazy and indistinct.  She opened her eyes to find Podrick kneeling next to her, face full of concern.  ‘I’m all right…’ She started to sit up, but Podrick slid an arm under her knees.  ‘Put your arms around my shoulders, m’lady.’ He hefted her into his arms and managed to stand without toppling over.  ‘Let me,’ he muttered. ‘M’lord wouldn’t like it if you came to harm.’  

For the brief seconds it took for Podrick to deposit her on the chaise, Sansa remembered how it felt to feel safe.  He went to the other side of the room and returned with a cup of water that he pressed into her hand. ‘You don’t look well, m’lady.’

‘After Joffery executed my father, I was all alone here,’ Sansa sighed.  ‘Then Margaery Tyrell came, and I thought I might have a friend. She seemed so kind,’ she said into the cup.  ‘I thought I could leave this horrible place. I would be married to Ser Loras and live in Highgarden… But ever since I married Tyrion, it’s as if she’s forgotten all about me.’  Podrick made a noise in the back of his throat. Sansa let out a shuddering breath. She looked up, stricken, as if she only just remembered Podrick was in the room. ‘You won’t tell Tyrion what I’ve just said, will you?’

Podrick indicated one of the vacant chairs near the chaise.  ‘May I?’ At Sansa’s nod, he sat on the edge of the seat. ‘I give you my word this will stay between the two of us.’  Podrick rested his elbows on his knees. ‘As far as anyone knows, you’re the only surviving member of your family.’

‘Yes.’  Sansa’s chin quivered for a moment.  ‘Robb’s gone. So are Bran and Rickon.  Nobody’s seen Arya since our father was arrested.  She’s probably dead. Jon’s still alive, as far as anyone knows, but once he took his vows for the Night’s Watch…’  She scrubbed the back of her hand across her cheeks.  

 ‘So that makes you the heir to Winterfell,’ Podrick stated.  

‘I… I suppose.’  Sansa took a sip of the water.  ‘But someone else has Winterfell.  Lord Bolton, I think.’

Pod made a dismissive motion with his hand.  ‘Would the North stay loyal to Lord Bolton if a Stark returned to Winterfell?’ he asked.

Sansa’s head shook slowly from side to side.  ‘I don’t know.’

‘Suppose they don’t.  Suppose someone married the last living Stark.  Suppose they bring an army to wrest control of Winterfell back for the Starks.’  Sansa lifted her eyes to look at him. ‘Now ask yourself -- were the Tyrells truly friendly to you and wanted what’s best for you, or did they want to gain control over the North?’  Sansa’s mouth dropped open and she gaped at Podrick. ‘I’m just a squire, m’lady. No one remembers I’m in the room.’ He stood and picked up a bundle of clothes and a stack of books bound together with a length of twine. ‘Lord Tywin just got to you first.’  Podrick bowed, then hesitated. ‘You shouldn’t trust Lord Baelish, either, m’lady.’ His head bobbed in her direction. ‘M’lady.’

It was a typical late summer day for King’s Landing.  Warm and sunny, with the light glinting off the deep blue water of the sea.  The breeze had fortunately shifted, and it now carried the salty scent of the water, and not the less-pleasant aspects of the city.  Tarth was so close. It would be a quick ride through the Kingswood to Parchments. She could take a boat from there to Tarth. Just a few days journey.  But she would leave King’s Landing and ride in the opposite direction and go to Casterly Rock instead. At least the Rock was on the sea. At least she would have the tides, the spray of saltwater against the cliffs, the sea and sky on the horizon.  It was better than nothing.  

‘You’re prompt.  I like that.’ Olenna’s voice broke through Brienne’s thoughts.  ‘Shall we?’ Olenna gestured to a pavilion, where a table was set for only two.  Brienne deliberately matched her pace to Olenna’s slower one.  

It was noticeably cooler under the shade of the pavilion.  Brienne tried to unobtrusively tug at the high collar of her tunic in order to allow a wisp of the breeze to sneak through the gap.  The last thing she wanted was a hot beverage. But when a lady like Olenna Tyrell demanded you have tea with her, you complied. In truth, Brienne admired the older woman.  She had no qualms letting others know exactly what she thought and cared even less what they felt in return. She watched in silence as a maid brought a tray of honey cakes and another placed glasses garnished with lemon slices and herbs in front of them.  Brienne lightly placed a fingertip on the glass. It was cool to the touch. She was grateful for that, at least. Another maid placed an ornately carved wooden box next to Olenna’s elbow. ‘Yes, that’s enough. Away with you,’ she snapped, shifting irritably in her chair.  Jaime was right, Brienne thought.  She does resemble a bad-tempered hen…   

Olenna waited until they were quite alone in the pavilion.  ‘Now it’s just the two of us. Were you forced or otherwise coerced into this marriage?’

‘No.’

Olenna leaned back in the chair.  ‘And you’re aware of the rumors regarding Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei?’

‘Yes.  I am.’

‘And you still married him?’ Olenna snorted.

‘You don’t always get to choose the one you love,’ Brienne mumbled.

‘Speak up, girl.’

Brienne flushed and looked out at the water.  ‘I said we don’t always get to choose who we wed,’ she temporized.  

‘And I suppose Tywin wants you to bear children as part of this… arrangement?’

‘One can only assume so, my lady.’

Olenna pushed the box toward Brienne.  ‘You’ll need this.’ Brienne lifted the lid, recoiling slightly from the bitter aroma of tansy and wormwood.  ‘Do you know what this is?’

Brienne closed the lid with a decisive snap.   ‘Moon tea.’

‘Do you know what it’s for?’ Olenna barked.  Brienne nodded. She’d tried it once or twice a few years ago. It hadn’t been pleasant, and her mouth crimped at the memory.  ‘Oh, don’t be so squeamish, girl,’ Olenna sniffed. ‘You lived in an army camp.’

‘It’s meant to prevent pregnancy,’ Brienne told her, like a dutiful child reciting lessons to her septa.  ‘Or end one.’

‘Keep that.  Drink it early enough, and you should manage to slip a child with no adverse consequences.’  Olenna leaned forward. ‘Tywin Lannister won’t be truly happy until his seed is spread all over Westeros like a dandelion.  Mark my words. The second you birth a child, he’ll have a marriage arranged with some other House. If not yours, then Margaery’s or Myrcella’s.  Or if the Imp’s managed to say sober long enough to get it up and put a child in Sansa’s belly.’ Olenna sipped her drink. ‘I’ve lived a long time, girl.  We women control so little of our lives, we ought to be able to control how many brats we’re forced to birth.’  

Brienne frowned a little, thinking.  Her responsibilities weighed heavily on her.  She knew she would have to produce an heir for Tarth someday.  She was fortunate in that her father never pressured her to marry anyone for the sake of bearing children.  Tywin would not feel the same. She wondered, for a brief, panicking moment, if he would change his mind about allowing Jaime to take Tyrion to the Wall as soon as they could leave the capital, and force them to stay until Brienne was undeniably pregnant.  

She slowly pulled the box toward her and set it in her lap.

Chapter Text

Brienne looked around the small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the water.  ‘We won’t be overheard?’

Bronn glanced around.  ‘You know that knight with thunderbolts on his shield?’

‘Leygood,’ Jaime supplied.  ‘Rumored to have a rather tiny cock, and a willingness to take on men twice his size.’

‘Yeah.  Him.  I fuck his wife here.  She’s a screamer, that one.  Hardly shuts up the entire time.  Starts moaning as soon as my fingers tickle her cunt.’  He waggled his fingers in illustration.  Brienne glanced at the sky, teeth set into her lower lip.  She’d heard worse in Renly’s camp, but it still somewhat unsettled her.  ‘If they don’t hear her, no one’s going to hear the two of you plotting whatever it is you want to do, and run off to tell that bloody bald cockless wonder.’

Jaime removed a small bag of gold from his belt and threw it at Bronn.  ‘You never saw us here.’

Bronn opened the bag and counted the coins inside.  ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’  He started back up the path, singing “The Dornishman’s Wife.”

Jaime waited until his footsteps faded.  He sat down on the sun-warmed tiles, bracing his back against the side of the cliff.  ‘I wasn’t lying when I told Littlefinger we would go to Casterly Rock first,’ he said without preamble.  ‘I have no intention of leaving either of you there, but I want people to think we left Sansa at the Rock, especially someone like Littlefinger.’

‘What if he tries to pay her a visit, under the pretense of persuading her to go to the Vale?’  Brienne leaned against the cliff, arms crossed over her chest.  ‘I don’t think he will stop trying to persuade her to accompany him.’  

‘Probably not.’  Jaime closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun.  ‘Like everyone else, he wants Winterfell.  Or he’ll try to take advantage of her supposedly unmarried status and arrange something.’

‘Lord Bolton holds Winterfell,’ Brienne observed.  ‘And currently has no wife.  If he were to marry Sansa, it would cement his claim to it.’

‘As would a legitimate heir, especially if Sansa is its mother,’ Jaime responded.  

Brienne shuddered at the thought of Sansa Stark married to a man as cold and heartless as Roose Bolton.  ‘Do you know if he has a son?’

Jaime started to shake his head, but a half-heard scrap of a conversation from the Stark camp floated into his mind.  ‘A bastard.  Acknowledged, but not legitimized.  And a true-born heir with Stark blood would be much more desirable than a legitimized bastard.’  Jaime shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at Brienne.  ‘When we leave for Castle Black, we’ll have to disguise Sansa as your maid.’

‘No one will believe I travel with a maid,’ Brienne snorted.  Even as she dismissed the plan, Brienne knew it was the easiest one to put into place.  Sansa was far to pretty to pass off as a squire.

‘Luckily for you, you’re an enigma to most people.  Nobody outside the Stormlands really knows who you are.  It’s rather fortunate your father tended to stay on Tarth, rather than attempt toady favor with Robert.  We can say you’ve acquired a maid, as befits your station.’

Brienne rolled her eyes and folded herself to the ground next to Jaime.  ‘We’ll have to do something about her hair.  It’s too distinctive.’

‘Wig?’

‘Dye.’  Brienne stretched her feet out.  ‘A wig would be easier, but not while we’re traveling.’

Jaime grunted in assent, and added hair dye to the mental list he’d created.  ‘We need guards with us.  I’ll speak with Addam.  He was one of the guards outside the chamber door when Olenna came by.’  He looked out over the water.  ‘I’ll properly introduce you later.  But he knows the men and I trust him.  I’ll have him come up with a list of men. Narrow it down to eight.’

‘Is it wise to travel with that many guards?  It might bring unwanted attention on us.  Lannister armor isn’t… subtle.’

‘Good point.  But the idea is to keep Tyrion alive.  Cersei will probably try to send someone after him.’

‘No armor,’ Brienne suggested.  ‘Hauberks and gambesons.  None of it matching.’  She rubbed a finger over the knee of her trousers.  ‘I was looking forward to wearing mine,’ she added wistfully.  

‘Father will want to put Tyrion back in chains,’ Jaime said.  ‘We’ll need to find a way to remove them when we’re safely out of the city.  And do it ourselves so we don’t arouse suspicion by speaking with any of the local blacksmiths.’

‘Should we risk inns?’  

‘I don’t see why not,’ Jaime replied with a shrug.  ‘The more people know we’re taking Sansa to Casterly Rock the better.’  

‘And Castle Black?’

‘We can sail from Lannisport to Deepwood Motte.’  Jaime closed his eyes, picturing the map of Westeros, the tip of his index finger tracing the route in midair.  ‘Avoid Winterfell and the Boltons.  Travel along the northern edge of the Wolfswood, then pick up the Kingsroad at… Long Lake, perhaps?’

Brienne chewed her thumbnail.  ‘Might work,’ she mumbled.  ‘You could tell your father it’s for Tyrion’s safety.’

Jaime laughed.  ‘You think my father cares about Tyrion’s safety?’

Brienne hugged her knees to her chest.  ‘No.’  She rested her cheek on her knees.  ‘But he does care about yours.’

‘We’ll have to camp with what we can carry on our horses,’ Jaime told her.  ‘There’s nothing but scattered farms that far North.’

‘How well can your brother ride?’

‘He needs a special saddle, but he can manage,’ Jaime said.  ‘If he doesn’t have one here, I’ll have to see a saddle maker about having one made.  We’ll have to wait until it’s ready.’

‘And Sansa?  She traveled to King’s Landing when her father came from Winterfell to be the Hand.  You were with them, no?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Jaime admitted.  So much of that trip was lost in a haze of guilt and the memory of Bran’s chest under the palm of his hand.  Ironic that it was the one he had left.  ‘But I imagine she can ride well enough.’  He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead.  The tiny courtyard baked under the midday sun.  ‘One would presume Podrick can ride.  He’s a squire after all.’

‘Who is Podrick?’  Brienne resisted the urge to massage her temples.  

‘Oh.  Tyrion’s squire.  Did I not mention he would accompany us?’

‘No.’  She gave in to the impulse and rubbed at the burgeoning ache in her head.

‘He saved Tyrion’s life at the Blackwater, and Tyrion feels honor bound to save his life in return.’

Brienne sat up, holding out a hand.  ‘Your brother isn’t even a knight.  How does he have a squire?’

‘It’s a long story.’  Jaime pulled up a knee and rested his stump on it.  ‘But suffice to say his life is in danger.’

Brienne frowned.  ‘Who would want to harm a squire?’

Jaime nudged her in the ribs with his elbow.  ‘Think about it.  Who would want to hurt someone loyal to Tyrion?’

‘Your sister,’ Brienne sighed, her head falling back to the cliffside.  ‘So… Eight Lannister guards, your brother, his wife, his squire, you, and me.  Anyone else?’

‘No.’  

Brienne stood and offered Jaime a hand.  ’You told your father we’d try to leave in a fortnight?’

Jaime grasped Brienne’s proffered hand and she hauled him to his feet.  ‘Yes.’

‘Then we ought to start making preparations.’  The bells in the Great Sept began to ring.  Brienne counted them under her breath.  It was nearly time to return to the Red Keep’s gardens.  ‘But first, I must have tea with Lady Olenna.’  The pained look on her face suggested she’d rather put on a dress and dine with Roose Bolton again.  Jaime gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze.  Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone, but Olenna Tyrell was one of the few people who could make him feel like he’d done everything wrong, when he’d done nothing at all.  He kept her hand in his as they climbed the winding trail back up the hill.  They entered the Red Keep through one of the smaller gates near the gardens.  Brienne took in a deep breath, steeling herself for the next hour, released Jaime’s hand, then marched into the gardens.

Jaime watched Brienne turn down the path to the pavilion claimed by Olenna.  He hoped the Queen of Thorns would keep her claws sheathed just once, but in his experience, no one was ever quite safe from Lady Olenna’s caustic disposition.  Not even her own children or grandchildren.  He headed into the castle itself, intent on discovering Tyrion’s present location.  As Brienne had said, they’d best start preparing for the journey.  

Finding Tyrion’s chamber was merely a matter of snagging one of the ubiquitous pages, who obediently led Jaime up a narrow, twisting staircase.  The guards standing outside the door let him in, with no questions.  Once the door closed behind him, Jaime crouched on the floor and opened his arms.  Tyrion fell into them, and Jaime tightly embraced his brother.  ‘A fine mess we’ve made of Father’s plans,’ Tyrion said, in an attempt at a jest.  

Jaime pressed a finger to his lips as a warning, then bent his head, mouth next to Tyrion’s ear.  He briefly explained the plans he’d worked out with Brienne.  If he’d thought Tyrion would want to discuss the course of action he’d laid out, Jaime was wrong.  Tyrion gestured to the narrow bed, and he and Jaime sat on it, their backs against the wall.  ‘So it’s well and truly over between the two of you.’

Jaime didn’t need to ask for clarification.  ‘Yes.’

Tyrion stretched his arms over his head.  ‘I heard about your little display this morning.  Father will be furious at such a public declaration of a rift.’

Jaime slouched a little, turning over Tyrion’s words in his mind.  Tywin had always lectured about putting their family first, but in truth, they never had been a family.  Not like the Tyrells or the Starks.  Or even Brienne and her father.  Tywin and Cersei had mistreated Tyrion since the day he was born.  Cersei had recoiled from the sight of his stump, and when he’d kissed her, he could taste the medicinal tang of moon tea in her mouth.  He’d stepped back, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.  It was then that he’d seen the steaming cup on the table and passed it under his nose.  That cup made a mockery of everything he’d said to Catelyn Stark.  What reason had Cersei to drink moon tea, unless she need to rid herself of a child whose paternity she couldn’t explain?  Clearly Cersei had not been as faithful to him as he had been to her.  The only question was how many others had been in her bed.  He’d set the cup down so very gently, as if it was an egg that would crack if handled too roughly.   He then left her standing in stunned dismay and didn’t look back.  Any love he had left for her dissipated like so much mist in the morning sun.  His desires and priorities had changed.  ‘Don’t care.’  

‘Bold words from the heir.’ 

Jaime snorted.  ‘What is he going to do?  Disinherit me?’

‘He could.’

Jaime met Tyrion’s eyes.  ‘He won’t.  Appearances.’

Tyrion tilted his head in acknowledgement.  ‘You’re rather more keen on thinking your way through problems than you’ve been in the past.’

‘I can’t slash and hack my way though them any longer,’ Jaime told Tyrion in self-deprication.  ‘Thought I’d try using my head.’  He pushed himself to the edge of the bed.  ‘This could all blow up in our faces, you know.’  He stood and crossed the small space to the door.

‘Better an attempt at freedom than waiting for the executioner.’

Jaime grimaced.  ‘Remember that when it collapses around our ears.’

Sansa had thought it would be difficult to find someone to take her to Tyrion’s tower chamber, but the young Lannister guard, barely a few years older than she, readily led her to the cramped chamber, high in one of the Red Keep’s numerous towers, the door guarded by more Lannister soldiers.  ‘I’d like to see my…’  Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat.  ‘Husband.’

The guards glanced at one another, then shrugged.  ‘What harm could it do?’ one muttered.  ‘Not like she can help him escape.’  He turned and pounded on the door with a mailed fist.  ‘M’lord, your lady wife is here.’  The guard opened the door and stepped aside to allow Sansa to go through.  

Tyrion lay stretched out in the narrow bed, vowing to never take feather mattresses for granted again.  He hurriedly slid off the bed when Sansa entered the room.  ‘How am I supposed to trust your brother?’ she demanded.  ‘Especially after what your family has done to mine.’

‘You trust me, don’t you?’  Sansa gave him a reluctant nod.  ‘I don’t trust most people any further than I can throw them, but Jaime…  I trust him without hesitation or condition.’  Tyrion shuffled to the small table crammed under the high, narrow window and poured himself a cup of water.  He  climbed into the chair next to the table.  ‘Everyone in the world thinks he has no concept of honor and believes in nothing,’ he mused.  ‘They’re wrong.  He believes in the concept of a clean death.  Out in the open.  On a field of battle.  He would never propose — nor actively participate in — an event like the Red Wedding.’  He exhaled slowly.  ‘If we want to live, we have to trust him.’

‘So we don’t have a choice,’ Sansa bit out.

‘You have a choice, my dear.  I do not.’  Tyrion grimaced at the cup in his hand, wishing heartily it was wine.  ‘Not if I want the slightest chance to get out of this city with my head still attached to my neck.’

Sansa plopped gracelessly on the edge of the bed.  ‘We’ll have guards with us?’

‘Eight of them.  Jaime will choose them.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me feel safer?’

Tyrion grunted in acknowledgement.  ‘The Lannister army serves my father out of fear.  Fear of what he might do to them.  They serve with Jaime out of loyalty and respect.’  Tyrion slid from the chair and brought Sansa’s hand to his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of it.  ‘The men that travel with us will be men that Jaime would trust with his life.  So he will feel he can trust them with Brienne’s, Podrick’s, mine, and yours.’

‘How can you be sure?’  

Tyrion rubbed a hand over his face.  ‘When I was six years old, Jaime swore his sword to me.  It was hardly sharper than a sparring sword, but he was so earnest and gallant about it.’  It was one of the more pleasant memories Tyrion had of his childhood.  ‘I highly doubt he remembers doing so.  That being said, when necessary, he has done everything in his power to protect me.  Jaime is guilty of many, many things.  Broken the laws of gods and men.  But in this, I assure you, he will do his best to see no harm comes to you.’

The door shook under a set of booming knocks once more, and Podrick entered, bearing a laden tray, containing Tyrion’s supper.  ‘Anything else I can do for you, m’lord?’  Podrick arranged the dishes on the table.  

Tyrion glanced at Sansa.  ‘Could you escort Lady Sansa back to her chamber?’  

‘I’m meant to dine with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne,’ Sansa murmured, with only a hit of mulish resentment.

‘Ah.  Well, then, Pod, would you mind escorting Lady Sansa to Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne’s chambers?’  Tyrion didn’t miss the faint flash of mollification on Sansa’s face. Just as he’d surmised, she had no idea where to go.

‘Of course, m’lord.’  Podrick crossed to the door and opened it.  ‘M’lady…’  Sansa stood and left the room, Podrick trailing behind her.  They walked for several moments in silence before Sansa ventured, ‘Might I ask you something?’

‘Yes, m’lady?’

Sansa paused and swiftly looked around them, before she dragged Podrick into an alcove.  She leaned so close to Podrick, their noses nearly touched.  ‘Can I trust Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne?’ she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Podrick pressed his lips together.  He didn’t know either of them well.  Neither of them seemed remotely interested in politics, which meant their activities rarely crossed paths with those of Tyrion.  Podrick had only heard Jaime and Brienne speak in terms of returning Sansa to her family, as they had promised her mother they would do, without a word about controlling Winterfell or the North.  ‘I think so, m’lady.’

‘Thank you.’  

Podrick gestured to the corridor.  ‘Shall we continue, m’lady?’  

Sansa nodded and followed Podrick down a flight of narrow, spiralling stairs.  ‘Podrick?  You can call me Sansa.’

Podrick licked his dry lips.  ‘It wouldn’t be proper, m’lady,’ he said, ducking his head.

Sansa peered into the bowl filled with a sort of fish stew.  She didn’t recognize most of the contents.  Trout and pike were common enough on Winterfell’s tables, caught in Long Lake or one of the nearby rivers and streams, then transported to Winterfell packed in snow.  Cersei and Joffery hadn’t cared for fish, so it was rarely served at mealtimes when Joffery was alive.  ‘I can have something else brought up for you,’ Jaime told her, pouring wine for the three of them.  

Sansa shook her head.  ‘No.  Thank you.’

Jaime took the chair next to Brienne.  ‘It must have been difficult for you to be here after…’  He took a sip of wine.  Sansa reminded herself that Podrick felt she could trust Jaime, then gave him a short nod.  ‘How did you manage?’

Sansa’s expression didn’t change, but a sort of curtain fell over her eyes and she woodenly recited, ‘My father was a traitor.  My brother is a traitor.  I love Joffery and am loyal to him.’

Brienne pushed her goblet aside.  ‘You told them what they wanted to hear.’

Sansa blinked. ‘Everybody thought I meant it.’  She, too, pushed her goblet aside.  ‘Everybody that mattered.  The others avoided me, because they didn’t want to associate with a traitor’s daughter.  Lady Margeary and Lady Olenna were the only ones who would speak to me.’  She took a tentative bite of the stew.  ‘They tried marry me to Ser Loras.’

Jaime managed to turn his head before wine spewed from his mouth.  He met Brienne’s equally incredulous gaze.  ‘Really?’ he asked, wiping a napkin over his mouth.  Sansa nodded, and Brienne’s shrug seemed to say that even men such as Loras Tyrell needed an heir.  

‘But then your father decided Tyrion and I should marry.’  Sansa looked down at her food.  ’Tyrion was always kind to me, even when…’  She cut herself off and stuffed a spoonful of the stew into her mouth.  

‘When no one else was?’ Brienne guessed.  Sansa nodded, and looked away.  A series of rapid knocks landed on the door.  Brienne pushed her chair back and strode to the door.  She opened it, and glared down at the maid, half buried under a pile of shimmering red and gold silk.  ‘Yes?’

‘Lord Tywin said to bring these to you.’  The girl shoved the mound of fabric into Brienne’s arms.  ‘He said to tell you that you’re not to appear in court again unless you’re properly attired.’  The girl ducked her head to avoid Brienne’s glare as it shifted from mere annoyance to outrage.  ‘M’lady…’  She bobbed a curtsey and all but ran down the corridor.

Brienne kicked the door closed, and dumped the armload of silk on the bed.  She plucked a garment from the pile and shook it out.  It was a dress, made in the current court fashion that exposed a great deal more skin than Brienne felt was necessary, even though it wasn’t half as revealing as what Margaery Tyrell wore.  It was also far too short and rather wide, as if made for someone who was rather plump.  Tywin had evidently collected them from some Lannister cousin or aunt.  She looked at Jaime, her lip curled with dismay.  ‘I can’t wear this,’ she said.  It would look even more ridiculous than that bloody pink dress.  

Jaime glanced up from his meal.  He met Brienne’s perturbed gaze with a grimace of his own.  

Sansa crossed to the bed and lifted the sleeve of another dress, rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb.  ‘I think I might be able to do something with this…’ she commented thoughtfully.  She studied Brienne, chewing her lower lip.  ‘Red will do your complexion no favors.’  A stricken look appeared hard on the heels of a flush.  ‘I’m sorry…  I didn’t mean…’

Brienne gave Sansa a small smile.  ‘It’s all right.  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.’  She gestured to the dresses.  ‘Could you really make something suitable for me out of all that?’

Sansa held up one of the dresses to Brienne.  ‘I don’t think any of them are quite long enough to make a proper dress…’  She eyed Brienne’s trousers and boots.  ‘Lord Tywin would prefer you in a dress.’

‘Lord Tywin isn’t the one who has to wear it,’ Jaime interjected, standing up so the chair scraped loudly on the stone floor.  The noise startled Sansa, and the red brocade slipped from her fingers.  Jaime crossed to join them.  He twitched a fold of Brienne’s tunic.  ‘Make something that will compliment Brienne.  And if Tywin wants someone in a dress so badly, he can bloody wear one.’  He stooped to scoop up the dress Sansa had dropped, and added it to the pile on the bed.

Brienne wound her arms around a pillow and turned her head to face Jaime.  ‘That woman in your father’s chamber last night,’ she began.  ‘He’s not the only man to take whores to his bed,’ she remarked.  ‘My father did for quite some time after my mother died.  No one would refer to her as a whore to her face, but it’s what everyone thought when they saw his latest mistress on his arm,’ she continued.  

‘My father despises whores because my grandfather kept one as a mistress after my grandmother died.  Father told us she acted as if she ruled Casterly Rock.  It damn near ruined the family.  When my grandfather died, Father…’  He trailed off, and pulled the coverlet over his shoulders.  ‘Ever since I could remember, he lectured us about the foolishness of openly keeping a mistress, that if you absolutely had to fuck someone, go to a brothel and be quick about it.  Always go to a brothel, he said.  Never have one brought to you.  Because a good brothel owner will be discreet.  Everyone else will not be.’  Jaime shifted onto his side to face her.  ‘So much is my fault.’

‘It’s your fault your father had a whore in his bed?’ Brienne retorted skeptically, lifting herself on her elbows.

‘Tyrion is my fault.  It’s my fault my father has another reason to despise him.’  Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose.  ‘When Tyrion was sixteen, I procured the services of a local girl for him.  Her name was Tysha.  She’d been recently orphaned and needed money.  I’d seen her around the village near the Rock, and she seemed kind, so I approached her and asked if she would bed him.  And I would sweeten the deal if she agreed to engage in a small bit of theatrics.  It needed to appear genuine, or Tyrion might suspect she was only doing it for the money.  People tend to be unable to overlook the fact he’s a dwarf.’  He glanced at Brienne with chagrin.  ‘Underneath all those hardened layers of cynicism, Tyrion’s quite romantic.  So I arranged for a few local crofters to pretend to attack her, and Tyrion and I would ride by at just the right time.  I would run off the crofters, and he would be able to comfort the girl.  And the girl would be grateful and fall into his arms.  Offer a reward of a carnal nature...’  He scrubbed his hand over his face.  ‘I never anticipated he would become infatuated with her.  Or maybe he genuinely did fall in love with her,’ he admitted.  ‘Or that they would bribe a septon into marrying them.’

‘He married her?’  

‘Mmmm.  For two weeks.  Until the septon who married them told our father.’  A muscle in Jaime’s jaw twitched.  ‘I confessed to Father that I had arranged everything.  I even claimed Tysha was a whore, hoping he would give her a bag of gold to entice her to go away and disappear.’

‘But she wasn’t a whore.’

Jaime shook his head.  ‘No.’  He rolled to his back and stared at the gauzy hangings over the bed.  ‘I hoped if Father thought she was a whore, he would just have the marriage set aside, and pretend it never happened.  I’d never seen him so furious.  And that includes when I was named to the Kingsguard.  It didn’t matter to him they only met because I had arranged it.  If there were to be retributions, I begged for him put them on my head, and not Tyrion’s.  He didn’t listen.  He had them both brought to the barracks at the Rock.  And he forced Tyrion to watch while the men raped her.  My father forced me to tell Tyrion that Tysha was a whore and she only fucked him because I paid her to do so.  And I lied to one of the only people in this world who loved me without hesitation or reservation, because I was terrified of what our father would do to me.  There I was, a man grown of twenty, nearly pissing myself with fear.’  Jaime let out a long breath.  ‘When I was ten, I swore my sword to Tyrion.  That I would always defend him.  I’m sure Tyrion’s forgotten that, or dismissed it as a youthful folly.  I meant it.  The first time it mattered, I utterly failed him.’

Brienne rolled onto her back and watched the curtains, billowing in the breeze.  ‘Why tell me this?’

’So you will know why it is that I will engage in something that will very likely fail.’  The bed felt too small, the room too close.  ‘There are very few people for whom I would leap into a pit and place myself between them and roaring bear.  Tyrion.  Myrcella.  Tommen.  You.’

‘Not your father or sister?’  Brienne was taken aback.  Her father had warned her of some of the great houses before she came to the mainland.  He’d said the Lannisters would do anything and everything to ensure the survival of their house above all else.  

‘My father can take care of himself,’ Jaime replied tartly.  ‘And Cer—‘  He bit off the word.  ‘At one point, yes, I would have.  For my sister.  My twin.’  He shifted to his other side, back to Brienne.  ‘Not anymore.’

Chapter Text

‘Get up.’

Jaime snorted and cracked open an eyelid.  He massaged the throbbing spot on his arse.  ‘You really must find another means to wake me.’  He squinted at the window.  ‘How early is it?’

‘Not yet sunrise.’  Brienne prodded his shoulder.  ‘Get up.’

‘Why?’  Jaime burrowed into his pillow.  

‘Practice.’  Brienne sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her boots.  

‘Practice what?’  Jaime flopped onto his back and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

‘Fighting.’  Brienne poked him on the shoulder again.  ‘Perhaps you will never again be the fighter you were, but it would be a shame if you never picked up a sword again.’

Jaime sat up and leaned back against the headboard.  ‘I’ve tried,’ he admitted.  ‘Met Addam in the training yard late at night.’  The memory made him wince.  Addam had administered a beating the likes of which Jaime had never experienced in his life.  He awakened in the morning to find his body mottled with purple and blue bruises, and so stiff and sore he could scarcely dress himself.  ‘It did not end well.’

Brienne stood and glared down at him.  ‘So you’ve decided to give up?’  

‘It feels… wrong.’

Brienne handed him his clothes.  ‘Then you must train until it doesn’t.’  Jaime looked away, his jaw tight.  Brienne tactfully turned to allow him to collect himself.  She felt duty bound to encourage him to learn to use a sword with his left hand.  Despite his assurances to the contrary, she felt responsible for the loss of his right hand.  Protecting him better than most was not good enough.  She hadn’t done enough.  She shrugged into her jerkin and laced it, wondering what she might need to say next, if he refused to get out of bed.  She gave him a sidelong glance as she firmly tied the laces.  ‘You can’t let them win.’

‘I can’t let who win?’

‘You cannot let the men who took your hand to take the sword from your hand as well!” Brienne burst out in a fit of passion.  ‘I won’t allow it!’  The silence spooled out between them.  

Jaime folded the bedding back.  ‘You’re right.’  

‘What?’ 

‘You’re right.’  

Brienne felt her mouth fall open.  ‘I… I am?’

Jaime began to dress.  ‘I don’t want anyone to see us.’  He thrust his arms into his shirt and yanked it over his head.  ‘I’d prefer if nobody else could stand witness to my certain humiliation.’

Brienne smiled.  ‘I know just the place.’  She paused, picking up a sack from the corner of the room.  ‘Provided your friend Bronn isn’t with someone.’

Jaime pulled his shirt over his head.  ‘He’s not my friend.’  He grabbed his own jerkin and followed Brienne from the chamber.

Brienne disarmed him once more.  Deeply-seated habit meant Jaime had to continually remind himself to use the left hand, not the right.  His timing was markedly slower because of it.  He kicked at the wooden sword in disgust with himself and bellowed his displeasure to the heavens.  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!’

Brienne swiped the sleeve of her shirt over her sweaty forehead.  ‘Pick it up.’  There was no room for tenderness or mercy here.  Not if Jaime was to regain even a modicum of his prior form.  

Jaime stooped to retrieve it and resisted the urge to throw the training sword into the sea.  ‘I feel like a bloody fool.’

‘You will be a fool if you don’t learn how to use your left hand.’  Even now simple tasks like eating and dressing could be a struggle, let alone writing.  Brienne knew he could do something else, be something else, but fighting was such an ingrained part of who he was.  The only means for him to find that part of himself was to claw his way back.  Her wooden sword flicked to the side and she knocked Jaime’s from his hand.  It skittered across the flagstones and came to a stop at the edge of the courtyard.  The look he gave her brimmed with betrayal.  Brienne tamped down the tendril of guilt.  He wouldn’t thank her for treating him gently.  She lowered her sword and propped it against the boulders that rimmed the courtyard.  ‘Why don’t we rest for a moment?  Catch our breath.’  She rummaged in the sack for a skin of water, and held it out to Jaime.  She settled on the edge of the boulder next to her sword and unlaced the top of her jerkin, then the neck of her shirt.  

Jaime sat next to her and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, trying not to let on how out of breath he really was.  It had been nearly three years since he’d fought, the brief bout with Brienne on the bridge notwithstanding.  He hadn’t been idle, but he hadn’t exerted himself to this degree.  Jaime stoppered the skin and handed it back to Brienne before he reclaimed his sword.  He turned smartly on his heel and brandished the wooden sword at her.  ‘Well, my lady…  Shall we dance?’

Brienne’s hand brushed over the hidden pocket in her tunic to ensure the bag of coins was still there.  It held more money than she’d ever possessed in her life.  Evenfall was far from poor, but her father was rather frugal.  Jaime handed it to her with the offhanded manner of one who never had to count their dragons, stags, or pennies.  It made her slightly nervous to have that much money in hand.  

She wandered through Cobbler’s Square, peering into various stalls and shops, searching for the right one.  For once, she was grateful for her habitual glower and prodigious height.  People tended to give her a wide berth.  She ducked into one of the stalls.  ‘Seven blessings,’ she said by way of a greeting to the leather worker.

‘Seven blessings,’ the man responded.  The slight lilt to his voice told Brienne he came from one of the Free Cities in Essos.  Most likely Myr, given the craftsmanship evident in his wares.  

Brienne set the sword belt Jaime had given her on the counter.  ‘Did you make this?’

The man brightened.  ‘I did.  Commissioned by Ser Jaime Lannister himself.  Said to create something fit for a warrior queen of Tarth.’  He gestured to the Tarth sigil on her tunic.  ‘And you must be her.’  He lifted the belt in his hands.  ‘Does it not meet with your approval, m’lady?’

‘It’s perfect.  I wondered if I might entreat you to make another?  An identical one, only in blue?’

The man fingered one of the studs shaped like a lion’s head.  ‘I could.  There are many shades of blue between the blue of the sky and the blue of the deepest sea, m’lady.  Have one one in mind?’

‘Have you ever been to Tarth?’

‘The Sapphire Isle? I have had the pleasure to visit it from time to time during my travels.’

‘The water around the island?  That shade of blue.  Can you have it ready within a fortnight?’

‘I shall have it sooner.  Anything for the wife of Ser Jaime.’  

Brienne’s fingers convulsed around her sword belt.  ‘How…?’  She hadn’t introduced herself as such.  

‘When Ser Jaime ordered it, he described in such detail the lady for whom it was intended, that it surely must have been a wedding gift.’  The man beamed at her.

Brienne gave him a small smile.  ‘You must not have lived in Westeros very long.  Kingsguard cannot marry.’

The leather worker scoffed.  ‘I have lived in King’s Landing for some time, m’lady.  Long enough to know that should one desire to be released from their vows, one only needs to give a large enough donation to the High Septon.  Seeing as Ser Jaime returned with a grievous injury, it seemed to be only a matter of time before Lord Tywin gave such a donation.’  The leather worker sent Brienne a significant look.  ‘And you and Ser Jaime were recently wed, were not not?’

Brienne cleared her throat and gave him a short nod.   ‘Lord Tywin does tend to get his way, doesn’t he?’  Brienne dug into the hidden pocket of her tunic.  She laid a few silver stags on the counter.  ‘How long ago did you make it?’ she asked.

The man’s bushy brows drew together.  ‘Not too long after Ser Jaime returned to King’s Landing.  A fortnight, perhaps.’  Brienne’s lips parted in surprise.  Jaime had commissioned it months ago.  ‘I shall have it delivered to you in the Red Keep when I’ve finished it.’

‘Thank you.’  

The family -- although Brienne struggled to define the Lannisters as a family -- sat in silence, waiting for the servants to bring the food to the table.  Tywin at the head, Cersei at the opposite end, lounged in her chair, swilling wine, a scowl marring her smooth features.  Tyrion and Sansa sat on one side of the table, as far from Cersei as possible.  A guard stood between Cersei and Tyrion.  Sansa’s face was pale and strained.  Tyrion’s was a bland mask, but occasionally a muscle jumped in his jaw.  Brienne thought he must be grinding his teeth together.  Brienne herself sat on Tywin’s left, apprehension making her stomach churn.   She glanced at Jaime, sitting next to her.  Like Tyrion, he was outwardly emotionless, but there was a faraway look in his eyes.  Tommen sat on Jaime’s other side, his nervousness betrayed by a deepening flush on his cheeks.  But like Jaime, he seemed to be anywhere else other than this room.  It was a relief when a contingent of servants trooped in bearing platters of food.

It proved to be short-lived when a servant set a plate in front of Jaime.  Brienne closed her eyes for a brief moment, wondering how anyone could be so bloody blind.  The vegetables were easy enough to manage one-handed. She knew from previous experience he would be unable to cut the thick slab or roast pork sitting a puddle of sauce without help.  Brienne dragged Jaime’s plate toward her, and swiftly cut his meat into bite-sized pieces as had been her custom on the road from Harrenhal.  Tywin’s hand landed on her wrist.  Brienne’s arm tensed at the intrusion.  Were he any other man, she would have jabbed his hand with her fork.  Only the presence of the Lannister guards and the badge of the Hand of the King pinned to his surcoat stilled her hand.  ‘That is hardly necessary,’ he intoned.

Brienne’s head swiveled to Tywin.  ‘No, my lord?’ she asked.  ‘Then pray, how is Ser Jaime to do so for himself with only one hand?’  Tywin’s eyes bored into hers, and Brienne’s narrowed in response.  Tywin turned his attention to his meal, and Brienne pushed Jaime’s plate back to him.  Under the table, Jaime reached for Brienne’s knee with his stump and pressed it into her leg in lieu of a reassuring squeeze.  

They proceeded to eat in silence.  Or give the impression of eating.  Like the others, Brienne moved her food around her plate, taking an occasional bite that stuck in her throat.  Cersei refilled her glass with wine and drained half of it.  Gods only knew how much wine she’d consumed before she’d arrived in the Tower of the Hand.  Her plate remained untouched.  ‘Lady Brienne.  Such an interesting… garment.  One could hardly call it dress,’ she proclaimed with a condescending snicker.  She lifted the glass to her mouth and took a another large sip.

Brienne laid her fork down.  She was rapidly losing what little appetite she had.  She glanced down at the tunic Sansa had remade for her.  Sansa had managed to remove most the embroidered lions and tailor the sleeves to resemble those of a surcoat, while keeping the basic structure of the dress it had been.    ‘Yes.  Lord Tywin was kind enough to provide a selection of garments.  Lady Sansa generously offered to alter one or two to fit me.’

‘How…  utterly charming.’ Cersei sneered. She swallowed the rest of her wine and refilled the glass. Sansa bit her lip and quickly looked down at her plate.

Tywin spared a glance for Brienne.  ‘I suppose you did the best you could with what you had,’ he told Sansa.  Jaime’s fingers tightened on his fork, and Brienne shook her head slightly.  It wasn’t worth making a scene over.  At least Twyin hadn’t called her ugly to her face.  Tywin poured himself a glass of wine and held it to the light, admiring the color.  ‘It’s a pity your brothers will miss your wedding, Cersei,’ he announced, then took the merest sip of wine, before setting the glass down.

Cersei’s head tilted to one side, glass dangling from her fingers.  ‘I’m sorry.  What wedding?’  She laughed caustically.  ‘Surely you don’t intend to go through with the plans to marry me to Loras Tyrell.’

Tywin snorted.  ‘Of course not.  Tommen’s already promised to Margaery.  It doesn’t do to keep the bloodlines that close.’

Cersei refilled her glass.  ‘Then of which marriage do you speak?’  

Everyone had given up the pretense of eating, waiting for Tywin’s response.  

They were not disappointed.

‘It seems Walder Frey is in need of a wife.  And I am in a need of a means to cement our alliance.’

The glass slipped from Cersei’s hand and shattered on the floor, splattering wine and sending shards of glass skittering across the flagstones.  ‘What?’

‘It’s been decided.  You will marry Walder Frey.’  Tywin cut a small bite of meat and ate it.

Cersei slowly blanched and her chest heaved.  Her spine straightened.  ‘I will not!’ she screeched.  ‘I am not some broodmare you can sell to whomever you wish,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.  ‘I AM THE QUEEN!’

Tywin’s fist slammed onto the table making the plates and cutlery rattle.  ‘You are my daughter!’ he roared.  ‘You will do as you are told.’

Both Jaime and Tommen had pushed their chairs back from the table as soon as Tywin’s fist landed on the table, their faces inscrutable, eyes fixed on some distant point only they knew.  Sansa had gone so still, she might have been a statue, lips gone white.  Tyrion’s lips were pursed together, and he gazed at the ceiling, amusement warring with dread in his eyes. 

Cersei rose to her feet.  ‘I.  Am.  The.  Queen,’ she repeated, her voice so cold Brienne fancied it could freeze the water in her cup.  ‘And I will not be spoken to in such a manner.’

Tywin deliberately reached for his glass.  ‘I seem to remember telling the late and not very lamented Joffery that if one had to announce one was a king, then one was not a true king.’  He took a small sip of his wine.  ‘You do not rule.  You were only queen because of your marriage to Robert Baratheon.  Robert is dead.  Tommen does not require a regent.’  He idly swirled the wine in his glass.  ‘And after the absolute nightmare that was Joffery’s reign, anyone on the small council with the sense the gods gave a sparrow would not consider you suitable.’  He took yet another sip.  ‘You might be the king’s mother, but that is where it ends.’  Cersei went rigid, her eyes bulging.  ‘Within the month, you shall journey to the Twins and wed Lord Frey.’  Tywin took another sip of wine.  ‘Whether you choose to consummate or not is your choice.  Walder Frey already has far too many offspring, so you needn’t give him children.’

Cersei shoved her chair aside.  It tumbled end over end until it crashed into the far wall and came to a rest in a drunken tilt on its side.  Tommen visibly flinched, his chair jerking to the side and colliding into Jaime’s.  ‘Sorry,’ Tommen mouthed, all color leeched from his face. 

Tywin signalled to a guard.  ‘Please escort Her Grace back to her chamber.  And then send for a maester.  Anyone will do.  You needn’t bother Pycelle.  Her Grace is feeling unwell and should rest.’ 

The guard gently grasped Cersei by the elbow.  ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured, guiding her to the door.  She yanked her arm from his hand and swept from the room, two Lannister guards trailing in her wake.  

The quiet that descended over the room was deafening.  

After a suitable amount of time had passed, Jaime pushed his chair back.  ‘I believe it’s time Lady Brienne and I retired.’  Brienne quickly got to her feet, and Tyrion and Sansa did the same.  Jaime bowed to Tommen.  ‘Your Grace.’  

Brienne nodded once to Tywin and murmured, ‘Your Grace,’ to Tommen, bobbing a rather inept curtsey.  She took Jaime’s proffered arm and they left the room with alacrity, as if Tywin would yank them both back inside by their collars.  Brienne pulled Jaime aside into an alcove.  She held his face between his hands.  ‘Are you all right?’ she murmured.  

Jaime shuddered and slid his arms around her waist, burying his face into the juncture of her neck and shoulder.  ‘I will be.’  He pulled back slightly.  ‘I could use a bit of air after that.  Care to join me for a stroll in the gardens, my lady?’

‘And beg for some food in the kitchens after?’ Brienne asked hopefully.  ‘I couldn’t…’  She trailed off at the sound of footsteps and peered into the dim corridor.  Tommen walked by, surrounded by Kingsguard, hands knotted together behind his back, a troubled expression on his round face.  She gnawed a thumbnail, brows knitted in a frown.  His behavior during the dinner was concerning.  As had been Jaime’s.  Once Tommen and the Kingsguard passed, she felt a tug on her other hand.  Jaime shifted from foot to foot, awash with impatience.  She let Jaime lead her through the castle until the came to a door that led directly to the gardens.

They didn’t speak again until they found an isolated corner scented with the heavy fragrance of moonblooms.  Brienne supposed it was all very romantic, with the stars and moon overhead, the climbing vines laden with moonblooms covering the trellis that sheltered the corner, but that was the furthest thing from her mind.  Its current advantage was the rather inconvenient location in the garden.  It hugged the rugged edge of the cliffs, and the roar of the sea crashing on the rocks below made it difficult to eavesdrop.  They perched on the edge of the low wall.  Jaime stretched his feet out in front of him with a sigh.  ‘Do you know, not a single person has ever inquired after me?’  He leaned back to gaze at the stars, obscured by the haze of King’s Landing’s fires.  ‘Not after the first time I heard Aerys rape his wife or saw him burn someone alive.  Or after I…’  He mimed thrusting a sword.  ‘You know.’

Brienne plucked one of the flowers from the vine and began to shred it.  ‘It seemed as though you weren’t there.’

‘It was something I did when I was small,’ Jaime admitted, with a wry twist to his mouth.  ‘When my father was displeased with me, which was often.  Or when Aerys would hit or rape Rhaella.  Or when he burned someone.  I would go… away…  inside…’  He made a vague gesture with his stump toward his head.  ‘Then I didn’t have to listen to my father berate me for sullying the family name with my apparent stupidity and lack of ambition.   I didn’t have to think about the fact that I couldn’t protect Rhaella from him.  I didn’t want to hear the screams from his victims and wanted to pretend I couldn’t smell their flesh burning.’  He blew out a long breath.

‘Tommen had the same look,’ Brienne commented.  ‘Perhaps someone should inquire after him,’ she suggested.  

‘I’m not sure there’s anyone who would,’ Jaime began.

‘I meant you.’

‘I’m not sure I should.  I’m no longer in the Kingsguard...’

Brienne made a peevish noise in the back of her throat and threw the remains of the flower to the ground.  ‘You’re his fa...  uncle.  You have every right to look after him.  He needs someone who cares about what happens to Tommen and not His Grace, Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name…’  

‘Seven hells, I hate it when you’re right.’  Jaime heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet.  ‘Here goes nothing.’  

He strode from the gardens and into the castle, barely acknowledging other people until he came to a stop in front of the king’s chambers.  He lifted his fist and knocked firmly on the door.  It opened, to reveal a rather flustered Tommen.  ‘Uncle Jaime!’

‘May I come in?’  Tommen nodded and gulped.  He stood back to allow Jaime into the chamber.  ‘I thought I should look in on you after that debacle of a dinner.’

Tommen’s lips thinned.  ‘It’s only when Grandfather starts shouting…’  He dropped into a chair, and Jaime followed suit.  ‘I try to imagine I’m somewhere else.’  He smiled painfully.  ‘I used to do it when… when I was little and Joffery would…’  He stared down at his hands.  ‘It isn’t important.’

Jaime reached out to grasp Tommen by the shoulder, but arrested the motion and instead tugged at the collar of his surcoat.  ‘Joffery hurt you, didn’t he?’  Tommen’s reluctant nod sent a stab of pain through him.  ‘I used to go away inside as a child.  Quite often.  And sometimes as a man grown.’  Jaime took in a deep breath.  ’Should you ever need to… talk… you only ever need to ask.’  Jaime shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his seat.  ‘If not me, then someone.  I could offer you a name or two.’  Tommen’s face tightened, and Jaime quickly added, ‘Someone who won’t feel the need to run to your grandfather.’

Tommen’s shoulders inched lower.  ‘Thank you, uncle.’

Jaime nodded.  ‘I’ll bid you good night, then.’  

Tommen leapt to his feet.  ‘Before you go, Uncle Jaime…’  He darted across the room and returned bearing the sword Tywin had bestowed upon Joffery on the day of his wedding.  ‘You should have this.’

‘I’m not sure I should,’ Jaime stammered.  ‘I’m not the fighter I was.’

Tommen offered the sword to Jaime.  ‘I insist.  It’s wasted on me.  I never quite learned.  Mother never felt it was necessary and Father barely knew Myrcella and I existed.’  He let one corner of his mouth curve upward.  ‘Shall I order you to take it as your king?’

Jaime wrapped his fingers around the scabbard.  ‘That won’t be necessary.’  He lifted the sword from Tommen’s hand. ‘Thank you.’

‘Prince Oberyn.’  Jaime greeted the other man, who was somehow elegantly lounging while writing something with penmanship Jaime would have envied if he’d still been in possession of his right hand.

‘Lord Jaime.’

‘Jaime is perfectly adequate.  Ser Jaime if you insist on using titles,’ Jaime replied with an inward chuckle.  He sounded just like Brienne.  He motioned to the garden path.  ‘Would you care to join me for a brief stroll?’

Oberyn laid down his quill.  ‘Of course.’  

‘What where you writing?’ Jaime asked.

Oberyn glanced at the parchment.  ‘Just some extraordinarily bad poetry,’ he laughed.  ‘Do you care for poetry, Ser?’

‘Never cared for reading it,’ Jaime admitted.  In truth, Jaime hated reading anything.  It brought up far too many painful memories.  ‘But I don’t mind hearing it.’  He started to walk down the path.  ‘Never managed to write any, either.  Too busy learning how to be a poet with a sword.’

Oberyn folded his hands together behind his back.  ‘You didn’t ask me to join you for a walk in this admittedly lovely garden to discuss poetry.  From what I know about you, neither is it a proposition to share your bed.’

‘Ah… No.’  Jaime cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as Oberyn chuckled to himself.   Oberyn’s preferences for both men and women were well known.  Despite his own worldliness, Oberyn made Jaime feel like a backwater farmer.  Jaime veered off the path to gaze out over the water.  ‘You have a seat on the small council.’

‘I do.’

‘Would you consider staying on?’  Jaime scuffed the toe of his boot on the scraggly grass that grew near the garden wall.  ‘There’s no one on the council to truly look after Tommen.’

‘Has the Hand resigned his position since this morning?’

‘He has not,’ Jaime sighed.  ‘Tommen should hear more than one opinion.  He shouldn’t be bullied and browbeaten into making the decision my father wants.  And while we’re being honest, my father is getting on in years.  Tommen will need advisors that have the interests of the realm at heart, and not in consolidating their own power.’  Even as he said it, Jaime was well aware of the irony, because Tywin was exactly the sort of advisor he didn’t want for Tommen.

Oberyn stared at Jaime.  ‘You know they call you the stupidest Lannister?’ 

‘I’m aware.’

‘You’re much more astute than most credit you.’

Jaime gestured with his stump.  ‘Necessity.  Since I can no longer use my sword to solve all my problems.’  He let a wry grin flash over his face.  ‘Turns out a mind is a useful weapon.  I just had to remember to use it.

‘And of course, you’re concerned as an uncle should be.’

‘Yes, I do worry about my nephew.’  Jaime stooped to pick up a stone and he lobbed it into the water.  ‘I can understand if you wish to return to Sunspear.  Rather like the Starks, the Martells don’t seem to fare well in the capital.’  He tapped his fingers idly against the garden wall.  ‘I know nothing will ever bring them back, and if you decide you can’t — or won’t — serve Tommen because of the memory of Elia and her children…’  Jaime’s shoulder jerked.  ‘I won’t blame you.’  

Oberyn shrugged expansively.  ‘Perhaps I could stay a bit longer.’  He studied Jaime, eyes lingering on Jaime’s face.  ‘You’re leaving soon, yes?’

‘A few more days.’

‘Just in time.  The young king rather resembles his… uncle.’

Jaime forced himself to continue breathing and stole a covert glance at Oberyn.  He knows…   ‘He’s a good lad.  Don’t… hold us against him.’  He took a step back.  ‘Prince Oberyn.’  He bowed respectfully to the Dornish prince.  

‘Ser Jaime.’  

Chapter Text

Brienne and Addam circled one another. Brienne could sense his impatience. She could wait. Use his strength against him. Deflect his attacks. Let him wear himself out, then attack. Just as Goodwin taught her so very long ago. One corner of her mouth turned up slightly. She twirled her sword, the hilt flipping around her hand, neatly sidestepping Addam’s lunge. She grabbed his wrist and thrust her sword toward his unprotected armpit.

Jaime settled on the bench, watching Addam closely. Addam was left-handed. It had been Brienne’s idea to spar with him so Jaime could observe. Brienne had proposed inviting Addam to join them in the seaside courtyard during their early morning practices, but Jaime was adamantly opposed to allowing anyone else to witness his much diminished capacity. Brienne could still disarm him far too quickly.

Loras Tyrell slid onto the bench, a sour expression marring his handsome features. Jaime followed the direction of Loras’ gaze, fixed on Brienne with something akin to burning hatred. Jaime continued to watch Addam and Brienne, but muttered, ‘You know as well as I that she did not murder Renly.’

Loras’ hands curled into fists. ‘As you say, Ser.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Jaime chided. ‘Surely you know the wench utterly lacks guile. I’ve seen her kill, and she has done it with a savagery equal to any man.’ Jaime held up his hand to forestall Loras’ protests when he other man opened his mouth. ‘But she does not do it indiscriminately. Think. What would she have gained for herself or her House by murdering a man she considered her true king?’

Loras snorted. ‘What did you gain when you murdered the king you were sworn to protect?’

‘My life,’ Jaime retorted. He managed a wry chuckle. ‘I did not mourn Aerys. Quite the contrary.’ He gestured toward Brienne with his chin. ‘But I can assure you she genuinely mourned Renly.’

Loras’ lips thinned. ‘She was a laughingstock in Renly’s camp. Especially after she begged to become one of his Kingsguard. Even Renly thought she was…’ Loras paused as his eyes darted to Brienne, who’d switched her sword to her left hand, while Addam drilled her. ‘Absurd.’ He shook his head. ‘A woman masquerading as a knight,’ he said in disgust.

Jaime made a noise in the back of his throat, but said nothing else. He kept his eyes glued on the toe of his boot as it dragged back and forth through the grass. If one earned the title of knight, solely by the intent of their actions, Brienne would be a legend and men such as himself and Loras would be societal outcasts.

‘I asked Renly why he’d given her a position in his Kingsguard, if he thought her so ridiculous,’ Loras mused, unaware of indignation building on Jaime’s face. ‘He said everyone else asked him for something. Castles. Lands. Gold. He said she didn’t want any of that. She only wanted to serve him.’

‘Then that should tell you everything you need to know about her,’ Jaime growled. ‘Excuse me.’ He nearly lept to his feet and began to pace around the perimeter of the yard. He stood under the meagre shade of a yew tree, a troubled grimace crossing his face. Brienne’s memories of Renly were something precious, and a rare bright memory in a childhood that had very few of them. He toyed with the idea that Renly had lied to Loras to ease any ill feelings, but given the nature of their relationship, that was unlikely. Renly’s charm had a carefully hidden edge to it, and he was not above using it to cultivate potential allies. Robert had been all hearty bluster, able to exhort men to follow him into battle. Stannis engendered no love in his men, but ruled through fear of that god of his. Renly made men love him.

Addam brought his sword up and challenged Brienne. The fought, slowly at first, then Addam gradually increased his speed until his sword was a blur. She managed to fend him off using her left hand for a few minutes, the tip of her tongue poking through her lips, but Addam easily disarmed her. Far from feeling discouraged, Brienne retrieved her sword, her face flush with the exhilaration of even the small success. Jaime quite envied her the ability to take the whispers and sniggers and use them to feed her drive to do better.

Addam held out a hand. ‘Well fought, Lady Brienne.’

Brienne clasped it. ’Thank you.’ She stowed her sparring sword in the rack, fussing with placing it just so. ‘Brienne is… enough.’ It had been an automatic correction. Few people outside of Evenfall referred to her as Lady Brienne without a great deal of contempt or derision. She fiddled with the lacing of her doublet. ‘I’m hardly a lady…’

Addam offered her a waterskin. ’Neither are most of the so-called ladies in this damn castle.’ He leaned closer, a conspiratorial grin on his face. ‘Don’t let the skirts and fancy hair fool you.’ He placed his sword in the rack. ‘Jaime tells me you bested him.’

Brienne wiped the sweat from her face with a towel. ‘It was hardly a fair fight,’ she demurred.

‘You should have seen him when he first earned his spurs. Even Barristan Selmy couldn’t keep up.’

’Stop filling her head with tales,’ Jaime said as he joined them. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ he told Brienne. ’I’m sure they’re full of highly exaggerated details of all my failures.’

‘Ser Jaime!’ A maid scurried across the yard, her footsteps bringing up puffs of dust beneath her shoes. ‘Her Grace wishes to see you.’ Before Jaime could so much as decline, she added, ‘She said to tell you it’s not a request.’ The maid bobbed a curtsey. ’Ser.’

Jaime sidled into Cersei’s chamber, and stood just inside the door. He glanced at the maid as she left, closing the door behind her, but went no further into the room. ‘Your Grace.’ He inclined his head a fraction of an inch to observe the formalities, but nothing more.

Cersei flew across the chamber and wound her fingers into the front of Jaime’s jerkin. She clutched him as though he were a piece of driftwood in stormy seas. Her lips trembled while her eyes filled with tears. ‘Jaime, please. You must save me. You cannot allow Father to send me off to marry Walder Frey. I’ll die. I know it.’ One tear clung to her lashes, then slipped down her cheek.

Jaime was unmoved by her tears. She had used them so often in the past to get what she desired, that he saw them as the ploy that the were. He peeled her fingers from his jerkin with great difficulty, and gently pushed her away. Cersei flinched at the touch of his stump. He folded his arms across his chest, and took a few steps to put more distance between them. ’I’m not sure I can succeed where you have not.’ Even if Jaime had wanted to spare Cersei the indignity of marriage with Walder Frey, it would ultimately be of no use. Tywin rarely heeded the counsel of any save himself. He was like a giant spider, with the throne as the center of the web, the spokes reaching across Westeros. The Lannisters had marriage alliances with the Stormlands, Dorne, the Reach, the North, and now the Riverlands. Jaime would lay excellent odds that Tywin already had a document proposing a marriage between Robin Arryn and a potential granddaughter in order to add the Vale to his collection.

Cersei inhaled deeply through her nose, briskly wiping away her tears. She moved toward him, one languid hand trailing over his arse. Jaime made a quiet choking noise and tried to move, but her other hand closed around his right wrist, nails digging into the still-sensitive scars. The hand on his arse glided over his hip and began to tug at the laces of his trousers. ’No…’ Jaime said, his voice pained. Cersei didn’t reply, but her hand slipped inside, and she took out his cock. To Jaime’s horror and shame, his cock hardened in response to her ministrations. ’Cersei, stop.’

She glanced down to admire her handiwork. ‘Surely the thought of me in that shrivelled cunt’s bed is distasteful to you,’ Cersei purred. ‘Just as the mere idea of you in that thing’s bed makes me want to vomit.’ She rested her head against his arm. ‘I know you were forced. You would never abandon me such a creature. Not even the bonds of marriage could separate us. You love me. You’ve never loved anyone but me.’

Jaime seized her wrist, and he squeezed until she cried out and released him. He shoved Cersei roughly away and bent his head over the laces of his trousers. ‘I did. Once.’ But no longer. He turned toward the door and reached for the handle, but Cersei’s cold voice halted his progress. ’No one walks away from me,’ she hissed.

Jaime paused and twisted around to study his twin. How had he ever believed she was his mirror image? She disdained the very idea of honor and duty to anyone other than herself. He would be the first to admit it was hypocritical of him say so, for his own honor was rather less than pristine. Every despicable thing he had ever done, it had been in her name. He bowed with elaborate formality. ‘I must beg your leave, Your Grace. I depart at dawn.’

‘I will tell Father everything. All of it!’

Jaime let out a bark of sardonic laughter. ‘He already suspects.’ He pointed at Cersei. ‘You care for no one. Have you thought for one moment what might happen to Tommen or Myrcella if you did confess who fathered your children?’ The stony expression on Cersei’s face told him she had not. Jaime shook his head with a scornful huff. He inclined his head. ‘Your Grace.’ He yanked the door open and strode from the chamber, feeling another bit of his former life crumble and fall.

He walked back to his own chamber, a smile playing on his mouth.

Brienne tucked a spare shirt into the saddlebag, then tied the flap closed. Burly manservants had already taken the rest of their things down to the stables. Dawn was still a faint streak of pink on the horizon. She sighed and cupped a hand behind one of the fat candles burning on the mantle and blew it out. She could wait no longer.

When she’d come to King’s Landing with Jaime, she had written to her father, informing him she was safe, unharmed, and above all, unbesmirched. Selwyn had immediately replied, exhorting her to return to Tarth. In the weeks and months that followed, she and her father had written to one another with some measure of regularity. Ships sailed often enough between Tarth and King’s Landing to make it possible. But Selwyn had not responded to the letter that informed him of her marriage. Brienne could only recall a handful of occasions where her father had been so angry he’d been unable to speak. This was the first time he’d been so irate with her.

She hefted the saddlebag in her hand and left the chamber, closing the door softly behind her.

The stables bustled with activity. Two guards secured their belongings in the cart, while another hitched a team of horses to it. Tyrion was already astride his horse, yawning widely, his wrists chained close together. Podrick scrambled to help Sansa mount her horse, then lingered, fussing with the length of her stirrups. Once Sansa was satisfied, Podrick milled aimlessly about. It gave Brienne the impression that he was reluctant to mount his own horse. It seemed like odd behavior for a squire, who should have had some experience riding. Brienne grimaced at the idea of a novice rider making the two week journey to Casterly Rock, especially at the hard pace Jaime had envisioned. She hoped he wouldn’t slow them down, but she did not have high hopes. Jaime fumbled with his bedroll, struggling to fasten it to his saddle. Addam stood to the side, visibly restraining himself from offering assistance. Brienne was the last to arrive and drew out saddling her horse as long as she could, hoping a page would come pelting into the yard, brandishing a letter bearing her father’s seal. At this point, she would consider herself satisfied with an acceptance of the marriage, if not outright approval or a blessing.

Jaime appeared on the other side of her horse. ‘I didn’t expect you to be so reluctant to leave,’ he remarked.

‘I’m not.’ Brienne readjusted the bridle. ‘I was…’ She shook her head and fastened the saddlebag to the back of her saddle. ‘It’s not important.’ She mounted her horse and stared straight ahead.

Jaime started to protest, but caught sight of Tywin, standing on the curtain wall, gazing down into the yard. He gathered the reins of his horse in his left hand and wheeled around, nudging his horse into a walk. Tyrion’s head tilted back and he returned Tywin’s glare for several long moments. ‘I am your son!’ he shouted. ‘I have always been your son!’

More than I have ever been, Jaime ruminated to himself. He might have been the son Tywin desired, but Tyrion was the heir of Tywin’s intellect and abilities. His eyes shifted over to his father, standing in brooding silence. Tywin lifted his chin, then very deliberately turned his back as if to say, You are no son of mine. Had the hate and rage in Tyrion’s eyes been dragonfire, Tywin would have been ablaze like a bonfire.

‘Let’s go,’ Jaime murmured to Brienne. She nodded and led the small party from the Red Keep, winding their way toward the Lion Gate.

The horses’ hooves rang against the cobbles in the early morning. Once they had left the castle, Jaime urged his horse into a trot and caught up to Brienne. ‘For someone who wanted to leave King’s Landing so badly, you created the impression of one who wanted nothing more than to stay.’

Brienne shot him a sullen look from the corner of her eye. ‘I doesn’t matter.’

‘Clearly, it does.’

Brienne huffed and fixed her eyes on her horse’s ears. ‘My father hasn’t replied to the letter I wrote when I married you,’ she admitted, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Perhaps it’s gotten lost,’ Jaime suggested, even as his heart sank to see the despondency settle into every line of her body.

Brienne’s shoulders hunched. She knew better than to believe that. Her father in a rage was something to behold, and his silence communicated his disapproval far more than if he’d come to roar his displeasure loud enough to be heard at the Wall. ‘It’s not lost.’

It was obvious that if Podrick had ever been on horseback, it had been an age since the last occasion. His seat was all wrong, and he bounced in the saddle. His hands were too far apart, almost comically so. Sansa tittered at the sight of Podrick’s inept riding. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a squire?’ she asked. ‘How can you barely stay on horseback?’

Podrick slid alarmingly to one side before righting himself. ‘My father was a squire for cousins who had more wealth.’ Podrick grew quiet, sifting through the faint memories of the small cottage where he’d spent his early childhood and the even fainter memory of his mother. ‘Never managed to earn his spurs, though. He died in the Greyjoy rebellion when I was six. My mother left me with Ser Cedric Payne, who was a cousin of some sort. And I never saw her again.’ He grunted as the horse shied at Sansa’s skirts fluttering in the breeze. ‘Don’t know where she is,’ he added. ‘At any rate, Ser Cedric had me keep his mail clean and tend to his horse. Was never quite keen to teach me anything, like fighting or riding. Then he was killed at Whispering Wood. After the battle, I ended up squiring for a Ser Lorimer. He was a hedge knight who needed a squire. And I needed a knight. Didn’t last long. He got drunk, stole a ham, and shared it with me. Got found out the next morning passed out under a wagon. Would have gotten away with it, but he still had the bone in his hand.’ Podrick shrugged. ‘Lord Tywin sentenced him to hang for stealing. They were going to do the same to me, but when he heard my name was Payne, he spared me. Gave me to Lord Tyrion.’

Sansa rode quietly for several moments. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I didn’t tell it to you to gain sympathy, m’lady.’ Podrick risked a glance over his shoulder to where Tyrion rode next to Jaime. ‘Lord Tywin meant to punish me by ordering me to squire for Lord Tyrion. Lord Tyrion’s always been kind to me, and I haven’t wanted for anything since I came to King’s Landing with him.’

‘Well, first things first,’ Brienne cut in briskly. ‘You need to stay on that horse. Move your hands down the reins. Keep your elbows closer to your sides.’ She gave Podrick the same beady-eyed look the master-at-arms of Evenfall had given her when she’d begged for lessons. ‘Do you want to learn the sword?’

‘I know some,’ Podrick responded, adjusting his grip on the reins. ‘I want to learn more.’

‘I could train you,’ Brienne said diffidently. ‘If you don’t mind learning from a woman.’

Podrick’s face lit up, fit to rival the sunrise. ‘I would be honored, m’lady.’

Brienne nodded. ‘Good. We’ll start tomorrow. One hour before we break camp and one hour when we stop for the night.’

‘I won’t let you down, m’lady!’ Podrick positively beamed.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ Brienne reprimanded. ‘It’s going to be a great deal of hard work for you.’ And for me, she sighed inwardly, hoping Podrick had more agility on the ground that he did on horseback.

Tyrion slid from his horse with a groan. His entire body ached and the prospect of several more days of this made him want to weep. He walked stiffly to Jaime and gestured with his head toward a clump of trees. ‘I feel I should inform you I am in dire need of a piss.’

Jaime arched his back to stretch, and handed the reins to Podrick, who led the horse to join the others. ’Are you merely informing me or asking my permission?’

Tyrion blinked. ‘Both, I suppose. I am technically your prisoner.’

Jaime held out an arm. ‘After you.’

Tyrion’s chains clinked as unlaced his trousers and unleashed a stream against the trunk of a scrubby birch tree. Jaime stood next to him, picking at the laces of his own trousers. He let his bladder release with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Wait until you can do this from the top of the Wall,’ Tyrion told him. ‘It’s quite the thing to remind you of your mortality.’

Jaime gave his laces an inordinate amount of attention as he retied them. ‘What is the Wall really like?’ He’d mocked it before as something lesser than the Kingsguard, viewed it as a place to send troublesome younger sons, embarrassing bastards, and criminals. It was always somewhere to exile other people.

Tyrion straightened his clothing and gazed out at the meadow where the others went about the business of making camp for the night, recalling the dilapidated and neglected air of Castle Black. Men didn’t serve with honor and distinction at the Wall; they were sent there to be forgotten. ‘It truly is place for bastards and broken men. A perfect sentence for me in our father’s estimation.’ Tyrion attempted to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jaime longed to reveal the rest of his plan, but it wouldn’t do to raise Tyrion’s hopes. Not even Brienne knew the extent of it. He would tell them. Only when they were in the North and there was little chance someone could overhear them. He had no intention of letting Tyrion actually swear the vows of the Night’s Watch. And when Tywin died, Jaime was determined to procure a pardon for Tyrion, and then give him the Rock. And Jaime would hopefully retire to Tarth with Brienne and proceed to sire a brood of tall, blonde, mulish, headstrong children. He glanced at Tyrion, who stood squinting into the east, as though he could still see the spires of the Red Keep. ‘You’re going to miss it, aren’t you? All the conniving and jostling for position,’ Jaime remarked with a shudder and began to walk toward the camp.

Tyrion trailed after him. ‘Of course I am. It’s what I live for. All the intrigue. The plotting. The scheming.’ He preened slightly. ‘I never felt more alive than when I was Hand.’ He glanced at Jaime. ‘I take it you won’t?’

‘Not for one second.’ When the Bolton men escorted him back to King’s Landing, Jaime felt a great deal of consternation to find that the closer they were to the capital, the less he wanted to return. He was no longer the Jaime Lannister that had ridden out to lead the Lannister army into battle. He still didn’t quite know who he was. Perhaps that was less of a liability than he had believed at first.

‘I can’t help but wonder,’ Tyrion mused aloud as they approached the fire, ‘who I ought to pity more: Cersei or Walder Frey.’

Jaime let out a derisive huff of laughter. ‘I might feel sorry for Walder Frey. She’ll make him beg the Stranger to take him,’ he murmured to Tyrion. He accepted a bowl of stew from a guard and folded himself to Tyrion’s bedroll next to his brother and watched Brienne demonstrate how to properly hobble a horse to Podrick. The setting sun glinted off her pale yellow hair, reminding him of another sunset and her raw, unfiltered grief for Catelyn Stark in the woods behind an inn when they had learned about the Red Wedding. ‘But he doesn’t deserve, nor merit, my pity.’

Sansa unfurled her bedroll with a snap. ‘I don’t feel sorry for either of them. They deserve each other,’ she spat, then stalked to collect a bowl of stew from one of the guards.

‘As for Cersei, she’ll find some poor weed in the Twins to fuck. One she can control,’ Jaime added. ‘One we’ll make feel grateful that she’s deigned to notice him.’

Tyrion snorted and stirred his stew. It was exactly how Cersei had compelled Lancel to do her bidding. He was glad Jaime was finally rid of her influence. Perhaps one day he would tell him all about Lancel.

But not today.

Podrick’s hand slowed, then came to a stop, knife hovering over the fish.  Sansa walked by, her arms full of grass for the bedrolls. Brienne continued to scale the fish in front of her, seemingly disinterested in the actions of the boy.  She hadn’t missed the way Podrick managed to be the one to assist Sansa down from her horse when they stopped, and the one to give her a hand up into the saddle. He amused her with tales of his life in the army camp; let her teach him the basics of how to ride a horse, for he’d never spent much time on horseback; he would even join her in singing, his voice a counterpoint to hers.  He was always aware of where she was, dark eyes following her. As far as Brienne knew, he had not made any sort of improper advances. He was far too loyal to Tyrion for that. Still… it was quite obvious to all that Podrick harbored a crush on Sansa. Brienne set her fish aside and took another one from the basket. ‘Careful there, Pod.’ Her eyes flicked to Sansa and back to the fish.  

Pod started guiltily, then bent his head to his task.  ‘I don’t know what you mean, m’lady.’

Chapter Text

Podrick knelt next to the firepit layering a handful of dry grass over a small pile of twigs when he caught a glimpse of Sansa tucking something securely into her bedroll. ‘Is that a doll?’ he blurted.

‘No… it’s not. It’s…’ Sansa’s face turned bright red as she attempted to pull the edge of the bedroll over the doll, but Podrick snatched it away.

‘Aren’t you a bit old to play with dolls?’ he asked.

Before Sansa could reply, Brienne smacked him firmly on the back of the head. ‘Ow.’ Podrick rubbed the stinging spot with his free hand.

‘Give it back.’ Brienne shot him a narrow-eyed glare. ‘I expect better behavior from you. It was most unkind and unworthy of your station.’

Podrick ducked his head and held the doll out to Sansa. ‘I beg your pardon, m’lady.’ Sansa took the doll and tenderly held it close. ‘It wasn’t chivalrous.’

Brienne jerked her head toward the stream. ‘Go make yourself useful and help the men fetch the water.’

Podrick scrambled to his feet. ‘Yes, m’lady.’ He considered himself lucky that Brienne didn’t introduce her boot to his arse.

Sansa sat cross-legged on her bedroll, thumbs stroking over the doll’s round cheeks and arching eyebrows. ‘My father gave her to me,’ she admitted in a low voice to Brienne. ‘When we first came to King’s Landing.’ Sansa ran her palm over the doll’s hair and set it down in her lap. ‘It’s the only thing I have left from before.’

Brienne folded herself to her own bedroll and rummaged in her saddlebag. ‘How old were you when he gave it to you?’

‘Thirteen.’ Sansa’s mouth crimped with shamefacedness. ‘I was so full of my own importance as Joffery’s promised bride. I was haughty and ungrateful. Instead of thanking him, I told him I hadn’t played with dolls since I was eight.’ She hung her head. ‘I was spiteful and unkind.’

‘I’m sure he knew you didn’t mean it,’ Brienne ventured. Sansa shrugged with more than a hint of despondency. ‘My father did the same thing. Gave me dolls for years after I stopped playing with them.’ A wry smile turned up one side of her mouth. ‘Although in my case, playing with dolls usually meant using them as sparring partners or damsels in dire need of rescue.’

Sansa managed a watery giggle. ‘That’s what…’ She swallowed hard. ‘Arya used to do.’ She rubbed a hand over her face. ‘You remind me of her a little.’

‘Do I? I hope that isn’t dreadful.’ Sansa shook her head. Brienne lifted the hairbrush she’d taken from her saddlebag and gestured toward Sansa. ‘May I?’

Sansa shifted until her back was to Brienne and scooted toward Brienne until she could loosen the leather thong that bound the end of her braid. Sansa let out a tremulous sigh as Brienne unwound the braid and began to run the brush through her hair. It brought up memories of one of the last times she had been with her mother. ‘Did your mother do this for you?’ she asked Brienne.

The long strokes of the brush faltered. ‘I think she did.’ Brienne cleared her throat. ‘She died when I was just a little girl.’ Brienne exhaled slowly. ‘My memories of her are… hazy.’ The only things Brienne could recall with any clarity about Elynor Tarth were the scent of violets, soft hands, and a lilting voice singing her to sleep. Brienne set the brush aside and divided Sansa’s hair into three strands and plaited them, binding the end with the leather thong. ‘Well. I’d best get the fire started if we’re going to eat something besides hard biscuit.’ She picked up Podrick’s abandoned flint.

‘Could you teach me?’ Sansa burst out.

Brienne studied Sansa, tossing the flint from one hand to the other. It might prove to be a useful skill in the days and weeks to come. It would certainly provide a useful cover for Sansa’s identity. No one would ever suspect the prim and proper Lady Sansa would ever dirty her hands by doing what amounted to servants’ work. Brienne nodded and beckoned Sansa with a tilt of her head.

Brienne rode next to Jaime, her face tilted up to the sun. In some ways, this journey reminded her of the one from Harrenhal. The further they away they were from King’s Landing, the more Jaime let his guard down.

Not that he let it slip completely, he had spent far too much of his life in the Red Keep to do otherwise. He’d spent much of those first few days out of King’s Landing, throwing glances of his shoulder, searching for the expected assassin, jumping at every noise. He had barely left Tyrion alone long enough to take a piss in peace. She expected Jaime wouldn’t sleep through the night until they were safely beyond the grasp of Cersei’s influence.

‘What is Tarth like?’ he asked, jolting her from her reverie. ‘I’ve never been there.’

‘Why would you have been?’ Brienne slapped at a gnat tickling the back of her neck. ‘Nobody ever comes to Tarth. My father always thanked the gods that Robert Baratheon never saw fit to visit Evenfall. Father compared him to a hurricane. Blow in with a roar and leave a swathe of destruction in his wake when he left.’

Jaime spread the neck of his shirt apart in deference to the lingering heat of summer in the Reach, snorting with stifled guffaws. ‘A fairly apt description.’ He turned toward Brienne. ‘Well? Is it as dull and dreary as the rest of the Stormlands?’

Brienne shifted in her saddle, groping for the words that might do her beloved island justice. ‘It smells like cedar trees and saltwater.’

‘So nothing like King’s Landing.’

‘No.’ Brienne took her waterskin from her belt and took a sip before offering it to Jaime. When she was a child, Tarth had seemed as remote as the North. It had felt like like a prison when she grew older, but now she longed to be safe on its shores. ‘It’s peaceful, mostly. There’s a clearing on the banks of a stream close to Evenfall that was my favourite place to hide from my septa. I could stay there for hours and never so much as hear another person. The castle overlooks a sandy cove. I learned to swim there. There are mountains and waterfalls. The marble the Arryns used to build the Eyrie came from Tarth. My father keeps a herd of prize goats. He often muttered that I was far more stubborn than the goats when I had displeased my septa, because I refused to behave in a manner appropriate for a girl.’ She took her waterskin back from Jaime and hooked it to her belt. ‘Occasionally pirates or raiders from Essos land on the eastern side of the island, but my father has a garrison there, so they are rarely able to venture as far as Evenfall.’

‘Sounds like a idyllic place to grow up.’

Brienne ran her fingers through her hair. ‘It was better than most,’ she allowed, not wanting to mar the tranquility of the moment with resentful reminiscences of her father’s mistresses. Thankfully none of them ever tried to mother her. ‘My father always had a singer in the hall. They were usually kind enough — or cognizant of my father’s coin — to teach me some of their songs.’

‘So you can sing?’ Jaime’s brows shot up with surprise. Of all the people in Westeros, he would never have guessed that Brienne sang. She had yet to join Podrick and Sansa in their songs.

‘No,’ she said so quickly that Jaime suspected she could, in fact, sing passably well, but had been made to feel inadequate in doing so. The only skill Brienne never downplayed at all was her ability to use a sword.

‘And your father?’ Brienne hesitated long enough for Jaime to add, ‘Come now, wench, you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my father, it’s only fair you tell me more about yours.’

‘My name is Brienne,’ she muttered, shoulders stiffening.

‘Lord Selwyn Tarth… The Evenstar,’ Jaime mused. Selwyn Tarth was one of the few men Jaime had never wanted to face on the other side of a battlefield. Frankly, the man intimidated him. The first time Jaime had laid eyes on the Evenstar was the occasion of Robert’s coronation. He suspected Lord Tarth could snap him in half like a dry twig without breaking sweat. ‘I’ve seen him a few times. He’s quite… formidable.’

‘Formidable is one way to put it,’ Brienne agreed. ‘He is a hard man. Fair, but hard.’ She gazed off into the horizon. ‘When he tired of one of his mistresses, he always found someone to marry her. After ensuring she wasn’t with child, of course. He’d send for some landed knight who needed a wife or mother for his children in the Stormlands or Crownlands, gift her with a handsome dowry, and that was that.’

‘Better than casting her off to work in one of Littlefinger’s brothels.’

‘I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Not even your sister.’

Jaime gave her a sardonic grin. ‘Just so you know, she wouldn’t wish the same for you.’

‘I imagine not.’

Jaime glanced at Brienne from the corner of his eye. ‘You said your father was hard, but fair.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what makes you believe that he disapproves of you marrying me? Aside from binding yourself to the Kingslayer,’ he added, flapping his hand at the appellation.

Brienne worried her lower lip between her teeth. ‘If he was merely angry, he would have been on the next boat that left Tarth for King’s Landing, shouted at your father, the High Septon, you and then me. In that order. His silence on the matter is… Compelling.’ Her back straightened, and she lightly kicked her horse into a canter.

Brienne rested her chin on her drawn-up knees, staring into the flames of their fire. Tyrion sat with his back propped against a log, drinking from a skin of wine. She made a slight motion with her fingers to Sansa and Podrick, sitting on the opposite side of the fire, talking companionably with one another while Podrick fiddled with a piece of wood and a small knife. ‘Does it bother you?’

‘Not in the slightest.’ Tyrion stoppered the skin and set it aside. ‘She has to have our marriage set aside as it is. Night’s Watch vow and all.’ He lay on his back, gazing at the stars overhead, and let out a gusty sigh. ‘I want her to find someone kind, who cares for Sansa, and not because she’s useful to whoever wants to control the North. Life is far too short for that.’ Tyrion waved a hand in Sansa and Podrick’s direction. ‘Pod more than qualifies.’

‘But he’s a penniless, landless squire.,’ Brienne pointed out with unerring logic.

‘True. I’ll have to see what I can do to remedy that before we toddle off to the Wall.’

Brienne studied Tyrion for a long moment. ‘And you?’

‘What about me?’

‘What is she to you?’

Tyrion turned his gaze to Brienne. He realized she wasn’t asking out of idle curiosity. Jaime had mentioned Brienne had sworn her sword to Lady Catelyn, and no doubt extended it to her daughter. ‘I admire her a great deal more than I ought, and not merely because she is a lovely young woman. A very lovely young woman. She is much cleverer than people realize. She survived Joffery and Cersei all the while doing it on her own, without the benefit of hiding behind someone more powerful. Braver than she thinks.’ He grinned with feral amusement. ‘Watching her insult Joffery to his face was a sublime diversion. Of course, he was far too stupid to recognize the jibes for what they were. It was always quite satisfying to see her gain the upper hand over him, while he never once suspected it.’ Tyrion heaved a put-upon sigh. ‘But, thanks to my father’s machinations, I will forever be the son of the man who connived to have her brother and mother murdered.’ He shrugged. ‘And if Pod is not what she ultimately desires, Sansa needs a friend, if nothing else. She’s had precious few true friends since Ned Stark came south.’

The pale walls of Casterly Rock gleamed against the blue of the sea and sky on the horizon. Jaime had never been so grateful to see it as he was at this moment. He was every bit as grateful he hadn’t had to make the journey from King’s Landing without Brienne. She noticed the fine details he would have otherwise missed in his fervor to travel to the Rock as quickly as humanly possible.

She realized when Podrick needed to rest, or at least get off his horse and walk, in the early days of the journey, and contrived excuses to stop or walk with him. She learned the signs that indicated Tyrion could no longer ride without excruciating pain, and rearranged the supplies in the back of the cart, leaving enough space for Tyrion to ride, cushioned by their bedrolls. She had detected the wan expression on Sansa’s face, accompanied by the incipient headache and hand pressed to her middle, and suggested they make camp early. They’d disappeared into the woods, emerging several minutes later. Brienne then stood over the girl until she drank a cup of willow bark tea. She’d even taken charge of Sansa and Podrick, assigning them duties around the camp, teaching them to set snares for rabbits, or fish in one of the streams nearby. The sheer force of her silent glare was enough to keep them all quiet the first time Sansa attempted to build a fire without assistance. The girl’s delight at successfully making a fire was so infectious, nobody complained about having to eat soldier’s rations for dinner that night.

They rode through the gates and Jaime felt a long-missing piece of himself settle back into place. He didn’t value Casterly Rock for its gold mines or strategic location. Despite its imposing appearance, the Rock was the setting for some of his fondest childhood memories. He drew in the first easy breath since they left King’s Landing as he dismounted his horse in the courtyard. They would be safe here.

Brienne contemplated the soaring towers and solid curtain wall with more than a little trepidation. Casterly Rock rivalled the Red Keep in sheer size. Evenfall Hall would likely fit in the courtyard with room to spare. It sprawled over acres of land, crouching on the edge of a cliff, ready to pounce anyone who dared to attack.

‘Ser Jaime!’ A plainly-dressed man scurried from one of the archways, followed by four house guards. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

Jaime paused, his hand upraised to help Tyrion from the back of the cart. ‘You have?’ He exchanged an uneasy glance with Tyrion. Tywin’s doing, Jaime reasoned. He’d probably sent a raven weeks ago.

‘Yes, we were told to expect you.’ The man gave Sansa and Brienne significant looks.

‘Ah, yes. Forgive my lapse of manners. Lady Brienne, may I present Michel Darwich. The steward of Casterly Rock. Michel, this is Lady Brienne of Tarth.’ Jaime smiled shyly. ‘My… wife.’

Michel bowed. ‘My lady.’

‘Master Darwich,’ Brienne murmured.

Jaime nodded to Sansa. ‘And Lady Sansa Stark. Lord Tyrion’s wife. Sansa, Michel Darwich.’ Sansa gave Michel a nod and he bowed in return.

Michel beamed at them. ‘We’ve made all the preparations you requested in your message,’ Michel said, preening. ‘It was quite difficult, given the amount of time.’

Jaime came to a halt in mid-step. ‘Preparations?’ Foreboding coiled low in his belly.

Michel pulled a sheaf of parchment from inside his surcoat and brandished it at Jaime. ‘The instructions were quite clear. And detailed.’ He frowned slightly at Brienne and Sansa. ‘Although, to be quite frank, neither lady resembles their descriptions.’ He motioned to the guards, one of which brandished a set of fetters in Tyrion’s direction.

‘What are you doing?’ Jaime stepped between Tyrion and the guard.

Michel held up the parchment. ‘Your orders were quite clear, my lord. Chains for Lord Tyrion.’

Jaime took the parchment, vowing to read it thoroughly. Later. With only Brienne to witness his struggles. He squinted at the first page, mouth thinning into a grim line when he recognized the hand that gracefully scrolled across the page. ‘Her Grace did not have the authority to act on my behalf,’ he said coldly.

‘I imagine Her Grace was only attempting to be helpful,’ Michel murmured.

Jaime ground his teeth together. ‘What other preparations have you undertaken?’

Michel coughed lightly. ‘Your bedchamber, of course. Lord Tyrion’s. Her Grace felt Lady Sansa might be more comfortable in an, ah…’ Michel’s ears burned. ‘Among the septas. It was suggested she would retire to a Motherhouse when Lord Tyrion departed for the Wall.’

Jaime drew himself up to his full height. ‘Has Lord Tyrion taken the oath of the Night’s Watch yet?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then Lady Sansa is still his wife, not to mention highborn in her own right. She will be treated accordingly.’ Jaime stuffed the parchment into his surcoat, wondering what other surprises Cersei had managed to arrange.

‘Yes, my lord.’ Michel pointed to Podrick. ‘And him? Shall I find a bed in the barracks with the other squires?’

‘Podrick is our guest. Give him a chamber near Lord Tyrion’s and my own.’ Jaime fumbled with his saddlebag. Michel rushed to help, but Jamie brought him to an abrupt halt with an irritated scowl. ‘And take those damn fetters away. Put Tyrion under guard if you must.’ Jaime waved his hand at Addam and the other guards. ’Ser Addam and his men can sort a schedule for themselves.’ He glanced at Brienne, Sansa, and Podrick, standing in a hesitant knot, clothes creased and dusty with travel, Sansa’s hair straggling in her eyes. They’d brought very little with them, at his insistence. While there would be appropriate clothing for himself and Tyrion somewhere in the castle, it would be a mad scramble to find appropriate attire for Brienne, Sansa, and Podrick. ‘I presume dinner in the hall is still served at the same time?’ At Michel’s nod, Jaime continued, ‘Doesn’t give us much time to bathe and change, does it?’ His father would expect nothing less than for him to sit in his rightful place, dressed in garments suitable for an appearance at court. Jaime could feel the invisible walls of Tywin’s expectations closing around him.

‘I believe we would appreciate a quiet evening after our travels,’ Brienne ventured, seeing the subtle shift of Jaime’s posture, the slight stiffening of his shoulders. ‘Could someone bring water for washing? Just enough to remove the dust from the road. A proper bath can wait. And dinner for Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion, Lady Sansa, Podrick, and myself in…?’ She raised in inquiring brow.

‘The solar,’ Jaime supplied.

‘Yes, of course. Right away, my lady.’ Michel eyed Brienne with a dubious expression. ‘You’ll find clean garments awaiting you in the cupboards in his lordship’s chamber. And I shall have a maid transfer those prepared for Lady Sansa to Lord Tyrion’s chamber.’

‘Excellent.’ Jaime rubbed his thumb between his eyebrows in an attempt to stave off the burgeoning headache, heading for the doorway to the hall. ‘Michel, I’ll want to speak with you first thing in morning.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Brienne stood rooted on the threshold of the chamber, rubbing her hands down the sides of her trousers.  She gazed at the bed with trepidation. Jaime leaned close, his mouth next to her ear. ‘There’s more than enough room there for us both,’ he commented, trying to lighten the mood.  ‘Much bigger than the bed in the Red Keep.’  

‘Is that the sole thought that occupies your mind?’ Brienne stooped to pick up her saddlebag and dropped it on the bench set at the foot of the bed.

Jaime closed the door. ‘There are a few others from time to time.’ He set his saddlebag down next to Brienne’s, all the while giving her a wide berth. He had learned to read the slight change in the set of her shoulders or tilt of her head. Brienne’s habitual taciturnity had eased somewhat during their journey, but it had all come crashing back almost as soon as they rode through the gates. He reached inside his surcoat and removed the sheaf of parchment. Brienne’s eyes flicked toward it, and her shoulders stiffened a little more. It was as if the spectre of Cersei had suddenly appeared between them. They’d never discussed her or his relationship with her. Jaime didn’t know Brienne’s reasons for avoiding the topic, but he hadn’t wanted to disrupt the hard-won intimacy he’d managed to forge with Brienne. Jaime took a deep breath and did the only thing he knew how to do. He charged headlong into the breach. ‘I’ll tell you anything you like about her. Us.  You only need to ask.’

Brienne wrapped her arms around herself.  ‘Did you…With her… here?’

Jaime exhaled slowly.  ‘No. Never.’ He strolled to one of the large windows and sat in the wide sill, legs stretched out in front of him.  ‘My relationship with her is not something I particularly want to shout from the rooftops,’ he told her, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Considering she, Myrcella, Tommen and I could — would — all be executed. But I will not regret fathering Myrcella or Tommen.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to,’ Brienne retorted, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him.  

‘What else would you like to know?’ Jaime tugged at the laces of his shirt. Like King’s Landing, Casterly Rock still stubbornly clung to the summer’s warmth. ‘Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide from you.’

’Never in this bed or never in Casterly Rock?’

‘Never anywhere in the Rock.’ Jaime scrubbed his hand over his face.  ‘Never in her bed in the Red Keep after she married Robert. Always some place where we thought we wouldn’t be found out.  Almost never while Robert was in the castle. Or if he was, he’d passed out from overindulgence in wine or whores.  Or both.’ He paused. ‘Never in the White Sword Tower.’ He leaned a shoulder against the wall. ‘Not that she didn’t try.  She thought it would have been a great lark to conceive a child in the place that housed a group of men sworn to father no children.  It was a bridge too far for me. I’d violated enough oaths. If I was going to father a child, it wasn’t going to be there.’ He sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  ‘She heaped scorn upon me for that. I’d broken nearly every other vow, what made that one different?’ He scratched the short beard he’d grown over the past two weeks. ‘I had to keep at least one vow. She didn’t understand that.’

Brienne looked down at her hands, and picked at the jagged edge of a broken fingernail. The question she’d had since the day she met him tumbled from her lips. ‘Why her?’

Jaime jaw worked a few times. The truth didn’t exactly cover him with glory, but Brienne deserved the truth. ‘She insisted we had a special connection, because we were twins. Even when we were small children. We were inseparable. My father didn’t permit us to have many friends outside the family, so we only had each other.’ Jaime glanced up at Brienne. She’d curled her fingers into the coverlet, the only outward sign of discomfiture. ‘Our nurse often found us in the same bed in the morning. She would put us in separate beds, but inevitably, one of us would wake up and climb into the other’s bed in the middle of the night. Nobody thought anything about it until a servant came into the nursery and we were naked.’ Brienne reared back, mouth opening, but Jaime held up his hand. ‘No… not that. We were only four years old. We were comparing…’ He gestured vaguely toward his middle. ’The next thing I knew, all my things were moved to a chamber on the other side of the castle, and Mother set guards outside Cersei’s chamber. She threatened to tell Father, and gave orders that Cersei and I were not to be left alone. And then she died giving birth to Tyrion.’

Jaime sat back at the sound of a discreet tap on the door. A manservant bearing a large jug entered the chamber and set it on the hearth. Another draped a set of clothes over the back of a chair. They lingered near the fire, clearly waiting to assist Jaime while he washed and dressed, but Jaime dismissed them with a jerk of his head. He held his tongue until he was sure they were our of earshot, then continued. ‘Father was Aerys’ Hand, so he was in King’s Landing most of the time, and she convinced me we could only count on each other. Mother was dead, Father was largely absent…’ Jaime spread his arms out wide. ‘And then I went to squire for old Lord Crakehall when I was eleven and she and Tyrion went to King’s Landing.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I asked to join the Kingsguard because she said I should, so we could be together again. And then she seduced me as an incentive.’ Jaime squirmed, chagrin making his chest feel so tight he could scarcely draw breath. ‘I will freely admit that I was fifteen and didn’t need much in the way of persuasion. I thought with my cock. And well…’ He rubbed the back of his neck, corners of his mouth turning down. ‘The Targaryens did it, why couldn’t we? Aerys named me to the Kingsguard in order to deprive my father of his preferred heir. Father resigned immediately and brought Cersei back to the Rock. She stayed here until she married Robert.’ Jaime swallowed hard and stared at the toes of his boots. ‘After I killed Aerys… fucking her made me forget I was the Kingslayer. Even if it was only for a few minutes.’ He got to his feet and yanked his shirt over his head as he crossed the room. ‘And I continued to do so, because everyone else never let me forget it.’ He tossed the shirt to the floor and stripped off the rest of his clothes, then proceeded to wash and dress in silence.

Brienne bent at the waist, pouring water through her hair, using her fingertips to scour the dust and sweat from it. Once her hair was as clean as warm water could make it, she dropped a few shavings of soap into a basin, then poured hot water over them. A fist-sized chunk of a sponge rested next to the basin, and she plunged it into the water. Brienne squeezed it over one shoulder, then the other. She washed herself thoroughly, and then wrapped a towel around her body. Brienne rummaged in her saddlebag and shook out the somewhat clean shirt with more than little distaste. She’d only been able to give it a hasty rinse in a stream a few days ago. The shirt was badly wrinkled and smudged, and carried a hint of the aroma of stale sweat mixed with that of unkempt stables. She didn’t have much choice. They had brought very little with them on the journey. Just a few changes of smalls and socks and a spare shirt and trousers. Her armor and sword. She and Jaime had left the bulk of their clothing behind in the Red Keep in a large trunk that was meant to follow them to Casterly Rock, but that was of no use to her now.

The large cupboard loomed over her. The desire to don clean clothing warred with the certainty that Cersei had instructed the castle servants to provide something wholly inappropriate under the guise of benevolence. Brienne gnawed her ragged thumbnail, thinking. Knowing Cersei, whatever resided in the cupboard was meant to humiliate her.

Brienne opened the cupboard and lifted the first garment she touched from a hook. It was a dress, but not one she would ever have worn had she chosen to wear dresses. It had been made in the style favored by Margaery Tyrell and the other ladies of Highgarden. Brienne spread the dress out over the bed and glowered at it. It was a grotesque parody of one of Margaery’s dresses that one might find in one of Littlefinger’s brothels. Sleeveless, but with only a narrow strip of fabric covering each shoulder. The deep, plunging neckline of the bodice would have revealed even her insignificant breasts. There was no back to speak of. The fabric that made up the many layers of the skirt and bodice was nearly translucent. She might as well wear nothing.

Brienne peered into the depths of the cupboard. Another dress hung on a hook, and she reached for it, hoping it was more modest, even if it was made of scarlet satin and crusted with gold embroidered lions. The dress was indeed somewhat more modest than the first one. Brienne held it up, grimacing. It had been pattered after the ones worn by the handmaidens in the Red Keep, sewn with linen in quartered azure-and-rose. She rolled her eyes and draped over the bed next to the first dress. ‘Whore… handmaiden,’ she muttered. ‘What’s next? Swineherd? Braavosi fishwife?’

Brienne tightened the towel over her breasts and turned back to the cupboard where a pile of neatly folded clothing sat on a shelf. It certainly looked innocuous enough. She grasped them with the same reluctance with which she would have picked up a steaming pile of manure and laid them over the bed. Brienne’s ribs creaked with suppressed laughter. She didn’t know Cersei very well, but she knew her type. This was utterly predictable.

A set of men’s clothes, large enough to fit the Mountain, lay scattered over the dresses.

All three options had been designed to humiliate her, or at least make everyone in Casterly Rock question her sanity.

Cersei had made a grave miscalculation in giving her a choice. She had assumed Brienne would rather walk through Casterly Rock naked than wear any of the clothes lying across the bed, that Brienne was as vain as she. Brienne had heard so many variations of insults regarding her appearance, they might as well be gibberish for all the affect they had on her. Clothes that would make her look ridiculous? As long as it wasn’t moth-eaten, fur-trimmed pink velvet, the choice was easy.

She dropped the towel and reached for the trousers. She would have to roll up the hems and pray she could tighten the laces enough keep them from sliding down her hips as she walked. They were so large, that Brienne reckoned she and Sansa could fit with room to spare. The shirt and jerkin were also far too large, but she wound her belt around her waist, then turned back the shirt cuffs until Brienne could see her hands emerge from the sleeves.

A mirror stood on an small table. Brienne bent to study her reflection while she finger-combed her damp hair into place. She looked absurd, but it wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She shrugged with resignation. There would always be someone who would laugh in derision, but they were little shits who didn’t deserve her notice.

Brienne’s stomach growled, reminding her it had been hours since she’d last eaten, and her mouth watered at the prospect of eating something that wasn’t raw on one side and burnt on the other. She tugged on her boots and strode into the corridor.

Jaime found Brienne on the edge of the cliffs, staring out at the sea.  He stood next to her, the back of his hand just brushing against hers. The breeze tugged playfully at her clothes and hair. The neutral mask she habitually wore had slipped, and she gazed at the turquoise water with evident longing.  It was a sensation with which Jaime was unfamiliar. Once he’d left the Rock to squire for Lord Crakehall, he had no home. Until his capture, home had been where Cersei was. But that Jaime no longer existed. He’d perished somewhere in the Riverlands. Casterly Rock held pleasant childhood memories, but Jaime felt as if he didn’t belong here. She hadn’t said as much, but Brienne clearly missed Tarth. Jaime suspected she missed her father just as much, if not more.  ‘How long has it been since you were home?’

‘Just over two years.’  Her head ducked a little.  ‘Not very long.’ She took in a deep breath of the clean salty air, a beatific smile curving her generous mouth.  ‘I know King’s Landing was on the sea, but…’ She made a dismissive gesture with her hand.

‘It smells like shit,’ Jaime said bluntly.  He glanced around where they stood and motioned with his stump.  ‘I used to jump off this cliff into the sea when I was a boy.’ He squinted a little at the bright sunlight reflecting off the water.  ‘Especially when I had extra lessons with my father.’ He swept his stump in a wide arc. ‘I would run directly from his solar, miserable and crumpled, ink-stained.  I’d stop long enough to take off my clothes, and then…’ He grinned impishly. ‘I would take a running leap off the edge.’ Jaime let out a long breath and lifted his face to the sun, his eyes closed.  ‘And for a moment or two, I was free.’ He opened his eyes and found Brienne giving him one of her thoughtful glances. Jaime’s eyes flicked from Brienne to the water, then back. He began to toe off his boots.  Jaime didn’t miss the fleeting look of yearning that crossed her face. ‘I imagine you did something similar on Tarth when you were a girl.’

Brienne nodded.  ‘I did. Not where anyone could see.  I didn’t want to risk a scolding by my septa.  And she quite enjoyed scolding me.’ Her expression softened.  ‘After my mother died, my brother dragged me to the top of a cliff, rather like this, and held my hand while we ran for the edge and leapt into the water.  He was trying to cheer me up, but my septa caught us. She punished us both.’ Her brow lifted with a wy tilt. ‘The next time, Galladon made sure to go where she’d never see us.’  Brienne scuffed the toe of a boot through the grass. ‘The day of his funeral, I ran away from the people gathered in the hall. I knew they were all looking at me, and finding me wanting in some way. I was awkward and gawky, even at eight years old.  I went straight to the cliff that was ours, yanked off the horrid black dress my septa forced me to wear, then went shouting off the cliff and into the sea.’ A faraway smile spread over her face. ‘Just as my brother would have wanted.’

Jaime nodded to himself.  He pulled at the laces of his shirt, and when they refused to come undone, yanked at them.  They stayed stubbornly twisted into a knot he couldn’t pick apart with one hand, so he brought the neck of his shirt to his mouth, and tried to use his teeth to undo them.  

‘What are you doing?’  Brienne asked

‘I’m going for a swim.  It’s warm enough,’ Jaime replied matter-of-factly.  In fact, both of them were going to jump into the water if he had any say in it.  

Brienne watched him struggle for several moments, knowing his pride wouldn’t allow him to simply ask for help.  His attempts to gnaw through the laces of his shirt began to border on pathetic. She brushed his hand away.  ‘Move aside.’ She tutted at the hopeless mess he’d made of his shirt and managed to pick the knot loose. She helped Jaime pull the shirt over his head, and dropped it to the grass next to his boots.

‘Why don’t you join me?’

‘It’s not…’  Brienne’s shoulders slumped a little in resignation, as the despised tell-tale flush crept up the back of her neck.  As much as she didn’t want to recall the barbed comments Cersei had made, the snide remarks about bringing shame to Jaime hurt far more than Brienne had cared to admit. Not to mention many of the denizens of Casterly Rock had already formed opinions of her, based on Cersei’s ludicrous descriptions.

‘What?  Proper? Or ladylike?’  Brienne looked away, blushing furiously. Jaime snorted.  ‘Since when do you care about what’s ladylike?’  He untied his trousers and pushed them down his legs to pool around his ankles, keeping his eyes locked with Brienne’s.  He held out his hand. ‘Come with me.’

He knew her too well.  Brienne could never resist a challenge.  Her head tilted to the side, and she pulled off her boots. She unlaced her trousers and let them drift down to her ankles, then stepped out of them. She took Jaime’s proffered hand. It felt like giving his damned sister a rude gesture. Brienne let a small smile curve over her mouth. Jaime gave her an answering one of his own, while his eyes flicked toward the sea a split second before he broke into a run.

They pelted toward the edge of the cliff, and soared over the water.

The cliffs sheltered the narrow crescent of yellow sand from the castle’s prying eyes. There were only two means to access it: a winding, twisting, narrow path to the castle, and the sea itself. A large log rested against the face of the cliff, washed up on the shore by a storm. Sunlight slanted over the sliver of beach. With only the sound of the surf and wind, Brienne could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. Even if only for an hour or two.

She ruffled her damp hair and pulled her knees into her chest. Brienne rested her cheek on her knees and gazed at Jaime, sprawled over the sand. ‘What changed? You were so adamant about returning to King’s Landing and…’ She trailed off, leaving the name hanging unspoken between them. ‘Once you were there, it was as if nothing in the world could entice you to stay.’

Jaime leaned back against the log, letting the sun bake his bones. ‘I did. Or rather, my perspective did. I was brought up to believe our family came first. Everyone else was a far distant second.’ He burrowed his toes into the sand. ‘And until I joined the Kingsguard, I was taught that I ought to emulate my father…’

‘Unlike your father, you’re not an entirely irredeemable person,’ Brienne mused.

‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’ Jaime rolled his eyes. ‘Cersei took all of our father’s lessons to heart. She believes with every fiber of her being that the Lannisters are superior to the rest of the kingdom. She, in turn, insisted we were mirror images of one another because we were twins. I never questioned it. Not out loud, of course, but I knew we weren’t. She ruthless and ambitious in a way that I… Let’s just say I don’t wear it nearly as well as she.’ He glanced at Brienne from the corner of his eye with an abashed hitch of his shoulder. ‘Once I became the Kingslayer, people expected me to be the unmitigated ass you met in the Riverlands. So I obliged. No one would have believed me to be otherwise. I repressed most of my compassionate impulses, and considered the ones I did act upon an aberration.’

‘But what changed?’

‘I let someone see what was hiding behind the Kingslayer.’ He threaded his fingers through Brienne’s hair and brought her mouth to his. ‘And she believed me,’ he murmured, his lips brushing over hers.

‘The more fool she.’

Chapter Text

Casterly Rock had a way of sinking its claws into its denizens with so little effort, that it often caught them unawares. Despite Jaime and Brienne’s protestations, they quickly found themselves playing the roles of lord and lady of the Rock. Much to their collective displeasure. There was no detail too small that didn’t need their immediate attention. Or so it seemed.

Brienne often rose with the sun, devoting her mornings to training Podrick. She counted herself fortunate if a day passed and she did not have to intercede in a squabble amongst the maids. Household accounts demanded her attention. She conferred with the housekeeper and cook. Brienne presided over the educations of the girls fostered at the Rock with great reluctance, given her experiences with septas, bristling when Septa Minella rebuffed her attempts to introduce less lady-like pursuits.

Not that Jaime had it easier. Casterly Rock took much of his attention, despite the able assistance of Michel and his own protestations he had no head for it. He trained with Addam each day in bouts that often left him bruised and physically and mentally drained. He instructed Podrick in the finer points of battle strategy and defense. He was often called to settle disputes between smallfolk and highborn alike, either here in the castle or in Lannisport. He closeted himself in the solar with the steward each day, acting as the Lord Paramount of the West and the Warden of the West in his father’s absence. He fell into bed at the end of each day in a haze of weariness.

She would grudgingly admit that Casterly Rock had its charms, however few. The roar of the sea outside her chamber sounded so similar to the sea off the coast of Tarth it brought a heartsick lump to her throat. Lavender grew in the formal garden, so if she tucked a sachet of it under her pillow, it allowed her to pretend she lay in her own bed in Evenfall Hall. She had once thought Tarth too small to satisfy her dreams, but Brienne found herself longing for the rhythms and relative solitude of her father’s castle.

It was — despite the grind of their respective duties and abundance of Lannister colors and sigil — peaceful.

‘I think this is everything…’ The pile of grey wool heaped in Sansa’s arms muffled her voice. She sidled through the door and heaved it on the bed. Sansa plucked one of the septa’s habits from the pile and shook it out. ‘At the very least, they used good wool to make them.’ She folded it over her arms. ‘It shouldn’t prove terribly difficult to remake them into something else.’ She fiddled with a sleeve, then laid the habit neatly over the foot of the bed, repeating the process with each habit. She made as if to speak a few times, but only straightened the habits until they were aligned with near-military precision.

Brienne went to the cupboard that held her own clothes, and removed the clothing Cersei had ordered for her, and laid them next to Sansa’s. She studied the girl in the guise of spreading the rose-and-blue dress over the bed. Sansa had started to lose the pinched and drawn expression she’s wore in King’s Landing. Brienne thought she might want to stay in Casterly Rock. The servants would certainly look after her. Jaime would ensure that, either through their loyalty or his gold. She might not wish to see her half-brother at the Wall. She never spoke of him. Nor had they considered it could hold painful memories for her. ‘Do you want to go North with us?’

Sansa’s head snapped back. ‘I thought I had to.’

‘We’ve made so many decisions for you. It occurs to me that no one has bothered to ask what you want.’

Sansa looked down at her hands. ‘Won’t I be safer with you?’

‘One could make that argument. But one could also argue you would be just as safe here.’

Sansa felt a humiliating flush creep up the back of her neck. Of course she was a liability. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t hunt or fish. It had taken her ages to start a fire on her own. ‘It would make sense to stay,’ she admitted. ‘I only know how to dance and sew. Use courtesies to mollify other people. I know nothing that could help you.’

Brienne brushed a stray lock of hair from Sansa’s eyes. ‘You know the North. You know it in a way the rest of us do not. You shouldn’t dismiss the skills you do have.’ Brienne indicated the clothing. ‘You know how to dress for the North. The rest of us do not. Those courtesies you scorn? You know the people. You are far more diplomatic than either Jamie or I.’ She lifted Sansa’s chin with a fingertip. ‘And regardless of who you have married, you are still Ned Stark’s daughter.’

Sansa gulped and nodded. She had grown so accustomed to not thinking of herself as a Stark, that she wasn’t quite sure who she was. ‘Is that why you still use Tarth and not Lannister?’

‘Yes. Tywin Lannister can insist I wear his House colors in his presence, expect me to bear heirs for House Lannister. But… I know who I am. I am a daughter of Tarth. I am my father’s child. Nothing can ever change that.’ She ran her hand over Sansa’s hair and exhaled slowly. ‘Now, then. Whatever you decide to do, it will be your choice. You needn’t come to a decision right now, but until then…’ Brienne turned to attention to the clothes. ‘What can we do with these so they don’t go to waste?’ she asked briskly.

Jaime kicked a bale of hay and trudged to retrieve his sword. He took the waterskin Addam proffered, then dropped onto a bench in a dejected heap. ‘It’s not getting better.’ He tilted the skin over his mouth. ‘Always half a step behind.’ He mopped his sweaty face with a sleeve. ‘I never had to think about what my next move would be. Now… It’s backward, and I find I need to consider how to move…’

Addam chuckled and took the skin back. ‘You’re thinking too much,’ he said, tapping Jaime in the middle of his forehead with a forefinger.

Jaime laughed. ‘I don’t believe anyone as ever accused me of such a thing in my life.’

Addam stretched his feet out. ‘You never will be the fighter you were. Not the Jaime Lannister of legend. You can relearn enough to be competent. But I think your days of leading the charge in the vanguard are behind you.’ He took a sip of water. ‘And you need to learn to fight with less honor.’

‘Less honor?’

‘You know honor is the last thing on anyone’s mind in a battle. Save it for tourneys.’

‘I can’t do that.’

Addam nodded and idly drew designs in the in the dirt between his feet with the dull point of the sparring sword. ‘I’ve never asked why you felt the need to kill Aerys.’ Jaime visibly tensed, and Addam held up a hand. ‘I don’t expect you to tell me your reasons, but the Jaime I knew before he joined the Kingsguard would never violate his oaths on a whim. I imagine you had your reasons. And if I had to guess, it’s why you cling to your sense of honor as you do.’ He glanced at Jaime from the corner of his eye. ‘If it comes down to a fight for your life, do what you need to do to survive. Remove honor from the equation.’

‘I’ll take it under advisement.’ Jaime started to stand, but Addam’s touch on his elbow made him sink back down.

‘Why haven’t you departed for the Wall? You ought to have left weeks ago. You haven’t made arrangements to travel or for any House guards to accompany you.’ Addam’s eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Waiting for Tywin to meet the Stranger so you can renounce your claim to the Rock, obtain a pardon for Tyrion, and try to forget everything that happened in King’s Landing?’

Jaime let out a nervous chuckle. Addam had come much closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. ‘It would certainly make this easier if he did,’ he muttered, ‘but Father will outlive all of us out of spite. That being said, I don’t intend to take guards with us. I want to draw as little attention to our presence as possible. So that means any sword I wear has to be for more than just show. And we can’t leave until I can hold off you or Brienne for longer than a few minutes.’

‘Mmmm.’ Addam nodded and gazed out over the yard. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you mean to take Brienne with you, and where Brienne goes, so does young Podrick.’

‘You are not wrong.’

‘So between you, Podrick, Tyrion, and Brienne, the only one remotely competent with a sword is…’

‘My lady wife.’

‘Hmmm.’ Addam collected Jaime’s sword. He knew just as well as Jaime that they ought to have at least one other person capable of using a weapon. Podrick had made quite a bit of progress, but Addam didn’t think he could manage a sword in an actual fight without castrating himself. Jaime might hold off a new squire with his present capabilities, but not a seasoned fighter. And Jaime was nothing of not proud. ‘If I may, my lord…’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Allow me to offer my services. At least to the Wall.’

Jaime heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet. Addam was right. He couldn’t reasonably delay much longer. Not without the risk of bringing Tywin’s wrath on their heads. ‘Very well.’ He saw Michel hovering at the edge of the training yard and grimaced. Duty beckoned once more. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

‘Same time tomorrow.’

Brienne woke to a hand cupping her breast, fingers teasing the nipple into a stiffened peak. It wasn’t the first morning since their marriage that the sensation of Jaime’s warm and callused fingers sliding over her skin dragged her from slumber. It was usually a prelude to more. A slow, rocking dance interspersed with soft breathy moans, and the hum of the surf below. In truth, it wasn’t a completely unexpected gesture. On the journey from Harrenhal to King’s Landing, they had slept close to one another for warmth.  So close, that it would have been scandalous under normal circumstances. She had often awoken with Jaime’s hand curved around her breast, forcing herself to feign sleep until he eased his hand away from her, then beat a hasty retreat from his bedroll. She never gave the slightest hint that she was aware of his actions. 

Until now.

‘At least you no longer have to scramble out of your bedroll and pretend as though you never laid a hand on me.’ She reached back and patted him on the thigh. ‘Like you did in the Riverlands.’

Jaime’s hand ceased its movements.  ‘You knew?’ he croaked.

Brienne rolled over to face him.  ‘It was difficult enough to sleep with your cock pressing into my backside,’ she chided.  ‘I always figured you were insensible of it.’

‘I…’ Jaime trailed off. He turned his head to take her in. She was tousle-haired and soft with last grasping fingers of sleep. He quite enjoyed waking next to a version of Brienne only he ever had the privilege to see. He used his stump to brush a lock of hair from her eyes. He doubted she would believe him, but she deserved to know the truth. ‘I dreamed of you.’

Brienne stared at him, lips parted slightly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered, pushing the bedding aside as she noted the position of the sun. Podrick was likely waiting for her.

Jaime grasped her wrist and tugged until she rolled over to face him. ‘I dreamed of you,’ he murmured against her mouth. He used his stump to guide one of her legs so she straddled his hips, then pushed himself up so he could slide his mouth down the column of her throat. ‘I dreamed of you.’

Brienne gazed at him. He was wide-eyed and earnest. His hand slid over the curve of her hip, then dipped between her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I dreamed of you…’ he repeated, just before Brienne’s mouth landed on his. Jaime’s arm tightened around her waist.

Neither of them heard the perfunctory knock on the door. ‘My lord…’

Brienne yelped and dove under the blankets.

Jaime snatched one of the pillows and laid it across his thighs. ‘Michel, your timing is impeccable.’ Impeccably terrible.

Michel coughed and found something of great interest on the toes of his boots. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but members of the Weavers’ Guild from Lannisport have arrived.’

‘Weavers…?’ Jaime had vague recollections of Michel mentioning something about the Weavers’ Guild coming to the Rock to meet with him, but he had completely forgotten what day they were meant to come, not to mention their reasons.

Brienne pulled the edge of the blanket down far enough so one eye peeped over it. ‘The Iron-born raid their wool shipments,’ she muttered. ’They want more protection when sending their wares to the Riverlands or the North.’

Jaime rubbed his stump over the back of his head. ‘Yes. Of course.’ He glanced out the window. The sun was much higher in the sky than he’d realized. ‘Show them into the solar and have some food brought in. I’ll join you shortly.’

Michel hesitated and lightly coughed. ‘I beg your pardon my lord, but Lord Tywin…’

‘Isn’t here,’ Jaime retorted. ‘And as you may have noticed, Michel, I am not my father.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Now. Do as I’ve asked and escort them into the solar and have some food brought in. Nobody wants to haggle on an empty stomach. Least of all me.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Michel bowed and all but fled from the chamber.

Jaime tugged the blankets away from Brienne. ‘Where were we…?’

Brienne pushed him away, then sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the mattress. ‘You mustn’t keep them waiting. I’ll help you dress.’

Jaime fell facedown into the mattress with an exasperated groan. ‘Surely they can wait a few minutes?’ He rolled to his side, draping himself into what he hoped was an alluring pose.

‘Surely you can restrain yourself from carnal pleasures for a few hours.’ She donned a shirt and set a jug of water on the hearth before rummaging in the cupboard for appropriate clothing.

‘I demand recompense at a later time, wench.’ Jaime flung himself from the bed and sauntered across the room. ‘What about you? Can you restrain yourself for another few hours, knowing this is what awaits you?’

Brienne draped a surcoat over the back of a chair and snorted with sardonic laughter. ‘I’m sure I’ll find some way to manage. The Seven only know how I survived for nearly thirty years without you.’

Jaime tested the temperature of the water with his fingers. Still somewhat cool, but it would do. He poured some into a basin, splashed it over his face, then submerged a cloth and ran it haphazardly over himself. ‘Join me? I’m sure your father trained you to run Evenfall and Tarth. Perhaps you’ll see a solution I don’t? Assume some of the duties of the lady of Casterly Rock? Help me host the Weavers’ Guild?’ He gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile.

Brienne thrust a set of smallclothes into his chest. ‘That was never part of our agreement. If you wanted a fine lady to dance attendance upon your bannermen, you ought to have married one.’ She tossed a shirt at him. ‘And there’s Podrick.’

Jaime emerged from the folds of the shirt, unsure if it was his or Brienne’s, shrugged, and tied the laces. ‘Hmmm. I don’t think the Weavers’ Guild is going find Pod an acceptable host. Although he can pour a excellent cup of wine.’

Brienne glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, silently beseeching the Mother to grant her patience, then held out a pair of trousers. ‘Do you want Podrick to have a modicum of skill with a sword when we go North, or continue on as a glorified cupbearer?’

’We could use someone else who knows how to use a blade without harming themselves,’ Jaime responded grudgingly. He let Brienne tie the laces of the trousers, then slid his arms into the surcoat.

She wound a length of scarlet silk around his throat. ‘You won’t be alone. You’ll have Michel with you.’

Jaime lifted his chin. ‘Yes… Comparing everything I do and say to my father — and like everyone — finding me wanting.’

Brienne did up the hooks and eyes on the front of his black surcoat, then wound a belt around his middle. ‘I can come with you,’ she relented, keeping her eyes glued to the strip of leather in her hands.

Jaime heaved a sigh and shook his head. He buckled his hook to his stump. ‘The Lannisport Weavers’ Guild is full of hidebound old goats who would not appreciate a woman advising them of anything. Regardless of how knowledgable she is.’

Brienne nodded once and turned to the chair where her own clothes lay folded over the back. She shimmied into the trousers she wore when drilling Podrick with the sword, then pulled a leather jerkin over her arms. ‘We haven’t sparred with one another since we arrived here,’ she remarked, knotting her laces. They never seemed to have enough time. ‘Perhaps later today…’

‘Excellent notion. We could both use the practice.’ Jaime grunted as he pulled on his boots. ‘And I know the perfect location. One where we will not be disturbed.’

‘I don’t think anyone will think to come looking for us down here.’ Jaime’s voice echoed off the stone walls of a cavern underneath Casterly Rock. ‘Plenty of space to spar.’

Brienne slid torches into the sconces on the wall, lighting them with the one she held in her other hand. She spun in a slow circle taking in the cavern. ‘Is that… a cage?’

Jaime scuffed the sole of a boot on the floor, testing the footing. ‘Mmmm. There were lions here when I was a boy.’ He rubbed his fingertip over one of the benches pushed against the front of great cage. Not a single speck of dust. It never ceased to amaze him that even the unused rooms of Casterly Rock had been kept scrupulously clean.

Brienne wrapped a hand around one of the iron bars. Despite her best efforts, she strained to just touch the tip of her thumb to the tip of her middle finger. ‘I thought the lions were a myth.’ She looked back at Jaime. ‘Something the Lannisters told everyone to increase their allure.’

‘I assure you, it was true. I snuck down here with my sister to watch them.’ He handed Brienne a sparring sword. ‘They died just after I left for Crakehall. Father had the pelts turned into a cloak or some such.’ He gestured in the direction of the benches, chairs, and piles of cushions clustered next to the cage. ‘I’m told my grandfather used to entertain guests here.’ Jaime brandished his sword at her. ‘Enough about the lions.’ He lunged toward her, but she easily parried the thrust.

He was able to hold off Brienne much longer than he had when they first began training with one another. She skidded on a pebble and lost her footing. Jaime took advantage of her distraction and disarmed her. He sent her sword sliding across the floor. His teeth gleamed in an exultant, feral grin as he tossed his own sword to the ground, and pushed her against the wall. His mouth landed on hers, hungry and eager.

He wanted her.

Now.

His hand yanked at her laces, then delved inside her smalls. Jaime growled with triumph. ‘Good fight does get our juices flowing, after all,’ he murmured against her lips with an amused gurgle of laughter.

Gods…

He briefly debated spinning her around, and taking her from behind, but even with the lust pounding in his veins, Brienne deserved better than to have him behave like a rutting beast. He briefly cursed her penchant for trousers, but peeled them down as he dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to her quivering belly.

Brienne clutched at his head, spreading her legs as far apart as her trousers allowed. She guided his mouth to where she wanted it most, shuddering at the sensation of hs beard scraping the skin of her thighs. Jaime batted at the tail of her shirt, trying to move it out of the way. Brienne made an impatient noise in the back of her throat and released Jaime’s head long enough to haul it over her head and toss it to the floor. One of Jaime’s brows cocked upward. Brienne had been an eager participant in bed, perfectly willing to express what she liked and found unappealing. But she had yet to take the reins in both hands, so to speak. He obligingly nuzzled the tangle of blonde hair at the apex of her thighs. It didn’t take long before pleasurable spasms rippled through her body.

Jaime sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, calculating a route through the castle that would take them back to their chamber without anyone else seeing them. Or worse, finding an issue that needed their immediate attention. Brienne, though, had other ideas. She wound her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, then managed to toe her boots off without tripping, and kicked off her trousers. Jaime’s shirt joined hers on the floor. She scrabbled for the laces of his trousers, her vexation increasing with each passing moment. The laces thwarted her at every turn. She snatched up one of her boots, drawing the small knife hidden in it, and then sliced through the laces of Jaime’s trousers, ignoring his squawk of alarm. She threw the knife aside, then pushed Jaime into the pile of cushions. Brienne straddled his hips and guided him into her, her lower lip caught between her teeth, head thrown back.

Jaime watched her chase her climax through heavy-lidded eyes. All her reticence fell away with each wave of euphoria until she could do little more than sway back and forth, her hands braced on his chest. He sat up, tongue tracing meandering paths over her breasts and neck, then carefully maneuvered one leg, then the other around his hips. Jame shifted his weight until their positions were reversed. It didn’t take long. Just a handful of thrusts, his shout of release muffled against Brienne’s shoulder.

They lay in a tangled, sweaty mess until Jaime propped himself on his elbows. ‘Another bout, my lady?’ he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose.

‘As soon as I can feel my fingers,’ she replied sleepily. Brienne reached up and ran her fingers through his beard. She let a sheepish smile flit across her mouth. ‘Don’t… shave… not just yet…’

Jaime rubbed his knuckles over his jaw. ‘Oh?’

‘I found it… pleasing…’

Jaime’s smug grin widened. ‘As you wish.’ He eased himself to her side and groped for one of their shirts. He swiped it over his cock, then handed it to Brienne. She swabbed it between her legs, then balled up the shirt with a moue of distaste and dropped it. She rolled to face him and rested her head on an upturned palm. ‘Your sword work’s improved.’

‘That was some of my best work. But you’re very good at telling me what you want.’ He ran his hand over her hip.

Brienne rolled her eyes. ‘Your other sword.’

’That was merely adequate. But probably good enough.’ He stacked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. ’I’ll go to Lannisport in the morning and try to find passage to the North within the next few weeks.’ He released a long breath. ‘I was only waiting to regain some proficiency, so you aren’t the only person able to provide protection from whatever we might encounter. And if we delay much longer, it will arouse my father’s suspicions.’

‘Are we going to return here?’

Jaime shook his head. ‘No.’ He lifted his hips just enough to tug his smalls and trousers back into place. ‘I thought we could perhaps go to Tarth. Let your father pummel me into a pulp while I grovel for forgiveness over the regrettable hastiness of our marriage. Get that bit of business over with. Stay there for a while…’

Brienne’s eyes drifted shut. ‘Forever…’

Jaime gathered her close. ‘I would like that.’

‘We shouldn’t be disturbed.’ Brienne set the bundle on the table. ‘We’ve told everyone you’re not feeling well, but don’t need the maester.’

Sansa unwound the braids in her hair, and began to run a brush through it. ‘And tomorrow?’

Brienne tested the temperature of the water in the bucket on the hearth. ‘That you have decided to spend some time in a Motherhouse. Indefinitely. To engage in quiet contemplation and prayer. So if anyone comes looking for you…’

‘You mean if Lord Baelish comes looking for me.’

‘Yes. It shouldn’t arouse suspicion that you would want to… sequester yourself away for the time being.’

Podrick came into the chamber with a pouch clutched in his hands. ‘Found the dye. And some oil. One of Lord Tyrion’s… ah… acquaintances…’ His cheeks flushed rosily and he coughed. Brienne could easily surmise the nature of Tyrion’s acquaintance. ’She suggested rubbing some around your face, m’lady.’ He brushed his fingertips around his hairline. ’Says that way it won’t stain.’ He put the pouch aside and snatched one of the horse blankets and spread it over the floor to hide his discomfiture.

Sansa gathered her hair in her hands and pulled it over her shoulder. She’d always been quite vain about it. The Tully auburn, just like her mother’s. It turned people’s heads. Her hair was a part of her identity. One of the few links left to her old life. But it wasn’t time to be sentimental. ‘You ought to cut it first.’

Brienne set a dripping jug on the washstand. ‘What?’

‘Cut my hair before dyeing it. We can’t just assume that changing the color of my hair will make people believe I’m not Sansa Stark.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It will grow.’ Sansa moved her stool to the horse blankets while Podrick rummaged in a cupboard. He emerged with a set of shears that he handed to Brienne.

‘How short?’

Sansa traced a line just below her shoulders, the length of Arya’s hair the last time she saw her. ‘There.’ Brienne nodded and lifted the shears. Sansa’s eyes closed as the shears snipped the first lock of hair.

Podrick knelt on the floor, gathering up the shorn auburn strands. He threw a look over his shoulder, but no one paid him any mind. He unraveled a thread from one of the blankets and quickly tied it around the end of a lock of Sansa’s hair, then tucked it into his sleeve. He folded the blanket over the pile of hair and set it aside. He would later take it out to the heath on the eastern side of the castle and scatter it to the winds when the rest of Casterly Rock had retired for the night.

Brienne ran a hand over Sansa’s head. ‘It looks strange now, but you’ll grow accustomed to it soon enough.’ She turned away to gather the soiled and stained towels.

Sansa stared at her reflection, running a trembling hand through her hair. It was nearly as dark as Jon’s

Everyone always told her she looked like her mother. She had the Tully auburn hair and blue eyes. She’d consciously mimicked her Catelyn’s Southron manner of speech, eschewing the Northern cadences of Jon, Robb, and Arya. As much as Catelyn devoted herself to Winterfell, the North remained a stranger to her. In the North, but not part of it. Sansa had emulated her mother in that. Of all the Stark children, she resembled the Starks the least.

Or so she thought.

She could see echoes of Jon’s pointed chin and high cheekbones, the shape of Arya’s eyes. For once she could see beyond the Tully coloring that dominated her features. Sansa moved to tuck her hair behind her ears, then froze as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. How often had she seen Jon push his wayward curls behind his ears, his hand curved just like hers? Far too many to count. Why had she never noticed it until now?

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

She twisted on the stool, watching Podrick and Brienne tidy away the detritus of dyeing her hair. The chamber door opened to admit Jaime and Tyrion, their banter reminiscent of how Jon and Robb teased one another. They weren’t the family she had been born into, nor were they the family she would have chosen for herself, but they were the family she had. Sansa slid off the stool and picked up the side of the blanket opposite Podrick, and helped him fold it. His fingertips inadvertently brushed over the back of her hand, leaving a trail of sparks behind. Her eyes flew up to meet his.

Podrick only smiled shyly at her as he took the blanket from her arms. ‘The color suits you, m’lady,’ he said.

Chapter Text

Dawn was only a promise on the horizon with stars shining faintly overhead. Sansa drew the hood of her cloak further over her head, lest any of the servants milling in the courtyard see her shortened and darkened hair. Jaime stuffed a waxed canvas sack into a pannier and gestured for Podrick to tie the laces. He turned to Michel, hovering like an anxious bird. ‘Lady Sansa will be in the Motherhouse on Fair Isle in seclusion. Under no circumstances are you to reveal her location to anyone.’ He pressed a small leather bag into Michel’s hand. ‘I warn you not to betray my trust.’ Sansa could just discern the change in Jamie’s face as his features hardened. ’It will not go well for you if you do.’ He turned and mounted his horse, settling into the saddle. There was just enough light to see without the aid of lanterns. He lightly touched the sides of his gelding with his heels and rode through the gates, with Addam, Podrick, Sansa, Tyrion, and Brienne following in a single file.

Sansa leaned her forearms on the railing, watching the rocky shore of Westeros slide past. The constant rocking of the boat made her slightly queasy, and it was worse belowdecks in their cabin. The wind blew her hair into a tangle, and she often had to scrape it away from her eyes or mouth with an impatient swipe of her fingers, despite the narrow scarf that held her hair back from her face. Jaime aped her pose and lifted his face to the salty wind. ‘Why did you tell Michel I was going to Fair Isle?’ Sansa asked quietly, mindful that anyone could overhear them. She kept her eyes locked on the shoreline. ‘You told the maester you meant to leave me at Feastfires.’

‘And I told the housekeeper you were going to Kayce.’

‘Why?’

Jaime gestured with his head to Tyrion, sitting on a crate with his nose buried in a book. ‘A subterfuge I took from him. I warned each of them to keep their mouths shut about your location. So if anyone goes to one of those three places look for you, I’ll know who has insufficient loyalty.’ His face hardened once more. ‘A Lannister always pays their debts.’

A gust of wind sent Sansa’s dark hair to dancing around her face. She shook it back with an irritated tcha. ‘You’re nothing like we were taught,’ she stated. ’Not like my father said.’

‘We all have our biases and prejudices,’ Jaime replied as neutrally as possible. He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I was given the impression by everyone in my family except for Tyrion, you were an insipid and rather simpleminded girl. I was pleasantly surprised to find it not the case.’

She turned her back to the sea and gave Jaime a long, searching look. Questions swirled in her head, ricocheting off one another. She hadn’t forgotten Podrick’s warning, nor his assessment of the character of Jaime. Tucking her hands into her cloak, she asked bluntly, ‘Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?’

The crumbling structure of The Crag came into view. Jaime traced the jagged outline of one of the turrets with his eyes. ‘Doing what?’

’Taking care of me.’ Her direct blue gaze reminded Jaime uncomfortably of Catelyn’s. ‘Does it crack open a door to the North for your father? Make whoever marries me after Tyrion takes the vows of the Night’s Watch beholden to him once Lord Bolton outlives his usefulness to your father?’ Each question followed fast on the heels of the previous one.

‘I vowed to your mother I would return you to your family in exchange for my release.’

‘And conveniently, your father saw to it that you are my family.’

The collar of his jerkin felt unusually tight, but Jaime resisted her urge to tug at it. ‘You have a brother at the Wall, do you not? Half-brother, at any rate.’

The snort Sansa let out would have done a larger man proud. ‘I can no more live at Castle Black, than I could the White Sword Tower. You of all people should know that.’

Flustered, Jaime fiddled with the buckles on the cuff of his hook. Using words as weapons set him back on his heels. Sansa wielded them with all the blunt force of a morningstar at this moment. If she called him the stupidest Lannister with her next breath, it wouldn’t surprise him at all. ‘I don’t want the North. I don’t want to hand it to my father on a silver platter. I only wish to reunite you with your brother and assure him that Brienne and I will take care of you as if you were…’ Sansa said nothing, but one brow rose inquiringly. ‘My own sister,’ he finished lamely, feeling rather as though he’d been outplayed by this slip of a girl.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, and she speared him with another searing glare. ’You give me your word that you won’t hand me off to Lord Bolton to marry to his bastard?’ Her chin lifted in mute challenge. For all that Jaime had a reputation of an oathbreaking degenerate, he had proven to be far more honorable than she’d been taught at her father’s knee.

‘No. Castle Black, then to Tarth so Brienne can see her father. And after that…’ He spread his hand and hook apart with a shrug.

When she turned without another word and walked away to join Tyrion on his crate, Jaime lifted his hand and ran it over his face, surprised to find it glazed with sweat. He had to admit Tyrion was right about Sansa. She was much cleverer than she let on, and his admiring tones were well earned. The mantle of Lady Stark fit her well.

Sansa flopped from her stomach onto her back with a muffled huff. Despite the biting wind whistling off the Stony Shore, the small cabin was close and warm. Too warm. And filled with the sighs, snorts, snores, and occasional fart from one of the other occupants. ‘Can’t sleep?’ a voice whispered next to her ear. She turned her head to find Podrick dangling upside down over the side of his berth, directly over hers.

‘No.’

Podrick’s hands gripped the edge of the berth, and he flipped himself head-over-heels to the floor. Sansa sat up to make room on the foot of the small berth for him, and he wedged himself in to sit next to her. ‘Got something for you…’ He rummaged under his mattress and emerged with a small leather pouch that he shoved into her hand.

Sansa turned it upside down and shook an object into her upturned palm She held it up to the smoky lantern swaying in the corner.

It was the snarling direwolf of the Stark sigil.

The first genuine smile Podrick had ever seen on Sansa’s face spread over her face. She tilted it from side to side, admiring the play of light over the carved direwolf. Every last detail was perfect. The faint aroma of beeswax wafted from the wood’s smooth and gleaming surface. ‘It’s lovely. Where did you get this?’

‘I made it. Used a picture from one of Lord Tyrion’s books.’ They spoke in bare whispers with their heads nearly touching so as not to wake the others. He nudged the pin of the brooch with a fingertip. ‘Old Ser Cedric didn’t teach me much about being a knight, but fighting as part of an army, means a lot of waiting. So he taught me how to do this sort of thing. Meant we always had kindling to start a fire.’ He picked up her shawl from where it lay crumpled between them and wrapped it around her shoulders, then plucked the brooch from her hand and pinned the edges of her shawl together. ‘Now you’re dressed proper for the North, m’lady.’ He wriggled to the edge of Sansa’s berth and hoisted himself back into his own.

The cabin filled with the rustles of the straw in his mattress as he folded himself into the narrow space. Sansa’s head popped up from below. ‘Thank you.’ To Podrick’s eternal surprise, she brushed a fleeting kiss over his cheek. He might have imagined it, had the skin not tingled in its wake. Even has his fingers brushed over his face, Podrick told himself it was only the sort of kiss a sister would bestow upon a brother.

Deepwood Motte’s mossy wooden palisades squatted amidst fields of oats and barley, an attempt at least one more crop before the winter snows arrived. Sansa stood with her horse’s bridle clutched in her gloved hand, and tilted her face to the breeze that rustled the towering soldier pines of the Wolfswood. How she had missed this in King’s Landing. The scent of peat and crushed pine needles. The underlying tang of snow. A weirwood tree towered over the palisades, its blood-red leaves glowing against the watery blue sky. Her other hand caressed the wooden Stark sigil pinned to her cloak.

Even though Winterfell lay hundreds of miles away, Sansa couldn’t shake the feeling that she was home.

‘Lady Sansa?’

Sansa blinked at the rawboned man looming over her. ‘Lord Robett?’ Her cheeks colored with momentary awkwardness. Not Lord Robett. His father died at the Twins with Robb… ‘Forgive me. Lord Glover.’ She curtsied to him with great formality, just as she would have were she the lady of Winterfell.

Robett glanced over her shoulder, face tightening at the sight of Brienne and Jaime. ‘What are you doing wi’ them?’ His voice lowered into a growl. ‘She was a traitor to your brother and he…’ He hawked and spat on the gravelled path.

Sansa drew herself up to her full height. ‘None of us have blameless pasts, Lord Glover,’ she told him, every inch the image of Lady Stark. ‘My mother did act rashly, but her intentions were to rescue my sister and me from King Joffery. I know no mother that would allow her child to remain a prisoner.’ Robett’s jaw clenched so he resembled the fist on his sigil. ‘As for other — events, shall we say — Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion had no part in that. And Lady Brienne swore her sword to my mother. Robb was King in the North and the Riverlands. Lady Brienne’s allegiance was to Renly Baratheon, so she owed Robb no fealty beyond common courtesy.’ She spoke rapidly, but firmly, hoping Robett didn’t examine her words too closely. Robb and Jon’s voices whispered in the back of her head. Glovers are about as stubborn as mules and as bright as Old Nan’s hen, they complained. If she could bewilder him with the one weapon she truly had, they might be able to leave without much trouble. She held her breath, watching his face closely.

Jaime stepped forward. He bowed deeply. ‘Lord Glover. You have my deepest condolences. I know it cannot change what my father or Lord Frey did. It was a dishonorable act.’ Jaime pressed his lips together at the irony of the Kingslayer speaking of honor. Robett merely glared at him. The silence thickened. ‘We only mean to escort my brother to the Wall and continue on our way. Nothing more.’

Robett grunted. ‘Too late to make camp. You can stay th’ night in Deepwood Motte.’ The look he sent to Jaime and Tyrion would have left them slashed to ribbons. ’No harm’ll come to you,’ he stated, even though it seemed as though he would dearly love to slit both their throats. ‘In th’ North, we honor guest right,’ he added pointedly.

Robett sloshed ale into tankards and shoved them across the table in the chamber he’d led them to. He indicated Sansa with his tankard. ‘You did th’ smart thing coming this way,’ he muttered before drinking deeply. ‘Word trickling out from Winterfell doesn’t bring comfort.’

‘Oh?’ Sansa took a mere sip of the dark brown liquid.

‘Bolton’s heir. Something’s no’ right wi’ him.’

‘You mean he’s simple?’ Tyrion asked, cradling the tankard between his palms.

Robett’s great head shook from side to side. ‘What’s the sigil o’ House Bolton?’

‘The flayed man,’ Sansa replied promptly, as if she sat with Septa Mordane in lessons.

‘Exactly.’ Robett looked significantly at them.

Brienne frowned. ‘Are you saying he’s flaying people?’ The bread and salt she’d eaten upon their arrival sat heavily in her stomach.

Robett grunted in wordless assent. ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’ He leaned closer, his words so soft, they were nearly soundless. ‘When he took Moat Cailin from the ironborn, he lined th’ Kingsroad wi’ their bodies. As if Moat Cailin wasn’t already haunted. Best avoid Winterfell all together.’ He gave Sansa a penetrating look. ‘Bolton’s grasp on Winterfell’s weak. Commands no respect in th’ North.’ He spat into the fire. ‘Man’s a traitor. Should you want to reclaim Winterfell for House Stark and need to raise an army… The North remembers.’

Tyrion set his tankard down. ‘How do we know you won’t set a trap for Lady Sansa? Hand her off to Bolton yourself to curry favor with him?’

‘Ever see a mad dog, m’lord?’

‘A time or two.’

‘You destroy it before it can destroy you.’ A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine. Robett shoved his stool back and mockingly saluted Tyrion. ‘Just like you did wi’ Joffery Baratheon. Can’t say we mourned the twat in th’ North.’ He gulped the rest of his ale and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. ‘Come rouse you at daybreak wi’ something for your breakfast. Can start your journey to th’ Wall wi’ a full belly.’ He left, closing the door behind him.

Brienne swirled the ale in her untouched tankard, watching the swirling eddies of cream-coloured foam and dark brown liquid. Several moments passed in strained silence before she spoke. ‘We should set a watch.’

Jaime didn’t look up from his intense perusal of a buckle on his hook. ‘Thought you’d say that.’

There was no outward reaction other than a thinning of her lips. ‘An overabundance of caution is warranted.’ Brienne pushed the tankard away, where it was quickly claimed by Addam. Ale turned her stomach even in the best of times. Ever since they’d left Casterly Rock it had churned with worry and fear. It had grown worse from the moment they’d ridden through the gates of Deepwood Motte. Lord Glover might spare Sansa, but she had her doubts he would leave Robb’s death unavenged. ‘We should be awake and ready when Lord Glover comes in the morning.’

Sansa stood so she could study the time candle stuck to the mantle. The outline of the bat had just started to melt. ‘Here.’ She touched the side of the fat candle at the next to last dark ring. ‘Nightingale. That should give us plenty of time.’

‘Pod takes first watch,’ Jaime decreed. ‘Starting at the hour of the Eel.’ They would want experienced fighters as the night wore on. An attack this early would prove foolish. There were far too many people milling about the castle at this hour. If it fell to him to plan an attack, Jaime reasoned he would do it during the hour of the Owl or the Wolf. Nearly everyone, save for a handful of bakers, would still be asleep. And the kitchens were on the far side of the castle from this chamber, which was in a relatively deserted corridor itself. He set his tankard aside and crossed the narrow chamber to examine the door. It hung almost loosely on its hinges with only a draw bar to secure the room. Still, he managed to heft the solid plank of oak into the brackets. They should be safe enough.

At least, he hoped they would.

‘In the meantime…’ Tyrion’s voice jerked Jaime from his reverie. ‘We should eat.’ He brandished a chunk of bread in Jaime’s direction. ‘If we’re going to lie awake all night and jump at innocuous shadows, we might as well do it with full stomachs.’

Jaime yawned and rubbed his gritty eyes. He wanted to pace around the chamber and give his taut nerves an outlet, but the floor was littered with pallets, on which Sansa, Podrick, Tyrion, and Addam slept. Or at least gave the appearance of sleeping. Jaime had done little more than pass the hours before his watch in a fitful drowse. Brienne occupied the narrow bed wedged against the wall. He glanced at her. She was awake, staring at the soot-stained ceiling.

He turned his head and squinted at the time candle. The wax had melted nearly to the pointed ears of the wolf rendered in black wax. Jaime pushed himself to his feet and picked his way to the pallet closest to the door, and nudged the occupant with his toes.

Addam rolled over with a grunt. ‘My turn, is it?’ Jaime nodded. He waited until Addam settled into the chair by the fire, his eyes locked on the door, then crept to the bed. Brienne lifted the furs, and he slid into the bed next to her. ‘You should be sleeping,’ he whispered.

Her head shook. ‘Can’t.’ She slid a leg between his and arranged herself so he was pressed against her. Jaime hadn’t realized how cold he was until the warmth of Brienne’s body began seep through his clothes. ‘I keep waiting for something else to happen. It’s been too easy.’

Jaime huffed out a short, punchy breath. ‘Stop. You’re going to tempt fate.’

Brienne pulled the furs up to their chins and huddled into them. ‘I don’t trust Lord Glover,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘It won’t take an army to overtake us on the road. Then he can avenge Robb Stark, send Sansa to the Boltons, and not violate guest right.’ She shoved her free hand under the pillow, and brought out the dagger that normally lived in its sheath on her swordbelt. ‘I doubt I shall rest easy until we’re in Castle Black…’

‘Among murderers and rapists?’

‘Murderers and rapists who aren’t out for revenge.’

Jaime shifted until he could look her in the face. Brienne’s usual demeanor was one of resigned stoicism, with most of her emotional expression reserved for her eyes. When all else was stillness, her eyes all but shouted what she felt.

He’d seen a range of sentiments flash through them. Rage. Contempt. Worry. Concern. Pity. Awe. Disbelief. Delight. Righteous indignation. Elation.

And yet, after everything they’d survived, this was the first time he saw naked fear lurking there.

The sun set far more rapidly than it had in the Westerlands. Or so it appeared. One minute the pale sun began to sink on the horizon, and the next, the Wolfswood plunged into an oppressive darkness. The lantern Addam, Sansa, and Podrick used to light their way to the stream for water was a mere pinprick in the night. The fire that had seemed adequate just moments ago now barely held the shadows at bay. Brienne adjusted her grip on the hilt of Oathkeeper, peering into the thick forest, fully expecting group of Glover men to come thundering through the trees.

Jaime rousted Tyrion from his book by simply plucking it from his hands, and corralled him, protesting, to sit next to Brienne. He then sat between them so they formed a rough circle. ‘I’m not leaving you at the Wall,’ he blurted with no preamble. ‘Or allowing you to stay long enough to take the vows.’ He winced to himself as Brienne’s head whipped around and she stared at him as if he’d lost his remaining wits.

‘Of course you are.’ Tyrion huddled into his cloak. ‘I pled guilty and agreed to spend — how did Father put it? — the rest of my miserable life at the Wall.’

‘Everyone knows you didn’t do it,’ Jaime argued. ‘You were convenient.’

‘And how do you plan to spirit me away from the Wall without anyone noticing?’ Tyrion removed a flask from his belt and took a swig of rum.

‘I want to try and persuade the Lord Commander that your presence on the Wall is a folly. I don’t think he’ll disagree.’

Tyrion ran his fingers through the beard he’d sprouted on the journey north. ‘There are two occupations in which a member of the Night’s Watch may leave the Wall that don’t involve ranging.’ He held up one finger. ‘Recruiting. And I sincerely doubt that a convicted murderer would be allowed to roam the country in such a role.’ Another finger joined the first. ‘Or they need a maester and I would have to travel to Oldtown and the Citadel in order to forge a chain.’ His hand lowered back to his knees. ‘The Watch has a maester. And if he’s died, there was another fellow who would have made a suitable candidate to fill his place.’

Jaime avoided looking at Brienne. Her silent indignation vibrated off her in waves. ‘When Father dies, I intend to ask Tommen to pardon you.’

‘There’s no guarantee he will grant one,’ Tyrion pointed out.

Jaime gulped. ‘And renounce my claim to Casterly Rock.’ Inheritance law in Westeros preferred legitimate heirs. Legitimate direct male heirs. Vows to the Night’s Watch or no, if he repudiated his inheritance, it would go to Tyrion.

‘Jaime…’

‘I don’t want it. You do. I’m not very good at it.’

‘That’s Father talking,’ Tyron snapped.

‘And he’s right!’ Jaime forced himself to take a deep breath to quell his rising temper. ‘I swore to protect you, and that’s one vow I’ve never knowingly broken. Don’t ask me to do so now.’

‘This is dishonorable,’ Brienne said tightly.

‘No more dishonorable than my father sending an innocent man to die.’ Jaime turned back to her then. She was stiff with barely restrained fury. ‘I thought you of all people could understand. Or would you have willingly gone to your certain death had Loras Tyrell’s accusations been taken seriously?’

Brienne’s jaw clenched and she looked away. ‘No.’ While her rigid beliefs surrounding vows and oaths had relaxed a great deal in the past couple of years, this was a bridge too far for her. ‘You can’t do this. You mustn’t,’ she insisted. ’It would make a mockery of a judicial system…’ She trailed off at the visible anguish on Jaime’s face.

‘Jaime.’ Tyrion laid a hand on Jaime’s knee. ‘I don’t wish to sound unappreciative, but Brienne is right. You can’t do this. I won’t let you. No one would ever trust Brienne, Addam, Pod, or Sansa again.’ Guilty by association. Left unsaid, but hanging heavily between the three of them. ‘Not to mention it would shred the last bits of your already tattered reputation to insignificance.’ He squeezed Jaime’s knee. ‘You can’t protect me from everything.’

Jaime’s chin trembled and he bit savagely on his lower lip to stem the tears that sprang to his eyes, unwilling to contemplate a life that did not have Tyrion in it. ‘You at least have to let me try to get the Lord Commander to send you to the Citadel.’

A twig snapped behind them. Brienne whirled around, her grip shifting on Oathkeeper. It was only Podrick, Sansa, and Addam returning with water. ‘Not a word to anyone,’ Jaime muttered, snatching up a long stick. He began to poke mindlessly at the fire.

Podrick dug in a pannier and emerged with canvas-wrapped bundles that he doled out to every one. Soldiers’ rations. Everyone was too exhausted to try and cook something. Jaime managed to pick the knot apart and spread the canvas over his knee. A bit of hard biscuit, a few strips of dried meat, and a bar of oats, dried fruit, and nuts, sticky with honey wrapped in waxed muslin. Not very appetizing, and meant to be eaten while on the march.

Sansa ladled catmint tea into mugs and handed them around the fire.

They ate their dinners in relative silence, listless and weary from lack of sleep the night before and the cold that had seeped inexorably into their bones. One by one, Sansa, Podrick, Addam, and Tyrion sought their bedrolls, tucked into shelters just large enough for two, leaving Jaime sitting next to Brienne. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, and hunched toward the fire. He bumped her knee with his own, and her shoulders stiffened. Jaime sighed and wiggled closer to her so he could lean against her. ‘Do you remember when I told you Tyrion was one of the few people for which I would jump into a bear pit and put myself between them and a roaring bear?’

Brienne nodded.

Jaime glanced at the shelter that held Tyrion and Sansa. ‘This is his bear pit.’ He was barely audible over the crackle of the fire and the wind whistling through the trees. ‘I promise, I will not interfere if the Lord Commander tells me to piss off.’

Brienne lifted a skeptical brow.

Jaime pulled the dagger from his sword belt and held it aloft by the blade in his gloved hand. ‘I swear I shall only request that Tyrion be sent to the Citadel. I swear it by the old gods and the new.’ He pressed the crossguard to his lips, then shoved the dagger back into its sheath.

Chapter Text

Sansa set the small kettle of water over the fire. It had frozen overnight. ‘We should go straight to the Wall,’ she murmured.

‘What?’ Jaime scrubbed his hand over his face as he emerged from his shelter.

‘We ought to go the Wall,’ she repeated, gazing at the northern horizon. As with all Starks, Sansa had been steeped in the history of the North, the First Men, and the Old Gods, despite her mother’s insistence her children would pray to the Seven. It was ingrained in them. The Wall and the Night’s Watch were part of her heritage. She stooped and retrieved a long stick and scratched out a rough map of the North, then drew a line at the top, punching divots in the dirt at regular intervals along the line. She drew an X midway along the line. ‘There’s Castle Black.’ She tapped each divot, naming the castle as she headed west. ‘Queensgate, Deep Lake, the Nightfort, Icemark, Hoarfrost Hill, Stonedoor, Greyguard, Sentinel Stand, the Shadow Tower, and Westwatch-by-the Bridge.’ She crossed off the Shadow Tower. ‘Shadow Tower still has a garrison, but everything between Castle Black and the Shadow Tower has been abandoned.’

‘So?’ Addam fed a few sticks of wood to the fire.

‘Each castle is about half a day’s ride away from its neighbor.’ The castles might be in ruins, but at least they offered the hope of walls to block most of the wind and a roof to keep the snow off their heads while they slept.

Tyrion studied her map with a thoughtful look on his face. He took the stick from her and marked another X in their approximate location. ‘If we were to stay on this side of the mountains…’ The stick carved a line to the Wall. ‘We will end up at… Sentinel Stand or Greyguard.’ Sansa nodded. ‘And Winterfell is…?’

Sansa took back the stick. ‘Here.’ She stabbed the end into the place where Winterfell would be.

Addam pulled a spit skewered with a couple of rabbits off the fire. ‘So you want to keep the mountains between us and Lord Bolton.’

‘Ideally.’ Sansa tried to keep the fear from her voice. Lord Glover’s warnings about the Boltons made her blood run cold. Her father had expressly forbidden flaying, much to the Boltons’ displeasure. Now that Ned was gone, there was nothing to keep a check on their worst impulses.

Jaime walked across the map, deliberately scuffing it out of existence. ‘Can’t hurt, I suppose.’ The sounds of swords clanking together in the background had faded, and Brienne and Podrick trooped into view, sweaty and dishevelled. ‘We should go soon.’

The abandoned Night’s Watch castle at Deep Lake was in a good enough condition that Jaime decreed they could rest for a couple of days before heading to Castle Black. They commandeered two rooms, using one to stable their horses and the other for sleeping. The gruelling pace Jaime set thus far had barely given them space to breathe at the end of a day.

Brienne sat cross-legged on her bedroll, taking advantage of what little light they had left in the day. She held up one of her smaller knives to examine the blade in the shaft of weak sunlight that fell through the window. Jaime and Addam had Podrick in the yard, teaching him how to use a bow. From the sounds of it, Podrick was making a right mess of it. It wasn’t his fault. His late — and not very lamented, in her opinion — knight hadn’t done his duty by Podrick, leaving him ill-trained at an age when most squires demonstrated a level of proficiency with at least one weapon. She rubbed the blade with a square of oiled leather. From time to time, Tyrion offered surprisingly constructive criticism, disguised as sardonic comments.

Sansa folded herself to sit next to Brienne, with a steaming cup cradled between her hands. ‘Podrick’s not very good, is he?’

Brienne slid the knife into the sheath in her boot, and glanced toward the window. A solid thwak drifted through, indicating an arrow had hit its intended target. ‘Everyone must start somewhere. Podrick is eager to learn new skills and learns from his mistakes.’ She didn’t flinch as a headless training arrow flew through the window and bounced off the wall over her head, followed by a string of curses in Podrick’s voice.

‘Then he’ll become a fearsome warrior,’ Sansa snorted into her cup. ‘Someday.’

‘One can hope,’ Brienne murmured. She glanced at Sansa from the corner of her eye. She fidgeted restlessly, toying with the edge of her cloak. She shifted so much, Brienne nearly asked if she needed to avail herself of the makeshift privy in the other room. ‘When did you last see your brother?’

‘When I left Winterfell.’ Sansa buried her nose in her tea. ‘I was thirteen.’

‘What’s he like?’ Brienne got to her feet and added more wood to the fire. The fading light meant the room would grow colder. She could already see Sansa’s breath as she talked.

Sansa wrapped her arms around her knees. She’d always followed her mother’s lead when it came to Jon. He might have been her father’s son, but Catelyn never treated him as one of her own, so neither did Sansa. She had a faint, faded memory of Jon outperforming Robb in the schoolroom, earning Catelyn’s silent, but unmistakable, ire. She’d once observed Jon practicing archery when he thought he was alone. Each time, the arrows landed with unerring accuracy in the center of the straw target. Robb joined him, just as Jon pulled his latest round of arrows from the straw and proposed a contest. Sansa could still see the pained smile as Jon agreed. He kept pace with Robb until the last arrow, but it flew wide. She wasn’t entirely certain, but she rather thought Jon had done it on purpose. He did the same when the sparred with swords. If he fought with Jory Cassel, he danced in circles around him. If Jon fought with Robb, he managed to lose far more than he won. It never occurred to her before why he would hide his abilities to such an extent. Once he’d made the decision to join their uncle Benjen at the Wall, the prospect of leaving Winterfell seemed to lift a burden from his shoulders that she only now understood. ‘Quiet,’ she said after a prolonged silence. ‘Very solemn. Always seemed to be sad, even if he was happy. Clever. Constantly trying to make himself small, so he didn’t overshadow the trueborn heir.’ She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. ‘I don’t think he will be pleased to see me. I was horrid to him.’

‘You were a child,’ Brienne retorted. ‘Everyone does things they’re not proud of when they’re children.’

Sansa hugged her knees tighter. ‘My mother was…’ Her nails dug into her palms. ‘She was never cruel. Not deliberately. Not like Tywin with Tyrion.’ Her reluctance to say anything that might paint Catelyn in a negative light was palpable. ‘Just…’

‘Indifferent?’

Sansa nodded. ‘I emulated Mother. So I don’t think Jon is going to be particularly pleased to see me. If it was Arya…’ A lock of dark hair slipped from the clasp at the back of her head. Podrick had mentioned the dye would fade on its own or she could wash it from her hair, although it might take multiple attempts. ‘Could you help me wash my hair? I’d rather not create false hope that it’s Arya coming to him, and then disappoint him.’

Brienne searched through a pannier until she came up with a battered wooden cup and a cake of soap. She dipped the cup into one of the buckets of water sitting near the fire, then used her knife to shave bits of the soap into the water. ’You’re the only family he has that’s still alive, no?’

Sansa opened her mouth, then closed it. She nodded. Rickon and Bran were said to have been killed, but… Something told her they were still alive. The same with Arya. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and she couldn’t explain it, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that hovered in the back of her head that her younger siblings still lived. Even if they were lost to her.

‘Then I doubt he’ll be displeased to see you.’

Alliser Thorne’s gravelly voice carried into the courtyard. ‘Lord Commander.’ He jerked his head to the other side of the gate. ‘Six people out there.’

Jon climbed the newly-repaired stairs to the gallery, suppressing a wince at how more than one riser wobbled under his boots. The large blonde woman was unknown to him, as well as the guileless-faced boy and russet-haired man behind her. His gloved fingers tightened on the railing of the gallery, and he squinted at the other three figures. One was clearly Tyrion Lannister. Jon would know him anywhere. The second reminded him of Jaime Lannister, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d only seen him briefly at Winterfell a few times. And the third…

Sansa nudged her horse to the front and pushed her hood back, exposing her hair, once more its usual dark auburn. Drifting snowflakes caught in the strands of hair rippling in the wind.

Jon felt his heart pound in his chest. Ever since that snivelling twat had executed Ned, since the fall of Winterfell to the ironborn, and the vicious and cold-blooded murder of Robb, he’d braced himself for the worst. To see Sansa safe and whole sent a wave of heartfelt relief through him. He’d often fancied he could sense his brothers and sisters, especially in his lonelier moments, just as he could sense Ghost. He always dismissed it as nothing more than wishful thinking, and hs inability to feel as though he truly belonged to the Watch. ‘Open the gate,’ he told Alliser quietly, without tearing his gaze from Sansa. When Alliser hesitated, Jon twisted, eyes boring into his. ‘I said, open the bloody gate.’ He didn’t raise his voice, but the tone brooked no argument.

Alliser’s lip curled, but he called down to the courtyard. ‘Open the gate!’

Jaime leaned closer to Sansa as the gate began to inch its way upward with a groan in the frosty air. ‘Isn’t that your brother?’ He glanced up at the man that had answered the summons of the Lord Commander, still standing on the gallery, so still he might have been a statue, save for the wind toying with his dark, unruly curls.

Sansa merely nodded as her hands tightened on the reins of her horse. Her already fair skin paled a little more.

‘Did they… Did they call him Lord Commander?’

Sansa nodded once more, eyes locked on Jon. She scarcely breathed.

‘Sansa, how old is your brother?’

‘Eighteen… No.’ She chewed the inside of her cheek. What month was it…? ‘Nineteen. Only just.’

Jaime threw a glance at Tyrion. How low had the Night’s Watch fallen that it chose a mere boy for Lord Commander? For the first time since they left Casterly Rock, he felt something akin to hope blossom in his chest. Perhaps the young Lord Commander could prove biddable, if not pliable. He dug his heels into his horse’s sides and led them through the gate, into the courtyard of Castle Black.

It was worse than he’d imagined. He recognized signs of recent battle. Scorched walls, splintered wood, shattered stone. The scent of stale smoke still hung in the air. Underneath the scars of battle, he could detect signs of dilapidation and neglect that the fresh damage only emphasized. He tried to catch Brienne’s eye, but she was occupied with scanning the courtyard, ready to charge anyone who dared to look at Sansa cross-eyed. They stopped in the courtyard and Sansa slid from her horse, only to be engulfed in swathes of black wool and fur. Jon drew back just enough to study her face, then folded her into another crushing embrace. ‘You’re alive,’ he murmured. ‘You’re alive…’

The walls around Sansa’s heart crumbled, and she choked back a sob. She took half a step back, so she could see his face, surprised to see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. She laid a hand along his jaw. There were lines and scars on his face that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. He still had the wary expression lurking in his eyes she recalled from Winterfell, but there was also a new layer of sadness and grief. There was also a steeliness in them she could never recall seeing in her father’s. The boy she’d known was gone, and in his place was a man she scarcely knew. ‘I have so much to tell you, I hardly know where to start,’ she said, before she embraced him again. Sansa sniffed, burying her nose in the shaggy fur collar of his cloak.

‘Let’s get you settled first,’ Jon told her, wiping his eyes with a fold of his cloak. He turned to Tyrion. ‘Never thought I’d see you here again.’

Tyrion clambered down from his horse with some difficulty, eschewing Jaime’s subtle offers of help. ‘Likewise.’ He gestured to Jaime. ‘You remember my elder brother, Ser Jaime.’ Jon inclined his head. ‘Allow me to introduce Ser Addam Marbrand and Podrick Payne. And, my brother’s wife, Lady Brienne.’

Jon’s brows flew up, but he hurriedly bowed with a murmured, ‘My lady.’ The Watch did not involve themselves in the politics of the kingdom, but the situation must have been quite dire if a sworn member of the Kingsguard turned from his vows. He gestured to the stables. ‘I’ll show you where you can see t’ your horses…’

Brienne suddenly launched herself from the saddle onto a figure Jaime only managed to glimpse before she slammed him into a wall, and wrapped her fingers around his throat. ‘Do you recognize me?’ she asked in a quiet, dangerous voice.

His head reared back. ‘That bitch with the Kingslayer,’ the man rasped, eyes beginning to bulge slightly.

That voice. Jaime slid from his horse, and the courtyard of Castle Black disappeared, replaced by the sounds of rustling leaves and scent of the rich, damp soil of the Riverlands with an underlying stench of rotting flesh. Pain shot up his right arm, and Jaime set his teeth in his lip to keep from crying out. He clumsily drew his sword and strode to stand behind Brienne, sweat making his palm slick on the hilt.

Brienne’s eyes darted to Jon. ‘Has he taken his vows?’ Locke began to struggle under Brienne’s grip. She rammed a knee into his crotch, then looked back at Jon. ‘Is he a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch?’

‘No. He is not.’ Jon left Sansa and slowly approached Brienne. ‘How do you know him?’

‘Ser Jaime and I were his prisoners,’ Brienne spat. ‘He cut off Ser Jaime’s hand for no other reason than for sport.’ Brienne’s lips curled back in a feral snarl. ‘His men nearly raped me. They tortured us. He threw me into a pit with a bear and only gave me a wooden sword.’ Brienne gave Jon another glance. ‘His master holds Winterfell.’

‘Who…?’ Jon’s gaze swivelled between Jaime and Brienne.

‘Roose Bolton.’ Jaime’s tongue felt thick.

Jon turned slightly to look at Sansa, clutching the reins of her horse. The man wilting under Brienne’s grip wasn’t yet a member of the Watch. He’d come to join them under false pretenses, Jon now knew. Roose Bolton had been at the Red Wedding. Wisps of rumors had reached Castle Black that Lord Bolton himself had stabbed Robb through the heart. Jon gave Brienne a short nod, giving her tacit permission to do what he could not.

Brienne whirled and snatched the sword from Jaime’s hand. It whistled through the air and she slit Locke’s throat. ‘Sapphires.’ She took a step back, and for good measure, lifted the sword again and brought it down in a vicious slash, severing Lock’s right hand.

He was dead before he landed in the mud.

Brienne spun around and found Jaime staring at her, white-faced. She wiped the blade clean on Locke’s shirt and handed the it back to Jaime. He had struggled to find a name worthy of the sword’s lineage. One that didn’t bring the shade of Joffery to mind. She nudged the hilt, leaving a smear of blood on it. ‘Call it Honor.’

Brienne dipped a cloth into the basin of hot water and peered at the spotted glass propped against a jug on the table. She ran the wet cloth over her face, wiping away the dried blood. Jaime stood in front of the fire, holding his hand over the flames. ‘Why?’

She turned her head, dabbing at the skin under her ear. ‘Protecting you better than most was not good enough.’

‘Brienne…’

‘You would still be whole if not for me,’ she continued. ‘Had I been able to bend my pride, we would not have been captured.’ She dropped the cloth into the basin and gazed at the eddies of blood swirling on the surface of the water. ‘I trust you consider yourself avenged.’

Jaime swallowed the argument on the tip of his tongue that there was nothing to avenge. He’d come to see the loss of his hand as double edged sword. It was, at the same time, a punishment and a gift. It had been the death of the Jaime Lannister he had been and the birth of… Who, he didn't know yet, but he didn’t want to be that person anymore. ‘At the very least, your display put everyone here on notice that you do know how to use your sword,’ he quipped. ‘I don’t think anyone will care to trifle with you after that.’

The redheaded wildling lurked on the edge of the yard, sending openly admiring glances toward Brienne as she sparred with Podrick. It was disconcerting to have someone not named Jaime Lannister send such heated looks her way while she held a sword in her hand. Podrick left himself open, and Brienne delivered a well-placed smack to his side. ‘Again.’ Podrick brought his sword up, but Brienne was too quick. She brought the edge of the dull sparring sword down on his forearm. Had it been Oathkeeper, she would have severed his hand from his body.

Tormund sauntered toward them, his face wreathed in what he obviously felt was a seductive smile. Brienne froze for a moment, distracted by his widening grin, wondering if what would come from his mouth would be an insult or genuine regard.

Podrick seized his opportunity. He smacked the flat of his blade against Brienne’s shoulder. She immediately turned on him and punched him just under his ribcage, before shoving him into a mound of dirty snow with her booted foot. He sat up, spitting out bits of straw, when Tormund paused and looked down at him. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he informed Podrick. He raked his eyes over Brienne and she flushed under his attention. ‘You’re wasted teaching the likes o’him.’ He tilted his head toward Podrick, swelling with indignation. ‘If these southerners knew their ass from their elbows, they’d put you in charge of an army.’

‘Yes, well…’ Brienne rubbed the ball of her thumb over the edge of the sword.

‘Never seen a woman put a blade to man’s throat like you did yesterday.’ He leered at her. ‘Maybe you’d care t’go a few rounds with a real man, and not little boys whose balls haven’t dropped.’ His gaze shifted pointedly to Podrick.

Brienne snatched Podrick’s sparring sword from his hand. ‘I believe that’s enough for this morning, Pod,’ she muttered. ‘Time for breakfast.’ She spun on a heel, and beat a hasty retreat to the armory, hoping Tormund didn’t take it into his head to follow her. She returned the sparring swords to their rack, noting with a sense of great relief that he seemed content to confine himself to suggestive looks and overly flattering compliments.

Of course, Tyrion would befriend the bloody man. He seemed to have the ability to make friends with anyone, highborn lords and ladies and mercenary sellswords alike. That first evening found the two of them sharing a flagon of something, swapping bawdy stories and tales of their many conquests. Tyrion was apparently one of the few inhabitants of Castle Black who could match Tormund, drink for drink.

Brienne had thought they wouldn’t see Tyrion at breakfast the next morning, much less clear-eyed and alert. But he sat on a bench in the hall, stolidly munching his way through a bowl of porridge with an inscrutable expression on his face. He never ceased to amaze her at his capacity to indulge in drink and not seem the worse for wear. ‘We need to talk,’ he told them as soon as they joined him with their own bowls. ‘It seems the Lord Commander is leading an expedition to bring the remaining wildlings here.’

Jaime drizzled honey into his porridge until it was palatable. ‘I was under the impression the wildlings are our enemies.’

‘So we’ve been told.’ Tyrion leaned forward. ‘And we have been gravely misinformed.’  He glanced around the hall before continuing in a low voice, the skin around his eyes taut.  'They speak of dead who walk amongst the living.  Corpses whose primary goal seems to be to create others like them.'

‘You had too much of whatever vile concoction that Giantsbane fellow gave you,’ Jaime scoffed. ‘Are you telling me that grumkins and snarks are real?’

Tyrion nodded. ‘That is exactly what I’m saying.’ He stirred his porridge. ‘Not grumkins and snarks, but White Walkers.’

‘The last time anyone claimed to have seen a White Walker was —‘

‘Eight thousand years ago,’ Tyrion supplied.

‘But those are just stories,’ Brienne murmured. ‘Something my septa told me to frighten me into behaving properly.’

Tyrion shook his head slowly. ‘When you hear it from one person, perhaps. Every wildling I spoke to last night said something similar. And before you say they’re having a laugh at my expense, each one of them was far more inebriated than I.’

Chapter Text

Jon waited for Olly to set two bowls on the table, then jerked his head toward the door. ‘Go on, then. Sam’s expectin’ you for lessons after your meal.’ The boy’s nose scrunched in mild distaste. Who would want to sit in a dark room, that smelt of dusty paper and centuries of stale sweat, learning to read and write, when the sun sparkled off the freshly fallen snow? Jon met the disgruntlement with a wry smile and a quirked brow. ‘You want t’ be Lord Commander someday, you need to keep at your lessons.’

Olly rolled his eyes and left Jon and Sansa to their own midday meals. Sansa managed to keep a straight face as she gazed into the bowl. It was a thick soup made from dried peas and flavoured with smoked pork. It wasn’t her favourite. She had memories of Septa Mordane forcing her choke it down during the last winter, with admonishments they were lucky to have it. Others were not so blessed. She glanced around the chamber with a growing sense of dread and dismay.

Shabby wasn’t quite the word to describe Castle Black. It bordered on derelict. It was barely in better condition than one of the abandoned castles along the Wall. Gaps in the doors and shutters let in fingers of cold wind. Jon’s chamber was tidy, but spiderwebs clustered in the corners, and ashes clogged the hearth. Other parts of the castle were filthy. The only areas that approached the cleanliness of Jon’s chamber were the stables, kitchens, and library. Walls of some of the smaller buildings had collapsed on themselves, but hadn’t been repaired. Even the men disappointed her. They were rough and coarse, not the honorable defenders of the North from the stories she’d heard a a child. More than a few of them gave her a distinct feeling of unease, not unlike what she felt around Lord Baelish. It was clear to her that Jon didn’t belong here.

Jon bent his head over his soup. ‘Never thought I’d see you in trousers.’

Sansa pinched a fold of the long tunic made in a similar style to Brienne’s. ‘It was more sensible than a dress for traveling on horseback.’

He let his mouth twist into a wry grin. Sensible was not a word he associated with his sister. They ate their soup in awkward silence. Jon never knew what to say to her. She’d always seemed so alien to him, with her Southron airs. She was the only one out of the six of them that affected Catelyn’s manner of speech. The rest of them spoke with the stamp of the North in their words to varying degrees, from Arya’s dancing lilt to Jon’s heavy burr. ’Th’ Lannisters seem t’have treated you well,’ he ventured.

Sansa’s spoon clattered against the edge of the bowl. ‘They didn’t.’ She pressed her lips together, lest she batter him with every horrible thing that had happened to her since the day she stood with Joffery instead of telling the truth about Arya and her friend. ‘I was their prisoner,’ she said, plucking a piece of bread from the plate between them and began to tear it into tiny pieces. ‘Joffery forced me to watch when he had Father…’ She stuffed a chunk of bread into her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. The memories were still raw, even though Ned had been dead for nearly three years. ‘He made me look at his head. And Septa Mordane’s. He beat me in front of the court. Humiliated me at every opportunity. I nearly died because they left me behind during a riot near the Red Keep. Cersei wasn’t much better. She belittled me while making it sound like motherly concern. Forced me to write to Robb and tell him Father tried to commit treason.’ She dashed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Then they threw me aside when I was no longer worth anything to them.’

‘And Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime, and Lady Brienne?’ Jon drew patterns in the thick soup with his spoon, struck by the notion that while Sansa’s prison might have been gilded and lined with silken brocades, she had to fight in solitude, while he at least had had allies in the Watch, and now a few amongst the free folk.

Sansa scoffed. ‘Lord Tywin doesn’t think of Tyrion as a Lannister. Ser Jaime is…’ She shrugged expansively. ‘More loyal to his brother than to his father, but still retains his status as the heir to Casterly Rock. And Lady Brienne is no Lannister.’ She spooned up a bite of soup. ‘They’ve been far more than merely kind,’ she admitted. ‘They’ve treated me like I matter to them more than my position as the rightful heir of Winterfell.’

Jon nodded, keeping his gaze locked on his soup. ‘I’m glad someone’s lookin’ out for you.’

‘Why did you leave Winterfell?’ She pulled her cloak around herself, shivering slightly. Why did you leave your family? she wanted to shout.

Jon pushed his chair back and rounded the desk. ‘Sansa, I had to. There was no place for me there.’ Jon poked at the fire and threw a few bricks of peat on it, then muttered ‘Your lady mother wanted me gone from the day I arrived as a motherless babe.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Sansa protested feebly, although she knew the lie for what it was. Would she have behaved the same as Catelyn? Would she have been able to set her feelings of jealousy aside and welcome a daily reminder of her lord husband’s infidelity? After all, it wasn’t Jon’s fault. He hadn’t asked to be born.

‘If I’d been at Winterfell wi’ Bran and Rickon, Theon would ha’ killed me first,’ Jon continued. It was more likely Theon would have offered him Winterfell in an attempt to draw on their mutual outsider status. Jon laced his fingers together. ‘If I hadn’t chosen the Watch, what was Father t’do wi’ me? Find a croft for me? Marry me t’th’ daughter of some bannerman wi’ no sons ? Have children wi’ her and no name t’give them?’

The vehemence of Jon’s response took Sansa aback. ‘But…’

‘This is where I belong,’ Jon said with undisguised bitterness. ‘Wi’ the other bastards and broken men.’

‘You’re my family.’ Sansa wiped her fingers over her wet cheeks.

Jon crouched down in front of her and took her hands. ‘Sansa… you will always be my sister. And I will always love you, but my life is here. Until the day I die. And yours…’

‘What is my life, Jon?’ Sansa yanked her hands from his. ‘When Tyrion takes his vows, our marriage will be set aside. And then what? The Boltons live in our home, Jon. Where am I supposed to go?’

‘Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne —‘ Jon began, but Sansa cut him off.

‘Yes, I know. They intend to look after me as though I were their own sister. All that does is saddle them with the prospect of begging someone else to take me off their hands.’

‘That’s no’ how they feel about you, and you know it,’ Jon snapped. He’d observed Brienne and Jaime with Sansa the night before. They didn’t behave as though she were particularly burdensome. Jaime had nothing but words of admiration for Sansa’s skillful handling of Lord Glover. He returned to his seat and ate a bite of his cooling soup and pushed it away with more than a little irritation.

‘Father should never have accepted the position as Hand of the King,’ Sansa muttered.

‘Now that we can agree on,’ Jon replied.

Jon’s eyes narrowed as he studied the person on the other side of his desk. ‘No.’

‘You don’t understand. Tyrion is innocent,’ Jaime began, but Jon held up a hand.

‘The Night’s Watch does no’ involve itself wi’ the politics o’ the kingdom. You’re askin’ me to get involved.’ He outwardly calm, but Jaime could sense the hint of steeliness in his eyes.

‘I can’t leave him here. He’ll die. He won’t last a year.’ Jaime felt the desperation build in his chest. He wracked his brain for something — anything — that would persuade the Lord Commander to allow Tyrion to maintain the appearance of taking the vows of the Watch as mandated by his sentence, but not actually stay at the Wall. ‘Just say he’s said his vows and you sent him to Oldtown to become the new maester.’

‘I planned to send Samwell Tarly to th’ Citadel,’ Jon demurred. ‘And what you ask is dishonorable.’

‘Honor didn’t keep your father alive,’ Jaime snapped. The blood drained from Jon’s face until he was as pale as the snowdrifts against the castle walls. Jaime pressed his lips together and lifted his hand. ‘My apologies. That was… unforgivably rude.’

Jon leaned back in his chair and idly scratched one of Ghost’s ears. He remained silent, waiting for Jaime to say more.

‘Is there a law that states everyone who is a sworn brother of the Watch must stay at the Wall?’

‘No.’

Jaime heaved a sigh, and let his shoulders slump just a little. ‘I only need you to engage in a small ruse. Tyrion can act as though he has taken his vows, and I’m sure there is something he can do to assist the Watch, just not at the Wall.’ He leaned forward, earnestness unspooling over his face. ‘I know my brother, my lord. He is innocent of the crime that sent him here.’ Profound skepticism crossed Jon’s face, and Jame saw it. Kingslayer… Oathbreaker… The familiar ache of reproach spread through Jaime’s chest. ‘I know you have no reason to believe a word I say. I did break an oath. I didn’t do it lightly or carelessly.’

Jon rubbed his hands over his face. He reached for his wine, giving Jaime a contemplative look over the rim of his cup. ‘Then why did you?’

Jaime’s breath caught in his chest. He felt as though he were nineteen years old again, with his scent of Aerys’ blood in his nostrils and the weight of his sword dragging him to his knees. In this moment, Jon Snow offered him what Ned Stark denied him. A chance to explain. ‘Have you ever heard of wildfire?’

‘I know of it. Maester Luwin mentioned it once or twice.’ Jon’s eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. ‘It’s what Aerys used to burn me grandfather.’

The odor of burning flesh and Lord Rickard’s agonizing screams blazed into Jaime’s memories. ‘Yes.’ He squirmed like a small boy under a disapproving paternal glare. ‘I was there,’ he added in a low voice, barely parting his lips enough to allow the words to escape. ‘I had to stand there, in rigid silence, and let two men die horrible deaths, and do nothing. Because of my vow.’ Jaime took a slow, deep breath. ‘Aerys had barrels of it hidden underneath the city. Under the Red Keep. Fleabottom. The Great Sept. Everywhere.’ He grasped the words in a vicelike grip and dragged them off his tongue. ‘The Lannister army knocked at the gates of King’s Landing, and Pycelle persuaded Aerys to let them in.’ Jaime’s eyes squeezed shut, and he heartily wished for something stronger than the mulled wine cooling in a cup on the edge of the desk. ‘Aerys ordered me to murder my father, and then he ordered his pyromancers to set the wildfire alight.’ When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see the young Lord Commander, but Aerys’ face, twisted with insanity. ‘Burn them all…’ Jaime groped for the cup and drained it. ‘It was all Aerys said for hours. Burn them all…’

Jon stood abruptly, and Jaime flinched, absurdly expecting to feel cold Valyrian steel at his throat. Instead, he heard the scrape of a cupboard door, then the gurgle of liquid purling into a cup. Jon lifted Jaime’s hand and pressed the cup into it. The burnt sweetness of rum drifted into Jaime’s nose. He belted it, then set the cup down, eyes watering. The rum burned a path through his chest, loosening the fetters that bound the next words in a prison of his own making. ‘So I stabbed him in the back, then slit his throat. To make sure he was dead. I could fulfill my vow as a Kingsguard and let him do as he pleased. And let thousands of innocent people die in the process. Or I could fulfill my oath at a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and protect the innocent.’ Jon kept his dark gaze fixed on Jaime as he poured another tot of rum into the cup. Jaime swallowed it gratefully, letting it dull the jagged edges of his memories. ‘He thought if he burned, he would emerge from the ashes as a dragon.’

Smothering silence spread between them. A cloak of failure settled on Jaime’s shoulders and he nodded, already beginning the process of steeling himself for the inevitable news of Tyrion’s untimely death at the hands of the Stranger.

Then a pebble dropped into the pond. ‘All right.’ Jaime’s head flew up. Hope tore through the silence like sunbeams shredding stormclouds. ‘On one condition.’ The bottom fell from Jaime’s stomach. ‘He takes the vow tomorrow. I can tell everyone he’ll likely forge a chain before Sam will. Maester Aemon is no’ as well as he lets on. No one can disagree that the Watch will need a new maester sooner rather than later.’ His gaze turned to a large scorch mark on the stone wall. ‘I need someone who can comb through th’ archives o’ th’ Watch. I seem to recall your brother having a mind bent toward books.’ A sardonic smile quirked at Jon’s mouth. ‘Among other interests.’ He laced his fingers together on the desk and gave Jaime another thoughtful glance. ’How long do you intend to carry on this ruse?’

Jaime exhaled with a gasp. ‘Only until my father dies. Or becomes insensible. If Tommen grants him a pardon, I can renounce my claim to Casterly Rock. And he can release Tyrion from his vows.’

‘And if His Grace doesn’t pardon him?’ Jon sipped his rum, giving Jaime a calculating look that would have looked quite out of place on Ned Stark.

‘Then I suppose his watch begins in earnest.’ Jaime started to rise, then settled back onto the edge of his chair. He could sweeten the pot, so to speak. ‘Strange… we’ve always been taught wildlings are the enemy of Westeros. I notice that some wildlings reside in Castle Black. Not quite prisoners, but not quite honored guests.’

‘They do.’

‘Tyrion has befriended one, as he does. A rather large fellow with red hair. Tyrion’s one of the few people that can seem to keep up with him in drink.’

‘Tormund Giantsbane.’ An amused light lifted the gloomy shadows of Jon’s eyes. ‘Don’t let him tell you how he got his name. Told me when I first met him, and I’ve yet t’recover.’

‘My brother doesn’t usually speak in hyperbole, my lord, but he has told me some of Tormund’s tales of living corpses, an army of them. Led by ice men…?’ Jaime shrugged. ’Sounds like the stories one’s nurse would employ to assure good behavior in small children, but something tells me this isn’t a nursery story.’

A harsh bark of laughter set Jon’s direwolf’s ears swiveling. ‘It’s true. I’ve fought them. We,’ Jon’s arm swept in an arc to encompass the Watch, ‘fought them.’ He spun his empty cup on the desk, and glanced out the window at the thickly falling snow. ‘Winter is coming…’ He stood once more and began to prowl around the room with a restless energy, stopping to examine the door that led to a smaller chamber. Deep marks gouged the surface. One hand lifted to trace them with a meditative air. ’Then you must have heard some o’ th’ Watch will go wi’ some o’ th’ free folk to Hardhome. Every last person north o’ th’ Wall that is still human will be there. I’ve decided t’offer them safe passage though th’ Wall.’

‘And what’s to stop these dead men from following you?’

Jon smiled grimly. ‘They can’t travel through th’ Wall.’ His shoulder hitched. ‘If you believe in magic, Bran the Builder built the Wall and charmed it to keep the dead on th’ other side. The free folk just happened to be on th’ wrong side o’ it when it was built. We forgot who are enemies really were. And made th’ free folk our prey for lack o’ any other purpose.’

‘Why do you call them free folk?’

Jon smirked. ‘They don’t kneel. To anyone.’

‘How refreshing.’ Jaime rolled the edge of his cloak between his thumb and forefinger. He felt as though he were about to jump off the cliffs at Casterly Rock. ‘Allow me to join you.’

‘No’ your fight.’

‘No? You’re going to assist me in my scheme to try and save my brother’s life. The least I can do is offer mine in return.’

‘You’re no’ a member o’ th’ Watch.’

Jaime huffed out an breath with barely contained exasperation. ‘You said they are innocent, are they not?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Then I took a vow to protect innocents.’ He waited with bated breath, while the Lord Commander examined him with hooded eyes.

’See the first steward for clothes. If you’re to accompany us, you ought to look like a proper crow.’ Jon jerked his chin toward Jaime’s hook. ‘You can fight…?’

‘I can hold my own.’

‘We leave at first light day after tomorrow.’

Jaime gave Jon a short nod and stood. ‘Is there something in particular you want Tyrion to find in your library?’

‘Anything he can about wights, White Walkers, or th’ Night King. Doesn’t matter if it’s the diary of the fortieth Lord Commander o’ th’ Watch or a collection o’ nursery stories from his old nan. He can take whatever he wants wi’ him when you leave.’

Jaime made a small noise of assent and left Jon to his thoughts.

Jaime peered over the edge of the Wall with a shiver. The Wall was seven hundred feet high and he could see for miles in either direction. Weirwood trees dotted the landscape north of the Wall with blotches of red, vivid against the white of snow and ice. Snowflakes collected on his hair, beard, and lashes. Tiny pinpricks of cold that melted as soon as it touched his skin. Tyrion stood next to him, pissing over the edge. ‘Careful,’ Jaime murmured, drawing the edges of his cloak together. ‘I wouldn’t make a habit of that, you might freeze your cock off.’

Tyrion rolled his eyes. Even if Jon Snow had agreed to Jaime’s harebrained scheme, losing his cock would be the least of his worries. Still he tilted his head back, smirked, and replied, ‘Can’t have that.’

Jaime leaned forward a little and his mouth went dry. It was a very long way down. ‘I do hope you mind yourself while I’m gone. It wouldn’t take much to push someone off…’

Tyrion shook his cock and tucked it back inside his trousers. ‘It would certainly solve a great many problems. Especially if you survive the journey north the Wall and back.’

Jaime took a step back and grasped the back of Tyrion’s cloak, tugging him away from the edge. ‘You aren’t a problem.’ Jaime glanced nervously around them. They were alone, but ingrained habits made him crouch next to his brother, his voice pitched low. ‘I spoke with the Lord Commander regarding the other matter.’

Tyrion lowered his chin into the fur collar of his cloak. ‘Well?’

‘You must take the vow tomorrow, but he’s agreed to let you leave under the guise of sending you to the Citadel.’ Jaime exhaled, his breath pluming in the frigid air. ‘He also said that you can start combing through some of the older histories in the Watch’s library. And you’re to collect as many as you can carry to take with us when we leave. Anything particularly fragile should stay here, but try to makes copies. Or take copious notes. Brienne, Sansa, and Pod should be able to help.’

‘I see.’ Tyrion glanced at Jaime, still staring at the snow-covered of the land beyond the Wall with abject fascination. Tyrion couldn’t quite blame him. Jaime had never seen so much snow in his life. ‘We had to come all the way up here for this conversation?’

Jaime tore his gaze away from the snowy forests. He couldn’t leave without finally confessing the truth to Tyrion. He squarely met Tyrion’s watchful gaze. ‘Tysha.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘She wasn’t a whore. She never was. Father forced me to say otherwise,’ Jaime continued, his throat tightening around each word. It had been a cowardly act to acquiesce to Tywin’s wishes, and he did not want to die with it on his conscience; but more importantly, Tyrion deserved to know the truth. His brother’s normally mobile face was so still he might have been carved from stone. Jaime’s chest ached. ‘Brother…?’

Tyrion’s hand flew in an arc and landed on Jaime’s cheek with a resounding crack in the darkening day. Tyrion struggled to draw in a breath. ‘Best get back to the ground, brother,’ he said scathingly. ‘You wouldn’t want to have a nasty accident and slip and fall, would you?’

Jaime stomach roiled and he swallowed back a wave of nausea as he rose to his feet and stumbled to the winch cage.

If anything, the Night’s Watch was ecumenical in its practices. It mattered little which gods one worshipped. New members could recite their vows in front of a heart tree just beyond the Wall, or with a little seawater splashed over their heads if the Drowned God was the deity of choice. Those who followed the Faith of the Seven could use the minuscule sept near Castle Black’s library.

Jaime stood in the back, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Tyrion was led into the sept as the sun set by old Maester Aemon. There was no pomp, no ceremony. Tyrion merely knelt in front of the altar of the Father, dressed in head-to-toe black, and recited, ‘Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.’

And that was it. Tyrion was officially a member of the Night’s Watch.

It struck Jaime how very different it was from the ceremony of the Kingsguard. When he took his vows, he’d spent a solitary night in the Great Sept in prayer and meditation. The investiture into the Kingsguard was rife with decades of pageantry, flaunting their station as the best knights of the Seven Kingdom, given the inestimable honor of protecting the king.

In contrast, the ceremony to become a member of the Watch was quiet, almost contemplative.. A vow made between one’s self and one’s conscience. He felt like an intruder.

Jamie slipped out of the door, and made his way to the quarters of the first steward for proper Night’s Watch clothing. Daybreak would be here before he knew it.

Jaime had barely closed the door behind him when Brienne confronted him.  ‘I’m coming with you.’

Jaime dropped a bundle of spare Night’s Watch clothing on the table and worked his cloak over his head. He hung it on a peg in the wall.  ‘Brienne…’

‘I want to go with you.’

Jaime unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to her, showing what he considered to be a remarkable amount of faith that she wouldn’t immediately castrate him with it when he replied, ‘You can’t.’

‘So you forbid me to go?’ she asked stiffly, placing his sword in the rack, glaring at him.

Jaime let out a bark of laughter as he began to undress, shivering slightly in the chill air of the room.  ‘I can no more forbid you to do anything than I could demand my father to accept Tyrion as his heir.’ He draped his shirt over the back of a chair.  ‘I would ask that you stay here.’

‘I’m a better fighter than you,’ Brienne insisted.

‘I am expendable.  You are not,’ Jaime countered, removing his trousers.

‘That is not true,’ Brienne argued.  Not to me, she wanted to say.  Instead, she added, ‘You’re the heir to Casterly Rock…’

Jaime used the end of his hook to flip back the furs on the bed.  ‘If I die, then it will be a good death. Fulfilling a vow, even. That Tormund fellow says there are women and children trapped in the settlement.’  He slid under the furs. ‘If I die, then Tyrion will inherit the Rock. Or perhaps one of Tommen’s children will. Or… someone else will. Let Uncle Kevan have the bloody thing.  One of my cousins. I don’t bloody care about the Rock. But the fact remains that you are your father’s only heir.’  Jaime removed his hook and set it aside.    ‘I need you to look after Tyrion and Sansa. I don’t trust Alliser Thorne any further than I can climb the Wall.  Besides, they’re your family, too,’ he reminded her. Brienne’s expression didn’t change, but blazing light in her eyes faded as she remembered her vow to Catelyn Stark to see to her daughters’ safety. She nodded once, and Jaime heaved an internal sigh of relief.  Brienne was a better fighter than he, but he wasn’t entirely certain he could put forth an adequate effort if she fought next to him. It wasn’t that he thought she couldn’t handle herself in battle. He knew she would inflict serious damage on an enemy.  Jaime also knew he didn’t want to see her die at the hands of something described to be utterly soulless and mindless. He patted the empty space on the mattress next to him. ‘Come to bed, wench.’ Jaime rolled onto his stomach, watching intently as Brienne methodically undressed. He let his eyes linger over her still-flat middle, wondering if she carried his child. Were her slight breasts rounder? He couldn’t tell in the flickering light of the fire.  To his knowledge, she hadn’t bled since their brief sojourn in Casterly Rock. Of course, he reasoned, she could be drinking the moon tea she kept hidden in her saddlebag without his knowledge as a way to rebel against the life thrust upon her by his father. But that was too underhanded and dishonest for Brienne. 

She slipped under the furs and pressed her chilled body against his.  Jaime shifted until she straddled him, his hand cradling her cheek. He canted his hips upward in a wordless question that she answered with grazing fingertips, her sigh as he surged into her the only sound in the room.  

‘You should sleep,’ Brienne murmured against Jaime’s mouth.

‘Later,’ he told her.  He twined his fingers through her sword hand, thumb skimming over the calluses, recalling their early days together in the Riverlands, and his cruel remarks, mocking the code by which she lived. By the time they had returned to King’s Landing, he’d come to admire her for it.  Brienne adhered to the ideas of knighthood because she believed in them, even in the face of the insults of others. It had inspired him to rediscover them for himself. He’d gifted her with a sword worthy of a knight on the occasion of their marriage, but now, on the cusp of what might be certain death, he had another gift to give.  ‘Did you know any knight can make another knight?’ he asked with studied casualness, smoothing a lock of hair from her eyes. 

‘So?’  Brienne’s brows drew together in bemusement.  

Jaime left the cocoon of warmth in the bed and padded to the rack that held their swords.  He pulled his from the scabbard and used it to the point at a spot on the hearth. ‘Do you still wish to be a knight, Lady Brienne?’

He looked absurd, standing in front of the fire, completely naked, hair a messy tangle, an unsheathed sword in his hand.  But Brienne couldn’t detect a hint of mockery in his face or voice. Still, she sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. ‘You shouldn’t make jests about that,’ she replied, in clear disapproval.  

‘Do you want to be a knight or not?’  He gestured with the sword again. ‘Kneel, Lady Brienne.’

Brienne remained in the bed, so still she might have been carved from the blue-veined marble for which Tarth was known.  Jaime nodded, and Brienne set her feet on the floor and slid slowly from the bed. She approached Jaime, then knelt on one knee in front of him.  The cold Valyrian steel kissed her right shoulder. ‘In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.’ Brienne thought it ought to have felt ridiculous with the both of them naked as their nameday, while Jaime spoke the words that would grant her one of her dearest wishes. But it did not.  He lifted it and let it land lightly upon her left shoulder. ‘In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.’ Brienne could scarcely breathe, her eyes locked with Jaime’s. Once more the sword settled on her right shoulder. ‘In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.’ Jaime voice roughened with tightly checked emotion and cracked. She knew then why he had chosen to go to this place beyond the Wall.  To defend the innocent.  He cleared his throat.  ‘Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.’

Brienne stood, taking Jaime’s face between her hands. ‘No one will ever believe me,’ she told him, resting her forehead against his.

Jaime kissed her lightly.  ‘I’ll do it again in front of witnesses.  In front of the whole bloody court.’ He replaced his sword in the rack.  ‘Or perhaps someone else should do it.’ He rested his hand on the edge of the mantle.  ‘You’re forever associated with the person who formally knights you. You’re already the Kingslayer’s wife.  You’re the first woman to have earned a knighthood. Are you certain you want the notoriety of receiving your knighthood from the Kingslayer, as well?’

‘I don’t want it from anyone else.’  Brienne stood behind Jaime, her arms around his waist, cheek resting against the back of his head.

‘If I don’t return, I want you to promise me that you will take Sansa, Tyrion, and Podrick, and go to Tarth  You ought to be able to take a boat from White Harbor.’ Jaime’s vision blurred and he blinked rapidly to clear it.  ‘You’ll be safer there.’

‘From who?’

Jaime turned.  ‘My father. Whatever’s lurking on the other side of the Wall.’  He licked his lips and pressed his palm against her middle. ‘Just promise me you’ll go.’

‘You should sleep,’ Jaime admonished, holding his arms away from his body while Brienne dressed him in the black clothes of the Night’s Watch.

‘You need a squire,’ she replied, tying the laces of his trousers, her voice a soft murmur in the stillness before dawn.  She layered the Northern armor over his clothes, then wound the sword belt around his hips, buckling it into place. She let her fingertips glide over the leather with a wistful expression.  It was an exact copy of hers, except the leather was the deep fathomless blue of the waters off Tarth where hers was red. I am his, and he is mine, she said to herself and picked up the heavy Northern style cloak and adjusted the drape on his shoulders and crossed the leather straps over his chest.  Once it was fastened, she gripped the edges in her hands, forehead resting against Jaime’s. ‘Come back,’ she ordered.  ‘Come back, or I will hunt you down and kill you myself.’

Jaime stiffened.  ‘If the rumors are correct, you may very well have to,’ he told her soberly.   The corners of Brienne’s mouth turned down. He brushed his lips down the slope of her nose, then to her mouth.  ‘Remember, if I don’t return…’

‘You have my word I will gather Sansa, Tyrion, and Pod and travel to Tarth,’ she said dully.  

Chapter Text

If Brienne thought she would have time to fret over Jaime’s absence, she was wrong. The sun had yet to fully rise when someone pounded on her chamber door. She yanked it open, wearing a scowl fit to singe the person on the other side, knife in hand. Addam loomed on the other side, Podrick and Sansa clustered behind him, like chicks huddled around a hen. ‘Pod and Sansa are moving in here with you,’ Addam informed her without preamble.

’A sensible decision,’ Brienne agreed, sheathing the knife in her boot.

‘And I’m staying. For now.’ Addam reached back and all but pushed first Sansa, then Podrick through the door. He followed them, and closed the door against the frigid morning.

‘You were ordered to return to home,’ Brienne murmured.

‘You and Jaime are both fools if you think I’m going to leave you here unprotected.’

‘I can —’ Brienne began, but Addam’s glare cut her off.

‘I have complete and utter faith in your abilities to defend yourself and the children,’ he said, warming his hands over the fire, ignoring the identical expressions of outrage that spread over Sansa and Podrick’s faces at being referred to as children. ‘But you shouldn’t have to do it alone. And between you and me and the stable wall…’ He threw a forbidding look at Sansa and Podrick, and laid a finger over his lips. Keep this to yourselves. ‘I don’t trust most of the men here.’

Sansa stiffened in indignation, breath leaving her lungs in an irate hiss.

‘Calm your tits, girl,’ Addam said flippantly, seeing her mouth open as she worked up a protest. ‘They’re not all rapists, traitors, thieves, and murderers. Just most of ‘em. I’m sure your brother is a fine man.’ He turned his back to the glowing bricks of peat in the hearth. ‘You’re not to leave this chamber unless you’re with me or Lady Brienne. Understood?’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ Podrick mumbled.

Addam turned his glare to Sansa. Her eyes darted to the window, where a raucous laughter punctuated a ribald story. Her hands balled into tight fists, and sick, burning rage boiled in her belly. The bars of the cage that had been built around her since the day of her birth contracted a bit more. It had happened so slowly that she hadn’t realized it until a few years ago. Hadn’t resented it until now. She felt a nudge against the small of her back and sensed, rather than heard, the soft cough from Podrick. ‘Understood,’ she told Addam in a curt tone.

Brienne adjusted the cloak around her shoulders and jerked her chin toward the door. ‘We should find our breakfasts,’ she murmured. ‘Before there’s nothing left but stale oatcakes.’ Not that she particularly wanted food. Meals at Castle Black were nourishing, if nothing else. Thick and congealed porridges made from oats or barley for breakfast and dried peas and lentils for their suppers, all washed down with nettle tea, sweetened with honey. She managed to choke down just enough to keep the hunger pangs at bay, but none of it was very appealing. Odd that no one else seemed to notice. Jaime and Addam were used to soldiers’ rations, and Podrick was still growing into the gangly limbs of adolescence. He would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down to the table. Even Tyrion and Sansa, more used to the elaborate meals routinely served in the Red Keep seemed to consume her meals with little complaint.

Addam led them into the common hall, motioning for Brienne to precede them. She collected a bowl from a young steward, just barely old enough to grow the shadow of a mustache above his upper lip, then snagged a mug from the end of a table occupied by two wildlings. The woman nodded a greeting, then pushed a pot of honey toward her. They honey was slightly warm, its pot set on a clever little stand with a candle stub at the bottom to keep it fluid enough to drizzle into their tea and porridge.

Sansa set her bowl down and clambered onto a bench, across the table from Brienne. She studied the older woman for several moments before she spoke with far more confidence than she felt. ‘I wondered if I could ask you to teach me something.’

Brienne swallowed her porridge, thoughts chasing themselves around and around in her head. What skill did she have that Sansa would want to learn? ‘Go on.’

Sansa took a deep breath and plunged ahead. ‘I want to learn how to fight.’

Brienne dropped her spoon. It fell into her porridge with a splat. ‘With a sword?’ Of all the people she knew, Sansa was the least likely to wield any sort of weapon, much less a typical longsword.

‘Why not?’

One of the wildling women eyed Sansa as she chewed a chunk of bread. ‘Bit old to learn the sword.’

‘She’s right,’ Brienne told Sansa. ‘We could teach you, but —‘

‘But Podrick…!’ Sansa spluttered.

Brienne inhaled and glared at the smoke-blackened beams overhead, counting to ten, once, twice, and more slowly a third time. ‘Podrick’s education with the sword may have been haphazard, but he did learn the rudiments years ago,’ Brienne reminded her. ‘Why do you want to learn to fight? It’s not very ladylike.’

Sansa squirmed on the hard bench, stirring her porridge. ‘Before Stannis attacked King’s Landing, Tyrion arranged a marriage for Princess Myrcella with Prince Trystane in Dorne. He sent her to Sunspear before Stannis could attack the city for her protection. We went to the docks to bid her farewell, and on the way back to the Red Keep, we were attacked by a mob.’ Sansa glanced down at the porridge, trailing her spoon through it. ‘They forgot about me. And a group of men carried me off and nearly raped me. And they would have, but the Hound saved me.’ She laid her spoon down and met Brienne’s eyes. ‘I never want to feel that helpless or useless ever again.’ Sansa wrapped her cold fingers around the mug of nettle tea Brienne had pushed toward her, letting the warmth seep into her hands. ‘Cersei called me “little dove,” and the Hound called me “little bird,” like I had to be kept in a cage and sheltered from world.’

Sansa took a sip of tea. Before everything — before her father died, before she knew the truth behind the courtly veneer Joffery and Cersei presented to the world, before she was left alone in the world, she had wanted to be the little bird in the cage. Adored and coddled. Sheltered from all the horrible things outside the castle walls. But all her illusions had been shattered the second Ilyn Payne had brought Ice down on her father’s neck. ‘Little birds in gilded cages don’t last long in this world,’ she declared. Sansa fingered the Stark sigil pinned to her cloak. She wanted to be a wolf. And wolves had teeth and claws. ‘I am not a little bird. I am a Stark.’

The wildling woman slid down the bench to join them. ‘How old are ye, girl?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Do ye wan’ t’ be a fighter?’

‘No.’ That was Arya, Sansa recalled with a pang that she buried under a mouthful of porridge.

‘Hmmmph.’ The woman took a slow sip of nettle tea, studying Sansa. ‘Sword won’t suit ye.’ She nudged Brienne with a brow that tilted upward. ‘Knives, maybe.’

‘Easier to hide in her clothes or hair,’ Brienne mused. ’You could learn to throw them…’

‘Could teach ‘er enough to fight someone off.’ The wildling woman gazed at Sansa over the rim of her mug. ‘Is that what ye want?’ Sansa nodded vigorously, her mouth full of gluey porridge.

‘I’m not very good at that sort of fighting,’ Brienne admitted. ‘I can use a dagger in close quarters, but I don’t know knives very well.’

‘But you carry knives in your boots,’ Sansa protested. ‘I’ve seen you use them.’

‘I do, but they’re not my weapon of choice.’ Brienne could use knives and daggers, if necessary, but she had always gravitated toward a morningstar or sword, taking advantage of her height and strength. She was out of her depth. She tilted her head toward the wildling. Expertise was expertise. ‘Don’t suppose you know someone who can teach her?’

The wildling woman grunted and turned to a grizzled man sitting a bit further down the table. ‘Sigmend! Think ye coul’ teach Lord Crow’s sister here how t’ use a knife in a fight?’

‘Old for it, Kirin,’ Sigmend said around a mouthful of bread, oblivious to Sansa stiffening in outrage. ‘Can teach ‘er to hol’ someone off fer a bit.’

‘We’ll teach you to throw them, too,’ Brienne said with a decisive nod. ‘It might prove useful one day, and you don’t need to be a fighter to do it well.’

‘Can we start today?’ Sansa asked eagerly.

‘Yeh.’ Sigmend returned his attention to his breakfast.

Sansa’s face lit with a blazing smile Brienne hadn’t seen before. ‘Thank you.’

Kirin refilled her mug. ‘Y’sure Lord Crow won’t mind?’

‘He’s not here to say otherwise,’ Sansa said. ‘Nor is it his decision.’

Sigmund’s knobbly fingers trailed down Podrick’s back. He poked him sharply just under his ribcage, making the boy grunt. ‘Y’wan’ t’drop someone, that’ll do it,’ he said around the pipe stem clenched between his stained teeth. ‘Hard t’do it right,’ he added. ‘Too easy to hit bone.’ Sigmund grabbed Sansa’s wrist as he hiked up the back of Podrick’s sweater and tunic, ignoring Podrick’s yelp as the icy wind hit his bare skin. ‘Feel that?’ he asked her.

Sansa nodded, and prodded Podrick’s back an inch or two above where Sigmund had indicated with the rounded end of the wooden training knife Addam had found in the armory, a faint line between her brows as she frowned in concentration.

‘Y’got to be dead sure yer going to get it in just right,’ Sigmund continued. ‘Needs t’be a surprise.’ He made an upward motion with his hand. ‘Miss an’ hit bone, an’ it’ll be you that gets skewered.’

‘And the best place?’

Sigmund spun Podrick around and tilted his chin back. ‘Here.’ He ran a roughened fingertip just under Podrick’s jaw where his pulse throbbed against Sansa’s curious index finger. ‘Nick ‘em here.’ He yanked up Podrick’s arm and jammed a finger in his armpit. Podrick convulsed with a strangled giggle. ‘Or there. Give ‘em a good stab and slash.’ He tapped the backs of Podrick’s knees with a gnarled stick. ‘Or there.’ He eyed Sansa. ‘Afraid o’ blood?’

Sansa hesitated. Was she? She had thought she was once. Like most gently born ladies, she’d been given a rudimentary education regarding the stillroom. The maester would handle serious injury or illness, but from time to time, it would fall to the lady of the house to see to wounds or a sick serving maid. When Ilyn Payne beheaded her father, the gush of blood from his neck wasn’t what sent her tumbling into unconsciousness. That was shock of grief and horror. She hadn’t been revolted by the first appearance of her blood. She was more frightened by what it portended than the actual blood itself. Fastidiousness that had been drilled into her by Septa Mordane and Caitlyn aside, blood didn’t bother Sansa any more than it did one of her brothers. She met Sigmund’s gaze with a determined expression of her own, chin rising. ‘No.’

Sigmund smiled, a feral light brightening his eyes. ‘Good.’

Days in Castle Black blended one into the next. The men of the Night’s Watch tended to leave Brienne alone, having had the privilege of watching her dispatch Locke without so much as blinking an eyelash. The wildlings eyed her with a bit of suspicion at first, watching to learn how she would treat them. They were people who only wanted to protect their homes and families. Not so very different from many people she’d encountered in the Riverlands or Tarth. The stories Kirin told her felt like the fevered imaginings of nightmares, but every wildling willing to speak with her said the same thing. If two people told her the same story, she was inclined to believe it was coincidence. But more than a dozen? Every single one of them said the same thing.

Legions of dead people, turned into an army.

Logically, Brienne knew there were a hundred explanations. Myths. Legends. Stories grannies told naughty children to make them behave. But the wildlings never spoke of distantly known people. Never someone’s sister’s husband’s cousin’s child. Never someone in a faraway village centuries ago. They were their husbands. Their wives. Mothers. Fathers. People they’d loved that had been turned into mindless things that had a single purpose.

The more she heard, the deeper dread settled in her belly. Working with Tyrion in Castle Black’s library didn’t help. Flickering lamps cast murky shadows over the walls that took vague shapes that lurked just out of sight. Perhaps her sanity was beginning to fray around the edges. It would certainly explain the dreams she had. Dreams she couldn’t quite remember when she woke and left her feeling just as exhausted as when she lay her head on the pillow. She might have borne it easier if she only had herself to consider. But now there was Jaime, twined around her heart, like the roses that crept up the castle wall in the formal garden of Evenfall. Then Sansa, Tyrion, and Podrick burrowed into her, making Brienne all too cognizant of what she could lose. Their names fell from her lips in soundless prayer each night, begging the Mother to hold them in Her arms until they were safe. A foolish child’s wish, she knew.

Nobody was safe.

The scales hadn’t just fallen from her eyes. They’d been ruthlessly stripped from them.

‘This isn’t…’ Podrick’s quiet voice rang in the quieter room with the clamor of the bells in the Great Sept in King’s Landing. He turned the book around. ‘It’s not the Common Tongue.’

‘It’s the Old Tongue,’ Sansa said, then glanced around at the identical expressions of astonishment that ringed the table. ‘What?’

‘Sansa, can you read that?’ Tyrion indicated the slim book. ‘And tell us what it says?’

She bent over the pages, frowning, lips moving slightly as she worked her way down the page filled with the faded runes of a nearly-forgotten language. ‘I can get the gist of it… Maybe…’ She chewed her lip as she straightened. ‘I’m not sure how accurate it would be.’

‘Which is more than anyone else in here, so that makes you the expert,’ Tyrion told her briskly, his tone brooking no arguments. ‘And your gist will be miles better than my nothing.’ He pushed a blank copybook toward her. ‘Make notes, my dear. As detailed as you can.’

Sansa flexed her fingers to warm them, then dipped a quill into the ink pot, sitting next to a candle to keep warm. Before she could make so much as a pen stroke, she noticed Shireen Baratheon staring at her, eyes agleam in the gloomy library. She was a sweet girl, not to mention frightfully intelligent, and carried herself with a maturity that belied her young age, which went a long way toward making people forget about her facial scarring. She also had a gift for making friends with nearly anyone, which Sansa envied right now more than all the gold and jewels in King’s Landing.

‘How did you come to learn it?’ Shireen asked.

‘My father insisted we learn some of it,’ Sansa confessed, beginning to write in a clear, painfully neat hand. It wasn’t the usual education one gave to girls, but Ned told them they must never forget the blood of the First Men ran through their veins. She could pray to the Seven until she breathed her last breath, speak in the cadences of her mother’s people, and adopt the practices of southron Houses, Ned said with a seriousness she could never forget, but none of that mattered. She was a Stark. And the Starks never turned their backs on their heritage.

The time candle indicated it was partway between the hour of the bat and the hour of the eel, but Brienne’s deep, even breathing told Sansa and Podrick she was already asleep. Podrick threw a brick of peat on the glowing coals of the dying fire, then retreated into the warmth of the furs piled on his trundle bed. He and Sansa sat side-by-side, huddled together for warmth He gestured with a jerk of his head toward Brienne’s humped shape under the furs on the bed. ‘You think she’s all right?’

Sansa glanced over her shoulder, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. They’d been in such close quarters since leaving Casterly Rock, that Sansa couldn’t help but notice the signs. Signs that she’d been taught her entire life that defined her worth. Although it was much too soon to be certain. They were also signs that could be explained away, given their rather unsettling and grim surroundings. And if her suspicions proved to be correct, it wasn’t for her to reveal. She settled for an expansive shrug, pressing her side against Podrick’s solid warmth. ‘I imagine she’s concerned for Jaime’s safety.’

Podrick made a noise in the back of his throat made up of equal parts of assent and disbelief, but he made no move to argue, merely tucking their shared furs a little more snugly over Sansa’s knees. He imagined Brienne felt the same way he did. The Wall was haunted, he was certain of it. He could feel the souls of the dead Night’s Watch drifting just out of his field of vision. There was something about the Wall itself. He felt he’d been weighed, measured, and found wanting by the Wall.

Jaime couldn’t come back soon enough. Once he was back — Podrick told himself Jaime was coming back; he couldn’t bear to entertain any other possibility — they could leave Castle Black and the Wall, and return to back to Casterly Rock. Or Tarth. And never come back to this godsforsaken place again.

Jaime sat on a fallen log, nursing a cup of something that purported to be soup. It was as thick as oat porridge, but redolent of onions and bacon. If pressed, he would even admit it was somewhat palatable. Besides, he’d eaten worse in the field with the Lannister host.

The Lord Commander had eaten his portion with the gusto of youth, then cajoled one of his men to spar for a bit before they retired for the night.

He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling then that Jon somehow looked familiar. He’d only met Jon Snow once before, a few years earlier at Winterfell, in those last few days before his world collapsed. Old enough to make his own decisions as a man, but still young enough to sulk at his exclusion from the feast at the hands of Catelyn Stark. Looking back, Jaime would argue that Jon had had the better end of the bargain, not being in that dinner.

Watching him spar with one of the other Night’s Watch men brought the nagging feeling screaming back. Jaime hadn’t been particularly well acquainted with Brandon or Rickard Stark, but he well remembered Lyanna from that disastrous tourney. And while Ned Stark had been a surprisingly dexterous fighter, he didn’t have the lithe and fluid grace that Jon displayed.

Jaime’s spoon scraped the bottom of the cup as Jon danced to one side, the blade an extension of his hand. And it slammed into him with all the force of a punch to the gut.

He remembered where he’d seen that sort of nimble adroitness. He’d even found himself on the other side of it a time or two. In the gloom of Winterfell and Castle Black, it was hard to tell, but Jon’s dark eyes weren’t dark grey as most people assumed. The sunlight bouncing off the snow illuminated the young Lord Commander’s face. His eyes were the same dusky purple as Rhaegar Targaryen’s.

He couldn’t prove it, of course. He had nothing to confirm his suspicions, and doubted Jon knew the truth. It was likely Ned had never said a word to him. All the stories about the circumstances surrounding the death of Lyanna Stark started to make more sense. The presence of Kingsguard. Lyanna’s death a mere nine months after she disappeared with Rhaegar. The achingly honorable Ned Stark supposedly getting a bastard on some nameless woman, when he’d just married Catelyn Tully a few weeks before Jon Snow’s purported conception. It made sense. It had been such a simple, yet brilliant, plan, that Jaime had to stifle the laughter that bubbled in his throat. Ned Stark hid his sister’s child from Robert Baratheon by hiding the boy in plain sight. And Robert was stupid and self-involved enough to believe Jon was Ned’s get. Just as well. Who knew what sort of murderous rage the truth of Jon’s birth would have engendered within Robert? That man had held the memory of a girl who obviously hadn’t loved him in his fat fist until he strangled it.

Jaime handed off his cup to one of the Night’s Watch stewards, and filed away his suspicions. He might never need it, but one never could predict when it might be useful.

Jaime huddled under the furs on the deck of the boat.  As much as he vociferously complained about the North, he found the icy, rugged shoreline populated by seals beautiful in a terrifying sort of way.  The boats were well made and sturdy, but never had he been more acutely aware of the inherent fragility of a sailing vessel. If it came to a fight between the boat and the unforgiving shoreline, Jaime knew which one would win. It made him feel small. Not inadequate, but suddenly aware of how insignificant his presence really was. Not even Tywin could have bent the harshness of the Northern landscape to his will. The vast stretches of white snow and bluish ice seemed to emit a light of their own even though the days were grey and dark. The large, red-headed wildling -- Tormund, Jaime recalled -- squatted next to him, paring his fingernails with an alarmingly large knife.  ‘That big woman with the yellow hair,’ the wildling grunted. ‘When we get back, I’m going to find the closest pile of hay and start making babies with her.’ A beatific smile blossomed in the man’s tangled red beard. ‘Picture it. Great big monsters, they’d be. They could conquer the world.’

Jaime’s eyes creased into triangles of amusement.  ‘I’d certainly enjoy watching you try,’ he replied with a chuckle.  ‘Especially without a cock.’  

‘Hmph.’  Tormund sat back on his heels, giving Jaime the impression the other man was taking the measure of him.  Tormund rapped Jaime’s hook with the pommel of his knife. ‘I could take you.’

‘I’m sure you could.’  Jaime let his smirk deepen.  ‘But I’m not sure you could handle my wife.’  

‘The big woman’s your wife?’  Tormund sounded surprised. He jabbed a blunt finger at Jaime’s black cloak.  ‘You’re a crow. Crows don’t have wives.’

Jaime spread his arms apart apologetically.  ‘Alas, I am not a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.  Just borrowing their clothing.’ He settled against the mast of the boat once more.  ‘And her name is Brienne.’

Chapter Text

Jaime paused to swipe his sleeve across his brow. Despite the frigid cold, he could feel rivulets of sweat trickling down his torso. He hadn’t known what to expect when they arrived at Hardhome. Certainly not the massive stockade that surrounded what could only generously be called a village. Or a bloody giant. A creature until this very day he thought only existed in the old tales and songs from before the time Bran the Builder was a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. Women armed to their teeth, with calluses from bowstrings or sword hilts. Little wonder the free folk at Castle Black looked at Brienne with admiration. He wasn’t prepared for the clusters of wizened and bent men and women that comprised the clan elders, waiting patiently to board the rowboats that would take them to the ships anchored in the harbor; nor the rambunctious gaggles of children that darted from one group to the next, shrieking with wild abandon.

They were… people. Strip away the millennia of stories and distrust, and they were merely people Jaime could have found in any of a dozen villages across Westeros.

People who were clearly terrified of something that lived out on the snowy peaks and valleys. Something they were unable to defeat or keep away from their homes, unless they did something unspeakable. He heard more than one mutter a name, then reflexively spit multiple times, as if to ward off an evil spirit. They clearly loved their children, and gazed upon others’ children with something that only had a nodding acquaintance with tolerance. Their clans were not much different from the winding branches of the Lannister family or their bannermen. And they looked with the same amount of suspicion on other clans that those of the Reach would look upon Dornishmen.

Granted, there were extraordinary differences in culture and language, but Jaime reckoned if he ventured to any of the kingdoms or cities of Essos, he might find the same situation. His mind wandered, envisioning a united Westeros. One where the great houses didn’t see shadows and conspiracies behind every shadow or false smile. Or perhaps that was merely another facet of human nature, to create danger when there was none, just for the sake of not falling into complacency.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he whirled, coming face-to-face with a short woman, her shoulder-length brown hair bound back from her face, with blazing blue eyes, bristling with weaponry from a long knife strapped to one thigh to a quiver at her hip, and a bow slung on her back, strung and ready for battle. He almost laughed out loud, her resemblance to Brienne was so strong. Not her looks. In those she was nearly Brienne’s opposite. But her attitude, and the sardonic expression on her face made him miss his wife even more than he already did. He would reunite with her soon enough. A few days to Eastwatch, then on to Castle Black. It would take longer to return to Castle Black, given the sheer amount of elderly and children with them. Two weeks. Perhaps three. The woman cleared her throat again, but louder, her sole intention to grasp his wandering attention. She herded two small girls in front of her down the pier. ‘Mind the grannies,’ she said with the gentle sternness of mothers. ‘I’ll join you once everyone’s on the boats.’ She nodded toward the harbor, where Stannis Baratheon’s small fleet bobbed in the cold, dark water. Jamie bent to pick up the smaller girl, but her hand on his arm stopped him before he could lower her into the waiting boat. ‘Don’t drop them, eh?’

‘I haven’t yet,’ Jaime said dryly.

‘Don’t let this be the first time.’

Jaime hoisted the child to his hip, then executed an extravagant bow worthy of the Red Keep. ‘I shall endeavor to do my best, my lady.’

She guffawed, then cuffed him on the back of the head before sauntering back to the shore. Jaime repositioned the girl, then lowered her into waiting arms, then did the same for her sister.

He helped lower another child into the boat, followed by several leather-wrapped bundles, then stretched his aching back. Snowflakes drifted across his vision. Odd. It hadn’t been snowing a moment ago. But what did he know of snow? Winters at Casterly Rock were cold, but icy rains lashed the cliffs, rather than snow. He blinked the snowflakes from his lashes. Fat, icy flakes swirled on a strengthening wind, falling harder and faster with each breath he took. Jaime turned to the black-clad man next to him, the question dying on his lips.

Edd Tollett, a man with a ready quip and a sense of humor dryer than the sands of Dorne, stared slack-jawed at the towering cliffs above them. He took off running, screaming as loud as he could. Jaime followed, his sword already in hand and waded into the fight. Finesse was not required. Bashing and hacking at the things that swarmed down the cliffside until they finally fell was adequate. Jaime nearly vomited at the stench of decaying flesh. He felt a chill slither down his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid cold seeping into his bones. He firmly believed that he would die on this frozen waste. Time ceased to exist. Slash. Cut. Stab. In an endless loop until his body began to ache with the effort.

There was a pause, as if the very earth needed to draw breath, then more bodies tumbled over the edge of the cliff, thicker than the rats and cockroaches fleeing a burning building in Flea Bottom. Jaime could barely hear the one relevant shouted word.

Run.

He didn’t bother to sheathe his sword, and pelted for the docks as fast as his weary feet could carry him, fear adding a much needed burst of speed. A shapeless bundle sat in the middle of the docks. He could just make out the shrieks of a crying child over the commotion of battle and blinked the snowflakes from his eyes. The lump came into focus, and he paused long enough to slam his sword into his scabbard, then without breaking stride, used his hook to lift the wailing child into his arms. Jaime managed to leap into one of the last boats just as it pulled away from the dock. He fell back against the bulk of Tormund. ‘What the fucking hells were those?’ he rasped, his breath harsh in his ears.

Tormund grunted and pushed Jaime upright. ’Why we want t’ be on th’ other side o’ th’ Wall.’

‘They can’t cross the Wall?’

‘Not yet.’ Tormund’s eyes widened, and Jaime followed his gaze to a tall, silently menacing, bluish figure standing on the shore. He raised his arms, and every dead person stirred, and began to stand. The figure locked eyes with Jon Snow, and they stared at each other in a silent battle of wills until fog swirled down from the cliffs, cloaking the dead in its ghostly folds.

Brienne didn’t consider herself very religious. She celebrated the requisite feast days and put in enough of an appearance in the sept to avoid wagging tongues, much like her father. The last few weeks found her seeking the stillness of Castle Black’s tiny sept. The gods felt closer there, more receptive to her formless prayers. Rather than take up space by having seven separate altars, each face of the Seven had a small statue tucked into its own alcove on the sides of one large altar. She lit the slender tallow candle that was no longer than her first finger, and let a few drops of drip onto the shallow stone ledge in front of the carved wooden figure of the Warrior. Before the melted tallow could harden in the chill, she set the end of the candle in the puddle, then slid onto a hard wooden bench with her hands tucked between her knees. The prayer she offered each night was the same: let Jaime return to her.

‘Yer gods ever talk back to you?’ Kirin wandered into the sept and straddled the bench to sit next to Brienne.

‘No.’

‘Mine don’t either.’ Kirin gave Brienne an expansive shrug. ’Stories say they did. Once. My old grandda use to say that I ought to pray to the gods, like I expected them to emerge from the weirwoods an’ do as I asked. But then he said I should choose my actions as if they were dead.’

‘I used to believe they answered prayers until I realized they fell on deaf ears.’ She used to spend hours beseeching the gods to make Selwyn remarry. To a kind woman who would care for his motherless daughter as though Brienne was her own. Or that Septa Roelle would trip and fall, meeting her unfortunate and untimely end. She prayed for them to protect Catelyn Stark and Renly Baratheon. But those prayers were actions made in the face of days, weeks, months, — or even years — when Brienne had no other recourse. And her silent, pleading prayers had gone unanswered. ‘It’s doing something, even if it is ultimately a futile endeavor. I cannot stand to sit by and do nothing.’

Kirin gaped at her. ‘Think you’re doin’ nothin’, eh?’

‘Nothing important,’ Brienne scoffed.

‘Lookin’ after Sansa and Pod is nothin’ important?’ Kirin snorted. Loudly. ‘The only thing worth doin’ is fightin’?’

‘It’s not staying home and knitting.’ The scorn dripped from Brienne’s voice, even though knitting was one of the few “womanly” pursuits that she could do without it turning into a knotted, tangled mess.

Kirin shook her head. She could live for a hundred years, and never understand these southroners. Men on one side, women on the other, and never should they cross from one side to the other. ‘Staying home and knittin’ isn’t important? Someone has to clothe and feed the warriors. Fighters can’t fight barefoot or wi’ empty bellies.’ She swung her foot over the bench and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you t’ yer prayers.’

Jaime’s heavy eyelids drifted shut and his head fell forward until his chin nearly rested on his chest. His dreams filled with the images of dead things cascading over a cliff in a waterfall of bones and putrid flesh and a sound that made the hair on the back of his neck rise, even as he slept. The dead kept coming in an endless stream, dragging him down until he smothered under their weight.

He jerked awake, arms tightening around the child snuggled in his arms. His movements jostled her awake and a tiny, peevish mew floated to his ears. He tucked the edges of his cloak a little more securely around the little girl, stroking one of her dark curls away from her face. No one had stepped up to claim her as their own. She was likely an orphan now, and no more than a year old. Tormund assured him one of the free folk would take her in. Well, they would when she stopped crying every time someone took her away from Jaime. So he learned to change her nappies without gagging and feed her whatever gruel and mashed slop one fed babies. This was an area in which he he was painfully aware of how little he knew, and readily took advice and suggestions from anyone. Even five year old children and the occasional Night’s Watch brother. In truth, he could have foisted her off on one of the other free folk families, crying be damned, but Jaime didn’t see the point in disrupting her life any more than he had to.

‘When do you think you’ll leave Castle Black?’ Jon materialized out of the darkness and folded himself to the deck next to Jaime.

‘Give us a few days, and we’ll be on our way.’

What will you do wi’ her?’ Jon waggled his gloved fingers at the rosy-cheeked girl tucked into the folds of Jaime’s cloak.

‘Hope a wild— free folk family takes her on.’ Jon’s brows rose at his self-correction. Jaime had made a concerted effort to start referring to the denizens from north of the Wall by their preferred term. He knew more than most the feeling of a denigrating moniker. Jaime cleared his throat with a sheepish cough. ‘I doubt they’d allow me to take her so far south, even I thought I had any right to keep her.’

‘They might.’ Jon shifted, and his gaze swept over the clusters of free folk on the deck huddled around braziers. ‘She’ll be safer wi’ you and Lady Brienne on Tarth.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Jaime reflexively threw a glance in the direction of Hardhome, expecting to see creatures he’d only ever imagined in his nightmares hard on their heels.

‘There’s only one thing sure in this life,’ Jon said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’re all goin’ t’die someday.’ He started to stand, but Jaime’s question made him sink back to the deck.

‘How long can you hold them at bay?’

Jon’s chin sank into the shaggy fur collar of his cloak. ‘As long as th’ Wall stands, I suppose.’

‘And if, by some misfortune, it should fall?’

Jon gave him a crooked grin. ‘Then we’re all well and truly fucked.’

They stood in front of the massive gate of Castle Black. Jon had set a hard pace for their return from Eastwatch. As a soldier, Jaime appreciated the sentiment. It made for a gruelling journey, especially for the very young and very old. To their credit, not a single person complained. Jaime rather got the impression they were grateful to have escaped with their very lives.

As they stopped at the various abandoned Night’s Watch castles along the Wall, Jon issued the same invitation: if the free folk so choose, they could remain at the castle. All he asked in return was that they refrain from raiding the small folk and their farms that dotted the North. Their numbers dwindled as more and more free folk took up Jon’s offer. More than one chuckled with dry humor at the irony of free folk families taking up residence in the Night’s Watch castles. Jaime couldn’t blame them. The majority of them weren’t warriors. They just wanted to live their lives and raise their families in what time they had left before all hell could break loose. Perhaps a hundred people remained with Jon as they gathered in clusters in front of the fortress, the end of this particular journey so close they could taste it.

Only one thing stood in their way.

Alliser Thorne.

The man stood on the gantry, gazing down at them. To the casual observer, he seemed expressionless. Jaime, however, knew that carefully blank demeanor quite well. Something akin to hatred glittered in Thorne’s eyes, and he directed it all at a single person.

Jon Snow.

Other heads appeared, like curious birds, wondering what had captured Thorne’s singular focus. Thorne had two options, in Jaime’s opinion. He could let them into Castle Black in contravention of everything he believed was part of his sworn duty with the Watch. Or, he could commit what amount to treason and refuse a direct order from the duly elected Lord Commander.

Jon could have openly and publically berated Thorne, but he merely waited, spearing the man with his intense gaze. For all of Jon’s outward confidence, Jaime could just make out the tightening if his jaw as the silent battle of wills dragged on. He began to try and calculate just how many allies Jon had on the other side of the gate. Enough to overpower Thorne and his faction? Jon’s eyes narrowed and his chin lifted a fraction of an inch.

Thorne blinked first.

‘Open the gates!’ he bellowed, his gravelly voice carrying on the cold wind. He kept his eyes glued to Jon.

Jaime trudged through the tunnel, anticipation adding a boost of energy to his steps. A hot meal. A bath. A real bed. At this point, he would take a few pails of lukewarm water and a chunk of the rough soap used in the laundry followed by a bowl of brown from Flea Bottom and a bed with a mattress as lumpy as his Lannister armor. He wasn’t going to be picky.

And above all, Brienne.

Jaime searched the courtyard, eyes darting from side to side. He saw the flash of Sansa’s auburn hair first. She pelted across the muddy yard and threw her arms around Jon. Jaime retraced her path. Wherever Sansa was, Brienne was sure to be close by. Sure enough, there she was, her pale yellow hair a beacon in the lengthening shadows.

He saluted Tormund with his hook and thrust the little girl into his arms. As he walked away, he slapped the other man on the back with a grin and a tiny twinge of guilt at saddling someone else with the child, just so he could have a few moments alone with his wife.

Jaime made a beeline for Brienne and grasped her hand as he passed her on the way to their quarters. Neither of them said a word. Not even after they were safely ensconced in the small chamber, and the door firmly bolted behind them.

Gods, he could smell himself. It hadn’t been as noticeable in the outdoors. Brienne didn’t seem to mind. As soon as she shot the bolt, she turned and grasped the edges of his cloak in her hands and hauled him against her, mouth slamming against his. Jamie fumbled with the laces of his own trousers. Once he’d loosened them enough, he shoved them down to mid-thigh, and reached for her again. Not even the whisper of cold air tickling his bare arse was enough to cool his aching desire for her. Brienne tore her mouth away long enough to yank off her boots, then worked at the laces of her trousers until she could shove them to her ankles and kick them away. Jaime slid his hand under one of her thighs and brought her leg up to wrap around his hip. He gasped as her callused hand wrapped around his cock. Brienne’s touch was sure as she guided him into her. Jaime tangled his fingers though her hair and pulled her mouth down to his. The door rattled on its hinges under the force of his thrusts. He stiffened and came with a grunt. Over before it could truly begin. No matter. There would be time for more. Later. He was dimly aware of the dampness on his cheeks. It wasn’t sweat. The room was too cold for that, in spite of the sullenly glowing peat fire on the hearth. His hand slipped from Brienne’s hair to cradle her jaw. Jaime pressed kisses to every part of her face he cold reach. He came away with the taste of salt on his lips. ‘Did you miss me, wench?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Brienne retorted. That she held him as tightly to her as she could belied her words. ‘Gods, you stink,’ she choked, pushing him away from her. She removed their cloaks with quick motions and threw them over the closest stool. She padded to a pair of buckets on the hearth and used a small jug to dip out the warmed water into a basin.

‘You weren’t complaining a moment ago.’ Jaime’s affronted tone held a note of teasing laughter. He peeled off the layers of clothing he wore.

‘I found myself occupied with other matters a moment ago.’ Primarily with reassuring herself that Jaime was alive and whole. She swiped a wet cloth over the thighs. Her ablutions complete, she refilled the basin and shaved a bit of soap into it. ‘Come here.’

Jaime met her in front of the hearth. Brienne began to scrub away the accumulated grime from his body. The warmth of the fire and her gentle ministrations lulled him into a stupor. He wanted to crawl into the bed and sleep for days. Perhaps Brienne would keep the nightmares at bay. His stomach rumbled, a grumpy reminder that it had been some time since his last meal.

‘If you’d rather not eat with the others, I’ve a few things set aside in here.’ She rubbed at his wet hair with a towel. ‘Mostly apples and cheese.’

‘Sounds like the finest feast this side of the Wall.’ He pulled on the clothes she’d laid out for him, reveling in the feel of clean linen and wool against his skin. Ever since his captivity at the hands of Robb Stark, he’d hadn’t taken baths or clean clothing for granted. He dropped onto a stool with a sigh.

Brienne set a chunk of hard cheese and two apples on the table in front of him. ‘Did I see you with a child?’

Jaime nodded, teeth crunching into one of the apples. ‘We couldn’t locate any of her family on the voyage to Eastwatch, and she grew quite attached to me, so I looked after her. Tormund assures me another family will adopt her into theirs.’

She pushed a steaming mug of tea across the table. Jaime sounded much too flippant about it. ‘What happened to her family?’

The bite of apple stuck in his throat. He coughed to dislodge it, then took a gulp of the hot tea, scalding his tongue in the process. He carried on as though he hadn’t heard Brienne’s wary question. He took another bite and wiped the sweet-tart juice from his chin with the back of his wrist.

‘What happened to her family, Jaime?’

Jaime pushed his meal aside, no longer hungry. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ He tossed the half-eaten apple into the fire. There was no need to add to Brienne’s nightmares as well.

‘Try me.’ Jaime recognized the set of her jaw. He’d met goats less stubborn than her. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist. ‘Tormund said there were thousands in Hardbome, and yet only a hundred or so came to Castle Black,’ she said, fingers tightening. Her other hand turned his face to the flickering light of the fire, and frowned. Her fingertips skimmed over the pronounced arch of his cheekbone. She hadn’t seen shadows that deep under his eyes since Harrenhall.

‘Have any of the free folk here spoken about what’s on the other side of the Wall?’

‘A few.’ She’d asked Kirin if Tormund’s tales of walking corpses had any truth to them. It was one of the few times she’d seen the woman’s face go pale with obvious fright. The idea of a walking corpse should have seemed preposterous, but Brienne knew there were more things on the earth and in the heavens than she could possibly imagine. If she could believe that a smoke shadow of Stannis Baratheon killed Renly, she could believe in tales of walking dead people.

Jaime’s hand trembled under hers, and he gripped her fingers in his suddenly frigid ones. ‘There are thousands of them,’ he whispered, his eyes bleak. ‘Thousands…’ Brienne only stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. She seemed more resigned than anything else. ‘You don’t seem surprised by the idea of an army of living corpses.’

‘Winter is coming,’ she mused.

‘Not just some pithy saying now, is it?’

‘Not really.’

‘I’m told they can’t cross the Wall.’ Jaime took a gulp of his cooling tea.

‘Small mercy, that.’ Brienne slowly massaged the space between her brows. ‘What do we do in the meantime?’

‘Live our lives, I suppose.’ Jaime meant to say more, but a series of booming knocks drowned out his next thoughts. He opened the door to see Tormund on the other side, the little girl in his arms. She snuffled in abject misery at being parted from her favorite person. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She pushed herself from Tormund and launched herself at Jaime, trusting he would catch her before she fell. Tormund glowered at her, but Jaime could discern the humor lurking underneath it.

‘Had t’bring her to you before she shouted down th’ Wall.’ He chucked her under the chin. ’Th’ rest of us would like to get some sleep tonight.’

Jaime settled the girl on his hip. ‘You know you’re going to have to deal with it sooner or later.’

‘I do. But today is not th’ day.’ He laughed uproariously as he closed the door.

Jaime buried his nose in the girls dark curls. Someone had bathed her, and she smelled like one of the cedar trees that towered over them in the forest. She stuck her thumb in her mouth with evident contentment and snuggled into him.

Brienne gazed at them with an inscrutable expression. She turned away and bent over the bed, busying herself with turning back the furs. ‘You would make a good father,’ she remarked.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Jaime replied. ‘I expect I know about as much about it as Pod.’

Scoffing, Brienne slid into bed and settled into the lumpy mattress. She cupped her hands over her breasts to prevent them from jostling. She was going to have to bind them if this lasted much longer. There was no way she could endure days on horseback like this. ‘Do the opposite of what your father did. Save us all some heartache.’

‘That goes without saying.’ Jaime managed to climb into bed without disturbing the now-sleeping child.

Brienne brushed a tumbled curl away from the baby’s face. It was far too easy to picture the child cavorting on the beaches of Tarth. It was also far too easy to envision people rejecting the girl simply because she was born north of the Wall. Perhaps if none of the other free folk would take her in. But until then… ‘We can’t take her with us,’ she murmured.

‘I know.’ Try as he night, the words caught in Jaime’s throat.

Brienne lay on her side, studying the incongruous picture of Jaime Lannister cuddling a child against his chest, humming an aimless lullaby. ‘But you want to.’

The corners of his mouth curled up. More than once on the journey, he entertained the idea of adopting the girl. He’d even gone so far as to mentally rehearse a speech to persuade Brienne to agree to it. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘Only to someone that knows you.’ Or bothered to closely observe him with Tommen. Or note the light in his eyes when he spoke of Myrcella. ‘You’d like to have more,’ she ventured. ‘Openly.’

‘That is a conversation for another day.’ Jaime gestured with his chin toward the time candle on the mantle. ‘It’s late.’

Chapter Text

The sun had yet to rise, and the air was so crisp, it hurt to breathe. Jaime left Brienne in their bed, along with little girl. They slept peacefully, curled under the furs, Brienne’s arm wound protectively around the girl. He quickly dressed, then made his way toward the stables where Addam saddled both his horse and Tyrion’s. A third already waited patiently, loaded with provisions, gear, and panniers stuffed with books surreptitiously removed from Castle Black’s library. Tyrion sat huddled on a nearby barrel, misery written in every line of his body. He glanced up at Jaime’s entrance. ‘I haven’t forgiven you yet,’ he proclaimed, glowering at his older brother.

’Nor did I expect you to.’ Jaime perched on a neighboring barrel, fidgeting with the edge of his cloak.

‘I am relieved you returned in one piece.’ Tyrion’s mouth curled in a cynical smile. ‘Wouldn’t want our father to find himself deprived of his favorite heir.’

‘Hardly,’ Jaime snorted. ‘I just happen to be first in line. There’s still Uncle Kevan and Lancel.’ He scuffed the toe of a boot through the straw strewn over the floor. ‘It would serve him right if we both died childless, and he’s forced to leave Casterly Rock to Lancel.’

Addam scowled at them over the rump of Tyrion’s mare. ‘Do you enjoy tempting fate?’

‘Keeps things interesting,’ Jaime replied with a shrug.

‘Just when you think there isn’t a way to displease our father, we can manage to find one,’ Tyrion added.

‘If you’re quite finished all but begging the gods to make one of those things happen,’ Addam sighed, ‘we should go.’

Tyrion slid off the barrel, and allowed Addam to boost him into the saddle. ‘We’ll be no more than two days behind you,’ Jaime murmured.

‘King’s Road?’ Addam swung into his own saddle.

Jaime nodded. ‘I wish you good fortune, brother,’ he said, throat tight. Tyrion replied with a single nod, then followed Addam into the snowy courtyard. The gate groaned as it opened just enough to allow them to ride out of Castle Black and into the frosty dawn.

The stench met them well before the person did. A foul odor of unwashed flesh, shit, and the stomach-turning scent of rot. Brienne gagged, then leaned to one side of her horse, and threw up what little she’d managed for breakfast. She didn’t notice the calculating glance Tyrion sent her way, nor the more concerned one Jaime bestowed upon her. Sansa, much more practical than the others, handed her a flask. ‘Ginger tea,’ she murmured. Brienne didn’t question it, just gratefully sipped the still-warm liquid. She returned the flask to Sansa, avoiding Jaime’s gaze. The smell wasn’t much worse than when Bolton’ men had taken them captive. Jamie had reeked of rotting flesh, piss, stale fever sweat, and vomit. She could well recall how his breath stank, fetid puffs of air drifting over her face as he passed days on horseback in a fitful doze. It hadn’t bothered her then. Strange to think that it did now.

Sansa nudged her horse forward and drew a fold of her cloak over her nose and mouth in an attempt to diminish the smell. She peered at the cringing figure crouched against the rough bark of a soldier pine. ‘Theon?’ she breathed.

‘No…’ The man’s head shook in frantic denial. ‘No. Reek,’ he mumbled, drool gathering at the corner of his mouth. It fell in a long string to the front of his shabby tunic. ‘Reek.’

‘He certainly does,’ Tyrion remarked in a low voice.

‘Who did this to you?’ Sansa asked. She used the soothing tone she’d used when Rickon threw a tantrum when he was small. It warred with the expression of cold fury on her face.

Theon shook his head harder. His greasy, lank hair remained plastered to his skull, despite the violence of his movements. His terrified gaze remained locked on the bulk of Winterfell, just barely visible through the thick fog and the forest that lay between them.

Jaime and Brienne shared an uneasy glance. Roose Bolton was a great many things, but the pathetic figure in front of them didn’t seem to align with what they knew of the man. There was a method to his madness. This just seemed unnecessarily cruel. Even for House Bolton. The bastard son, though… They had heard of quiet rumors and stories during their time at Harrenhall. And with what Lord Glover told them at Deepwood Motte, it wasn’t much of a stretch to piece together who had all but destroyed what had once been Theon Greyjoy. Jaime cursed under his breath and tilted his head toward the Greyjoy boy with a meaningful look at Addam. Addam slid off his horse and rummaged in a pannier for an old horse blanket. He approached Theon as though he was an agitated dog and wrapped him in the blanket, ignoring the thin, high-pitched wail of protest and feeble thrashing. Addam unceremoniously dumped him on his saddle, then swung up behind him, trying to breathe through his mouth so he didn’t have to smell Theon if he could help it.

That seemed to serve as an unspoken cue. They each urged their horses into a gallop in an attempt to put as much distance between them and Winterfell as possible.

Jaime glanced back at Addam. Theon seemed to have gone away inside. Just as well. The less he struggled, the easier it would be to spirit him to safety. He pulled his horse up and cocked his head toward the direction from which they had come. He didn’t hear the sounds of men giving chase, nor the baying of hounds hot upon their scent. They’d managed to put quite a few miles between Winterfell and themselves. He hoped it was enough that any search parties would be forced to wait to continue until morning.

Addam’s horse drew beside him. ‘We’ll have to burn his clothes,’ he said. ’No great loss. Not much more than rags as it is.’

‘Probably have to burn that blanket, as well,’ Jaime replied. ‘We just passed a hot spring. Think you and Pod can get him cleaned up?’ At Addam’s nod, Jaime slid off his horse. ‘Then we’ll stop here for the night.’

They found enough spare clothing among them, and Addam hoisted Theon into his arms. He was about as responsive as the bundle of clothing he carried in one hand. Picking his way downstream, Addam set Theon on a fallen log next to the narrow brook. ‘I’m going to remove your clothes,’ he said softly, so as not to startle the boy. Theon continued to stare into the distance, seemingly insensible of everything around him. Addam used his dagger to slice through the filthy shirt. The corners of his mouth tightened as Theon’s back came into view.

Podrick set a bucket next to him. The steam rising from the surface bore the acrid aroma of the hot spring. He handed Addam a chunk of soap and a bit of rough cloth.

Addam lathered the cloth. ‘I’m going to start washing you,’ he said in the same gentle tone he used with skittish horses. He began to scrub Theon’s arms, mindful of the new pink and tender scars overlapping those beginning to fade. He continued to speak in a low murmur, describing everything he intended to do before he did it. From time to time he handed the cloth to Podrick, who rinsed and soaped it again. Once Theon’s upper body was clean, Addam slit the seams of Theon’s trousers in preparation to remove them. He kept a close eye on Theon, completely prepared to stop should he react badly to his ministrations. But Theon didn’t so much as emit a whimper. Not even when the fabric of his trousers stuck to what appeared to be a freshly scabbed-over wound, and Addam had to forcibly pull the rough homespun away. He glanced down and swallowed back a wave of nausea. ‘Pod. Go back to camp,’ he managed to say. ‘I can finish on my own.’

‘But Jaime…’ Pod protested.

‘Just do as I say, Pod,’ he hissed in a harsh whisper. Addam closed his eyes and inhaled. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘All this is making me jumpy.’ Pod nodded in acknowledgment and agreement. Addam jerked his head at toward the camp. ‘See if Tyrion’s got any milk of the poppy.’ He already knew Tyrion kept it on hand for when his legs ached too much to allow him to sleep, but he needed an excuse to send Podrick back to their camp. Tyrion would have more than enough for his purposes. He didn’t like to use it often, because it muddled his mind.

Podrick rose to his feet, and Addam shifted to try and shield Theon from his curious glance. He waited until he could no longer see Podrick in the gathering gloom, then proceeded to gingerly sponge the myriad dried substances from Theon’s thighs. The collection of bruises and welts told a story that Addam had heard time and again in his service to the Lannisters. Mostly women and girls, and sometimes boys or men, prohibition by the Seven notwithstanding. It was never about desire. It was the means to demonstrate the power one person had over another.

Addam washed his lower body as quickly as he possibly could without causing more harm to the boy. Theon went rigid when he ran the cloth over the bony ridge of his hip. ‘Shhhh…’ Addam snatched the cloth away. ‘I’ll leave it be,’ he crooned. He threw one of the blankets Podrick left over Theon’s lap. All that was left to do was matted, greasy mess of his hair. ‘Might be best to shave your head,’ he mused, then waited for some sort of reaction from Theon. He took his dagger in hand. ‘This will have to do for now.’ He lifted a lock of hair, suppressing a shudder at the feel of it and peered at the snarled strands. ‘And if there’s lice, then shaving it makes the most sense,’ he continued, as he sawed off hanks of Theon’s light brown curls. He then hastily shaved what was left, leaving Theon all but bald. The lack of hair highlighted the jutting bones and hollows of his face

As soon as Theon was as clean as he could manage, Addam dressed him. It was rather like dressing one of his younger sisters’ dolls when he was a child, forcing their limp limbs through shirt sleeves and into trouser legs. ‘Whoever did this to you ought to be hung from the nearest tree.’

‘Deserved it…’ Theon’s barely amiable mumble just managed to slip past his clamped lips. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and spilled over his cheeks. He made no effort to wipe them away, and they dripped to the front of the sweater he now wore.

‘No one deserves half of what you’ve been through,’ Addam sighed. ‘Not even after what you’ve done, Theon Greyjoy.’ Although Addam supposed some would feel inclined to disagree, starting with Sansa. If they found Theon with one of her throwing knives buried to the hilt in his throat, he doubted anyone would take her to task for it. Perhaps Brienne would, but only to critique Sansa’s placement of her knife.

Addam yanked a pair of socks over Theon’s feet, silently thanking the Mother that Sansa could ride and knit at the same time if they could ride at a walk. No doubt Podrick would find his spare pair replaced in no time. They didn’t have a pair of boots to spare, so Addam resorted to ripping a frayed cloak into strips and wrapping them around Theon’s feet, then halfway to his knees. He bundled the pile of grimy rags together in one hand and grasped Theon by the elbow in the other. ‘Come on.’ Theon made a low distressed hum in his throat. ‘No one will hurt you,’ he murmured. Not yet, at any rate. And not like the level of pain Bolton’s bastard had inflicted on him. When Theon continued to hesitate, Addam’s expression softened. ‘You have my word.’

Theon’s shoulders hunched and his head sank between them. He allowed Addam to steer him back to the small camp, trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

Tyrion held up a vial. ‘Would you like to kill a horse or put a dog out of his misery?’ His gaze slid to Theon, half-hiding behind Addam’s bulk. He tossed the vial to Addam.

‘Just enough to let someone sleep.’ Addam caught the vial in one hand. ‘That tea ready?’ he asked Sansa. She silently held out a mug, and Addam added a few drops of the vile-tasting liquid to the tea. ‘Drink it,’ he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. Theon obediently swallowed the hot liquid without so much as a moue of disgust. He huddled on the blanket Podrick indicated, eyes already drooping, and fell asleep.

Jamie handed round solders’ rations. ‘We’ll leave at first light.’

‘That’s sensible,’ Brienne murmured, picking listlessly at her meal. ‘We’ll have to try and find passage to Tarth from the Riverlands instead of White Harbor, given recent developments.’ She tilted her head toward Theon. ‘I’ll take first watch,’ she announced, setting her untouched rations aside.

Jaime retorted, ‘You will not.’ After she’d seen to their horses, Brienne folded herself to her bedroll, already nodding off over a mug of tea, rousing only when Jaime pushed her share of their rations into her hand. ‘Addam and I will.’

‘We should have left him there.’ Sansa’s stony glare left no doubt who she meant. ‘Even if Bran and Rickon are really alive, he betrayed Robb.’

‘Well, we won’t be executing him tonight,’ Jaime chided. ‘You are going to do precisely two things: get some rest after you’ve eaten and take second watch with Brienne and Pod. And I don’t want to find one of your knives in Theon’s throat come sunrise.’

Sansa’s lip curled with sullen contempt, but she nodded in acquiescence.

Addam poked the fire with a sturdy branch. ‘The Greyjoy lad’s in a bad way,’ he said in the conversational tone one might use to speak of an approaching storm cloud.

‘Even I could figure that out.’ Jaime lifted a steaming mug to his mouth with a cocked eyebrow. ‘And as we all know, I’m the stupidest Lannister.’

The fire popped, and Theon sat up with a gasp, eyes so wide, Jaime could see the whites of them around his irises. He blinked a few times in befuddlement, then collapsed on himself as he became more aware of his surroundings. He pulled the blanket around himself until it enveloped him in a cocoon of sorts.

Addam nudged Jaime’s ankled with the toe of his boot. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘Denigrate yourself like that. You’re not an idiot, regardless of what Lord Tywin believes.’

Jaime slouched, and he gulped his tea. His eyes watered as the scalding liquid burned the roof of his mouth and tongue. ‘The Greyjoy boy?’ he muttered in an attempt to steer the subject away from himself. ‘You were saying?’

Addam drew in a deep breath, then released it with a shudder. ’Starved. Beaten. Tortured. Maimed.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘I’d wager Ashmark’s income for the year he’s been raped. More than once.’

Jaime turned sharply at that. ‘You’re sure?’

‘How long have we been soldiers?’

‘Most of our lives.’

‘Then you know I’m sure.’ Addam jabbed his stick at the glowing coals. ‘Been buggered recently. Imagine the ride today felt like hell. Don’t think he’s been damaged inside, but I’m no maester.’ He glanced around the camp to assure himself the others still slept. ‘He’s been castrated,’ he said in a voice so low, Jaime had to strain to hear him over the crackle of the fire.

‘So Glover wasn’t exaggerating the stories coming out of Winterfell,’ he said, pressing his thumb to a chip in the rim of his mug.

‘I would say not.’

Sansa brought her horse to a sudden stop, staring at a small figure crouched over a larger one.  She leaned forward, eyes narrowed, squinting. Sansa urged her horse forward a bit more.  ‘Arya?’ she murmured. The figure straightened up, twsiting to survey them. Sansa nudged her horse into a walk. It can’t be… No one’s heard a whisper of anything about Arya for three years. The person’s face swam into focus. She was taller, with the hint of womanly curves where she had once been all angles and planes. Her hair was shorter. But Sansa would never forget the face. Not until the day she died. She’d loved it. Sneered at it. Dearly wanted nothing more than to slap the cheeky grin from it when they were little. But it was a face she knew as well as her own. ‘Arya?’ Sansa shrieked, booting her horse into a gallop.  

‘Sansa!  Wait!’ Brienne called, prodding her horse into a canter, leaving the rest of the group behind.

Sansa pulled her horse to a halt and flung herself from the saddle. ‘Arya!’ She stumbled across the rocky ground and threw her arms around Arya, too stunned to even cry. Arya stood motionless, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Sansa pulled back a bit and ran her fingertips over Arya’s cheek. ‘What happened to you?’

Arya’s brows drew together in a surly glower. ‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.’ Her eyes flicked to Brienne, striding toward them, clearly suspicious.

‘I can believe a great many things,’ Sansa replied, her voice thickening. ‘I thought I would never see you again… You disappeared when the g-g-guards…’ Her face crumpled with the effort to stem the tears that threatened to fall.

‘When the Lannister guards murdered every member of the Stark household in the Red Keep?’ Arya’s chin rose. ‘Or when they murdered Yoren and the rest of the Night’s Watch recruits? He meant to take me back to Winterfell. And the Lannisters murdered him.’

Sansa shook her head, the tears blurring her eyes streaming down her face. ‘I…’

Arya craned her head around Sansa, eyes travelling slowly over Brienne. They lit on the hilt of Oathkeeper. She gazed at the snarling lions for several moments until the jingling of a bridle announcing the presence of the others caught her attention. Arya’s jaw clenched. ‘The Imp and the Kingslayer.’ She set both hands on Sansa’s shoulders and roughly shoved her away. ‘You’re one of them,’ she snarled.

‘Arya… no.’

‘I was there. In front of Great Sept when Ilyn Payne killed Father. Surely you remember that day?’ Arya’s face screwed up with incandescent rage. ‘Of course you do. You were there. In your pretty dress and the fancy way you did your hair. Trying to copy the queen. You stood with them and did nothing to try and save Father.’

‘Arya, that’s not…’ Sansa scrubbed her sleeve across her cheeks. ‘That’s not what happened.’

‘You betrayed us. Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Father, Mother, and me.’

‘I was a child!’ Sansa shouted, anguish making her voice shrill.

‘So was I! But I never betrayed them.’ Arya retorted. ‘I remember. The North remembers,’ she spat. She pivoted on a heel and marched to a waiting horse. Arya clambered on its back and galloped away, never once looking back.

Sansa fell to her knees, sobbing. ‘Arya! Arya! Please!’ She buried her face in her hands with a keening wail.

Jaime brushed the back of Brienne’s hand. ‘We’ll camp here for the night.’

Brienne ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Probably for the best…’ She pulled off her cloak and draped it over Sansa, who had curled into a ball of abject misery, shaking with broken sobs.

‘I’ll gather wood, m’lady,’ the Greyjoy boy mumbled, his head ducked between his shoulders. He scurried off with his odd, limping gait, eyes darting constantly from side to side. He let out an uncharacteristically audible screech and lurched to one side. ‘He’s alive,’ he exclaimed.

‘Who’s alive?’ Tyrion picked his way across the heath and his eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell… Sandor Clegane…’ He turned and waved his arms. ‘Pod!’

Podrick dropped the bedrolls in his arms and darted to Tyrion. ‘Fuck me…’ he breathed. ‘I thought he’d died after Blackwater Bay.’ He knelt and laid a hand over the unconscious man’s forehead. ‘He’s burning up.’

Tyrion pointed to a cloth, stained with rusty smears of dried blood and yellow pus, tied around Clegane’s neck. ‘I imagine that might be the cause.’ He gazed toward the hills where Arya had disappeared, wondering if she was the one who had wounded the Hound, and if so, how she managed to do it. Tyrion crouched down with a grimace as pain shot through both legs. ‘Let’s see what we can do for the poor sod.’

‘Seven blessings.’

Brienne’s hand flew to top of one boot and removed a knife. The person moved into the firelight and she lowered it, but kept it in her hand. ‘Seven blessings,’ she replied. It was a man, clad in the rough brown robes of a wandering septon.

‘Might your fire have room for two more?’ he asked, one hand resting on the head of a large, rawboned dog.

‘Of course.’ Jaime waved at a space on the other side of the fire.

The septon removed a pack from his back and settled on the grass, tucking the hem of his robes about his bare feet. Podrick ladled a portion of the stew into a bowl and offered it to him. ‘My thanks.’ He cradled the bowl between his large hands. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t anything to offer in exchange, save for my gratitude for the warm meal.’

Tyrion gave the pot a baleful glance. ‘It certainly is warm, if nothing else.’

‘Many a smallfolk would enjoy a warm meal, however poor,’ the septon responded with a gentle smile. ‘I am Septon Meribald.’

‘Jaime.’ Jaime gestured to each person as he said their name. ‘Brienne. Podrick. Sansa. Tyrion. Theon.’ He didn’t bother using assumed names. He doubted the septon would recognize them. They wore nothing to identify their respective Houses. Brienne’s and his swords were carefully wrapped in waxed canvas and hidden away. People rarely looked past House colors and sigils.

‘And him?’ Meribald pointed to the Hound, sleeping fitfully between Tyrion and Theon.

‘Sandor.’

‘Hmmm.’ The septon scooped up another chunk of potato, studying the Hound, who shivered in his fitful sleep, despite the layers of blankets and cloaks. ‘Your friend seems to be quite ill.’ He let his serene gaze sweep around the rest of the circle. He paused briefly on Theon, who jumped at shadows, never fully at ease. It came to rest on Sansa, huddled on her bedroll, staring blankly into the fire. She didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that trickled intermittently down her face. ‘And some others who might benefit from a period of quiet rest.’ He pointed toward the east with his spoon. ‘I can guide you to the Quiet Isle.’

‘What’s the Quiet Isle?’ Brienne asked.

Meribald fished out a chunk of stringy meat and offered it to his dog. ‘A septry. A place for penitents. A refuge from time to time for those in need of succor. The brothers turn no one away, neither smallfolk nor highborn.’ He ate another potato. ‘It is a place of peaceful prayer and contemplation,’ he added, with a pointed glance at Brienne’s knife.

Brienne slid the knife back into her boot and caught Jaime’s appraising eye. They did not have the skills to care for the Hound. Theon would never recover his wits if he believed Ramsay Bolton could locate him. Sansa had yet another family member to mourn. Perhaps Jaime could lay his nightmares to rest there. She lifted a brow and he slowly nodded, once, in reply. ‘We will be grateful for any assistance,’ she said with as gracious a smile as she could manage.

Meribald set his half-eaten bowl in front of his dog. ‘We shall leave at first light. We should reach Saltpans by midday. If the tides are out, we can walk across the mudflats.’ He stroked the dog’s head. ‘Best get some rest.’

Brienne couldn’t agree more. Exhaustion had settled deep in her bones at the Wall, and she burrowed into her bedroll and fell asleep almost as soon as she shut her eyes.

‘Forgive me, my son, but I gather that something ails you.’

Brienne heard the sound of liquid splashing into a cup, and the rich aroma of cider floated to her nose. ‘What makes you think that?’ She peered over the edge of her forearm. Jaime handed a cup to the septon.

‘You sway with weariness. Your eyes droop with exhaustion, and yet you volunteered to take first watch. Does something haunt your dreams?’

Jaime inhaled a sip of cider and buried his face in the crook of his elbow, coughing and spluttering. Rotting corpses with icy blue eyes marched through his mind while he slept, but he didn’t think Meribald would believe him. ‘Something like that,’ he said hoarsely.

‘Do you have prophetic dreams?’

‘Not usually, no.’ But prophetic they were, if those things beyond the Wall ever breached it. ‘Only of what might come.’

‘I would tell you not to dwell on that which you do not know, but that doesn’t seem to be your way.’ Meribald took a sip of the cider and hummed with appreciation. ‘A soldier, were you?’

Startled, Jaime nodded. ‘More than half my life.’

‘Were you a good one?’

Jaime took a slow sip of cider. ‘I like to think so.’

Meribald grunted and drained his cup. ‘The good soldiers always worried about what was to come. Tried to plan for every variable. There always came a day when they realized they could never take something like a butterfly lighting on an archer’s nose into account.’

‘A butterfly…?’

‘Something so small. So insignificant. But the archer looses his arrow in alarm, well before the signal, and the wrath of hell is unleashed, quite without rhyme or reason. And good men die for someone else’s war. As it always was. And so it always shall be.’

Jaime eyed the septon over the rim of his cup. It was as accurate a description of battle as one could make. One that only a person who had experience with war could describe. ‘How old were you when you first marched into battle?’

Septon Meribald smiled sadly. ‘Twelve. It was the War of the Ninepenny King.’ He stroked the head of his dog. ‘Never once saw a king or a penny,’ he mused, ‘but it certainly was a war. That it was.’ He slid down into his bedroll. ‘If you find yourself too immersed in the visions that torment your sleep, focus on what is directly in front of you. Remind yourself of the things you know to be true.’

Jaime made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. ‘And that works?’

Meribald brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. ‘It doesn’t dispel them entirely, no. But it does hold them at bay for a time.’

Jaime drew up one knee and rested his wrist on it. ‘I will try to keep that in mind.’

Chapter Text

‘Sansa.’  Tyrion lowered himself to the fallen log next to her. She straddled it, an oiled cloth in one hand, and one of her knives in the other, rubbing it over the blade.  She glanced up. ‘Do you wish to stay in this marriage?’

‘My wishes are irrelevant. They always have been.’

Tyrion rubbed the cuff of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger. Of course he should have known she would feel this way, and no wonder. She’d been tossed from one person to another as a piece in their game since the day Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark pledged her to Joffery.  ‘I spoke to the Elder Brother,’ he continued in a gentle tone. ‘Assuming Jaime is able to secure a pardon on the blessed occasion of my father’s death, you should think about whether or not you want to remain in this marriage. You only need to say the word.’  Tyrion smiled a little sadly. ‘You should ask for it to be set aside. Now. While we’re here. There is no assurance that Jaime will succeed with a pardon. You shouldn’t have to wait for something that might never happen.’

‘But you’ve been so kind to me,’ Sansa protested.

‘I am twenty years you senior, child.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Sansa snapped, shoving the knife into its sheath on the bandolier that she’d draped over the log.

Tyrion dragged a hand over his face, wishing for a large skin of wine.  ‘No. You are not.’ He tried a different tack. ‘Sansa, my dear, what do you think of young Podrick?’

‘He’s handsome, I suppose.  And he seems gallant.’  She shook her head, the weak sunlight glinting off her auburn hair.  ‘But I’ve seen handsome and what passes for gallantry. And he stripped me in front of the whole court and had me beaten. Abandoned me to a mob where a group of men almost raped me.’ Sansa closed her eyes against the sting of tears and pressed her lips together to prevent the next thought from escaping.

Tyrion let the silence spool between them for a few moments. ‘I don’t think Pod would mistreat you,’ Tyrion remarked.  ‘If he were ill-tempered in any way, Jaime and Brienne would have noticed it by now.’  He smiled encouragingly. ‘Pod’s a good lad.’

Sansa retrieved the small knife from the sheath in her boot.  ‘Must I decide now?’

‘No, no.  Take all the time you need.  Any septon can do it.’

Sansa began to run the cloth over the blade. ‘If I do this,’ she said slowly, ‘I won’t have a family.’

‘You still have Jon.’

Sansa shook her head.  ‘You don’t understand. He is, but…’  She heaved a sigh. ‘The Watch is a lark for you. It isn’t real.  You wouldn’t understand.’

Tyrion cocked his head to the side.  ‘Try me.’

Sansa took a deep breath.  ‘Once a man who goes to the Wall takes his vows, he cannot leave.  They’re called the black brothers for a reason. A man leaves his family, and the other members of the Watch become his family.  And the Watch is woven into the history of the Starks. Bran the Builder built the Wall and ever since, there have always been Starks in the Watch.

‘Jon and I may share a father, but when he went to the Wall, he made a conscious decision to choose his family.  And it wasn’t Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, or me.’ She slipped the knife back into her boot, chin trembling.  She sank her teeth into her lower lip and swung her leg over the log so she faced the water. ‘If he hadn’t gone to the Wall, Theon might never have taken Winterfell.  And Bran and Rickon wouldn’t be missing.’ Sansa wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘Winterfell needed him, and he abandoned us…’ She shuddered with repressed sobs. ‘You… You’re all I have.’

Tyrion decided discretion was the better part of valor and kept his next thoughts to himself. The Jon Snow who'd arrived at the Wall still wore his bastardy like a gaping wound, rather than the armor he’d managed to forge in the years since. If he’d stayed at Winterfell, he would never have become the man he was now.

Brienne came to, jerking her face away from the astringent aroma insistently tickling her nose, a circle of concerned faces hovering over her.  Jaime’s loomed in her vision. ‘You fainted,’ he accused.

‘I have never fainted in my life,’ she retorted, pushing away the hand poised in front of her face with an irritable huff.  

Brother Eston stoppered the small vial. ‘There is a first time for everything,’ he said dryly as he held out a hand to Brienne, helping her sit up. ‘I should like to examine you, my lady.’

‘It’s not necessary,’ Brienne maintained, lurching to her feet.  She regretted it immediately when her stomach rebelled and heaved.  She pressed a hand against her middle, and inhaled deeply through her nose, trying to stave off the wave of vomit. It was to no avail. She spun on a heel and stumbled to a nearby tree, puking behind it.  As she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, she felt a gentle hand on her elbow.

‘You were saying?’ Brother Eston said with a wry smile.  He steered Brienne to the cottage she shared with Jaime, pausing to pluck a few leaves of mint from one of the plants in an herb garden. He handed them to Brienne who stuck one gratefully into her mouth and began to chew it. The sour taste was going to make her feel ill again. ‘If you could lie down.’  He glanced at Jaime, who nearly trod on the septon’s heels he was so close behind them. ‘I think Lady Brienne might feel more at ease, if we had some privacy, my lord.’

Jaime craned his head around Brother Eston. ‘Brienne?’

She nodded.  ‘I’ll come find you when we’re finished.’  She let her fingers graze over the back of his hand.  

Brother Eston firmly closed the door in Jaime’s face and gestured to the low bed.  ‘My lady?’ Brienne heaved a sigh and stretched out on the bed, hands folded over her stomach.  The septon held his hands out over her. ‘With your permission, I will need to touch you.’ He laid a hand over hers.  ‘Just here. Without your clothing in the way.’ Brienne hesitated, then tugged at the fold of her shirt until she could reveal few discreet inches of skin. She unlaced her trousers and smalls, pushing them down just enough so only a handbreadth of her belly showed. Brienne let her own hands fall to her sides. Her face felt as hot as the fire that burned in the small hearth. Brother Eston began to prod her belly with firm, yet gentle fingertips. ‘When was the last time you bled, my lady?’ he asked dispassionately.

Brienne’s eyes closed.  The last time she could clearly remember had been while they stayed at Casterly Rock.  Between traveling to the Wall, waiting for the Night’s Watch contingent to return from Hardhome, and trying to find a port that had a boat that would ferry them to Tarth, she hadn’t noticed its absence.  ‘A few months,’ she admitted. ‘No more than four.’

‘And…’ Brother Eston coughed discreetly. ‘Relations with your husband…?’

Brienne’s face felt like it was on fire.  ‘Often enough,’ she choked, keeping her eyes fixed on a spot directly overhead. 

‘Have you been drinking moon tea?’

‘No.  I tried it a few times when I was younger, so I didn’t bleed,’ she said.  It didn’t seem that long ago, when Renly called his banners, and Brienne implored her father to let her go. She’d asked the maester for it, hoping the moon tea would help her avoid the rather inconvenient monthly bleeding while in an army camp. ‘It made me dizzy, and I fell down a staircase.’ She fingered the scar over her lip, freshly healed when she left Tarth. ‘So I never used it again.’ Brienne felt the prickle of gooseflesh ripple over her arms. The disinterest in food, especially early in the morning.  She had attributed it to the indifferently cooked meals served at Castle Black, and then the plain soldiers’ rations they ate when they made camp for the night while they had travelled through the North and the Riverlands. The bone-deep weariness that stubbornly refused to dissipate, even though she fell asleep soon after dinner and slept deeply until Jaime woke her for her turn at keeping watch in their camp, if he bothered to wake her at all.  One hand drifted up and traced the ridge of the strip of linen under her shirt that she’d used to bind her breasts. Slight as they were, she rarely had to do so, and eschewed the corsetry most women employed. But when they’d left Castle Black, she’d resorted to tearing one of her spare shirts into strips. The increased size of her breasts and the incessant and unavoidable jiggling one experienced on horseback made riding exceedingly uncomfortable. The pieces fell into place when placed next to the fact that she hadn’t bled since their sojourn in Casterly Rock.  They were signs her childhood septa had taught her to recognize, should she ever marry. She’d ignored and dismissed them. She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the truth that stared her in the face. ‘I’m pregnant, aren’t I?’

‘It appears that way.  You ought to feel movement within a few more weeks.  I’m told it feels rather like soap bubbles popping inside. Or butterfly wings.’  Brother Eston sat back on his heels, head cocked to the side like a sparrow taking in the troubled frown on Brienne’s face as she sat up.  ‘I gather this isn’t joyous news.’

‘The timing is not ideal.’  Brienne shrugged as she put her clothes to rights and sat up. ‘When is there ever a perfect window of time to bear a child?’

Brother Eston didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth turned up a little.  ‘My child, if we lived our lives waiting for just the right time, we might have died out ages ago.’  He reached out and laid a hand on the crown of Brienne’s head. ‘May the Mother bless you, child, and see you safe through your labors.’  He stood and shook out his robes. ‘You should return to your home soon. There is much for you to do before the babe arrives.  We will ensure you safe passage to Saltpans by ferry or on land if the tide is out.’ Brother Eston inclined his head a fraction of an inch. ‘My lady…’ He left the cottage in a swirl of brown and dun wool.

Brienne leaned back against the wall of the cottage.  Catelyn Stark had called childbirth a sort of battle. One where women fought and no one sang songs to celebrate their triumphs or mourn their losses.  And now she would learn those unwritten songs. Brienne pushed herself to her feet with a sense of determination. There was much to do if they needed to leave within the next few days. She left the cottage in search of Jaime. She found him sitting on a boulder, staring out at the Bay of Crabs.  She perched on the boulder next to him. ‘When I was younger,’ she began, ‘I believed in the stories where a handsome knight comes to fight a ferocious dragon guarding a tower, and then marries the maiden that was imprisoned inside.’

‘Sounds like Sansa,’ Jaime quipped.  

Brienne turned her severe gaze on him and the grin slid from his face.  Not the time for jests, then. He leaned back and waited with an expectant furrow upon his brow. She continued, ‘Until I was… fourteen… perhaps, I believed that would happen for me.  That I would wake up one morning and the witch’s spell would be broken, and I wouldn’t look like Brienne the Beauty. I would be a warrior queen, like Visenya Targaryen.’  She could always picture it so clearly. Visenya was said to have been more striking to look at than beautiful, and Brienne would have settled for pleasing features instead of her rather plain and somewhat mismatched face.  ‘And I would find a fair prince to marry. And we would have…’ She took in a deep breath of briny air. ‘Children,’ she managed to say. ‘And then my father held that disaster of a ball. And I began to tell myself that I didn’t want any of it.  I convinced myself it wasn’t me, and it never was.’

‘Brienne?’  Jaime covered her knee with his hand.  It was quite unlike her to ramble on so.  ‘If I might interrupt…’ He avoided looking at her, for fear she would bolt rather like a skittish horse.  He’d had his suspicions for some days, and had been waiting for an opportune moment to voice them. The tentative way she circled around the topic meant it might be sundown by the time she worked up the nerve to actually say the words, so he plunged ahead.  ‘Are you…’ His throat closed. ‘Pregnant?’

Brienne nodded.  ‘Yes.’

‘I see.’  Jaime tuned to look at her, then.  Her mouth was set into a grim line and her body as tense as a bowstring.   ‘Will you be completely honest with me?’

‘Always.’

‘Do you wish to have the child?’ Jaime asked faintly, his heart in his throat.  He could not blame her if she did not while his father was alive. His claws were already too-firmly embedded in their lives.  He could all too clearly envision his father preparing the marriage contracts between this child and one of the other Houses before they could celebrate its first name day. 

‘We’ve both been taught to do our duty,’ she replied with dull resignation, eyes wide and fixed on the horizon.  ‘Your father desires you to have legitimate heirs. Legitimate sons.  So this is mine.’

Jaime grabbed her shoulder and forcibly turned her to face him.  ‘Fuck duty,’ he hissed. His fingers dug painfully into her flesh.  ‘Don’t do this because it’s what my father wants and expects.’ Brienne’s mouth dropped open.  ‘Or yours,’ he added. She stared at him, dumbstruck. He shook her a little. ‘Do you want it?  Because if you don’t, I will brew the moon tea you’ve been carrying around since we left King’s Landing for you myself.’  

The words slammed into her. ‘How did you know?’ Her lips felt stiff and her heart pounded in her ears. She’d surreptitiously wrapped the box of moon tea from Olenna with a length of leather and waxed canvas, and then tucked it into the bottom of her saddlebag the day she received it. She never touched it again. ‘Did you go through my things?’

‘One of the maids at the Rock brought it to me. Said it was in your saddlebag, and thought you’d forgotten about it. She thought because it was wrapped up so carefully you might want it. I looked. I know what moon tea smells like.’ He hurled the words at her, inexplicably hurt that she didn’t confide in him that she had the tea in the first place.

‘I…’  Brienne squeezed her eyes shut. ‘You were never meant to know about it. I had planned to dispose of it, but…’ She made a gesture with her hand. There had been far more important matters to see to that pushed it to the back of her mind. 

‘Do you wish to have this child?’ Jaime repeated.

‘Yes.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Odd as that might seem.’  She opened her eyes and stared down at her hands. ‘It is only fair to ask…  Do you want…?’  One hand moved just enough to brush over her middle.

Jaime touched the back of her hand.  ‘I do. More than you could possibly imagine.’

‘But your father…’  Brienne bit her lip, then blurted in a burst of passion, ‘I do not want our child to become another piece in his game.  To use in order to arrange a marriage with the Tarlys or Daynes, or Stranger take him, the Freys.’

‘He will not come near our child if I can help it,’ Jaime vowed. Brienne exhaled with a shuddering sigh.  ‘Do you want to tell the others?’

Brienne shook her head.  ‘Not yet.’ She wanted to keep this between the two of them until she had a chance to get used to the idea of becoming a mother.  ‘When we arrive at Evenfall. We can tell Pod, Sansa, and Tyrion along with my father.’

‘The sooner we’re on Tarth, the better.’  Jaime leaned his shoulder against Brienne’s.  He hoped Tarth would be the sorely needed respite they craved.  

‘I want…’ Brienne slipped her fingers through his, the words catching in her throat. She was still unused to voicing her own wants, much less having them prioritized. ‘I want to give birth to this child on Tarth. With people who care about me…’

‘Of course.’ Jamie brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss against the back of Brienne’s.

‘We cannot hide on Tarth forever, though,’ Brienne told him.  ‘Or keep our presence there a secret.’

‘No.  But it might buy us enough time to figure out a way to do this on our terms and not my father’s.  I’ll speak with Brother Eston. We’ll leave tomorrow if possible. Perhaps we can find a boat sailing from Saltpans.  If not we’ll continue to Gulltown.’ He slid off the boulder, feeling the first flutters of giddy joy. He glanced at Brienne, who remained motionless on the boulder, hands clenched into fists on her knees.  ‘Brienne?’ She looked up at him. ‘This is good.’

‘Even with what’s beyond the Wall?’ she retorted.  He’d wept in her arms more than once since returning from Hardhome, upon waking from a nightmare.

The simple question gave Jaime pause.  It might be better for them both if she did drink moon tea.  He’d left her behind once, and if it came to a fight to defend their home from that thing north of the Wall, she would not be left behind again.  After what he’d witnessed at Hardhome, Jaime was keenly aware of the risks in bringing a child into this world, beyond the usual ones. If he and Brienne were to fall in the fight for the living, he would be content to die, knowing it might make it possible for their child to live.  He cupped her face in his hand, and tilted his head until his forehead touched hers. ‘Especially with what’s beyond the Wall.’

Brienne rested her forearms on the ship’s railing and gazed up at bulk of Tarth for the first time in three years. Some of the dread that had knotted her shoulders for the past few months began to ease. ‘So this is Tarth,’ Jaime commented, joining her.

Brienne shot him an exasperated glance. ‘Obviously.’ She squinted at the sky overhead to gauge the position of the sun. ‘We ought to arrive at Evenfall by midday.’

‘Ready to face your father?’

‘No.’

Addam strode down the deck and stood on Jaime’s other side, copying Brienne’s pose. ‘This is where we part ways, then.’

‘But it’s not farewell,’ Jaime said. ‘We will see each other again.’

Addam gave Brienne a significant look. ‘Sooner rather than later, I hope.’

‘There ought to be at least one ship going to King’s Landing from here. If you’re lucky, there might be one headed to Lannisport.’ Brienne told him nearly tripping over the words in her haste to change the subject, lest the news slip out before she was truly ready to say something. She gave Addam a searching glance. He met it with a bland smile and a cocked brow. His eyes darted to her middle, then back up with a slight nod. Brienne started a little at the realization that he knew.

‘Keep that between the three of us and the railing,’ Jaime murmured. ‘For now.’

‘As you say, my lord.’ Addam executed an elaborate bow, then dodged the playful smack Jaime aimed at his head, hooting with laughter.  ‘I wish you both good fortune.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay a few days at Evenfall?’ Brienne asked.

‘I thank you, but I should return to Ashmark.’

‘Safe journey, then.’ Jaime embraced him, and they exchanged a back-pounding hug. He turned to Brienne and held out an arm toward the lowered ramp. ‘Well, my lady? Shall we?’

Brienne grunted by way of a reply, and trudged toward the ramp where Podrick waited with Tyrion, Sansa, and their horses with a grim expression on her face. Jaime privately thought she looked as though her destination was her own execution and not her childhood home. He couldn’t blame her. The gods only knew what sort of welcome awaited them at Evenfall Hall.

They made for a ragtag group that rode through the gates of Evenfall Hall. They’d paused briefly at a portside inn, at Sansa’s insistence, and begged use of the well to scrub their hands and faces as best they could with cold water and a rag. But there was nothing to be done for the state of their clothes after months of hard wear. Brienne slid off her horse and ignored the cresting wave of murmurs of shock and surprise as she gathered the reins in her hand and began to lead the mare to the stables.

The sudden silence was louder than if the entirety of all the denizens of Evenfall began to shout. Brienne’s footsteps came to a halt. She passed the reins to a nearby stable lad, then tugged self-consciously at her creased and stained tunic, squared her shoulders and turned on her heel. The man standing in the middle of the yard topped her own prodigious height by a number of inches. His ashy blonde hair tossed in the ever-present breeze. Creases fanned from his intense blue eyes. Dressed plainly, his only concession to rank was the quality of the wool and linen he wore and a Tarth sigil embroidered on the right shoulder of his jerkin. Brienne returned the man’s even gaze. ‘Father.’

‘Brienne.’ Selwyn Tarth was just tall enough that Brienne had to tilt her head back in order to meet his icy blue gaze. He turned his severe gaze over his daughter’s shoulder. Jaime Lannister stood a few steps behind her, on her right, looking for all the world as though he was meant to be there. Selwyn’s eyes flicked back to Brienne, and he lifted a thick brow.

Brienne cleared her throat. ‘Father, may I present Ser Jaime Lannister…’ She swallowed hard, mouth gone dry. ‘My… husband.’

‘My lord.’ Jaime bowed with the stiff formality he’d been taught as a child.

Selwyn’s eyes raked over Jaime, taking in his mud-stained boots and carefully mended shirt and jerkin ‘Hmmmph.’

Brienne gestured slightly for the others to come closer. ‘Lord Tyrion Lannister.’ Tyrion inclined his head. ‘My squire, Podrick Payne…’

‘Your squire?’

Brienne visibly bristled, but managed to keep her voice level. ‘Yes. My squire.’ Her chin lifted in belligerent challenge, but Selwyn merely waited for her to continue. ‘Lady Sansa Stark.’

His brows did shoot up then. Telling that Brienne didn’t refer to the Stark girl as a Lannister. Selwyn took in the girl as she dipped into a curtsy that would have done Brienne’s late, and not very lamented, septa proud. ‘My lord Tarth.’

He returned it with a curt nod, then with the niceties out of the way, turned his attention back to Brienne. The last few years had etched lines into her face that hadn’t been there when she sailed off to fight for Renly. Her hair was longer. The last time he’d laid eyes on his daughter, it had been cropped short, but now it fell around her face in yellow waves that skimmed her chin. Purple smudges shadowed her eyes. Eyes that were far more cynical than they’d been before she left. He thought she might be thinner than he remembered, but she had always preferred to wear loose, baggy clothes, so Selwyn couldn’t be sure. ‘Hungry?’ he grunted, as Podrick’s stomach emitted an audible rumble.

‘Yes.’ She plucked at her sleeve, wrinkling her nose at the dirt embedded under her nails. ‘And baths are in order.’

Selwyn snorted. It would take much more than a bath for the lot of them to look presentable. They needed clothes that weren’t stained with the gods only knew what and fraying at the hems and seams. ‘I’ll arrange for food to be brought to the solar. And Alis can sort some clothing out for you. May not fit properly, but it’ll do for now.’ He pivoted on a heel to lead them into the castle. ‘After you’ve eaten, I’ll show Ser Jaime, Lord Tyrion, and young Podrick to the bathhouse. Alis will have tubs prepared in your chambers for you and Lady Sansa.’

‘I can use the bathhouse, like I’ve always done,’ Brienne protested. She never liked the fuss of the parade of endless buckets of water, while a simpering lady’s maid fluttered about.

Selwyn snorted. ‘You’re a grand lady now. Lady to the heir of Casterly Rock.’ He waved a negligent hand toward Jaime. ‘And grand ladies have tubs brought to their chamber.’

Brienne scowled at the back of her father’s head. ‘Seven hells… Of all the people to lecture me about fine manners…’ she grumbled under her breath.

The tall, narrow windows of the solar were flung wide open to catch the tendrils of wind that came off the Straits of Tarth. Not to mention make the fug of unwashed bodies less noticeable. They’d each taken a turn in the scullery with a basin filled with hot water and a bit of soap, doing a more thorough job of scrubbing their hands and faces than they’d managed at the inn, then passed around a comb to tidy their hair. A door opened to admit a convoy of kitchen boys, laden with platters and baskets of food. Brienne nearly swooned at the aroma of freshly baked bread, and all but sat on her hands so she didn’t snatch one of the loaves from the cloth-covered basket, rip it into pieces, and cram them into her mouth. The food was plain, but hearty. Roasted chickens, their skins crisp and glistening in the early afternoon light, surrounded by roasted carrots, parsnips, and onions, mounds of mashed neeps, and loaves of warm bread and pots of butter and blackberry jam. Selwyn didn’t miss the avarice on their faces as they took in the veritable feast laid out for them. He dismissed the boys back to the kitchen with a jerk of his chin. Once they were left alone, he gestured toward the food. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony. You look famished.’

He didn’t have to say it twice.

They fell on the food as though they hadn’t eaten in days; although if they’d been traveling at a hard pace like he suspected, it was likely their meals had consisted of hard biscuit and dried beef more often than not. Selwyn sat back and nursed a tankard of ale, glancing at his daughter from the corner of his eye. Brienne had always had what he considered a healthy appetite, much to the consternation of her septa, who implored her to be more dignified in her meals, which translated to eating more dainty portions. At first Brienne attempted to eat the way she’d been taught. Small, “ladylike” bites, chewed slowly and thoroughly, where she laid her knife and fork down in-between them.

It lasted all of exactly three bites.

Brienne could scarcely remember when food had tasted this good. Perhaps back at Casterly Rock, or maybe the Red Keep. Her eyes closed with a hum of pleasure at the melting sweetness of a roasted carrot on her tongue. She gave the ghost of Septa Roelle a rude gesture in her mind, and proceeded to demolish her meal.

Selwyn snorted into his ale at the mental image of the late, and not very lamented, Septa Roelle, aghast and speechless at the way Brienne single-mindedly plowed through the food on her plate, then filled it again, stifling a small belch. She polished that off as well, albeit more slowly. Her eyes roamed the table, looking for more, but there was little left. She tried and failed to not gaze hungrily at the remaining food on Jaime’s plate. He pushed it toward her with a nod. She pulled a face and shook her head, but he nudged it closer. ‘Go on, then,’ he murmured. ‘You need it.’

They missed the raised brows and knowing glances Tyrion, Sansa, and Podrick shared over the rims of their cups.

Alis shooed the burly manservants from the chamber, then bustled about, arranging, then rearranging the stack of towels, the soap. Brienne slowly removed her boots and socks, hoping Alis would remember some urgent task and leave her to her bath. But to her chagrin, Alis seemed in no hurry to leave. Brienne heaved a put-upon sigh, and turned her back, reaching for the laces of her tunic. ‘Allow me, m’lady,’ Alis said quietly.

Brienne relented, bending her knees just enough for Alis to loosen the laces at her back of neck and pull it over her head. ‘You needn’t stay on my account, Alis.’

‘Are you sure?’

Brienne managed a smile. ‘You have far more important things to do than fuss over me.’

Alis brushed her fingertips over the pronounced curve of Brienne’s belly, hidden by the voluminous folds of her shirt. ‘Suppose there’ll be enough fussing soon enough.’ Brienne’s mouth dropped open. How did Alis know? She’d been so careful to conceal the pregnancy, waiting for a more fortuitous occasion to announce it. Alis merely smiled and patted her cheek in a motherly fashion. She left closing the door firmly behind her.

Brienne pulled off the rest of her clothes and left them in a pile in the corner, eyeing the bath with something that felt akin to lust. Inviting tendrils of steam rose from the water, beckoning her to get in. The last bath she’d had where her arms and legs didn’t dangle over the edge of the tub was Harrenhal. Tubs in Evenfall were the only ones long enough or deep enough to accommodate her frame. She stepped into it, and lowered herself into the water with a sigh. She slumped against the back and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the surf crashing against the rocks below.

For the first time since Renly’s murder, she felt safe enough to completely let her guard down.

She had no idea how long she sat unmoving in the tub. Certainly long enough for the water to cool so it was only slightly warmer than her skin. Brienne sat up and reached for the soap when she felt a fluttering sensation just under her navel. Was that…? She felt it again, and pressed her hand to her belly. ‘Oh…’

She knew he was there. Surely she’d heard him open the door. She stood in front of the fire, naked, damp hair swept back from her face, seemingly lost in thought. Her eyes were shut in complete and utter absorption with a secret only she knew. Both hands lay clasped against her belly. He hadn’t seen her naked in weeks. Not since the night before he left for Hardhome. The firelight delineated the outlines of her body, beckoning him to come and trace the burgeoning curvature of breast and belly for himself. He padded across the chamber, transfixed, hand already outstretched.

She turned her head, eyes slowly opening, alight with wonder. He lifted his hand slightly in silent supplication, and she let her hands fall to her sides. His hand settled gently over her swelling belly, fingers spread wide. Oh… He slid to his knees, then pressed his lips to the skin under her navel. He was struck by the realization that this was his child in a way that Tommen and Myrcella could never be. A burst of radiant joy exploded within him, along with an underlying certainty that he would lie, cheat, or steal — and yes, even cheerfully break an oath — to keep this child safe.

He stood, unashamedly accepting her help when he overbalanced and nearly toppled over. He brought his hand to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her pale yellow hair. His other arm wound around her waist, his stump pressing against the small of her back. His thumb swept in slow arcs back and forth over her cheek. He rose up just enough on his toes to rest his forehead against hers. The sun streaming through the gap in the shutters cast its merciless light over her face. Every scar and imperfection was visible, but he had long ago ceased to see them as detrimental. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmured.

The line between her brows deepened with habitual self-effacement, and she stepped back, the dismissive frown already dimming the light in her eyes, a scoffing denial on her lips.

He caught her wrist before she could turn away. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he insisted, mouth brushing over her palm, then the inside of her wrist. He could tell her until he drew his last breath it her looks were the least of it. She was far more than the sum of her parts. Perhaps she might believe him one day. He drew her closer until her bare skin pressed against the linen shirt and trousers he wore.

Her head suddenly turned to the side and she yawned wide enough for her jaw to crack. She gave in to the weariness that had tugged at her limbs and sagged against him. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled into the side of his neck.

He merely guided her to the bed, and turned down the coverlet. She crawled into it while he doffed his borrowed clothes and draped them over a stool. After a cursory examination of the bedposts, a quick tug released the hangings, enveloping them in a blue-hued dusk. He slid in next to her, fitting his body against the contours of hers.

She shifted, cradling his hips between her thighs, enfolding him in her arms and legs and the scent of the soap from her bath. Her hips tilted upward in wordless invitation. Despite his exhaustion — and hers — his hand slipped between them, and he slid into her with a sigh. Who was he to turn down an opportunity to make love with his wife? He was only flesh and blood, after all. He could never deny her the pleasure of his body.

He wanted to linger, to draw it out as long as possible, but he felt himself teetering on the edge. The last time had been a quick, desperate, half-clothed coupling against the door of their chamber at Castle Black when he returned to her mostly whole and relatively unharmed. A dizzying blur of warm skin and the salt of tears she vigorously denied shedding.

Her eyes widened, made an even deeper blue by the hangings surrounding them, then squeezed shut, as she cried out, her limbs suddenly heavy and lax. It only took a moment for his body to follow hers. He eased to the side with a muffled groan. A quick glance through an opening in the hangings, sent Jaime lurching from the bed when his eyes lit on his quarry. He snatched at the damp cloth draped over the side of the tub. The pitcher on the hearth still held enough water to soak the cloth. He shouldered his way through the gap in the hangings. She reached for the cloth, but he held it out of her reach. She gave him her customary scowl, but there was no heat to it. It was a moment’s work to swab the stickiness from her thighs, then clean himself. He dropped the cloth to the floor, and burrowed into the bed, once again nestling against the now familiar lines of her body with his own.

She took in a slow, deep breath, then let it out. And again. His arms tightened around her, lips grazing the underside of her jaw. Then she knew no more.

‘M’lady?’ The maid’s whisper was low and sibilant. She peered around the edge of the door, and took note of the bed swathed in its hangings. The toss of her head with an accompanying roll of her eyes clearly said it was all right for some to slumber through the better part of an afternoon. If she tried that, Alis would send her packing to King’s Landing with nothing but the clothes on her back, and the wages she was owed. ‘C’mon, Lisbet,’ she muttered to her counterpart.

The two maids eased into the chamber, their arms piled with clothing that had been hastily retrieved from trunks and aired in the sunny meadow. Despite their efforts to be unobtrusive, their whispers and movements jolted Jaime to consciousness. Some time had passed, judging by the light filtering through the heavy linen hangings. He remained still, feigning sleep.

Elsa stared at the occupants of the bed through a gap in the hangings, while Lisbet piled the clothing into a chest. ‘Curious, innit?’ she mused.

‘What?’

Elsa gestured with her chin toward the bed. ‘Never thought Lady Brienne’d ever marry. Not a man like him.’

‘Because he’s the Kingslayer?’ Lisbet whispered, closing the chest.

Elsa grabbed the younger girl by the sleeve and hauled her upright, their heads close together. ‘Look at him!’ She pointed at Jaime’s naked back, exposed by the sheet crumpled around his hips. In contrast to his despicable reputation, he was an undeniably handsome man. Lithe and golden. Elsa would have hiked her skirts up for him in the space of a heartbeat if he so much as crooked his finger in her direction. ‘Looks like a prince from a storybook.’ She shook her head. ‘Far too handsome for Lady Brienne…’

Jaime heard Brienne’s breath hitch, and his eyes flicked up. She was awake, and had apparently heard every word.

Lisbet made a scoffing noise in the back of her throat, freezing as the bedding rustled. She yanked her arm from Elsa's grasp and scurried to the corridor to fetch a basket. Lisbet set it down near the tub and whisked the damp towels from the rack set in front of the fire into it. ‘Didn’t think Kingsguard could marry. Vows and all.’

‘Them’s that’s got gold can get out of vows,’ Elsa retorted. She stooped to pick up the bundle of Brienne’s soiled clothing and gave the bed another thoughtful glance. ‘I heard he had to marry her.’ Lisbet’s eyes grew wide. Brienne’s clothes fell from Elsa’s hands in the exhuberence of sharing a particularly juicy nugget of gossip. The bedding rustled as Jaime stirred, so she dragged Lisbet to the other side of the room. ’You weren’t here… A while ago, m’lord got word from Lord Bolton up at Harrenhal. They,’ her eyes darted to the bed, ‘were captured together. Mairi says he ruined her, an’ Lord Tywin forced him to leave the Kingsguard and marry her so’s he wouldn’t bring more shame on the family.’

‘Go on and tell me another…’ Lisbet cast a doubtful look at the bed. Elsa’s story didn’t line up with what she’d heard about Lady Brienne from the other, older maids. She crossed the room to fetch the basket and tossed Brienne’s clothes into it. ‘Let’s go before Alis catches us dawdling.’

The door rattled as the maids closed it behind them. Brienne propped herself on an elbow. ‘I don’t suppose your father still has our bedsheet,’ she remarked. ‘We could display it in the hall. Salvage your reputation.’ She added as an offhanded afterthought, ‘And mine.’

‘Or ignore it?’ Jaime suggested, stretching, then settled back into the mattress. He vowed to never again take clean sheets and soft beds for granted again.

‘How did that strategy work for you?’

He let his eyes follow the line of an embroidered vine on the canopy before admitting, ‘Not very well.’

Chapter Text

Brienne had thought her father would demand that they join him in the hall for dinner with the rest of the castle, but she discovered her Selwyn could still surprise her. No sooner had they finished dressing than series of rather imperious knocks sounded on the door to their chamber. Alis entered, followed by a bevy of housemaids and a small regiment of kitchen boys. Under Alis’ gimlet eye the maids swiftly changed the bedding in an intricate dance of billowing linens and the rhythmic beat of vigorous pillow fluffing, while the boys began to lay the small table near the fire. Jaime tried to pretend he was just another piece of furniture and fiddled with the buckles on his hook. Brienne stood well apart from the commotion, speaking quietly to Alis about the gods only knew what, one hand resting on her belly.

The kitchen boys finished arranging enough food on the small table to easily feed a small village. Jaime opened his mouth to inquire if someone else intended to join them, but the audible gurgles that emanated from Brienne’s stomach stilled his tongue. The boys scampered back to the kitchen with bobs of their head in Brienne’s direction. Alis patted Brienne’s arm in a motherly sort of gesture, and murmured something that sounded reassuring, then left them to their meal. They had only just seated themselves and filled their plates when someone else tapped on the doorframe. Jaime waved for Brienne to stay seated and continue with her meal. He opened the door to discover Podrick and Sansa in the corridor, each carrying a tray of food. Tyrion brought up the rear with pitchers of cider. ‘May we join you?’ Sansa asked, peering around the edge of the door.

Jaime stepped aside with a rueful smile and jerked his head toward the chamber. After months of living in each other’s pockets, it must have felt strange to find themselves dining alone. Brienne beckoned for them to come inside. Podrick and Sansa set their trays on the chest at the foot of the bed, then darted back down the corridor and returned lugging three chairs between them. They set one at the table with Brienne and Jaime for Tyrion, then arranged the other two so they could use the chest as an ersatz table. They all looked somewhat dazed in the way one did after sleeping through most of the afternoon, but it didn’t affect their appetites. Brienne couldn’t blame them. The two meals they’d had at Evenfall Hall contained more food than any of them had seen in weeks. That was one thing Brienne could never fault her father for. He never skimped on food when he could help it. No one in Evenfall Hall went to bed hungry. Not even the stable lads or scullery maids. Like their midday meal, the food was hearty, satisfying fare, with none of the elaborate presentations they’d had served to them in King’s Landing and Casterly Rock. Had Jaime or Tyrion expected more of a lord’s table, they didn’t say; but after weeks of living on soldier’s rations or whatever soup, stew, or porridge the kitchen stewards at Castle Black cobbled together, it tasted like the sort of meal that sent poets running for their quills and paper. Or perhaps it was merely the safety offered by Tarth’s distance from the mainland that seasoned their meal.

The effects of a full belly combined with a pregnancy sent Brienne nodding over a mug of mint tea, while the other chatted amongst themselves. She had thought she might be able to stay awake past the hour of the Eel, given her lengthy nap that afternoon, but her body had other ideas. Jaime pried the cup from her hand with a murmured word about going to bed, and then shooed the others back to their respective chambers. She could have kissed him for that. And she would. As soon as they were alone. To Brienne’s dismay, Alis appeared in the doorway before Jaime could close it behind Podrick’s boots ‘M’lady…? Your father wishes to speak with you. Now. His chamber.’ She gave Jaime an apologetic glance, then murmured, ‘Alone.’

Brienne exhaled through her nose. She wanted nothing more than to fall back into the soft bed that beckoned to her like a lover’s embrace, but her father was more stubborn than boulders that forced river currents to acquiesce to them. He wouldn’t be gainsaid. ‘It won’t take long,’ she told Jamie. It never did. He always said his piece in as few words as possible, then summarily dismissed her. ‘At least he doesn’t intend to have it out with me in front of the entire castle.’

Alis snorted. ‘You were always going to be a scandal and a hissing, m’lady. Best to face it now and get it over with. Besides, all the biddies’ll have something else to wag their tongues over by this time next week.’ She patted Brienne’s cheek with a sympathetic smile. ‘You’d best hurry, m’lady. You know how your father is about waiting.’

Brienne nodded with a sour look, then scrubbed both hands over her face to try and chase away the cobwebs that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her head.

She no sooner than crossed the threshold into her father’s chamber when he slapped a piece of parchment on the table in front of his fire. Selwyn pushed it toward her with a scowl. It bore several uneven creases that told her it had been crumpled into a compact ball and likely thrown into a corner. Brienne recognized it as the letter she’d sent from King’s Landing following her marriage to Jaime. ‘The Kingslayer? Man with shit for honor? Oathbreaker?’

Jaime’s harsh whisper echoed in her mind. You all despise me… Kingslayer… Oathbreaker… Brienne wound one of the laces on the cuff of her shirt around a finger. ‘He’s not…’

‘Not the Kingslayer?’ Selwyn snorted in derision and slapped the top of the table. ‘I kept Tarth out of the War of the Five Kings so I could keep our House well out of it. And you not only bring the Kingslayer into my house, but the Imp as well!’

‘His name is Jaime,’ Brienne snarled. She snatched up the poker and prodded the logs in the fire, when she dearly wanted to clout her father over the head with it. ‘Better a lobster than no husband. Isn’t that what the old grannies in the village say?’ She jabbed at the largest log with the force she’d used to kill a man. ‘I would think you’d be pleased,’ she muttered, her lips stiff. ‘All you ever wanted was for me to marry well and birth children.’ She punctuated each word with a savage stab at the log. It collapsed in a shower of sparks and a sudden rush of warmth that caressed her cheeks.

‘Calm your tits, girl.’ Selwyn stood and wrested the poker from Brienne before she destroyed the fire. ‘Sit down’ he ordered. Brienne plopped gracelessly into a chair, arms folded over her chest, unconsciously taking on the pose she had when she was a young girl. He propped the poker against the wall. ‘He isn’t good enough for you.’

Brienne made an irritated noise in the back of her throat. ‘You didn’t seem to care about who was good enough for me when I was sixteen.’ She pressed her lips together to suppress the sudden tears at the memory of the ball.

Selwyn tugged at his beard and looked away. He had to concede she had the right of it on that point. He’d only wanted to see her married and secure in her position and to see Tarth carry on. Selwyn attempted a different tack. ‘He has no honor, Brienne.’

She roughly swiped her sleeve under her nose. ‘What good is honor when it nearly kills you?’ She turned her face away. ‘It was my fault that we were captured, because I had to be honorable. Jaime insisted that farmer recognized him, but I was too bloody honorable to pay him any mind. He was the Kingslayer. So I declined to detain the farmer. I made that decision. If I had listened to Jaime, we would not have been captured. And he would still have a hand.’ Brienne’s chin wobbled. She swiped the heels of her palms over her cheeks, unspeakably annoyed by the wetness there.

Selwyn fished a worn square of linen from his sleeve and pushed it into her hand, then leaned against the mantle, scrutinizing his daughter while she collected herself. The peevish outburst was quite out of character for his taciturn and stoic daughter. Brienne’s unexpected tears brought back the memory of her mother, weeping over an event so insignificant, that even Elynor couldn’t explain why it bothered her so. ‘Is there something else you haven’t told me?’ Brienne hesitated just a shade too long, her fingertips fluttering over her belly, before her hands came to rest over it in a protective gesture he recalled from Elynor. ‘Ah. I see.’ He scrubbed both hands over his face. A child would surely complicate matters even further. ‘When?’

‘Five months. Perhaps four.’ Brienne blew her nose.

‘So. Tarth has become another crown jewel in Tywin Lannister’s machinations.’

‘No.’ Brienne closed her eyes, letting the ever-present weariness overtake her.

Selwyn gaped at his daughter. Someone needed to knock some sense into her. She was entirely too naive about the world in some respects. ‘Should you birth a son, that child is the heir to Casterly Rock,’ he reminded her tartly.

‘Not if Jaime and I have anything to say about it.’ Brienne pushed herself to her feet. She was in no mood to continue this conversation. ‘I’ll bid you good night.’

‘Brienne?’ Selwyn grasped her by the elbow. ‘You said in your letter you entered into your marriage willingly. We both know letters do not always contain the truth. Tell me now, while it’s just you and I… Did Tywin Lannister force the two of you to marry?’

She turned her head and met her father’s troubled gaze. Had they been forced? Jaime couldn’t deny he’d been coerced into it. Tywin had used Jaime’s regard for his brother to box him neatly into a corner. She’d been in too much shock to decline, even after she realized the situation into which she’d inadvertently blundered. They did ultimately have a choice in the matter, even though neither of them felt as though they did in the moment. They could have refused to go along with that mockery of a wedding, with no further explanations. Ser Godwin had always reminded her that the word “no” was a complete sentence. And yet… Neither of them had managed to utter it. Brienne attempted a smile. It wasn’t reassuring. ‘No. No one held a sword to our throats.’ She brushed a kiss over his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Father.’

Selwyn watched her leave, a frown of dismay on his face. She might claim she hadn’t been forced to marry Jaime, but neither did she say she went willing into the marriage.

Unable to settle in his bed, much less sleep, Selwyn wandered into the solar and picked up the poker.  He stirred the coals in the fire, contemplating the complications his daughter had brought to the shores of Tarth.  The Imp. The Kingslayer, who was now his good-son. Her unborn child. Sansa Stark. He propped an arm against the mantle and heaved a sigh.  Tarth had weathered the recent upheavals because he had shrewdly remained neutral as a house, sending only Brienne when Renly called his banners. He turned to the large desk and poured himself a cup of wine, hoping it would calm his swirling thoughts enough to sleep.  He needed a sharp mind to navigate the coming days and weeks.

Selwyn heard a familiar snuffling sound he remembered from Brienne’s childhood. He peered into the darkness, catching a flash of auburn hair. Sansa was curled into a chair set back beyond the glow of the firelight, grieving for something,  Or someone, he reminded himself  It hadn’t been too far in the past since her father had been unceremoniously executed, and right in front of her, no less.  Her father’s death had been followed by the presumed deaths of her two younger brothers by that Greyjoy whelp, then her mother and older brother at the traitorous hands of Walder Frey.  And all that while she’d been a prisoner of the Lannisters. Selwyn doubted the poor girl had been able to properly mourn them. Something else for the Lannisters to answer for, especially Tywin.  He moved to the large cushioned settle in front of the fire. ‘I have large shoulders, child,’ he said. ‘Should you need one…’   

Sansa jerked with surprise.  ‘I am very sorry if I disturbed you, Lord Tarth.’ The relative tranquility and isolation of Evenfall had allowed her to draw the first deep breath since the day Joffery arrested her father. It wasn’t as great a castle as Winterfell, but the ebb and flow of activity as the day wound to a close reminded her so much of home that her throat burned and ached. She thought she could make her way to the kitchen, in search of a cup of something warm and soothing to help her sleep, but the emotions she’d managed to hold at bay for years burbled to the surface in a choking sob. The solar was the closest room, and she’d ducked inside it in an attempt to calm herself.

‘You did nothing of the sort,’ Selwyn assured her, indicating the space on the settle next to him with a few gentle pats.

She slid from the chair, and shuffled to the settle.  She sat next to Selwyn, straight-backed, wiping the heels of her hands over her cheeks. He pretended not to notice as she inched closer to him, tears clogging her lashes. Had he even glanced at Brienne in such a state when she was this age, she would have scurried off to lick her wounds in aching solitude. He doubted Sansa would be any different.  ‘Come, child. You need a shoulder to cry on, and I happen to have one available.’ His deep rumble sounded so much like Ned that Sansa burrowed into his side. She burst into great, gulping sobs, one hand clutching at his jerkin. Selwyn rocked her gently, murmuring soothing nonsense.  ‘Let it out, child. No one save me will hear you.’  

It was cold.  So cold it seeped into his bones.  He shivered as the wind cut through every layer of clothing he wore.  “Brienne?’ There was no other sound than that of the snow crunching under his boots.  Even the wind was eerily silent. ‘Brienne?’ He wandered through a veritable maze of stone corridors.  He stopped. ‘Brienne!’ he shouted, voice echoing off the walls. Had he heard someone behind him? He groped for his sword, but it wasn’t there.  A ripple of movement caught his eye. It was her. He would know her silhouette anywhere, even clad in a bedraggled pink dress. Where had she found that dress? he wondered.  He thought they’d burned it at that inn a day’s ride from Harrenhal.  He reached for her arm and spun her around.  Crystalline blue eyes set in a bloodless white face stared back at him.

Jaime woke with a start, gasping for air, glancing wildly around the unfamiliar chamber. His head automatically jerked to the side to find Brienne sleeping soundly beside to him. ‘Brienne?’ he hissed, shaking her shoulder.  

One baleful blue eye slowly opened.  ‘You are fortunate I do not sleep with a knife in my hand here.’  Her voice was husky and indistinct.

Jaime released a pent-up breath.  He hovered over Brienne, inspecting her closely.  Her eyes were the blue of summer skies, skin flushed and warm.  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he told her, tugging the edge of the coverlet over her bare shoulder.  Brienne promptly shut her eye, and presently her breathing was once more deep and even. Jaime pushed the bedding away and slid from the bed. Tell yourself three things that you know are true: You are in Evenfall Hall on Tarth; there are no sapphires on Tarth; and Brienne is carrying our child. He paced from one end of the chamber to the other on bare feet, placing one foot just in front of the other with each statement he made, balancing on a seam of the thick wooden planks of the floor. Repetition made his heartbeat slow to its normal pace and pushed the nightmare away just enough so it didn’t hover over his shoulder.

Eventually, he could draw breath without feeling the bands of fear that wound around his chest. All was well. For now. Winter would indeed come, but not today.

He drew in one more deep breath to chase the nightmares away, and glanced at the time candle on the mantle. He would know it was the hour of the Nightingale even if the candle hadn’t told him so, given the pallid light of the gloaming that limned the windows of the chamber. Jaime knew from prior experience that sleep would prove elusive, and rather than disturb Brienne, he quietly washed and dressed, and then left in search of something with which to occupy his mind until the others awoke. He recalled seeing a few shelves with books in the solar. Reading wasn’t activity he voluntarily sought, and it was fair to say he detested it. But only because of the memories of Tywin hounding him to learn to read properly, because no child of his loins would be perceived as simpleminded if he could help it. Jaime had learnt a few tricks that allowed him to read with some fluency, albeit with no small difficulty. Tywin forbade him to use them in his presence. The proof that his heir was not, in fact, perfect made them look weak, his father stated.

Jaime shook his head and added that to his growing list of things he ought to abandon when it came to his own child. He paused to hitch up his borrowed trousers and decided that his time would be better spent attempting to compose a message to Casterly Rock to have their things sent to Tarth. He wandered the castle until he came to Selwyn’s solar. The door was open, and the flicker of firelight beckoned to him.  

‘Late night or early morning?’  Selwyn’s sardonic query made him start. Jaime thought the room had been empty. Selwyn sat behind his desk, a tankard at his elbow.  

‘Bad dream,’ Jaime confessed.  He hesitated in the doorway, but Selwyn waved him in and gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk.  Jaime sat gingerly on the edge of the seat, waiting. For what, he did not know.

Selwyn reached back and snagged another tankard from the table behind him.  He poured a rich brown ale from a pitcher into it and pushed it across the desk. ‘Let me see if I have the details right,’ he mused.  ‘My daughter was a prisoner of Roose Bolton in Harrenhal, and he rejected my offer of three hundred gold dragons for her release.’

‘Bolton gave Brienne to the men that captured us. His pet rat rejected your ransom,’ Jaime corrected. 

‘Damn foolish…’ Selwyn growled.  ‘Why would they reject that much gold?  It isn’t as if they’d ever see that much again in their lives.’’

Jaime felt his face burn and he visibly winced.  ‘That was my fault.’ He drank deeply from the tankard before continuing.  ‘When we were captured, they were going to rape her. I didn’t…’ Jaime rubbed his forehead trying to erase the memories of his earliest days in the Kingsguard.  He’d seen Rhaella often enough the morning after Aerys had raped her in a blind rage over some nonexistent slight. If he went away inside, then Rhaella had completely disappeared.  He had no wish to see that happen to Brienne. ‘I told the leader all the sapphires in Westeros came from Tarth. And you would be so grateful to have Brienne returned to you unharmed, you’d pay them her weight in sapphires,’ he finished, gulping his ale.  

Selwyn snorted.  ‘The only sapphire on Tarth is the Evenstar’s ring.’

‘He didn’t know that.  It worked. For a while.  Then Bolton freed me to ingratiate himself with my father.  And gave Brienne to his pet rat. Who was so put out by the lack of actual sapphires, he threw her into a bear pit with a wooden sword.  She would have died.’ He looked down at the tankard in his hand, studying the surface. ‘I didn’t even stop to think about it. I jumped in to try and get her out.  I didn’t even have so much as an eating knife.’ He didn’t see the thoughtful look Selwyn gave him. ‘Then I took her back to King’s Landing with me.’ He’d had plenty of nightmares in those first few weeks after leaving Harrenhal for good.  Most of them involved finding her mangled corpse in the mud of the bear pit or watching her life’s blood pour from her body, while he was helpless to do anything. He’d spent more than one night lying awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest, reassuring himself she was alive.  ‘She was supposed to take Sansa back to her mother, but by then, Sansa had been married to my brother, and Lady Stark was dead. End of story.’ Jaime felt the knot of guilt in his stomach he hadn’t been able to quell since he’d been informed of the Red Wedding. He might not have shoved a knife into Robb Stark, but it had been done on his father’s orders.

‘How did my prodigiously honorable daughter come to marry the Kingslayer? Brienne didn’t see fit to enlighten me regarding the particulars,’ Selwyn rumbled, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts. Brienne would likely refuse to tell him any more than she already had.

Jaime coughed, ignoring the slur.  ‘Simple, really. My father said if I left the Kingsguard and married, as the lead judge for Tyrion’s trial, he would allow him to plead guilty and take the black.’  Jaime took another swallow of the ale. ‘I agreed, but demanded my choice of bride. And Brienne…’. He set the tankard down and rubbed his mutilated wrist, feeling the ridges of the healed scars under his thumb. ‘I respect her. More than any other person in the kingdom.’  He met Selwyn’s direct blue gaze, so much like his daughter’s, that Jaime couldn’t help but say the truth. ‘And despite her knowledge of all my deepest and darkest secrets, she respects me.’ He took another sip of the ale. ‘Marriages have been made on less.’

‘And failed,’ Selwyn retorted.  

Jaime lifted his tankard in acknowledgement.  ‘I don’t want to change her,’ he murmured. ‘And I most certainly do not wish to force her into a role for which she is not suited.’ 

Selwyn refilled his own tankard.  ‘Won’t she be the lady of Casterly Rock?’ If there was ever a role for which Brienne was entirely unsuited, it was to dance attendance on minor lords puffed up with their own importance.

‘Not if I can help it,’ Jaime shot back.  ‘One day, my father will die. And I will do everything in my power to obtain a royal pardon for Tyrion, and he will be the lord of Casterly Rock. Not me.’  Jaime drained his tankard. ‘Her place is here as the next Evenstar, and mine is with her.’

Selwyn grunted. ‘What can you do, besides stand around in fancy armor and a white cloak, looking pretty?’

Jaime set his tankard on the desk. ‘I know fighting and horses.’ He held up his right arm and shook the sleeve back. ‘Fighting isn’t much of an option these days.’ He gestured with his stump at the small bowl of fruit on the desk. ‘May I?’ Selwyn nodded, and Jaime plucked a dusky pink apple from the bowl. ‘Young Jaime never wanted to be the Lord of Casterly Rock. If he didn’t become a knight, he wanted to breed horses. The finest in the Seven Kingdoms. I did breed my own palfreys and chargers before the war.’

Selwyn sighed. ‘At least you aren’t as useless as nipples on armor.’ He refilled Jaime’s tankard. ‘We’ll find a place for you.’ He leaned back in his chair and fixed his hapless good-son with a stern glare. ‘This is for Brienne’s sake and — gods willing — any children you might have. Not yours.’

‘Understood.’

Jaime chirruped softly, clicking his tongue, while he turned in a slow circle, putting a spirited filly through her paces on the end of a lead rope. She would likely make a good mount for Sansa. How had the stable master described the black bay filly? Impudent. Like her dam, she would take advantage of a rider with an uncertain seat, but Sansa could handle a horse. Jaime reasoned she might appreciate being given one that wasn’t entirely docile. He had his eye on a young, good-natured buckskin gelding for Podrick. The horse was eager to please and a most forgiving soul. Brienne was adamant that Podrick should learn to fight from horseback, and while he’d made great improvements since they left King’s Landing, he needed a mount with more steadiness of temper than spirit. Jaime made a mental note to put the gelding through his paces on the morrow. It was nearly time for this young lady to receive a good rubdown and her dinner. He made another soft noise with a flick of the lead rope, and the filly trotted up to him with a whicker. She curvetted a little with a toss of her head. Jaime ran his hand down her neck. ‘There’s a good girl,’ he murmured. He slid a hand into his pocket and offered the filly a piece of carrot. She plucked the treat from his palm as daintily as any highborn lady, then nosed his chest, looking for more. ‘Don’t be greedy,’ Jaime chuckled, but gave her the rest of the carrot.

‘Jaime…’ Pod trotted up to him, breathing hard. He still held a dull sparring sword in his hand. ‘You have a visitor.’

Jaime scoffed. Addam would have sent word before trekking back to Tarth from Ashemark. It certainly wasn’t Tommen, nor Tywin. Either of them would have arrived with a retinue that would have been clearly visible from the paddock in the high meadow. Nor was it likely to be Cersei, who would have demanded traveling arrangements to suit a queen, and Walder Frey was more tightfisted with his coin than a Flea Bottom brothel keeper. ‘Surely you jest, Pod.’

‘Says she’s your aunt.’ Podrick mopped his sweaty face with a sleeve. ‘Alis put her in the solar. Brienne sent me to fetch you.’

Jaime’s mouth went dry. ‘Seven hells,’ he swore. Had Tywin discovered them? ‘Is she alone? Other than the men I’m certain accompanied her.’

Podrick nodded. ’Just her. Brienne had some clothes sent to the stables. Thought it would be faster than if you had to go back up to your chamber.’

Jaime motioned to one of the stable boys sitting just outside the paddock and handed the filly’s lead rope to him with strict instructions about her care. ‘I’ll look in on her after dinner. I expect to see you’ve done everything I’ve said. If not, you’ll muck out every single stall for the next month.’

The lad’s eyes widened. Evenfall Hall’s stables were extensive, and it would take all day to muck out every single stall to the exacting standards of Jaime and Osric, the master of horse. ‘Yes, Ser Jaime.’

Jaime followed Podrick into the tack room, where a stack of clothing sat on a stool next to a large jug of warm water and a sliver of soap. He stripped and performed his hasty ablutions, doing just enough to remove the dust and sweat of his day, then upended the jug over his head. He let Podrick help him don the clothing, then made his way into he solar.

‘I thought that was you in the meadow with the horses.’ The diminutive woman rose from the settle and held her hands out to him. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. She had to tilt her head back just to look at him.

Genna Lannister Frey — his father’s sister — was a somewhat buxom woman. She had the burnished golden hair that marked the Lannisters, and more than a touch of the shrewdness that Tywin and Tyrion had in spades. Just as well. Her husband, Emmon Frey, was a weak-willed, puffed-up dolt, who tried to make others bend to his will by simply repeating his wishes and desires, growing louder and more peevish with each repetition. Genna had learned how to manage Emmon so skillfully, that the man never knew his wife made all the decisions while he simply blathered.

‘Aunt Genna.’ Jaime stooped to brush a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I encountered Addam Marbrand in Lannisport.’ Jaime stiffened slightly, but Genna waved it off. ‘He said nothing. But the ship he arrived on set sail from Tarth, and I knew he had accompanied you when you left King’s Landing, and then when you took your brother to the Wall. Furthermore, he returned to the Westerlands without you or your lady wife. I merely added it together, lad.’ She resumed her seat on the settle with a bland smile and picked up her cup of cider. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Why you’ve chosen to stay here in Evenfall Hall is your business. I assume you have a good reason to do so.’

Brienne chose that particular moment to join them in the solar. Like Jaime, she wore clean clothing, but was damp around the edges due to an equally hasty wash. ‘I understand we have a visitor?’

‘Aunt Genna, may I present my wife, Lady Brienne of Tarth. Brienne, this is my aunt, Lady Genna…’ Jaime trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. Emmon was one of Walder Frey’s multitude of sons. Brienne was still inclined to spit nails when anyone mentioned that pile of moldy bones that went by the name of Walder Frey.

Brienne let out a soft, irritable tcha at his dithering. She knew exactly to whom Genna was married. Like most highborn women, she likely hadn’t had a say in the matter, and probably would have preferred a more robust husband. Alliances mattered far more than the desires of the heart. Brienne couldn’t hold Genna’s spouse against her. ‘Lady Genna.’ She inclined her head.

Genna’s eyes were transfixed on Brienne’s middle. ‘Ah,’ she breathed. ‘The pieces of the puzzle now fall into place.’ She glanced at Jaime and Brienne’s faces, both taut with apprehension. ‘Does your father know?’ she asked Jaime, indicating the pronounced bulge of Brienne’s pregnancy that had seemed to appear overnight in the last week that her borrowed tunic did little to conceal and much to enhance.

Jaime shook his head. ‘Not yet.’ Jaime ruffled his hair, then crossed the solar to the table and poured cider for Brienne and himself.

‘Well, he won’t hear it from me,’ Genna said briskly. ‘Not my news to share.’ She sipped her cider, studying them both over the rim of her cup. She respected Tywin as the head of house Lannister, but her esteem for him had plummeted when Emmon babbled about the terms of house Frey’s new alliance with the Lannisters. It was a grave sin against gods and men that Tywin and Walder had committed. So if Jaime didn’t want Tywin to have information that his wife might be carrying his heir, that was their business. Frankly, if Tywin dropped dead of an apoplexy before the child’s birth, it would only serve him right to meet the Stranger unknowing if his line was to continue or not. ‘Step careful,’ she warned. ‘You can’t conceal it from him forever.’

‘I know.’