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There are many ways two hedge knights can share a bed as they move slowly through the Six Kingdoms. A bed, or a heap of furs, or a covering of blankets on straw or earth or stone. They are the most free they’ve ever been, going from place to place, few knowing or noticing or caring who they once were. Maimed men are common enough, and though her height is conspicuous, she’s taken for a man as often as not.
Sometimes they face each other, legs tangled, his thigh between hers, breaths mingling. He smells earthy, sweaty and also of horses, but most of all like himself. She thinks that she could find him blindfolded in a crowd of men, and then laughs inside at the image.
*****
They have sufficient coin that when an inn is available they seldom have to share with other travelers, though they sometimes inherit the fleas left behind by previous occupants. “Agh!” says Jaime, slapping and scratching. “On the floor with us. I’d rather be sleeping in the woods with the beetles."
“Don’t be such a princess. The pork pie was good, and you’ve slept in worse places. There are no fleas in the Red Keep.”
“All right. You’ve made your point.” Jaime glares at the mattress and puts his head on Brienne’s shoulder. There are times when he enjoys taking advantage of her size and sturdiness, and this is one of them. She makes a fine cushion against the rough floorboards.
*****
They don’t use their house names very often, and it amuses Jaime when he introduces her simply as "Ser Brienne, my lady wife."
The reaction seldom goes beyond incredulous looks. The glint in Jaime’s eyes forbids comment. If that isn’t enough, a casual hand on his sword hilt suffices. She indulges it. She could deal with insults herself, if she even cared to, but it pleases her to allow Jaime’s male vanity in this. And in other ways. It surprises her that he should need flattery; she had once believed him to be the most arrogant man in existence. But that was a mask for the outer world. In intimate relationships, one in particular, he had been controlled, used, sneered at and belittled. It was hard for him to understand that he could be desired by someone who wanted nothing in return.
*****
But there are nights they begin coldly, backs turned, not touching. Perhaps they disagreed on which road to take, and neither will yield or apologize. They are both stubborn.
“I told you this wasn’t a road. It’s not even a track.”
“And I told you that the other road would take us a league out of our way!”
“A league which might have held an inn instead of a cave for shelter.”
So they face away from each other, clinging to their grievances for an hour or a whole night, only to eventually find themselves waking comfortably entwined. After that it seldom seems worth the trouble to continue the quarrel.
*****
Every so often they come to a castle or keep where they will be recognized. It’s a deliberate choice. They might be able to disappear entirely, but that had never been their intention. They had simply abandoned the game of thrones, surrendered their pieces to other players and walked or ridden away from the playing field. Tyrion had always wanted Casterly Rock; now it is his. Podrick is an able castellan at Evenfall. The realm is at peace, largely, but knights are still needed to protect and defend those too weak or insignificant to matter to the great lords and ladies.
On the other hand, even the noblest of knights sometimes long for a bath, a featherbed and even a feast. Clean linen sheets are excellent, but not at the price of overheard mutters of “Kingslayer.” So they choose carefully what keeps to visit, just as they choose which fights to join. At some they don’t identify themselves, are not recognized, are given a plain chamber near the stables and seated well below the salt.
*****
The best nights are the ones, rare enough, when they rest in the open under the canopy of a million stars. No rain, certainly no snow, the lightest of breezes, cool enough to want covers, warm enough to kick them off. Loving under the night sky feels like a blessing from the universe.
Caves, on the other hand… Perhaps there are romantic caves in Westeros, but Brienne doesn’t believe they have ever camped in one. Or maybe it’s the lingering memory of Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood. In any case, she finds caves to be damp, relentlessly cold, and smoky when a fire is even possible. At best, they are better than being in the pouring rain.
She doesn’t say this, but sometimes at night he reminds her of the way in which a child clings to a favorite toy or blanket. No matter what position they are in he manages to sleep with his hand resting on her breast. Draped over or tucked under, he settles it into his palm and sighs as his breathing deepens toward slumber. It’s the sigh that melts her, even if sometimes his hand is sweaty and she wants more space. It’s the sound of peace and trust, a sigh which says, “We may be wanderers, but you are my home, and I am yours.”
*****
They enter tourneys as mystery knights, or rather Brienne does. She’s still a formidable competitor in the melee, but if she is victorious, she prefers to take her winnings and fade discreetly away. Jaime seldom enters himself, though he greatly enjoys cheering her on. He’s an efficient left-handed fighter, and a brutally effective one when he needs to be, but tournaments remind him of the surpassing speed and grace he had when he was young and whole. He greatly prefers his current life, but he doesn’t want to invite the comparison, even in his own mind.
*****
Valyrian steel swords are a recognizable rarity, even with the gold and ruby hilts replaced by plain steel, wood and leather. They don’t use them all the time; ordinary swords suffice for everyday matters. Occasionally they come upon a couple of boys sparring with sticks; to Brienne’s disappointment they hardly ever see girls. Jaime finds it irresistible to stop and instruct them. They are usually startled and wary; farm lads who have seldom seen knights and certainly never spoken to them. They gape at Jaime’s hook and even more at Brienne when and if they realize that she’s a woman. He helps one boy whittle a wooden sword from a branch and corrects another one’s stance. They are both surprised by the weight when he lets them lift his blade; their thin arms tremble. Then he and Brienne move into position and spar at half-speed, demonstrating strokes and counterstrokes. “You’re too strong. You can’t be a lady,” one says scoffingly to Brienne.
“I’m a knight and a lady,” she replies simply.
The other lad speaks up, “My mam is strong, too. She can lift a full-grown sheep. Two sheep!” Brienne grins at him.
*****
Jaime sometimes misses having a squire or squires, not so much for their services (though there are times when help would be welcome) as for the pleasure of teaching them, evaluating them, learning what kind of men they might become. Occasionally he thinks of taking one of the chance-met boys with them, but he’s also jealous of the privacy he has with his wife.
Brienne thinks that he would like being a father. Openly a father, to children he could claim with no complications. They are careful. She has a supply of moon tea, and tracks the time of her bleeding. The time is not yet, but someday… This itinerant life can’t last forever. Eventually responsibilities will tug at them, and they will tire more easily. Already she can see how he’s stiff when arising in the morning, and aching after a long day of riding, though he scoffs impatiently if she mentions it. But she’s young – younger – she amends, certainly young enough to bear a child, or several. This is not something she ever expected, and the thought makes her stomach clench in a way both nervous and pleasant. Or perhaps she’s simply hungry.
*****
Jaime can hardly carry a tune himself, and Brienne always demurs uncomfortably when he suggests singing to pass the time as they ride. She mutters something about not making a spectacle of herself, and he hears the echo of childhood rebukes. When he breaks out into a wildly off-key version of Six Maids in a Pool, she spurs ahead of him, wincing and shaking her head in disbelief.
She circles back. “No! Like this…” and she sings the line back to him. He tries again, deliberately terrible, and she snorts, “Be quiet!” Then she takes up the tune in a warm, sweet contralto. As she relaxes into it her voice grows stronger and surer, and he sits back in the saddle, smiling.
*****
Lady Kenning of Kayce welcomes them pleasantly enough in the absence of her husband, but she can’t stop her eyes from straying continually back to Brienne’s breeches. They’re her finest pair, in soft brown leather, with high boots to match and a blue wool tunic. A crimson belt with a lion buckle is a nod to her husband’s house, to which House Kayce is sworn. However, the lady looks as if she wants to cover her daughters’ eyes against the sight. They sit down to dinner and Brienne would be content to enjoy the excellent meal in silence, but Lady Kenning feels compelled to ask, “Ser Jaime, don’t you worry that it is unsafe riding about with Lady Brienne so attired?”
Jaime has nonchalantly stabbed a piece of roast mutton with his hook to hold it while cutting it, and he looks up in surprise. “Why, no. Why should I have any fear? My lady wife is very capable of protecting me, as she has often shown.”
Lady Kenning opens and shuts her mouth, finding no suitable response, but one of her daughters giggles silently behind her hand and winks at Brienne. Brienne winks back. She’ll find time to speak with the girl in the morning.
*****
She never believed the saying that words are wind. Words are sharper than that; she’s been cut by them too often. But the cuts are shallower now and far less painful. She is a woman grown, knighted, bedded and wedded – best not to discuss the precise order of events with such as Lady Kenning – and she knows who she is and where she belongs. Her life fits her now, and that is the best thing of all. As Kayce disappears behind them, she smiles at Jaime.