Chapter Text
Two men sat across from each other in a room high above the sweltering city. Two small braziers burned on the ornate table between them. One pot shimmered crimson, the other blue. The scent of hot wax fought the less pleasant scents rising on the summer breeze.
One man dripped a crimson puddle onto the document before him and pressed his seal into it. A lion rampant. He added his signature, blotted it carefully and slid the parchment across the table. “Done,” he said. “As the king commands.” A swooping gull squawked derisively outside.
The other, taller, man added blue wax and his seal. Sun and crescent moon. He signed and blotted. “Done. His Grace will be pleased.”
“He should be pleased. This is his command. He rewards your House and reminds mine of his power. It is neatly accomplished.”
Cool green eyes met wary blue eyes. Neither man would drop his gaze.
“The winds of change have blown through the seven kingdoms,” observed the blue-eyed man.
“Which is why I accept the necessity of this match.”
“Do you have a choice?”
“Do you?”
“No more than my daughter and your son.”
“Have you spoken to your girl?”
“Only to say that the king has made a match for her. She is…” He stopped. “She’ll do her duty. I’ll see to it.”
“My son will do his duty as well, complain though he may.”
“One thing more. Will he be kind to her?”
A shrug. “I suppose he’ll be as kind as he needs to be.”
********
The sound of fighting brought Jaime to a halt. Caution and curiosity waged a brief battle. Curiosity won. A fight was interesting, and Jaime Lannister wasn’t a cautious young man.
He edged down an alley into a small, squalid square, past a pile of refuse swarming with flies. A big man with a leather helmet was defending a heap of old clothes. Jaime blinked. The man had a tourney sword and was using it with determination against half-a-dozen opponents; a gang. A knife skidded out of the fight toward Jaime, who picked it up.
What is this about?
The man was holding the attackers at bay. His blade had no edge, but it was a brutally efficient bludgeon. It smashed an attacker in the face. He staggered back, nose streaming blood, and collapsed, his hands to his face. Two others grasped the man’s legs, trying to topple him. The tourney sword stabbed down and one fell away screaming, cradling a broken hand.
The bundle of clothes scuttled backward, crab-like, and resolved itself into a dirty, skinny girl, trying her best to hide behind the man’s tree-trunk legs. Those legs were braced; the ruffians pulling on them had little effect.
The tourney sword struck one attacker in the chest and knocked him over, but another ran his head hard into the man’s stomach, and for the first time he staggered and lurched off balance.
“This whore’s mine. Go find one of your own,” said one of the attackers still standing, making a grab for the cowering girl.
“Villains! Leave her alone!” said the man in an oddly high-pitched voice, twisting around to kick him.
This was none of Jaime’s business. He had his own troubles, and no time to get involved in a Flea Bottom brawl. But the man was falling. He hit the ground with a solid thump, and they swarmed over him. He didn’t take it easily; he fought back with fists and feet, one against a crowd. The girl joined in by throwing pebbles, to little effect.
Jaime admired determination. The scene stilled at the ring of his drawn blade, no tourney sword this, but good castle-forged steel. He stepped forward. “Six against one is unbalanced,” he observed, raising his voice. “I could change the odds.” The dim light caught on the edge of his blade, and on the knife he had snatched up and held in his other hand.
The scene froze, and a swift, soundless communication passed between the attackers. Their eyes shone white. They hadn’t expected interference. There were multiple shadowed openings off the fetid square, and they scattered into them like cockroaches, sending back jeers from the safety of darkness. One ran at Jaime, and he raised his sword, but the fellow dodged. Jaime laughed and sent him on his way with a resounding thwack on his buttocks.
The man was getting to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth with a broad, freckled hand. “I thank you, ser,” he said in that odd voice, and reached down for the heap-of-clothes girl. She dodged his hand, and she ran, too.
“Wait, I want to help you!” said the man.
“She’s gone,” said Jaime. The girl’s footsteps had been swallowed by the dark. He sheathed his sword. “And I’ll be on my way as well.” He shouldn’t have stopped. He needed to get away from King’s Landing, and from his father, as quickly and quietly as possible.
The big man nodded and stepped forward but had to brace himself against the wall before sliding the tourney sword carefully back into its scabbard, with more care than it deserved.
Some qualm of conscience forced Jaime to ask, “Are you hurt?”
An indrawn breath answered him. Jaime knew the sound of pain, but all the man said was, “Bruises. Cuts. It’s nothing.”
So why am I lingering? “It doesn’t sound like nothing. Let’s take a look at you, fellow.” He glanced around. “There’s no reason for us to remain here, unless you intend guarding the garbage and the flies.”
The man picked up a lumpy satchel with a grimace, and tucked it carefully under his arm. They moved slowly back into the street, until they stood in the spill of light from a pot shop. Jaime was tall for his age, but he still had to look up at his companion. He saw dirt, freckles, a wide mouth, a broken nose and eyes as blue as a mid-summer sky. It was a young face, to his surprise, beardless, with a round softness to the cheeks and a fading pimple next to the mouth.
“I’m fine,” said the boy, for he was hardly a man, his voice unbroken despite his size. “Go away now, and leave me alone.”
Being ordered away made Jaime perversely determined to discover more.” Go away? This is a public street; I’ll stay if I like.“ He leaned nonchalantly against the nearby wall. “Why were you fighting?”
“The girl screamed. I heard her. She needed help.”
“She wasn’t grateful.”
A shrug. “It was the right thing to do. I don’t expect gratitude.” He turned away.
Jaime laughed at his back. Something about this whole encounter was pleasing his sense of humor. “That’s a fine sentiment. Tell me, what are you? Man, boy, giant from beyond the wall? You’re strong enough, and homely enough.”
That stopped him. He swung back around. “I’m not a boy!” The blue eyes held an astonishing amount of anger.
Jaime laughed again. “Fine. You’re a man grown. Over-grown. Do you like that better?”
“No!” He stomped away.
Jaime followed. This might be foolish, but it was highly entertaining, and they were heading in the direction of the Iron Gate in any case. “Let me guess then. If you’re not a boy or a man or a giant… It was your father who was a giant, and your mother was certainly a grumkin.”
The lad stopped so abruptly that Jaime collided with him. Then he drew himself up to his full height and yanked off the leather helmet. Lank, pale yellow hair spilled out to hang over broad shoulders. “Don’t mock my parents! And I’m a girl!”
After a moment of stunned shock, Jaime laughed harder. “A girl? A girl! I see that now. I see a girl with a haystack on her head!” She was improbably dressed in breeches, boots, shirt and heavy jerkin. Her eyes were the only attractive feature in her scowling face.
She also looked ready to punch him. Remembering her strength, he decided that he would rather not be punched. He rearranged his expression as best he could, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. The contrast between her size, her appearance, her voice, her eyes and her indignation was remarkable. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I spoke in surprise.”
She was breathing hard, and her face was red beneath its clusters of freckles. She pressed her lips together. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. After a moment of looking down at him, she gave an awkward nod, and a half bow. “I accept your apology, ser," she said with formality. "Your tongue is discourteous, but your blade spoke, and I am grateful.”
Jaime was reevaluating his initial impression that this was some Flea Bottom lout, or farm boy. Farm girl. Her accent wasn’t that of King’s Landing and her voice and words were cultured.
They continued down the street, side-by side now. She was no longer actively rebuffing him, but her full lips were pinched together, and she kept her gaze straight ahead.
“Where to now, my lady?” asked Jaime. “You are a lady, are you not? By your speech?” Her jerkin was ripped at one shoulder, but he could see that it had been fine wool.
She shook her head. “I’ve already said too much,” she muttered, staring determinedly at the dirty cobbles.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from here.”
“Excellent! Away is my destination, too.”
“Why are you following me?”
“Because you don’t want me to.” Jaime grinned. “I like a challenge.” In truth, it was strangely comforting to have acquired a companion, however unlikely.
That companion pressed a hand to her side, and her features pursed into a frown. She stopped, took a ragged breath and seemed to take stock of her injuries. Jaime had survived many bouts as a squire, and one battle of which he was fiercely proud. He recognized the look of pain, when a fighter’s energy waned and consciousness turned inward to focus on the body. “You’re hurt,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“No, you’re not. Let me look.” He examined her as he would have a fellow knight or squire; it was impossible to think of her as female. He thought one of her ribs was badly bruised, perhaps cracked; she flinched and sweat broke out on her face when he pressed on it. Otherwise, she was correct, her injuries were superficial.
He offered his diagnosis and she said, “I told you.”
Jaime looked around. The new king had made an innovation. Water was piped into several points in Flea Bottom, where the small folk could fill their jugs freely, rather than buying water from sellers who scooped it from the muddy shallows of the Blackwater Rush.
Jaime pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wet it at the trickle coming from the spout and reached up to clean the girl’s face, wiping dirt away from the cuts and abrasions. She allowed it, though she maintained her frown. He asked himself again why he was bothering. She looks no better with a clean face.
Arthur Dayne’s voice whispered in his ear. ‘I charge you to be brave… Defend the innocent… Protect all women…’ That was what the girl had been doing. So, who is the protector here? Is it me, or is it her?
She endured his treatment stoically, thanked him briefly and washed her own hands.
Around the corner they came on another pot shop, and the smell was surprisingly enticing. Jaime had missed his dinner, what with one thing and another. His stomach growled. Her stomach joined in. He smirked at her and she looked offended. He took her arm, feeling the muscles beneath her sleeve, and drew her inside.
They took a table in a dark corner and the pot man slopped two bowls of brown and two mugs of ale before them without ceremony. Jaime handed over a few pennies in payment. The girl was trying to be inconspicuous, but her eyes darted around with wary curiosity.
“Have you ever been in a place like this before?” Jaime asked.
She shook her head and eyed the wooden spoon and bread trencher before taking a small bite of the stew. “Have you?” she asked after a moment.
“Once. I was very drunk at the time.” He had come with a group of fellow squires, egging each other on. It hadn’t been worth how dreadful the next day had been, between his hangover and his father’s disapproval.
“Drunkenness is the mark of a fool,” she said primly.
“What are you, a septa? You’re lucky that I know a bit more than you. The rules here are simple. Eat, drink, don’t ask questions, especially about what’s in these trenchers, and no one will ask questions of you.”
“What is in this?” She took another small bite of brown. “Turnips? Onions? Meat…” There was a grayish-brown lump in her spoon.
“Pigeon, if we’re lucky. Otherwise… cat? Rat?”
She dropped the spoon back into the bowl of brown. “You jest!”
“Probably. I hope I do.” He took a bite. “It’s not bad if you don’t think about it.”
She took another spoonful but avoided the piece of meat. “I suppose.”
Jaime observed her manners. They were at odds with her appearance. She sipped daintily, broke off small pieces of bread and chewed them with her mouth closed over her large, crooked teeth. “Why do you carry a tourney sword?” he asked suddenly. “It’s a poor choice of weapon.”
“A tourney sword won’t be missed. I couldn’t break into the armory for a better blade. A hue and cry is the last thing I want.”
“Running away, are you?”
“How is that your concern?” she asked defensively.
“Because I’m doing the same.”
She looked at him with interest, but any questions were stopped by the entrance of two gold cloaks. She hunched her shoulders, looked down, and shrank further back into her corner, if such a thing was possible. The men cast a quick glance around, but their interest was in ale. They slammed coins on the counter, jested roughly with the barman, and drank quickly and noisily. Neither Jaime nor the girl spoke until the gold cloaks were gone.
“You weren’t happy to see them,” Jaime observed.
“Neither were you.”
He eyed her speculatively. “Why would the City Watch be searching for you?”
“Why would they be searching for you?” she echoed.
“That would be telling.”
They stared at each other in stalemate. She huffed and looked away. A bruise on her cheek was purpling. Jaime half-expected her to rise and stomp off, but she stayed. “You know,” he said slowly, “if they’re seeking a huge ugly girl and a tall, handsome fellow, each of them alone…”
To his surprise, she nodded. “Not two rough lads traveling together.”
“I notice you’re not disputing my description.” Jaime gave her his very best grin.
She scowled. “More planning, less preening.”
He wondered if she ever smiled. “Wait here,” he instructed, standing. He thought she would argue, but she pursed her lips, nodded and took another bite of brown.
He came back with two misshapen wool hats, bought for a groat. She took one, peered at the inside and held it over the candle flame. “The former owner claims that they don’t have lice,” said Jaime. “I don’t believe him.”
He took one of the hats, crammed it down over his golden curls and tilted his head at her. She took a breath, shoved her leather helmet into her satchel, twisted up her lank hair and donned the second hat.
********
They bought horses and supplies from a rundown stable hard against the city wall. The girl fumbled coin from her satchel and stood back, leaving Jaime to dicker with the stableman. Jaime noted that she knew something of horses, running her hands down their legs, picking up their feet, handling their heads, looking in their mouths and lifting their tails, checking for temperament as well as health. The two they chose were sturdy, non-descript nags, a piebald and a chestnut, mounts that Jaime would normally have disdained.
Non-descript was good, however, and the sturdy piebald nag could bear the girl’s weight. She must be heavier than he by at least a stone. What an absurd creature. She makes me feel delicate. Jaime had roughened his accent and been glad of the dirt already clinging to him. The stable man wasn’t the sort to ask questions and the less he remembered about them, if anyone came asking, the better it would be.
They joined the crowd at the Iron Gate to pay the unpopular new penny tax imposed on all who left or entered the city. It was meant for the roads and sewers, but most of their fellow travelers called it a bad bargain. “I’m a penny poorer and the road’s no better,” a carter grumbled. A woman with a covered basket of squawking chickens agreed. “Next there’ll be a tax on hens. There’s never aught in those taxes for the poor.”
The crowd moved slowly. Jaime didn’t know if the guards were examining travelers more closely than usual. He was accustomed to the smallfolk parting before him as he was waved through. No one had ever before asked him to pay a tax. I suppose I’m not a Lannister any longer. The thought almost made him turn back.
The girl had pulled her hat so low that it almost hid her eyes. She slumped in the saddle and assumed an expression of impassive imbecility. She muttered, “If anyone asks, I’m your idiot cousin.” She let her mouth hang open.
Not stupid, however she looks, Jaime thought. The guard accepted their pennies with hardly a glance. The girl straightened and closed her mouth with a satisfied tilt of her lips after they were through. So she does know how to smile.
They soon left the Rosby road for a smaller muddier way, passed without stopping through several villages, between fields of ripening grain, onto a still smaller road and then onto a track that led away from the populated outskirts of the city into the deep woodland. They splashed through wide streams and stony rivulets, and the sun was falling past its zenith before they halted.
Jaime pulled off his hat and scratched his head, fearing that the lice had found a new home. The girl made no sound as she dismounted, but Jaime saw the tightness of her jaw and the stiff way she moved. By unspoken agreement they headed into the underbrush, in opposite directions, to relieve themselves, and then rummaged in their saddlebags for food.
“Do you intend to talk now?” Jaime inquired, “or will we spend our entire journey in silence? For that matter, we haven’t even discussed where we are going. ‘Away’ is a fine concept but lacks specificity.” He drank deeply from his waterskin and took a bite of cheese.
“I can talk.”
“But will you? What are you running from? Or running to?”
That earned him another of her stubborn headshakes. “Why you are still here?” she demanded in return. “We’re well away from King’s Landing. We can go our own ways.”
“It’s for the pleasure of your charming conversation, my lady.”
“You…” she glared at him in exasperation.
“A knight is sworn to protect women. Since you seem to be a woman, I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need your protection!” She stopped. “A knight? You’re a knight?” She examined him. “I don’t believe you. You can’t be a knight. You’re no older than I am.”
“I’m old enough! I deserved it!” Jaime knew that he sounded petulant. A knight shouldn’t be petulant. “I was knighted by…” No. He couldn’t tell her that, couldn’t give too much away.
“On your honor?” She looked dubious, curious, and impressed.
He was stung by her doubt. “On my honor. As a knight." He grasped the hilt of his sword. "I swear it by the Warrior.” He held her gaze, willing her to trust his word. He would lie about many things, but not about this. It seemed vital that she believe him; he didn't know why.
She stared at him solemnly with her wide blue eyes and nodded. She didn’t say that she believed him, but neither did she call him a liar. Nor did she speak again of separating.
They rode on through the afternoon. The sun dipped slantways through the branches of beeches and oaks and Jaime looked around for a stopping place. They would need to camp. He saw that she was looking from side-to-side, doing the same. “Here, I think,” she said reining up and turning sideways off the narrow trail. Ahead was a nameless stream. She rode through a scrim of evergreens into a small clearing with a stony bank above the water.
Jaime followed. His horse tossed its head indignantly at the scrape of the branches. She had already dismounted and was hobbling the piebald. She rolled her shoulders. “This will do well,” she said. “There’s water, grass and it’s hidden from the trail. Find wood for a fire.”
Jaime bristled at her tone. “Me?”
“What?” she said. “Do you see servants to do it?”
“I see a maid.”
She huffed. “Find wood,” she said again, and began building a fire pit.
Jaime returned dragging the larger part of a fallen pine. He was quite pleased with himself for locating it, though still irritated with her. He became more irritated when she glanced at his prize and said, “That won’t do! It’s full of sap. Smoke and sparks is all we’ll get, if it burns at all. And how do you intend to cut it? With your sword? Go find me some dry wood of a manageable length. You may be a knight, but how do you know so little?”
Jaime had squired at Crakehall, where there had been servants. He had traveled to fight the Kingswood Brotherhood, where the younger squires had built the fires. He had been knighted by the Sword of the Morning! He was a Lannister, by all the gods, and he was being ordered about by a rude, enormous girl. A bloody wench!
He went in search of dry wood.
His efforts earned him a brusque nod of thanks. She had put together a pile of kindling and she made efficient use of flint and tinder. He wanted to repay her with silence rather than acknowledgement, but it wasn’t in his nature to remain quiet for long. Since she seemed to prefer his silence, he would talk. He enjoyed provoking her. “Where did you learn to do this?” he asked. “You’re high-born by your speech, if not by your looks. What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Bryony.”
She’s a bad liar. “Certainly. I’m sure your name is Bryony. Very likely.”
“So what’s your name?” she challenged, her face reddening.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, ‘Bryony.’ Jace will do. I’ll answer to it. Speaking of answers, you didn’t give me one.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, I mean how did ‘Bryony’ learn to pick camping sites and build fires? Shouldn’t you have been busy embroidering and practicing your courtesies?”
It was so easy to make her turn red. He thought she might not reply, but after a pause in which she prodded her fire, she said, “When I was at home on… at home, I would go out alone, when… I would go out into the woods and the valleys. It was peaceful. I learned to take care of myself. By myself.”
“You’re good at it. Didn’t anyone try to stop you?” She was such an odd girl.
“My septa tried.” She folded her lips tight.
“I see that she failed. I don't know if I'm sorry for her or impressed with you.”
She looked at him defiantly. Then her face fell into sadness and she said no more.