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Brienne of Tarth had been called many things in her five-and-twenty years: Brienne the Blue, for her eyes, by singers who liked their alliteration easy; the Maid of Tarth, by heralds who'd clearly never watched her take a man's shield-arm off at the elbow and reconsidered the word maid accordingly; and, this past week alone, unreasonable, stubborn, and, from her father, in a tone she did not appreciate, exactly like your mother.

She found, of all of them, she could not argue with stubborn. It was, to her pride, quite accurate.

"You are not competing," her father said, for the fourth time that morning – with the particular patience of a man explaining something to a child he loved very much and trusted not remotely.

"I wasn't going to ask."

"You were standing by the tilting yard with your own sword."

"I like the tilting yard. It's private. Nobody makes conversation at me there." Brienne did not object to conversation on principle – at least not with those she knew well – but she had never mastered the art of courtly graces and arch observations and she despised being made to feel like a fool by those who had. Her father's mouth twitched in sympathy. Like Brienne, Selwyn Tarth was the plain-spoken sort who’d only managed to secure his wife’s interest by placing himself next to Stannis Baratheon, thereby appearing the most voluble flirt by comparison. It had been enough to encourage the then-fifteen Alys Buckler to enter the lists when the tourney to find the next Evenstar’s wife was called – along with a full two dozen other hopeful young maidens from respectable families who wanted to be the next Lady Tarth. As a child, Brienne had begged her mother almost every night for the tale of how she had outlasted every other competitor through six straight hours of dancing, refusing twice to concede even when her slipper had come apart at the seam, until she had ultimately succeeded in displacing Melessa Florent from the top of the lists, stealing both the victor's crown and Selwyn's heart in the process. They had been blissfully happy for the next twenty years. Her death had wounded Selwyn deeply and, as Alys had made it well-known she wished to see Brienne happily married, the tradition of The Tourney was one Selwyn was now unwilling to set aside. 

“For a hundred generations, this tourney has been held to choose the spouse of the next Evenstar,” Selwyn began and Brienne quietly rolled her eyes as her father launched into a lecture she had heard a dozen times. “Tarth is an island. Our people look to us for protection not just against droughts and floods but pirates and storms and even ashclouds, should the mountain wake. They deserve a Lord or Lady who will fight for them and this tourney gives them the chance to see the strength and cunning of the person who will help lead them.” He sighed. “It is also their chance to see the future Evenstar can do something other than fight. That you know when to be patient and when to give way. The purpose of this tourney is not to show the people your strength but to show them you can sit still, in a gown no less, and be admired for qualities that are not your left hook."

"I don't see why I can't be admired for both."

"Because the last time you were admired for both, you did so under a false name, unhorsed Ronnet Connington in front of seven hundred guests, and revealed yourself by throwing your helm into the crowd. Half of Westeros still toasts you at feasts. The other half writes ballads. His father still sends me a raven every Feast of the Seven asking whether I've married you off yet, purely so he may stop being reminded that a girl of sixteen put his son in the mud in front of his liege lord."

"Ronnet was slow that year. Everyone said so."

"Brienne."

She sighed, which was as close as she came to surrender, and did not apologise, because she was not sorry, only caught. Eight years she had managed it. Eight years of small disasters arranged with great delicacy, a fever here, a diplomatic crisis there, one genuinely inspired incident involving a leaking roof over the great hall that had taken her a full month to engineer and had cost her the goodwill of the entire household staff. Eight years of not marrying, and she had never once needed a reason beyond the fact that she did not want a husband. She wanted her sword-arm, her island, her own name on her own writs, and – should the whole undignified business of heirs become truly urgent – she had four perfectly serviceable cousins, any one of whom could learn to sign their name to a trade agreement.

She had said as much to her father perhaps thirty times. He had heard her, in the way that fathers hear things they have already decided not to agree to.

"You could simply name Ertha's boy your heir," she tried, without much hope. "He's a sensible child. Bites less than he used to."

"I would like grandchildren who are also mine, and not merely mine by an accident of cousinage three times removed. Humour me."

"This isn’t what Mother would have wanted."

"We can’t know what she would have wanted; she isn’t here,” Selwyn said – more sharply than he clearly intended because he sighed, and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Sit in the gallery. Be gracious, if you can manage it. If you truly cannot respect any man left standing when it's done, I won't push further. But allow this tourney to proceed uncontested, that's all I ask.”

And really, how could Brienne refuse? Her father asked so little of her in the grand scheme of things. With a sigh, she nodded, already resigning herself to three days’ unmitigated boredom and the awkward necessity of telling whoever the victor was he hadn’t actually been chosen. 

“Thank you,” Selwyn said with some feeling. “Now cheer up. By the end of this, Tarth will have had a fine tourney and I will have had the extraordinary pleasure of watching you enjoy the swordplay from a safe distance for once, instead of in the middle of it with your sleeves rolled up.” 

“If someone challenges me to a duel, I will accept it,” Brienne warned him.

Selwyn gave a rueful nod. “I would expect nothing less. Only perhaps give the fellow the courtesy of beating him in private. I’d rather avoid a repeat of the Ser Humphrey incident, if possible.”

Humphrey Wagstaff had been a small-minded, sour-breathed old goat. Brienne had happily dumped him straight on his arse in front of the entire household. She doubted her father had minded that display one bit. What he’d really objected to was having to sit through Ser Humphrey’s whining over the public humiliation for the next three weeks while his collarbone mended enough for him to travel.

“I make no promises.”

“Of course you don’t.” Selwyn sighed. “Now run along. Today’s your last day of liberty; you might as well enjoy it.”

The morrow dawned bright and blue and cheerful – an added insult in the face of Brienne’s injury as she was trussed up into a gown of sapphire blue silk that had taken the seamstress three fittings to convince her wasn't a waste of good cloth. 

“Oh, my lady, how well you look,” was said to her on four separate occasions as she made her way through the halls and Brienne believed not a word of them. She did so hate gowns. Terribly awkward to fight in and a sword-belt always hung wrong on them. This one, at least, had been fluted in the back to allow more movement and the seamstress’ apprentice had quietly added ties to the inside of the skirts so Brienne could kilt them up if needed. Only she wasn’t wearing leggings underneath, so it might cause something of a scandal if she did. At the last moment, Brienne put her sword belt on anyway, over her maids’ mournful protests that it ruined the line of the bodice. If she was to take a husband from this mess – and that was a very large if indeed – it would do well for the man to know what he was getting. 

By the time she made it down to the gallery the seats either side of her chair had been claimed by Margaery Tyrell. One for herself – the natural prerogative of being Brienne’s oldest and dearest friend – and one for Sansa Stark, newly arrived from the North in the company of her brother. Who’d been gangly, spotty and thirteen the last time Brienne had seen him and was now grown into a handsome man of three-and-twenty (who was also a little full of himself).

"Oh Brienne, how darling," Margaery crooned as Brienne took her seat. “That is a wonderful colour on your – it matches your eyes most precisely.”

Brienne rolled said eyes as she unbuckled her sword belt. There was really no way to wear it comfortably in a chair like this. One of the servants stepped forward to collect it but Brienne shook her head and draped the belt over the arm of her chair instead. At her other side, Sansa leant forward to politely admire the embroidery on Brienne’s hems.

“That would be Hana,” Brienne said. “I’ve no skill with a needle myself.” And then, feeling as though Sansa’s compliment ought to be returned, added, “Yours is very fine as well.”

Sansa beamed with real pleasure. “Thank you. I’ve always been fond of needlework. There’s such a restful pleasure in it – each stitch precisely placed to achieve an excellent whole. And real satisfaction when the work is done.”

Brienne, who felt the same – only over sword forms rather than embroidery – nodded. 

Margaery hummed from where she was carefully wafting a fan over herself (less to relieve the summer heat than for the general theatre of drawing eyes to her cleavage). 

"You have amassed quite the list of competitors, I must say. Why there’s Oberyn Martell. And that’s Greysteel. That tall fellow’s Dickon Tarly I believe – my but your children would be giants – and there. Isn’t that Robb, Sansa?” 

Sansa peered down at where a fighter all in black appeared to be conversing with a large and shaggy dog. “Oh if he means to take Greywind into the ring with him, that’s cheating,” she said with disapproval. Brienne rapidly adjusted her assessment from large dog to actual direwolf. A smaller example of the breed was sitting neatly at Sansa’s feet, neck adorned with an intricately stitched collar and fur groomed into a far greater semblance of order than Greywind’s from the look of things. 

“There’s nothing in the rules to say he mustn’t,” Brienne admitted. Knights frequently trained their mounts for combat, after all. Why not a wolf? 

“It’s cheating,” Sansa said, standing. “I will tell him so. He’s only using Greywind because he knows he can’t beat Ser Jaime without him.” And with that she swept off to remonstrate with her brother, leaving Brienne to stare dumbly down at the field where a bevy of knights were still milling about, waiting for the marshals to call the start of the tourney.

“Jaime Lannister,” Brienne said a little blankly and Margaery put her fan down. 

“Did you not know he’d come?” She asked gently. “Oh, Brienne, I’m sorry – I would have warned you had I known.”

“It’s fine.” 

And it was. Brienne hadn’t seen Jaime since she was fifteen. It had been ten years. A handful of letters that first year and then nothing after the summer she turned sixteen. He hadn’t come to the tourney her father threw for her. Brienne had entered the lists expecting to face him. And he hadn’t been there. 

She’d known, in her heart, there was no reason for him to be. He was the heir to the Westerlands. He had no business competing to be Lord of Tarth. No man could hold both seats at once. But still. Brienne had been sixteen and very foolish. Believing a young man she’d spent ten months with over the course of four years might have meant more by his friendship than she had any right to expect. 

“Why is he here?” Brienne heard herself ask and Margaery gave her a sympathetic look.

“Some quarrel with his Lord Father, I believe,” she said after a moment. “Though whether over his own prospects or his sister’s I’m not sure. Cersei’s with him,” she added, nodding to where an elegant lady with golden hair was stood at the edge of the field speaking with a short man who must be Lord Tyrion, though Brienne had never met him. 

“He brought both his siblings then,” Brienne said and had no idea what that meant. If it meant anything at all. 

“They do tend to travel in a pack,” Margaery agreed. “Not quite as bad as the Starks but they certainly like to present a unified front.”

Brienne grunted. And then turned her attention to the far end of the field where Margaery’s brother was flirting with Renly Baratheon – who was only competing as a nod of friendship to House Tarth and would be utterly mortified if Brienne actually tried to take him as a husband.

“You needn’t accept him, even if he wins,” Margaery said quietly. 

“He doesn’t mean to win,” Brienne said, still looking at Loras. “He’s here to make a point – whatever it is – but he doesn’t mean to be the husband of the Evenstar.”

She’d thought he was promised to a Tully actually, or possibly a Martell. She’d deliberately not kept track of the rumours over the years. A childhood friendship and an even more childish infatuation hardly gave Brienne any claim on Jaime’s personal affairs. 

Margaery looked very much like she was about to say something devastating, so Brienne hastily changed the subject. “I was intending to join the fleet when the tourney’s over. Salladhor Saan’s galleys have been sighted off the south coast. We’re going to go see if we can’t roust them before they get it into their heads to start raiding. You're welcome to come with us, if you like.”

“Pirate hunting,” Margaery exclaimed, appalled. “Brienne, I love you, but certainly not. Aside from my utter lack of skill with a sword and general disinterest in scrubbing blood out of the decking, I utterly refuse to spend weeks aboard ship unable to properly wash. Buckets of saltwater are no substitute for a bath.”

“They get the job done.”

“Dreadful woman.” Margaery shuddered with great theatricality. The fan started back up again just in time for Oberyn Martell to look up toward the gallery and enjoy the performance. Margaery blew a kiss to him. He smirked. “In all seriousness,” Margaery continued and Brienne cursed her inability to divert Margaery from her quarry once she had the scent in her nose, “if you ask him to withdraw, he will. You were friends once; I’m sure he has no wish to upset you.”

Brienne opened her mouth to say she was sure Jaime Lannister didn’t give much thought for her at all these days but then he, too, turned to face the gallery and though Brienne couldn’t be sure across the distance she felt as though their eyes met. There was a long moment where they simply stared at one another and then Jaime pressed a hand to his heart and gave a courtly bow. 

Brienne had absolutely no idea what that was supposed to mean.

"Theon of House Greyjoy, heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands,” announced the herald with great pomp and circumstance and at a volume entirely unnecessary for a man stood less than a foot away from Brienne’s chair. Someone had stuffed him into a tabard of Tarth colours and the quartered rose and azure was doing absolutely nothing for his carrot-red hair. He was also sweating slightly, as the tabard seemed to be made of winter-wool. Brienne wondered idly how Ser Goodwin had wriggled out of the duty, since she’d thought her father would set him as herald just so someone was on hand to make sure Brienne didn’t sneak off to the lists. Ah. Of course. When she looked down toward the marshals she saw Ser Goodwin insisting Dickon Tarly remove his helm so Goodwin could confirm he was not, in fact, Brienne. Who he thought was sat in the gallery wearing the gown was anyone’s guess. Perhaps Dickon himself. 

The herald was still singing Theon’s praises. “ – blood of the Kraken, who has ridden south to test his lance against –" he consulted his scroll, frowned at it, consulted it again, and when he continued his voice had climbed half an octave – “against Yara of House Greyjoy. Also of Pyke."

There followed the sort of pause that preceded a wave smacking the shore with enough force to knock a man off his feet. 

"That's his sister," Margaery said, delighted, sitting forward so fast her fan very nearly went overboard.

"That's his sister," the herald agreed, faintly, to no one, and looked as though he was reconsidering several of his life choices.

Sansa actually laughed aloud, a very pretty sound, very prettily controlled, unlike Brienne’s tendency to bray like a mule when startled into it. “Oh she said she would but I didn’t think she’d manage it. Balon can’t often spare them both at one time.” Like Margaery she leaned forward to better inspect the competitors. “Theon’s not going to know what hit him.”

On the contrary. Theon looked as though he knew exactly what was waiting for him. His face was arranged in the expression of a man praying to his gods for a swift and merciful death.

“Do you know,” Margaery said, settling back in her seat. “I think we should do away with this sort of tourney entirely. Men should be made to compete as women do. For their melee they can try and arrange a feasting hall on short notice and their joust can be a race to see who can collect thread and thimble and needle first and finish putting a house sigil on a handkerchief.”

“That kerchief would be all over blood,” Brienne protested. “You know they’d all prick their fingers with every stitch.” She certainly did, whenever she borrowed Margaery’s workbasket. She’d been banned from helping with the household linens for precisely that reason. 

“What’s a tourney without bloodshed?” Margaery asked lightly, proving herself every bit the courtly savage Brienne knew her to be behind the smiles and pretty ringlets. 

“In the North a man must complete three trials,” Sansa said, still bent forward to look at Yara. “He must do something for the North, something for the holdfast, and something for the lady herself. Father tried his hand at writing poetry for that last one. It was,” she paused, casting about for a delicate way to phrase things and then was forced to admit, “truly dreadful. I read it once. He muddled every one of his metaphors and it rhymed in all the wrong places. It is quite possibly the worst piece of poetry in all of Westeros. Mother adores it. She won’t hear a word against it.”

Brienne smiled and tried to ignore the faint pinch of sadness beneath her breastbone. Her own mother had spoken of Selwyn like that. Loving all his plain, unadorned habits – the simplicity of him and the truth in it. If Brienne ever did marry, she hoped it would be to a man who loved her for all her artless, slightly awkward ways. Who would love her unembellished nature, rather than simply accepting it.

Down on the field, Yara Greyjoy was donning her helm and calling something very rude across to her brother. The herald turned hastily to Brienne. 

“Do you mean to permit this, my lady?”

"There's nothing in the rules that says she can't," Brienne said, and felt rather than saw Margaery's grin.

"That's exactly what you said about Lord Stark’s wolf."

"It was true then as well."

Selwyn, climbing the steps to the gallery, having apparently decided it was finally time to take his seat, chuckled as he claimed the spot behind Brienne. "This is good," he said, to nobody in particular. "I’m not the only man in Westeros with a martially-minded daughter.”

“Half the women in Dorne are martial-minded,” Brienne muttered. Then, twisting in her seat demanded, “You won’t insist she withdraw?”

“Not at all,” Selwyn promised. “If she’s who you choose, my blessings on you both. But will she be who you want, amongst all those competitors?” His gaze was very knowing and Brienne hastily turned back around. She wasn’t answering that question. 

The herald, apparently having decided they had delayed long enough, raised his horn and below Theon Greyjoy set his lance with the air of a man who had already resigned himself to a very long ride home. 

The match went to Yara, to absolutely nobody’s surprise. Oberyn Martell took the next against Renly (again, hardly surprising). Then Dickon Tarly beat some hedge knight Brienne had never heard of and Robb Stark (who had a good seat on a horse but was clearly not a natural lancer) won by a hair against Yara (who must have bribed one of the marshals to get back onto the lists a second time so quickly). 

“Oops,” Margaery said lightly, as Sansa gave a rather more sincere, “oh dear.”

Brienne sighed in disappointment. Yara rode well; Brienne had been hoping she would stay in longer.

“She’s always so keen to put the boys in their place,” Sansa said, a little apologetically. “She does generally beat Robb two out of three, but I suppose today was a three.” She frowned a little as she added, “He’s going to be unbearably smug about this.”

“He always was a touch overconfident.”  

He’d never been an unpleasant boy, from what Brienne could remember, but he’d generally been the smartest one in the room and more often than not he knew it. He’d won every game of Capture the Castle they’d ever played and for all he’d never once lorded it over the rest of them it had grated to be so constantly beaten at strategy by a boy two years younger. Brienne had a distinct memory of Jaime – two years older again – frothing at the mouth after Robb had not only routed him but done it in under five minutes after Jaime had spent the whole day prior carefully plotting his strategy. 

“He’s only gotten worse with age,” Sansa sighed. “But you’ll have heard about the battle at the Pass.”

All of Westeros had heard about it. How Robb Stark had held the Shadow Pass with three hundred men against a Wildling force of almost three thousand. 

“We heard,” Selwyn said. “I would say a little overconfidence is perhaps warranted.”

Brienne looked down at where Robb Stark was handing his lance to an attendant and swinging down from his horse. He was handsome. And clever. And skilled. He was his father’s heir so he really had no business being here at all. But he also had two brothers and two sisters – neither one of whom was set to marry out – and if he was here, there was a chance he’d decided he’d rather be Lord of Tarth than Lord of Winterfell. It would be a strange choice, but not an impossible one. Brienne snuck a glance at Sansa. She’d initially thought Robb was here for Sansa’s benefit – where better to find a whole host of knights she might yet take her pick from – but Robb didn’t need to win if that was what he wanted. And he’d clearly been trying to unseat Yara from the first. 

Tucking that thought away to look at another time, Brienne looked at the herald who was hurriedly consulting his lists now that Yara had taken the place of whoever was supposed to have been competing. 

“Ser Mark Mullendore will ride against Ser Garth Hightower,” he announced and the match moved on. 

And on.

And on.

The sun beat down and Brienne found herself stealing Margaery’s fan as the silk of her gown grew smothering. When the call at last came to break for midday, Brienne hastily excused herself to her chambers. Followed swiftly by Margaery and Sansa – who seemed to know exactly what she was planning.

“Don’t you dare,” Margaery said as the door closed behind them. Brienne paused for a moment, decided if both of them intended to invade her chambers without invitation they could deal with getting an eyeful, and proceeded to start unlacing her bodice.

“Brienne,” Margaery cried and bodily put herself in the way of Brienne’s wardrobe where all her summer-weight shirts and breeches were waiting. 

“I am melting into a puddle,” Brienne protested.

“They gave you too many petticoats.” Sansa gathered them up and laid them neatly across Brienne’s bed. “And that chemise is too heavy.” Shouldering Margaery out of the way, Sansa started rifling through Brienne’s wardrobe without so much as a by-your-leave. She discarded three options and then pulled out a chemise so sheer Brienne had never once dared to wear it. “Put this on,” she said and then scooped Brienne’s abandoned dress up off the floor. “It truly is beautiful but the fabric is a touch heavy for this weather.”

Her own gown, and Margaery’s, were both wispy bits of silk clasped at the shoulder and gathered under the bust in the Pentoshi style. Very fashionable nowadays and utterly unsuited to both Brienne’s height and the breadth of her ribcage. She was a little grateful for it in truth. She had no idea what she would do with a gown so flimsy. It would tear the second she tried to wield a sword in it. 

Sansa turned back to the wardrobe, muttering to herself as she perused Brienne’s dresses. Margaery looked on in amusement. 

"You have," Margaery observed, watching Sansa toss aside a fourth candidate, "an extraordinary number of gowns for a woman who owns exactly one opinion about them."

"My aunt sends one every name day. I don't have the heart to tell her I fight in trousers."

"Does she know you fight at all?"

"She knows I exist. I believe that's the extent of it."

“Well, we can’t help our relations,” Margaery said, sanguine. “All the more reason to take care when choosing a husband.” She said this with a speaking look which Brienne roundly ignored. She knew full well what Margaery wanted from her and was equally determined not to give it. A little disappointment would do Margaery Tyrell some good. 

With a cry of triumph, Sansa presented the room with a sea-foam green gown Brienne had no idea she even owned. 

“Hm. A tad out of fashion,” was Margaery’s assessment, “but a fair enough colour on you. On it goes.” She plucked the gown out of Sansa’s hands and attempted to jam it over Brienne’s head. Only she couldn’t quite reach so she succeeded in only smacking the fabric into Brienne’s face. 

“Umph,” Brienne said.

Margaery climbed up on a stool and tried again. Brienne suffered the indignity as the price of a very dear friendship and then let Sansa fix her hair and tug her clothing straight as the cost of fostering a new one.

As they made it to the Great Hall, Brienne heard the hum of voices from within, the crowd of men vying for her hand, their various family members and attendants, and felt an awful sort of paralysis overtake her. 

“I need a moment,” she said and something on her face must have made it plain it was not a request because neither Margaery nor Sansa argued with her.

“We’ll wait for you inside,” Sansa said quietly, and tugged Margaery away with her when Margaery looked as though she was about to say something witty because she never did handle uncomfortable moments well. 

Brienne escaped into the courtyard where the lemon trees were laden with fruit and the last of their flowers were still clinging to the leaves. Breathing in the scent, Brienne tried to marshal herself. It was just a luncheon. Yes, people were going to want witty repartee from her and yes, Brienne was going to fail to provide it, but that was hardly the worst indignity she had suffered in her lifetime. And she had promised her father to try. 

“What happened to the blue dress?” A voice said behind her, “I thought it looked rather well on you.”

Even knowing what she would find, Brienne turned to see Jaime Lannister lounging in the doorway. He’d foregone a full doublet in deference to the heat, instead wearing only a crimson jerkin over a fine linen shirt. He was – handsome didn’t truly begin to describe it. He’d been a well-favoured youth but as a man he was breathtaking. Brienne struggled against the urge to bite her lip, a habit she’d worked hard to train herself out of. Her hands she tucked neatly into the small of her back – she could stand at ease, even if she didn’t feel it – and nodded to Jaime politely. By rights, she should probably curtsy. But he hadn’t offered a bow, so neither would she. 

Realising his question likely required an answer Brienne said, “It was too warm for the weather.”

“A pity.” Jaime rolled off the door jam and strolled into the courtyard, all long limbs and leonine grace. He raised a hand to trail against one of the lemons dangling from a long-hanging branch. “You always said Tarth was pretty. But I hadn’t appreciated how beautiful it truly was until our ship pulled into the bay.”

“It’s a fair island,” Brienne said and then, because she did have some manners, “It must be nothing compared to Casterly Rock, I know.”

Jaime snorted. “Casterly Rock’s not known for its beauty. It’s strength? It’s wealth? Yes. Beauty? Never been high on my House’s priorities.”

It was on the tip of Brienne’s tongue to say how do you explain you and your sister then? but her tongue felt too thick in her mouth, all of a sudden, and she fumbled the words before she could get the first one out. That was always her problem. Her brain and her mouth never really coordinated when it came to courtly conversation. 

“It’s good to see you well,” Jaime said and when Brienne looked at him she found him watching her with an intensity she hadn’t expected.

“You as well.” 

“It’s been a long time.”

“Ten years,” Brienne said and forcibly stopped herself from saying more than that. 

“Nine actually,” Jaime corrected and before Brienne could open her mouth to tell him he was wrong, added, “Nine years, eight months, twelve days.”

Brienne stared at him.

Jaime shrugged, looking away. “Tyrion did the sums for me.”

Why? Brienne wanted to know. Why would it matter to you how long it’s been? 

“I should return to the hall,” she said. “I need to greet our guests.”

“Of course.” Jaime stood to one side to let her pass. As she moved to the door he said, “I’m first to ride this afternoon. Against Loras. I know you’re friends with Margaery but perhaps you’ll cheer for me regardless?”

“I’ll cheer for you both,” Brienne said and escaped through the door before he could say anything else. 

Sansa scooped her up the moment she made the hall. Margaery was across the room, wafting her fan in a way that said she wished Theon Greyjoy would take himself off. Brienne arched an eyebrow at her but Margaery shook her head. For whatever reason she was choosing to entertain Theon for the moment. Brienne let Sansa guide her to one of the tables laden with chilled orgeat and platters of bread and fruit and cheese. 

“May I introduce you to Robb?” Sansa asked. “I know the two of you have met before, but he’ll behave himself if I tell him to and it looks like you could use a safe den to regroup in.”

She could and since she couldn’t escape to her room, Brienne would take conversation with a man she could trust already knew her to be a little awkward in conversation and wouldn’t be offended by it. “Thank you.” 

A subtle gesture brought Robb easily to their side, Greywind prowling alongside him. The presence of two direwolves had the added benefit of prompting everyone in the vicinity to give their little group a wide berth and Brienne found herself breathing a little easier as the crowd pressed back towards the walls.

“Brienne,” Robb said with a slight bow, “good to see you again.”

“You as well.” Almost the exact exchange she’d had with Jaime but then Robb craned his neck back and said, “I’m not sure it's fair for you to still be taller than me. Everyone promised it wouldn’t last past me getting my growth.”

Brienne scowled at him. “Hardly my fault you only took part of your father’s colouring and less of his height.” Robb had more Tully in him than either of his younger brothers, though not quite so much as Sansa who was almost her mother’s twin. 

Robb grinned. “Aye, my mother’s to blame for all my shortcomings.”

Sansa swatted at him. 

“But how come you’re not riding in the lists yourself?” Robb asked, changing the conversation so swiftly Brienne was momentarily thrown. “I heard you won the tourney last time.”

“Which would be why I’m confined to the gallery, now. Father’s forbidden I be my own husband.”

Robb’s bark of laughter was a little too loud for polite company. He coughed into his fist to smother it, eyes dancing. “You’ll be wanting one who can master the competition then?” he said and Brienne felt her cheeks go pink. 

“Robb,” Sansa hissed but Robb didn't look away from Brienne.

“You’re for Winterfell,” Brienne said slowly, not sure she’d read him correctly.

“Aye,” Robb agreed, still holding her gaze, and didn't say any more than that. Brienne felt her blush deepening.

Sansa shot her a truly apologetic look and hustled her brother off, scolding him under her breath all the while. Robb let himself be led and didn't look over his shoulder at Brienne, but Greywind lingered just a moment too long before trotting off after his master and Brienne was left with her heart hammering in her chest and feeling like she’d very much like to escape to the courtyard again.

But. She had guests to greet and a family name to uphold. She made a circuit of the room, greeting everyone important enough to warrant it, and then slotted herself into her father’s shadow, where he was holding court with some of his own bannermen – all far too old to be contenders for Brienne’s hand. 

“Brienne,” he said, sounding a little surprised and then, taking one look at her face, offered his arm: a port in the storm. Brienne took it gratefully. She was not generally given to such lady-like gestures but the room would be less likely to approach her on her father’s arm. They would assume if both she and the Evenstar were engaged in conversation with their own bannermen at a function like this, it was business too urgent to be interrupted. 

Of course, that was a rule that applied to men who saw their place as below Selwyn Tarth’s. It did not hold true for Cersei Lannister – who had never once seen herself lesser than anybody – and who glided up to them in a gown of crimson that flamed against the cream of her skin and the gold of her hair and cast every other woman in the room firmly into the shade. 

“Lord Tarth,” she said, sweeping an elegant curtsy. “I do so hate to interrupt, but I was hoping to steal Brienne away for a moment. It’s been ever so long since we last saw one another.”

Selwyn, not suspecting enemy attack wrapped up in such a pretty face, handed Brienne over easily, ignoring the way Brienne tried to telegraph with nothing more than her eyebrows that Cersei was not safe waters. She was the roaring tempest that swallowed the fleet. Selwyn only frowned like Brienne was being silly and waved them off with a “take some time with your friends Brienne; the rest of the hall can wait.”

Cersei smiled, serene and guileless, and led Brienne over to the edge of the hall, into the little gallery where the minstrels sat during feasts.

“Oh do stop panicking,” she said, dropping Brienne’s arm the moment they were sequestered in the alcove. “You’d think I meant to stick a knife in your ribs.”

“Don’t you?” Brienne demanded. For all she and Jaime had gotten on quite well in their youth, she and Cersei had not. Cersei had never been permitted to train at arms and she’d been fiercely jealous of Brienne’s freedom to do so. Brienne, awkward and insecure and not yet settled in her own skin, had been sick with envy over Cersei’s perfect curls and rosebud smiles and delicately formed limbs. It had not been the basis of a sound friendship. Perhaps if they had met as infants, the way Brienne had met Margaery, Cersei’s beauty would have been something Brienne envied quietly and privately and grown past in due time. But she’d met Cersei just as she was coming to understand that boys with fine features generally preferred girls who didn’t tower over them, so they’d likely been doomed from the start.

“I would never risk getting blood on this gown,” Cersei snapped. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Brienne fought the urge to roll her eyes and then decided Cersei didn’t deserve the courtesy and did so openly. Cersei’s mouth turned down at the edges. 

“Yes, yes. Gowns are foolish things and I’m a foolish creature. A neckline lower than my own intelligence, wasn’t it?”

Brienne winced. She’d thrown that at Cersei sometime when she was fourteen and Cersei had just made her formal debut at court. She’d been radiant – as beautiful then as she was now – and already well-versed in how to deliver barbed little compliments. Brienne had lacked anything like the same skill so she’d just gone straight for the throat. They’d hurled insults at one another at full volume until their fathers had stormed into the room and banished them both to their chambers. Jaime had refused to speak with Brienne for a full week – which Brienne had felt was dreadfully unfair considering half the things Cersei had said to her – and then he’d knocked on the door, holding a practice sword, and said “come to the yard with me” and Brienne had apparently been forgiven for telling his twin she was little better than a courtesan. Which even back then Brienne had known was an insult three yards beyond the pale.

“What do you want, Cersei?”

Cersei was quiet for a long moment and then she straightened her already perfect poise and said (with the least composure Brienne had ever heard from her). “Father means to marry me to a Keyholder in Braavos. He wants influence over the Iron Bank. The man’s sixty if he’s a day, missing half his teeth, and his breath smells like old cheese. I won’t do it.”

Unbidden, Brienne felt a well of sympathy for Cersei. Her own father had forced her to attend the tourney but he’d also promised – easily and without Brienne needing to ask it of him – never to force her hand in marriage. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

Cersei actually twisted her hands in her sleeve before she smoothed them out again. “Ships leave from your eastern ports for Pentos all the time. Some go to Tyrosh and Myr as well. I have money. Jaime helped me sell some of my jewels and a few trinkets. And he said he’d send me money from his own portion, once I’m settled.”

Oh. Well then. It made sense. Her heart did break a little for Cersei – having to leave everything she’d ever loved and ever known, just because her father was an ambitious cunt with no care for her happiness – but it helped to have an answer as to why Jaime had come. He wasn’t here to compete. He was here as a distraction so she could run away to Pentos. 

“That’s why he came to the tourney,” Brienne said – a redundant repetition of her own thoughts but she still felt it needed to be said.

Something flickered over Cersei’s face – there and gone in a moment – before she said, very carefully, “It’s why Tyrion suggested we all come.”

Brienne nodded. It was a sensible approach. You never took just one ship out to repel raiders. Always sail in consort, that was the rule. Three ships could hold a trident formation. One leading the charge – the distraction – while the other two tacked to the wind and came from the sides. The trick was always in the timing.

“If you need to get to the east, you’d best go tomorrow evening. Claim illness during the meal, retire to your rooms. I can have a maid ready to help you if you don’t trust your own. If Jaime’s willing to claim injury after the melee and the two of you ride through the night you should make Eastport by the second day. When people ask where the two of you are, we can say you’re still ill and that Jaime is sulking over his loss. If Tyrion’s still in the crowd watching the archery no one will have any reason to doubt it until it’s too late.”

They would need tents and bedrolls. Food. Fast mounts since they wouldn’t be able to take their own without someone noticing. They would need a guide as well, since neither Jaime nor Cersei knew the road to Eastport. And Brienne would need to give Cersei a letter – something to show to the captains there to buy their aid and their silence when Tywin Lannister inevitably came roaring in to find out what happened to his daughter. This was going to bring a world of hurt down on Tarth’s head but Brienne already knew she would help them. Her father would forgive her, once she explained things. At least, Brienne hoped he would. 

Cersei was staring like Brienne had two heads. “Just like that. After all that’s happened between us you’re just going to help me.”

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“Because your father once told me girls shouldn’t fight.”

It wasn’t quite what Brienne meant but the real answer I feel awfully sorry for you and I would rather give up my sword arm than have a father like yours and Jaime would never forgive me if I didn’t do something to help you stayed lodged somewhere in her throat in a tangled knot.

“So you’re doing this just to poke him in the eye?”

“He said ‘no’ when I tried to challenge him to single combat.” 

Cersei looked like she couldn’t quite tell if Brienne was joking. “I’ll let Jaime know the plan,” she said after a moment. “And a maid would help.” She didn’t say thank you. Brienne honestly wasn’t sure if the words existed in Cersei’s vocabulary but she nodded as if Cersei had shown appropriate gratitude anyway. 

They drifted back out into the hall, Cersei making her way over to Tyrion – who was stood in conversation with Oberyn Martell – and Brienne to Margaery who’d finally managed to shake Theon Greyjoy loose and was looking dreadfully smug about something.

“Do I want to know?” Brienne asked as Margaery popped a grape into her mouth. 

“Doubtful,” Margaery said, speaking past the grape since Brienne was the only one present. “But know that I am unparalleled in fixing things precisely to my liking.”

This was hardly news to Brienne who had, over the course of many years’ friendship, routinely seen Margaery manoeuver people, places and things to fit some scheme or other time and time again. Were Margaery not in possession of such a thoroughly good heart and a genuine care for the feelings of others Brienne might have had more reservations over her tendency to meddle. As it was, the one time Margaery’s interference had ended in tears she’d felt so terribly guilty that she’d refused to leave Highgarden at all until Olenna had forcibly shoved her into a carriage and sent her to Tarth to get over herself. 

Knowing Margaery liked her surprises and also that Brienne likely did not want to know the particulars of whatever scheme Margaery had now concocted, she changed the subject. “Have you seen Sansa?” 

“She took Lady outside for a little light relief. If your next question was going to be where’s Robb, he’s over in the corner speaking with your father.”

“What?”

Brienne turned so sharply she heard something in her neck crack. There was Robb, talking easily with Selwyn and his bannermen as if he routinely held court with men twice his age. 

“Why’s he speaking with my father?” Brienne demanded.

“Because I told him to. No, don’t look at me like that,” Margaery added when Brienne glared at her. “He has no serious designs on you. He’s a terrible flirt and he does like women who can run rings around him but he’s far too competitive for the two of you to make a real go of it. You’d be bored by the constant games of one-up-manship and he’d be bored with anything less.”

Margaery took a studied sip of her orgeat and Brienne was increasingly certain that she knew precisely what Margaery’s latest scheme was. 

“I think the North’s a little cold for all of your favourite dresses,” she said. 

Margaery never blushed, but the flaring of her nostrils always gave her away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Brienne grumbled but didn’t press. She was glad to know Margaery had tipped her cap at Robb Stark. It settled a question Brienne hadn’t really wanted to ask. 

Which did still leave the question of what Brienne meant to do with the hall full of suitors – some of whom genuinely had come to vie for her hand. 

People were starting to drift back to their chambers to wait out the hottest part of the day but soon enough the horns would summon the men (and Yara Greyjoy) back to the lists again. The joust would last for the rest of the day, then there would be the melee tomorrow, with some trick riding if the melee didn’t run too long, and archery and wrestling the day after. All very traditional and perfectly designed to let various knights and lords and hangers-on prove themselves brawny, brave, and blooded in front of the entire island. 

Alone in her own chambers, having deposited Margaery and Sansa in their own with promises to join them again when the bells rang, Brienne sat herself in the window and looked down over the bay. 

The waves came and the waves went again, the same way they always did. The ships in the harbour were waiting for the tide to turn and the crews mingling on their decks were no doubt eager to get underway. They were the lifeblood of Tarth: the ships and the tides. They were all Brienne had wanted her entire life – aside from her sword and the strength to wield it. At least, that was what she’d always told herself. Had been telling herself, since she was sixteen and looking out over a field for a standard that wasn’t there. 

She hadn’t expected to see him again. Four years. Four years from the ages of eleven to fifteen of her father being called to King’s Landing to hash out this or that point about the navy and Tywin Lannister being there to argue with him. Four years of the two of them being thrown together for scant months at a time, chasing one another around the training ring, riding through the Kingswood, getting into foolish scrapes and then hiding the evidence of their misadventures from all the adults who would call them to task over it. It wasn’t much, really. Not when weighed against everything else. 

But he could have just said. Brienne wouldn’t have made a fuss. She thought she’d hidden her fondness for him well enough that he’d never know. But he must have guessed. Surely that was why he stopped writing; he’d been worried he was giving her false hope. 

It hurt: to think Jaime didn’t know her well enough to know she wouldn’t have been upset with him for speaking plainly. They were both their father’s heirs, after all. Whatever fondness she’d held for him had been a foolish dream. She wouldn’t have blamed him for saying so. Or for telling her he preferred maids small enough to tuck under his chin and whom he wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe to kiss. 

Letting her head fall back against the casement, Brienne stared at the water. They’d climbed  onto the roof of the Red Keep once, to watch the sun go down. Jaime had slung an arm around her shoulders and they’d traded stories of true knights as the sky had caught fire before fading to the purple-blue of an iris as the sun slipped below the water. Jaime had been delighted to know Duncan the Tall hailed from Tarth. Had said he wanted to see the shield still hung in the armoury one day. 

Perhaps he’d get the chance now. Brienne could ask one of the servants to show it to him. 

She wouldn’t do it herself. He’d not come to Tarth for her. She wouldn’t throw herself into his presence just to relive some of the fondest memories of her girlhood. 

She was to be the Evenstar. She had more self-respect than that.

There was still half an hour before the joust resumed. Brienne should get some rest. She stayed where she was and watched the waves roll back and forth.

The horns rang out and even before the first note had finished Jaime and Loras were barrelling down the lanes at one another. Margaery actually slapped her fan against her mouth, already braced to wince before the two men crashed into one another. 

Brienne couldn’t stifle a wince herself as Jaime’s lance slammed into Loras’ shield and shattered. Both horses veered off, carrying their riders to safety and Brienne could see Loras’ lance also lying in pieces as pages hurried forward.

“By all the gods,” Selwyn muttered and Brienne found her chest was too tight to do anything but nod.

“Do they know they’re not meant to be trying to kill one another?” Sansa asked anxiously and Margaery’s fan started doing double-time. 

“That was a gentle run for them, if you can believe it. Oh, I told Loras to swap with someone. He and Jaime never remember it’s just supposed to be a game.”

Except tourneys weren’t a game. Not even a tourney like this one. They were practice. For war. For the times when you had to hit a man with everything you had because otherwise it would be you going down and not getting up again. Every man of the morning had been performing, showing off for the crowd. Jaime and Loras had just reminded everyone that the duty of the Evenstar’s husband was to fight. 

A hush fell over the crowd as Loras and Jaime both accepted fresh lances and re-took their positions. A second horn call. The thunder of hooves again. A bone-numbing crash. Two more broken lances.

“Gentle run, you said?” Selwyn sounded deeply dubious, as well he might.

“Perhaps a little less gentle than I’d anticipated,” Margaery said. “I – I think they may have had an argument.”

“No.” Everyone turned to look at her. Brienne huffed and straightened. “No, they haven’t argued. Jaime wants to remind everyone why they’re here. Loras agreed to help him.”

Margaery blinked “How could you possibly know that?” 

“I just do.” 

Because Jaime had asked the same favour of her once. That last summer before they parted. When he was sick of all the court dandies waving their swords about as though they’d forgotten what they were for. As if they’d forgotten what the work of a knight largely entailed. Killers in fine coats, Jaime said, in his darker moments. The shield for the smallfolk when he was feeling less maudlin. 

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent. You can’t do either of those things if you treat it like a game.”

“Oh,” Margaery said. On Brienne’s other side, Sansa murmured, “Father said something like that once.”

“A wise man,” Selwyn told her and signalled the herald to sound the horns again. 

Brienne’s knuckles were white on the arm of her chair. Jaime lowered his lance and Brienne was struck with a vivid memory of the first time she’d held one in her hands. The wood had been rough against her palm. She hadn’t been prepared for the weight. In combat a knight would never handle a lance without a gauntlet but Brienne had run her fingers over the length, dreamt of the day she might have the skill to wield one. She could feel the phantom weight of the lance in her palm now. Jaime rose in the stirrups. Loras did the same. And they came together with a force that seemed to roll across the field like thunder heralding the storm. 

They both kept their seats.

The herald turned to Brienne. “Your verdict, my lady?”

Neither rider had been unhorsed. It was for her to award the victory, or to declare the draw. But it wasn’t a call Brienne could make. Both felt like the coward’s choice. She shook her head. 

The herald didn’t know what to make of it. 

Hating herself for having to do it, Brienne glanced at her father.

“The match goes to Ser Jaime,” Selwyn said quietly. “Ser Loras almost lost his seat there at the end.”

It was what Brienne had wanted to say. She would have sworn Jaime was the better rider. But she’d doubted what her eyes were telling her. Feared even if she trusted them, Jaime might have questioned why she awarded him the victory.

“Excuse me a moment,” Brienne said and left the gallery as the herald stepped forward to announce the winner.

Stupid. She was being stupid. She was giving Jaime Lannister far too much space in her thoughts. He wouldn’t have given a single thought as to why she’d named him the winner. Would have just taken it as his due because he had been the better rider. She was tying herself into knots over a man who likely hadn’t thought of her in a decade. She was a grown woman, for all the gods’ sakes. She was years beyond the foolish sort of flutterings that meant she couldn’t do her damned duty when called upon. 

Furious with herself and pride smarting perhaps a touch more than was warranted, Brienne paced the grassy avenue that separated the tourney grounds from the walls of Evenfall. 

She was still pacing when she executed an abrupt about-face and ran smack into Loras. Walking into a wall of plate armour hurt. Walking into a woman who was storming up and down the avenues was apparently equally uncomfortable. 

Loras let out a heavy grunt even as Brienne groaned and wrapped a protective arm around her ribs. 

“A little care with where you’re going, Brienne?” Loras wheezed. 

“Sorry.” She straightened a little gingerly. “What are you doing back here?”

“Looking for the privy.”

“That way, to your left,” Brienne said, pointing. Loras didn’t follow the directions.

“What are you doing here?”

Brienne opened her mouth, closed it again. The two of them didn’t really know each other, except through Margaery. Brienne had heard plenty of anecdotes of Loras this and Loras that but she could count on one hand the number of times she’d actually had a conversation with him. He was a good man, she knew that much. And Margaery trusted his judgement.

“I was going to award the victory to Jaime.”

“Well, yes.” Loras seemed puzzled she was even mentioning it. “He rode better than me. It happens now and then.” He smirked, inviting her to share the joke and then paused. “You said you were going to name Jaime –?”

“My father made the call. I didn’t trust my judgement.” It was no less humiliating to admit now than it had been to ask Selwyn to step in earlier. 

Loras was frowning slightly. “Don’t you joust yourself? I could have sworn Margaery said you did.”

“I do,” Brienne admitted. “Though not often.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say why she doubted herself.

“Well, experience comes with practice,” Loras said lightly. “It takes a tourney like this for me to get Renly with a lance in his hand – and you won’t find him in the melee for love nor money. He’s only here because he likes your father’s company. And mine.”

Brienne quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Come now,” Loras said. “You must know we’re settled on each other.”

“I did. I hadn’t known it was common knowledge.”

“Depends how you define common, I suppose.” Loras re-settled his helm under his arm. “We’re not paying troubadours to carry word to every keep in Westeros but we shan’t be skulking about pretending we’re both bachelors, either. I love him and he loves me. If the world disapproves, let it disapprove.”

“And your father had no objections?”

“Oh, plenty. But there’s more than one way for a man to do his duty. And mine hardly required me to give up all chance at happiness to see it done.”

“You are happy then? Even if people say it’s unconventional?”

“I could never be happy without him. Never let people tell you convention is a virtue, Brienne. It’s rarely anything other than the simplest choice.”

Nodding, Brienne thought she understood what he wasn't saying. 

“I told Father I didn’t want to marry. That this tourney was pointless.”

"I would argue against pointless," Loras said after a moment. "You should have heard Jaime on the subject, back on the ship. Went on for the better part of an evening, actually, which isn't like him." A small, private smile, there and gone. "His view was that your people needed to see the men fighting in this tourney care enough about their safety to actually fight for it. Tarth's the shield arm of the realm whatever happens with your marriage, and the Evenstar has the right to know which of his so-called friends would actually come, if Lyseni pirate raids ever graduated to a genuine attempt at conquest. It was a remarkable show of feeling from a man who generally pretends not to care about anything, I must say." He shrugged. "For what it's worth, I thought he made a fair point." 

"He generally does," Brienne murmured. A lack of insight had never really been Jaime's issue.

Loras studied her for a moment with an expression she couldn't quite read, then seemed to decide against whatever he'd been about to say. "Well. I do still need that privy I was after." He inclined his head, courteous and unbothered as ever. "Brienne."

"Loras."

He left her there, whistling something tuneless as he went, and didn't look back.

Brienne stood alone in the avenue a moment longer, then straightened her skirts, squared her shoulders, and went to find her father. There would be a banquet to survive before the day was done, and at least three more jousts to sit through. She put Jaime from her mind with familiar determination. Loras had given her a lot to think about. She really wasn’t inclined to marriage and this tourney was unlikely to sway her on that front. But the men here were more than potential husbands. And she had more use for allies at any rate.

Resuming her seat, Brienne looked out over the banners painting the field and started to make note of the men she would be happy to call upon should it one day be required of her.

Brienne was back in the blue gown, the weather having cooled enough with the sunset to allow it. She was strangely glad for it. Her mother had always said a good dress was as good as plate armour. Brienne had never really understood her, but as she moved through the room, her mother’s meaning became clear. Wide skirts meant men had to keep their distance lest they suffer the embarrassment of tripping her. It was for Brienne to decide when she gathered up those skirts, closed the distance to engage her opponent. She did so now, offering a curtsy to Ser Gladden Wylde of Rain House – who was hardly an inspiring lancer but who’d approached his match with real fervour, following Loras and Jaime’s example. 

“You fought well today, Ser. You are a credit to House Wylde.” 

Hardly the most gracious opening the world had ever seen but Ser Gladden was ready to take the compliment and he thanked Brienne most readily for her attention. He was also getting a glint in his eye that said he was reading rather more into her decision to approach him first than Brienne would like. 

“I understand House Wylde maintains a small fleet,” she said. Hopefully talk of martial as opposed to matrimonial matters would make her intentions plain. “Do you sail cogs or galleys?”

“Cogs,” he said. “Three of them, though I'd hardly call it a fleet – my grandfather's doing, mostly. He had aspirations.” A pause, and something in his expression brightened considerably. “Do you sail yourself, my lady? I should like above all things to show you the Gladden's Pride someday. Named for my grandfather,” he added hastily. “Not myself. That would be terribly forward of me.”

“I've no doubt,” Brienne said, and then, before she could extract herself, was treated to a long and tedious treatise on all the virtues Rain House had to offer and how none of them could possibly hold a candle to Evenfall Hall. Which was truly quite a beautiful castle and –

Brienne stopped him before he could say anything as daft as the castle being just as beautiful as its lady. She’d heard such compliments before and never understood the appeal of them. Stones and mortar were hardly comparable with flesh and bone. 

“Rain House sounds very fine. I’m sure you’re eager to be home again. But the tourney is only another two days; you’ll be there soon enough.” That said, she clapped him on the shoulder and crossed the room to find someone else to talk to. 

Courtnay Penrose seemed a more promising avenue. He'd commanded the defence of Storm's End for the better part of a year once, against a siege that should by rights have broken it twice over, and Brienne had heard enough of the particulars from her father to know the man understood a supply line the way she understood a sword.

“Ser Courtnay. I wondered if I might ask your opinion on something. If Tarth were ever to face a true landing – not raiders, a genuine force – how many days would you say the western beaches could hold before –”

“A fine question,” Courtnay said, which was a remarkable assessment from a man who’d not actually allowed her to finish asking one. “Though I find a man answers such things best over a full dinner, don't you? There's a great deal to discuss. Supply, terrain, the character of the commander.” He smiled, and it was a perfectly pleasant smile, and Brienne had the distinct sense of being very gently walked in a circle. “I'd be glad to discuss all of it with you. At length. Perhaps tomorrow, if you'd do me the honour of –”

“Tomorrow is the melee. I will be otherwise engaged,” Brienne said and happily let Courtnay assume she meant to enter the lists herself and remember just how well that had gone for him last time. He made a hasty exit before she could walk away from him.

A further two circuits of the room yielded less and less success, but Brienne was unwilling to give up on the hope that if she asked enough men enough questions about their ships, sooner or later, someone would actually have something to say about the ships.

By the time she reached Sebastion Errol, however, it was plain that not one man in the room actually cared about naval matters. Still, she picked up her skirts and stepped into the breach once more. Faint heart never won fair navy, after all. 

“Ser Sebastion. Your family holds the eastern watch-towers, I believe.”

“We do, my lady.”

“And how many men would you say –”

“You have very fine eyes,” Sebastion said, which was not an answer to any question Brienne had asked, in this conversation or possibly any other.

“Thank you,” Brienne said, and gave the whole scheme up as a bad lot. Maybe tomorrow, after the melee, when everyone was feeling a bit more bruised and a bit more battered, they’d also feel a bit less fond of flirtations. Signalling a passing page, Brienne gratefully received a cup of wine and finished half of it in one pull. Not in the least bit lady-like and entirely deserved. She looked around for either Sansa or Margaery, but the latter was flirting judiciously with Robb Stark by the windows, and the former was in earnest conversation with Tyrion Lannister of all people, hands moving a mile a minute as he nodded along and occasionally gestured with his own cup. 

Perhaps some fresh air was in order. 

Brienne was just turning towards the doors when a voice called, “You’re not leaving the party so soon, surely. We’ve yet to sit down to dinner.”

Swallowing a sigh – this was a repeat of the morning surely – Brienne turned on her heel. She did offer up a curtsy this time. There was a room full of people watching.

“Ser Jaime.” Her gaze slid past Jaime’s shoulder to his companions. “Prince Oberyn. Lady Cersei.”

Cersei returned the curtsy with infinite more grace and Oberyn offered a gallant bow beside her. Jaime seemed to forget his manners entirely for a moment and then offered a bow of his own. Like he had on the field that morning, he placed his hand over his heart to do it. Brienne didn’t remember that being a tradition of the Westerlands, but perhaps it was?

“I hear you have a passion for ships,” Oberyn said, nodding to the room at large. “Though it would seem no one else here shares that interest.”

Brienne coloured. “It seemed a safe topic of conversation.” 

Oberyn’s mouth twitched. His gaze said he knew full well what Brienne had been doing. Whether he approved or not remained to be seen but he certainly seemed amused by it. 

“Then perhaps we can offer more of the conversation you seek,” Oberyn said, gesturing at their little group. “I was just speaking with Lady Cersei of Lannisport. The fleet there is no rival for Tarth’s but I am sure Ser Jaime could offer some insights into its management.” When Jaime only stared at him, jaw working but no words brought forth, Oberyn added, “Or I could speak with you about Dorne’s, since it seems our friend here has lost his tongue.”

“Let us speak of Lannisport,” Cersei said and abandoned Oberyn’s arm to take Brienne’s. “Though I’m afraid Jaime won’t be much use should you have any real questions. Very skilled with a sword, my brother. Less so with sails.”

Jaime did find his tongue at that. “I’ve fought the Ironborn more times than you’ve stitched your name onto handkerchiefs, Cersei.”

Cersei gave Brienne a look that said men were very stupid. Not looking at all at her brother she said, “Considering I have never once put my name on a handkerchief, brother, that is not quite the comparison you think it is.” 

Jaime made a thoroughly indignant noise as Oberyn buried his smirk behind a cup of wine.

"I'll have you know I can name every point of sail," Jaime said, recovering himself with visible effort, and turned the whole of his attention onto Brienne as though his sister had simply ceased to exist. "Allow me to prove it to you, my lady. Ask me anything you like on any part of a ship’s business and I promise you I’ll have an answer."

"That's quite a promise from a man who once had to be taught how to coil a rope,” Brienne said, before she could stop herself.

Jaime laughed, polished and a little self-deprecating and unlike anything Brienne remembered hearing from him. She grit her teeth. 

“My education has come on leaps and bounds since then,” he said, and the tilt of his mouth was familiar even if his laugh wasn’t. “Come on, Brienne: test me.” 

"Fine." Brienne considered him for a moment, conscious of Cersei’s hand on her arm and Oberyn standing there, watching. "You're given an unfamiliar ship, badly balanced, hard to handle in a crosswind. What's the first thing you do?"

Jaime took a lazy sip of his drink – part performance, partly buying himself time to think Brienne would bet – and then said, “Get to know her before you trust her in open water. Every ship handles differently – where she's stiff, where she gives, how much she wants before she answers you properly.” His voice slid over the words in a way that made Brienne’s cheeks heat. She knew Jaime caught it when his voice dropped half an octave lower. “Rush that part and she'll fight you the whole voyage. Take your time with it, and even a badly balanced ship can be a pleasure to sail, once you've learned what she likes." He slid his fingers down the stem of his glass, vaguely obscene. Then he tipped his eyebrow in such deliberate provocation that Brienne felt her composure snap.

“Ass.” 

Jaime burst out laughing. Brienne’s colour deepened. Cersei’s hand bit into Brienne’s arm in what was clearly a warning – though whether it was meant to signal a call to retreat or a call to advance Brienne didn’t know. 

When Jaime finally finished laughing he took another sip of wine, eyes still dancing. “You still blush so damn easily.”

Brienne proved him right by continuing to blush bright as a beacon. “Your sense of humour is one thing I haven’t missed,” she snapped at him and Jaime’s face went very blank for a moment before that practiced smile slid back into place. 

“Nonsense,” he said airily, “I’m sure you’ve mourned its absence every day.”

Something in the precisely-engineered carelessness of it all left an itch in Brienne’s gut. She wasn’t sorry for snapping at him – he was being deliberately irritating – but that particular tone was an echo of a much younger man telling a much younger Brienne he didn’t much care what his father thought of him. 

“It would seem the two of you have much to discuss,” Oberyn said carefully, gently picking Cersei’s hand up off Brienne’s arm again. “Perhaps we might –” but whatever the four of them might or might not have done remained a mystery as the steward, with great enthusiasm and little sense of proportion, struck the gong to mark the start of the feast and hurry everyone to their seats. 

By long-standing tradition, the high table at Tarth’s tourneys was given over to whichever competitors had most impressed those watching. Brienne’s great-great-grandfather had tired of listening to men he barely knew and had little patience for squabble over who should be nearest to the salt, so he’d declared that the lists would determine the seating and that if a man wanted a seat at high table he could damn well try to earn one. Brienne had no particular quarrel with this tradition – she felt questions of precedence should be solved that way more often – save that the man currently at the top of the lists was Jaime. Meaning he was sat at Selwyn’s right hand and Brienne was at his, with Robb on her other. And neither one of those options suggested a particularly restful evening ahead of her. She would have liked to swap places with Loras – who’d been given the seat to Selwyn’s left, next to Dickon Tarly. Dickon seemed a steady sort, if utterly lacking in anything resembling rousing conversation, but considering Brienne herself was hardly a master of the art, she thought they would have gotten on quite nicely. 

As it was, before the first course was even served, Robb was sprawled lazily in his seat, Greywind at his elbow, flirting like Brienne didn’t know full well he’d likely end the tourney betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. 

"Out of morbid curiosity," Robb said, serving Brienne a choice bit of fish and then handing the platter past her to Jaime without looking at him, "do you remember those games of Capture the Castle we used to play when we were children in King’s Landing?” 

“Yes,” Brienne said, not entirely sure where Robb was going with this. On her far side the faint noise of irritation Jaime made said he remembered those games as well. 

“If I’d asked for a kiss as a forfeit,” Robb went on, “would you have given me one?"

Brienne stared at him. 

“I only ask because I won my games today as well. And I’ve yet to receive a reward for them.”

Brienne stared some more. Robb winked. 

“If you’d tried for a kiss,” Brienne told him, “I would have shoved you into Blackwater Bay.” 

“A little harsh.”

“You were nine.”

“Thirteen by the time we all parted.” Robb chewed a mouthful of fish. “And I promise you my skills have improved considerably since.”

Brienne tried to say that perhaps he should save a demonstration of those skills for Margaery since she was the only one who was interested in them, but the structure of the sentence got muddled coming past her teeth and all she ended up saying was “I’d like to see it.”

Robb’s eyebrows hit his hairline. Brienne buried her face in her hand and Jaime – who up until this point had seemed determined to ignore them both – whipped round to stare at her.

“I did not mean that,” Brienne informed her palm. She could feel Robb’s shoulders shaking as he did her the courtesy of not laughing right in her face. 

“There, there,” he told her – sounding so much like Margaery that Brienne could hardly believe they’d only just met, “I’m dreadfully handsome and terribly clever. It makes me quite irresistible, I’m sure.” Oh he was definitely quoting Margaery. When he patted her hand Brienne had no doubt it was a parody. She glared at him past her fingers and received a boyish grin in reply. 

“The only thing anyone says about you Stark is you’re too full of your own self-importance to know when you’ve been beaten.” Jaime’s voice cut across the table, slicing cleanly through Robb’s laughter.

His face thinned in the first stirrings of anger and Brienne was abruptly reminded of how the two of them had been banned from sharing meals together after that first summer.

“I wouldn’t know much about being beaten, Lannister. By my count I won every time I went up against you.”

“In a children’s game with no stakes and no consequences. You never once got in the ring with me.”

“Well, no,” Robb drawled, “I was four years your junior. Would hardly have been sporting of you, would it?”

Brienne could hear Jaime’s teeth grinding.

“And sporting’s demanding a kiss from a woman who owes you nothing, after you scraped a victory by sheer luck and then spent the day flirting with her friend, is it?”

Startled, Brienne turned round at the real venom in Jaime’s voice. He thought Robb in earnest, she realised – that he was playing her and Margaery both for fools. It – it was very gallant, she decided. Very like Jaime. A little redundant when applied to her (unlike most maidens in need of defending she had a sword of her own and a shield to go with it) but she was warmed by the gesture. Rather more than was warranted, perhaps. Knights were supposed to be gallant. It must be a learned skill for Jaime by this point. It didn’t mean anything other than being his habit. Made worse because he and Robb didn’t particularly like one another and Jaime no doubt took pleasure in scolding Robb over his manners. She opened her mouth to correct the assumption but Robb put paid to any attempt at peacekeeping by leaning forward to say, “Careful, Lannister. Almost sounds like you care what she thinks of me."

Jaime snarled, loud enough that Greywind’s head came up in answer. "I care that you're making a fool of her in front of half the hall," Jaime snapped. “If you're looking for sport, Stark, go find it elsewhere.” 

"I am sitting right here," Brienne said, to absolutely no effect.

"Funny." Robb reached for his cup, eyes never leaving Jaime. “If memory serves me correctly, I’m not the one who liked to toy with girls’ feelings.”

“Enough,” Brienne said, with enough force that they both jerked to stare at her. “Whatever this is, it ends now. If you’re both foolish enough to still bear a grudge from your childhood you can settle it in the melee tomorrow. He,” she added, pointing at Greywind, “will not be entering. I don’t care what the rules say. I don’t trust him not to tear someone’s throat out by mistake.” Greywind’s growl was still rumbling across the table so Brienne felt that was a perfectly reasonable assessment. 

“It would be cheating anyway,” Jaime muttered, which had Robb furious again until Brienne snapped, “Sansa said the same thing so don’t start.”

Robb dropped back to his seat, jaw tight. “I see that hasn’t changed: still taking his side.”

Jaime shot him a smug look. 

Brienne grit her teeth and took two very careful breaths. “We will finish this meal in silence,” she said. “I will hear not one word from either of you until the minstrels step forward. If either of you tries to start an argument, I will personally escort that man back to his ship and have him confined there until the end of the tourney. Is that clear?”

She received two terse nods in reply. 

“Good.” Shoving a mouthful of now slightly-cold fish into her mouth Brienne chewed to cover her resentment. She did not like having to play den-mother. She’d had to do it more than once when they were children, the boys automatically turning to the only girl in the room to solve their squabbles. She’d had no patience for it then, either, though she’d wanted their friendship enough at the time to allow it. And Jaime had done what he could to stop them all treating her like a mediator after she’d told him how much she disliked it. 

But it would seem he’d forgotten that lesson, along with forgetting Brienne needed no champion and could fight her own battles. 

From his place past Jaime’s shoulder her father shot Brienne a slightly concerned glance but Brienne only shook her head. Survive the meal. Survive the dancing. Go to bed. A simple enough set of steps. But simple had never been the same thing as easy.

When the minstrels stepped forward, Brienne made her escape to the courtyard. Neither Robb nor Jaime tried to stop her, still holding to the stricture of silence she’d placed on them. Brienne took a seat on the bench and stared up at the gibbous moon hanging low overhead. 

She wasn’t surprised when she heard the swish of skirts in the doorway. 

Margaery and Sansa sank down on the bench beside her. Margaery tucked her head onto Brienne’s shoulder.

“That looked like a remarkably uncomfortable dinner.”

“It was.”

“Was it Robb’s fault?” Sansa asked. “If so, I’m sorry. I did tell him not to be an ass if he had to share the meal with Ser Jaime.”

“They were both asses,” Brienne said and then sighed. “Why do men always have to –” she gestured formlessly. Unable to think of a polite way to say try to prove which one of them has the bigger cock. 

“Fear, I think,” Margaery said, squeezing Brienne’s hand gently. “They know we don’t really need them so they make fools of themselves trying to prove that we do.”

Sansa sighed delicately. When Brienne raised an arm in invitation she quickly tucked herself into the hug as well. “Mother always says it’s the mark of a good man versus a poor one: whether or not he makes your life harder by being in it.”

“How are you supposed to tell?” Surely that kind of understanding only came after years of marriage and you were both rather stuck by then.

“I don’t know,” Sansa admitted. “Maybe all you can really do is spot the ones who make it bad from the off and avoid them.”

Which was not at all as inspiring a prospect as Lady Catelyn had no doubt intended her wisdom to be.

“I think you know,” Margaery said, quietly. “I think when you meet a good man you know he’s good. Even if he’s sometimes highly irritating.”

Unbidden, Brienne’s mind flashed to Jaime. As it had so often, all day. He was a good man. Or he had been, when he was younger. Brienne didn’t really think that had changed. He was just … different than he had been. But then so was she, she supposed. That’s what came from getting older.

They stayed, sitting out in the moonlight, for as long as Brienne dared. But, however irritated she was with two men who had at one point been her friends she could hardly hide from the entirety of her guests all night. Carefully extracting herself from between Sansa and Margaery, Brienne stood and shook out her skirts. She’d survived the meal. Now she only had to survive the dancing. Then she could go to bed.

The three of them re-entered the hall just as the minstrels closed the first dance. Sansa’s attention was immediately claimed by Larissa Estermont who cooed over her gown. With a press of the hand, Margaery drifted away to speak with Robb – who was standing stiffly in one corner like a chastised little boy. A little churlishly, Brienne wished Margaery well of him. Turning back to the dancers she saw Oberyn spin Cersei into the final turn and for a moment was struck by how – soft – Cersei seemed. Brienne could hardly claim to know Cersei well but she’d never seen her look quite so unguarded before. Feeling it was perhaps rude to stare, Brienne hastily looked away as around the rooms couples bowed and curtsied and moved away to find other partners. Brienne was just moving to ask Ser Goodwin if he’d perform the small favour of dancing with her when a warm hand closed over hers and Jaime pulled her into his arms with a brusque, “dance with me.”

“You might have asked,” Brienne said as the pipes struck up again. 

“That was me asking.”

He wasn’t looking at her, which Brienne felt was dreadfully rude when he had his hand round her waist even though the dance didn’t call for it. 

“Either look at me or let me go,” Brienne snapped. “But don’t use me as a shield.”

Jaime’s gaze jerked to hers. For a moment she thought he really would let her go, but his hand only settled more comfortably around her waist and he nodded. 

“My apologies. May I have this dance, my lady?”

“You may.”

This was very foolish. She could feel the shape of Jaime’s hand through the silk of her dress and Brienne really had thought she was over such girlish longings at this point. As fond as Brienne’s memories were, she didn’t know Jaime now. And the fact that a girl of fifteen had been half-in-love with the boy who’d taught her how to throw a knife and roll an apple from shoulder to elbow should hold no sway with a woman ten years her senior. 

But. He was so very, very handsome. 

And charming, when he wished to be.

He apparently wished to be so now, because he gave Brienne a smile that looked a touch too practiced to be genuine and spun Brienne under his arm in the first turn of the dance. 

“You dance beautifully,” he said, when she came back round to him, which was a bald-faced lie, since Brienne largely danced the way she imagined a newly-broken warhorse might: competent under strict supervision and prone to sudden, alarming lurches.

“I do not.”

“No,” Jaime agreed smoothly, “but it would have been terribly unchivalrous of me to say so, and I do pride myself on my courtesy.” Which was an utterly outrageous thing to say considering how he’d behaved at dinner. They turned again, Jaime’s hand warm and sure at her waist, guiding Brienne through a misstep so smoothly she almost didn't notice she'd made one. He moved beautifully, Brienne would give him that much. Perfectly practised and perfectly poised, in a way that said he’d spent a great deal of the last decade at court, whilst Brienne had been out riding the beach and chasing pirates. He’d likely hated that. Fuck me, but court life is boring. Give me work, give me purpose, give me something. I’ll take mud in my teeth and rain in my boots if I must, Brienne, but for the love of the gods don’t make me sit idle.

Except the Jaime who’d said that hadn’t had a court mask worth looking at. He’d been brash and bold – quick-tongued and quick-tempered. The man dancing with her now smiled past whatever he was actually feeling and (aside from that little tiff with Robb) his tongue hadn’t so much run away with him as it had been perfectly primed with quips and flirtations all day. She’d watched him, after his match with Loras, leaning on the fence, talking easily with anyone who approached him and bowing over ladies’ hands in a way that made them giggle and flutter their lashes. Nothing of the young man who’d once stumbled into a pond trying to recite poetry at her. For practice, he’d claimed. Brienne’s only advice had been to watch where he was going next time.

“Tell me, my lady,” Jaime said, as the music swelled again, “has Tarth's tourney left you quite overwhelmed with admirers? I count at least four men who haven't stopped staring since the music started.”

Brienne glanced over her shoulder. “Three of them are staring at you, wondering if you mean to steal their chance at victory.”

“And the fourth?”

“Wondering if I've broken your toes yet.”

Jaime laughed – startled out of him and stifled before she could enjoy it properly. “Well then he’s a fool. You’ve never once stepped in a bout anywhere but where you meant to. I can’t see why a dance would be different.” He drew her a fraction closer than the dance strictly required, still with that same easy confidence. Brienne found she enjoyed being on the end of his flirtations rather less than she thought she might. “We can speak, you know,” he told her. “There’s no rule against conversation while dancing. So far all I’ve had from you is a scolding across the fish course.”

“You were being an ass.”

“I frequently am. It's part of my considerable charm.” He spun her through another turn and then put his mouth to her ear, the picture of a gallant knight complimenting his partner's dancing. “Walk with me in the gardens after this. I need to speak with you, and it can't be here.”

His voice was low and urgent though his face when he pulled away was still a perfect mask. Brienne swallowed the first two things she wished to say – namely when did you become such a good liar? – and simply nodded.

“Alright.”

They finished the dance with Jaime still tipping meaningless pleasantries at her, Brienne hardly bothering to bat them away, and then the music stopped and the guests were applauding and Jaime tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out into the gardens. 

As she left the hall, Brienne caught her father’s eye. He raised an eyebrow – leaving with the heir to the Westerlands would set tongues wagging – but accepted Brienne’s short nod to say she knew what she was doing. Yes, people would talk. But they would talk in a way she could already see would be useful – for Cersei and Jaime, if not quite for Brienne herself. 

There were a handful of other couples strolling between the cypress trees, the scent of myrtle heavy in the air. Jaime turned them down one of the empty paths, where moonlight was lying dappled over the gravel and a handful of fireflies drifted between the violets. The air was cool on her face and Brienne welcomed it after the heat of the dancing. 

Abruptly Jaime said, “Cersei told me you agreed to help. She said you thought we should leave tomorrow evening.”

“Yes.” Like Jaime, Brienne kept her voice barely above a murmur. “I’ve arranged for horses and food and bedrolls. A guide will take you both to Eastport. I’ll need Tyrion’s assistance – I won’t be able to leave the gallery and people are bound to have questions when you don’t compete in the archery – but if he can tell people you took some sort of injury in the melee and make them believe it, then we should be able to buy you time. It’s a hundred miles hard riding,” she felt compelled to add. “Will Cersei be able to keep the pace?”

Jaime frowned, jaw working as he thought about it. “She’ll have to,” he said eventually. “We need to get her aboard ship before Father knows something’s wrong.”

“We’ll manage it,” Brienne promised. “You’ll fake an injury after the melee. Cersei will plead sickness. And we’ll have the two of you out the gates before moonrise.”

“An injury might be difficult to arrange.” 

“I’ll have our maester –”

“No. Too many of your household are involved as it is.” Jaime raised a hand in apology. From one of the nearby trees a nightingale trilled to itself softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that as a criticism. But Father’s wrath is not something to be courted lightly, especially for the smallfolk.”

“House Tarth can protect its own.” Brienne’s voice was perhaps a little sharper than was warranted. “I would never ask them to take such a risk if I didn’t know I could shield them.”

“I know.” Something in the way he said it – utterly certain, without any of the performance he'd worn all evening – made Brienne look at him properly. His face was turned away to the shape of Evenfall Hall behind them, glowing white in the moonlight against the dark of the sky. “I know you can shield them. I know that you’d die for them, if it came to that. But this is a risk that you’re taking for my House. Allow me to share the burden in defending them from it.”

“Jaime –”

“Is it so much to ask,” he said quietly, still looking at Evenfall, “to be allowed this small care for your people?”

“No.” 

No, it wasn’t so much to ask in the scheme of things. Even if it was more than a man not tied to the island could be expected to offer. But Brienne could give him the duty, if it was so important that he felt the need to ask for it twice. The nightingale was still trilling, its song rising and falling against the background hiss of the waves in the bay, and Jaime kept staring at Evenfall with something she might have called longing, on any other man’s face.

As the torchlight licked Jaime’s cheekbone, throwing him first into light and then into shadow, Brienne marvelled at how much could stay the same, even as everything changed. Jaime had always had a heart open enough to shelter the world. For all his occasional cynicism he’d lived inside his knight’s oaths, even before he was knighted. Brienne had known the laws of chivalry by rote before she ever met Jaime but it was only by watching him inhabit those oaths, make them his own, that Brienne had come to her own understanding of what knighthood meant to her. It wasn’t quite what it meant for Jaime – or at least what it had meant to him back then. To Jaime a knight was the vanguard – the first sword and shield to enter the fight. To Brienne a knight was the fortress: the wall that held the siege against the entire world. Two sides of the same coin. But she had worried – then, as she was starting to worry again now – that Jaime’s vision of knighthood was likely to see him dead before his time. Always so ready to throw himself on the sword, before the blow could land on someone else. 

Her tongue felt thick in her mouth but Brienne forced it into alignment and said, very carefully, “The vanguard does not need to ride out alone.”

Jaime looked at her. For so long and so silently that Brienne worried she’d been too opaque in her meaning, but eventually he nodded and Brienne knew he had understood her. The nightingale trailed off into silence, leaving only the waves and the crunch of the gravel under their feet. They walked in silence down the twisting pathway, until they came to one of the small fountains Brienne’s mother had placed in the gardens. Jaime took a seat on the lip, drawing Brienne down beside him.

“But to return to the question of your maester,” he said, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation, “I’d rather not risk a real sword thrust chasing the illusion of an injury. Melees are unpredictable as it is. With so many witnesses, any injury serious enough to keep me from the feasting would have to be the kind to put me down on the field. Claiming a strained muscle after the fact would hardly pass muster.”

With a grimace, Brienne realised he was right. If she was competing she could have performed that service for him. It had been a long time since they’d fought one another but she was confident she could have given him the mirage he required. But there was no one else she would charge with the duty. Not even Loras. The risk was simply too great. 

“What do you propose?”

“I’ll lose,” Jaime said. “Badly and foolishly, right as I should have won. The public humiliation of it will be enough that people might believe I’m sulking in my chambers. Especially if Tyrion spends the evening feast complaining to people about how I’m the most prideful Lannister there’s ever been.”

“And naturally your sister would try to cosset you,” Brienne realised. “She’ll need to be present at the start of the feast. The two of you gone from the start will invite too many questions. But if she excuses herself during one of the removes to check on you. When she doesn’t return everyone will assume she’s been delayed managing your temper.” 

“Tyrion can help sell that as well,” Jaime said wryly. “He’ll enjoy the chance to make us both seem foolish. We did it often enough to him as children. He was a very earnest six year old,” he added when Brienne frowned at him. “It invited teasing.” When Brienne failed to look reassured, Jaime sighed. “We hardly bullied him, Brienne. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Jaime’s snort said he plainly did not believe her. 

“Can you lose convincingly?” Brienne asked, returning to their original subject. “I saw you in the lists Jaime: you fight to win; you always have. Are you even capable of throwing a bout without instinct taking over?”

She expected Jaime to give a glib assurance but he actually seemed to be weighing the question. His hand drifted to her knee, fingers tapping a rhythm she recognised. Strike, strike, block, parry. The drill the two of them must have run more than a hundred times. Their usual warm-up exercise. 

“I can do it,” Jaime said eventually. “It’s going to be awful but I can do it. Loras will be key. And Dickon Tarly. I’ll need to get Stark out of the competition early or it could throw the whole game. But everyone expects Loras to be a challenge for me and Tarly’s got an arm like a battering ram. They’ll both be one of the last men standing. I’ll draw things out with Dickon – let people see that I’m winded. Then, when I face Loras it will be a close call but it will be perfectly believable when he beats me.” He paused, huffed. “I have the slight edge when it comes to swordwork but there is actually a real chance he beats me fairly. Don’t fret, Brienne,” he added when he saw her face. “I’ll drink vinegar for a week or two and then everyone will find the next bit of gossip to keep them entertained.” 

And just like that, it was all decided. Jaime would lose the melee, sulk in his chambers, and once the sun had set, he and Cersei would sneak out of the lesser gate and ride straight for Eastport. A simple plan, with a simple purpose. But Brienne knew she wouldn’t rest easy until it was accomplished. 

Jaime kept them in the gardens for the length of one more song and then led her back to the hall, handing her off to Robb – come to make his own apologies – as he took Meria Mertyns out onto the floor. 

Robb, thankfully, had nothing to say about her little sojourn with Jaime, but Courtnay Penrose did. As did Gladden Wylde. Brienne let them think what they liked. She’d said nothing to Jaime – hadn’t wanted to see him balk at the idea – but if men thought he was courting her then, when he lost the melee, his absence would be doubly accounted for. A knight licking not just his wounded pride but the loss of the prize he’d been chasing quite openly. 

Across the hall, Oberyn was still dancing with Cersei – setting tongues wagging in the opposite direction – and Brienne settled into passing the rest of the evening dancing with a series of tedious men in between snatching moments of conversation with Sansa and Margaery. Her father was frowning slightly from his place at the head of the hall but as he didn’t summon her to him, Brienne was content to let him think what he liked also. She’d explain everything to him once Cersei was safely on her ship to Pentos.

“You’re quiet,” Margaery noted, as she fussed with Brienne’s hair. The maids had apparently not fixed it to Margaery’s liking and so she was now re-doing it. Brienne suffered the interference, re-arranging her meagre collection of unused cosmetics, as Margaery fussed with pins at the back of her head.

“I didn’t sleep,” Brienne said and then, unwilling to invite further questions on that point, caught Margaery’s eye in the mirror and said rather pointedly, “The maids tell me you didn’t get much sleep either.”

Margaery’s reply was nothing but a saucy look and then a quick glance over at Sansa, who was perched in the window with her embroidery.

“I have the room next door,” Sansa said without looking up. “I, too, got very little sleep last night.” Her face was perfectly calm but her voice said this was perhaps the most horrific thing that had ever happened to her. 

Margaery at least had the good grace to look slightly mortified. “I forget the walls here aren’t quite as thick as Highgarden’s,” she said a little apologetically.

Sansa put a careful stitch into her embroidery and set it down again. “If you come to Winterfell, ask Robb to take the First Keep. The walls there are two feet thick and the rest of us will be sleeping in a different building entirely.”

Brienne stifled her laugh into her fist. No one, in all the time Brienne had known her, had ever managed to make Margaery blush so fiercely. 

“Well,” she said, returning to fussing with Brienne’s hair. “I’ll certainly suggest it.”

Something in her tone made Brienne turn round properly to look at her. “You’re for Winterfell then.”

“Yes.” Gone were Margaery’s usual coy murmurings. “Robb wrote to Lord Stark this morning and I wrote to Grandmother. If you can bear to host us a few more days, we’ll wait for the ravens to return with their answers.”

Brienne folded a hand atop Margaery’s. “The answers will be yes.” Neither House would be fool enough to turn down the alliance. And Margaery had already made the question slightly moot in any event when she succeeded in tripping Robb Stark into bed. 

“I’ll find you a good cloak,” Sansa said. “You’ll need one in the North. Even in summer.” 

Margaery beamed at her, taking that as the blessing it clearly was, and jammed the last few pins into Brienne’s hair with a touch more enthusiasm than was warranted.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “Now, you’ll do.” Brienne gingerly touched the many gilded pearls now littering her head. Margaery smacked her hands back down again. “Do not ruin my hard work.”

“Very well.” With a sigh, Brienne got to her feet. It was another gown today, less to her tastes than either of the other two, being a shade of pink too pale to be Tarth’s colours even if it did suit her better than the deep rose of her banners. Its neckline was also a little daring, leaving all of her collarbone exposed and a great deal of breastbone. It was the type of dress that made Brienne wish for a gorget just to protect her throat. 

She could hardly believe they were only on the second day of the tourney. Brienne felt as though she’d been fighting the tides for a week. 

“Shall we?” Margaery asked and ushered Brienne out of the room ahead of her, before linking arms with Sansa.

As they made the gallery, Brienne was pleased to see the steward had arranged for the extra seats she’d asked for. 

“Would you mind taking the far left?” Brienne said to Margaery quietly, “and let Sansa take the seat beside you?”

Glancing at the four chairs in the front row and the two set behind it, Margaery blinked. “Yes, if you like. But who’s joining us?” Then her eyes went wide. “Brienne.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Brienne said and then stepped past her to greet Cersei as she made her way onto the dais.

Cersei was resplendent as ever in another blood-red gown whilst Lord Tyrion beside her was only slightly more somberly dressed in a jerkin to match his brother’s, but which was tooled in gold along the edges. From the corner of her eye Brienne saw Sansa give a little wave that Tyrion returned with a nod and a small smile. 

“Lady Brienne,” Cersei said and for all her voice was perfectly pitched Brienne could hear the question creeping in at the edges. “How good of you to invite us to share the gallery.”

“Your brother is the favourite for the tourney,” Brienne said gesturing Cersei to a seat. “It seemed churlish not to give you a good view of his victory.”

There was a fractional pause as Cersei gathered her skirts – so small even Brienne barely caught it – that said she knew full well there would be no victory. But then she was sat down and smiling and assuring everyone else that Jaime would win the tourney handily.

Tyrion took the seat reserved for him with murmured thanks, apparently pleased to have been given the space next to Selwyn, though the knowing look he shot Brienne said he, too, was well aware of what Jaime’s plan was. 

As Brienne once more laid her sword belt over the arm of her chair, Tyrion leant forward to speak with her.

“I do hope you’ll forgive him for showing off,” he said quietly. “Jaime’s been rather desperate to impress you since the first time you knocked him on his rump in the training ring. I practically learned to read on letters which began Brienne mastered the flail today and Brienne really does have remarkable reach. Or, my personal favourite, Brienne is going to be the greatest knight the world has ever seen.” 

Brienne’s face was scarlet. She highly doubted Jaime had said any of that or if he had said the first two, they’d been buried amidst tellings of his own training and exploits. Doing the sums quickly in her head, Brienne borrowed every ounce of Margaery she had and said, “Lord Tyrion, are you telling me you only started to read when you were seven?” 

Tyrion snorted. “Touché, my lady. I am well known to brag about my precocious intellect, after all. I was in fact four. But Jaime’s letters still provided a great deal of entertainment. Far more so than Cersei’s. All those ever contained were admonishments not to spend so much time in my room that I forgot what the gardens looked like.” Cersei frowned over her shoulder at him. Tyrion waggled his fingers at her. 

Brienne, whose closest thing to a sibling growing up had been Margaery, found the whole episode very strange. 

“Would anyone care for some orgeat?” She asked, and then beckoned a page forward without waiting for an answer. 

Selwyn joined them, just as the fighters were lining up for the melee. The herald hopped up onto the dais, once more sweating through his wool tabard, and produced a ludicrously long scroll from which he apparently intended to read the same of every fighter who would be competing. 

“Is that necessary,” Brienne asked from the side of her mouth.

The herald looked at her, aghast. “My lady, it is tradition.”

Brienne smothered a sigh. “Go on then.”

The herald bustled forward to the edge of the gallery and, in a sonorous voice he no doubt practiced in his chambers, proceeded to read the names of every one of the hundred and eighteen men who’d come to Tarth hoping to be Brienne’s husband. 

The order went alphabetically by House. Some of the names received only a smattering of applause, others whistles and cheers. When Jaime’s name was called the crowd erupted – a few men even trying to emulate a lion’s roar. Margaery’s fan smacked into her mouth again before she could burst out laughing. Brienne stared down at her people appalled. She’d known Jaime was the favourite but she hadn’t realised they were this enthusiastic for him. When he lost, they were going to take it very personally. 

There was a good amount of cheering for Loras and the same for Robb – though neither of them came close to the thunder that had greeted Jaime’s name. As the herald raised his horn, Brienne felt a cold fist clench in her belly. 

Jaime was about to be humiliated.

From the way Cersei’s fingers had gone white on the edges of her chair, she knew it too. Not caring who saw, Brienne wrapped a careful hand over Cersei’s. Jaime had made his choice and he’d made it because his sister meant more to him than his own pride. 

The melee, as melees always were, was chaos. Knights battered one another with sword and shields and morningstars and whatever other weapon they’d chosen to take into the ring with them. As per Brienne’s orders, Greywind was confined to the fences – though he reared up as if preparing to join the fighting on more than one occasion.

Robb made a good show of it, but a melee was not where a general showed to best advantage and it was clear he was used to fighting with Greywind when he was on foot. Either by prior arrangement or because they both saw the sense in removing a fighter with good wind early in the proceedings, Loras joined Jaime in hammering Robb’s guard. When they were joined not only by Dickon Tarly but also Yara Greyjoy, even Robb being supported by Theon didn’t help. He was down and out and Loras – proving he didn’t care much for chivalry when the alternative was winning – swept Yara’s feet out from under while she was still crowing. Theon was given the same treatment by Jaime. 

Tarly drifted away, clearly wanting some distance between him and the two best swordsmen in the ring, but Jaime and Loras stayed back to back, scoring their way through all their other opponents until – just as Jaime had predicted – it was him and Loras and Dickon Tarly facing one another. Even from behind his helm it was clear Dickon knew he was done for. He towered over both Loras and Jaime but they were faster than him, more experienced than him, and used to fighting in concert. Jaime gave Loras his shoulder, clearly prepared to close on Dickon fast. 

And then Loras pivoted to put himself at Dickon’s side and raised his sword against Jaime. 

Shit. 

Brienne should have seen this coming. It made no sense for Loras to risk facing Jaime one on one – even winded – if he could throw his lot in with Tarly and be left facing a far less dangerous opponent in the final match. 

This might make Jaime’s loss more convincing but a loss to Loras was something he’d inoculated himself against. A loss to Tarly – hardly his equal by any measure that mattered – that would more than sting. 

Jaime hadn’t been expecting Loras’ defection. That much was clear from the way his guard came up a heartbeat too slow. Loras was already swinging, letting Dickon rush in after him and Jaime was pushed back on the defensive, shield raised as he was forced to give ground again and again and again.

The crowd were roaring. Boos and jeers rang out – though whether they were for Jaime or Loras remained unclear. 

Jaime twisted sharply out of reach, boots kicking a bloom of dust into the air that had Dickon instinctively shielding his face. Jaime slammed his heel into Dickon’s knee and he crumpled. But Loras was clearly intending to keep Dickon in for as long as possible. He blocked Jaime’s next swing, forcing him back and hauled Tarly back to his feet. 

Even from a distance, Brienne could see Jaime was breathing heavily. He wasn’t in plate armour this time, only mail and leather, and Brienne could track the rise and fall of his shoulders with her own heartbeat. He backed away and Brienne knew he was trying to get himself into position so that the sun would catch Loras in the eyes. But Loras was wise to the trick and it was nearly midday besides. He gave the nod to Dickon and then both of them were rushing Jaime at once. Brienne couldn’t keep the gasp locked in her throat. Dickon’s reach was enormous and Jaime was having to spend too much of his own guard fending him off, unable to use his own height to its usual advantage. Loras circled behind and Brienne was sure this was it and then Jaime dropped into a roll, disengaging from Dickon entirely and bringing his sword up in a vicious slash towards Loras’ unprotected thigh.

Loras barely got out of the way in time. It would have been a killing blow and Brienne felt the moment the crowd remembered tourneys weren’t sport. Tourneys were just a smaller field of war. 

A terrible hush descended. Cersei was the colour of old milk and Brienne wasn’t sure she was much better. Whatever was happening down on that field, Jaime had forgotten he was supposed to be trying to lose. He came to his feet with a burst of speed, closing on Loras almost faster than should have been possible.

Now it was Loras on the defensive, steel ringing against steel as Jaime forced him to the edge of the ring. Jaime had two inches of height and in the end it made the difference. He got past Loras’ guard and slammed the hilt of his sword into Loras’ ribs. Loras buckled and Jaime dragged Loras’ face down onto his knee and threw him out of the ring. Loras went down in a clatter of steel, groaning as the men at the edge of the ring whistled and jeered.

Jaime swung back around.

And came face to face with Dickon Tarly’s fist. 

Arm like a battering ram Jaime had said and that’s certainly what it looked like. Dickon’s fist connected with Jaime’s jaw and even with the protection of the helm, Jaime’s head snapped back on his neck with such force that Sansa screamed. Brienne had a terrible moment when she was sure Jaime’s neck was broken. He dropped like a stone. He didn’t get up again. 

Dickon seemed stunned by his own victory. So was the crowd. There was a moment’s ringing silence and then a thunder of stamping and catcalls and cries of Tar-ly! Tar-ly! Tar-ly! as the herald blew his horn.

Brienne was up and out of her seat before anyone could stop her. Cersei was hard on her heels, Tyrion not far behind. Brienne practically shoved Tarly out of the way, down on her knees beside Jaime with not one thought for her skirts or the crowds or what anyone would say. She could hear someone calling desperately for a maester and realised distantly it was her – her voice gone high and thin with panic. 

Cersei was shaking, hands dragging Jaime’s sword from his grip for all it was too heavy for her, working the shield off his left arm as Tyrion said, panicky, “Cersei. Cersei. Tell me he’s alright.”

“Stand aside.”

Brienne looked up expecting to see Maester Sulvan and instead saw Oberyn Martell, still in his own mail, kneeling in the dust beside Jaime. He pressed careful hands to Jaime’s jaw, his spine, the pulse in his throat. Then, carefully, he eased Jaime’s helm off. Already an ugly bruise was blossoming along the hinge of his jaw. 

“His head will hurt when he wakes up again,” Oberyn said, “but I doubt there will be any lasting damage. Perhaps a loose tooth. But the helm took the worst of it.” There was a dimple the size of Dickon’s fist in the metal.

Maester Sulvan arrived in a flurry of robes, accompanied by two footmen carrying a stretcher between them. Cersei clung to Jaime’s hand as the footmen carried him away and Brienne would have quite liked to do the same, but a thought held her paralysed and she caught Lord Tyrion before he could follow his siblings.

“Tyrion.” The difference in their heights necessitated Brienne kneeling to hiss at him – which felt like it was quite possibly insulting but she didn’t have time to worry about the discourtesy of it just then. “He won’t be able to ride for Eastport tonight.”

Tyrion stared at her, then his gaze jerked to Evenfall where the Maester was spiriting Jaime towards his chambers. “Jaime might wake –”

“He’ll have a concussion. He can’t ride like that. I could – if I explain things to Father –”

But Tyrion was already shaking his head and Brienne had known it was a foolish suggestion even as she said it. 

“I can’t ride as fast as she’d need me to,” Tyrion said tightly. “Especially on a borrowed mount that’s not suited to me. We – we may need to abandon the plan. If I write to Father or Cersei does, saying you’ve invited her to stay a few more days after the tourney –”

“Would he allow it?” Jaime had implied Tywin would be watching the ports for their arrival. If Cersei tried to delay, would he suspect some subterfuge? Especially knowing that Cersei and Brienne had despised one another in their youth.

“No,” Tyrion said slowly. “In fact I wouldn’t be surprised to learn his steward’s already set sail from King’s Landing to see us all home again on tomorrow’s last tide.” He was silent a moment, fingers trailing over his chin and then his gaze sharpened. “But there may be a way. I need to speak with Cersei.” His eyes drifted past Brienne’s shoulder. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, my lady, your friends look quite desperate to speak with you and I must see to my brother.”

He didn’t bother with a bow, only made his way to the castle at a fast clip and left Brienne to stagger to her feet just as Margaery threw herself forward to clutch at Brienne’s arm.

“Brienne! Is he –”

“Alive.”

“Oh thank the Seven.”

Robb was over the fence and running towards them. He must not have been by the field when Jaime went down. He took one look at Sansa’s face and gathered her close. She shuddered all over burying her face in his shoulder.

“I thought Dickon had killed him,” Brienne heard her whisper and felt bile rise in her throat. She’d thought it too for a moment.

They were making something of a spectacle of themselves and the crowd were becoming restless, waiting to crown their victor or be told what had become of their favourite. Brienne brushed the dust from her skirts as best she was able, straightened her spine, and crossed to where her father had come down from the gallery to stand with Dickon Tarly. 

“Ser Dickon,” she said, dropping the shallowest courtesy propriety would allow. “Congratulations on your victory.”

Dickon looked thoroughly miserable. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I will be glad to host you at the high table tonight.” Civility demanded nothing less. 

“It would be my honour,” Dickon said and looked like he knew full well there would be no honour in it, at all. In the cold light of morning, Brienne would feel sorry for him. He’d done nothing more than precisely what he should have done. But right now she wanted to drag him into the ring and thrash him straight into the dirt. 

Loras limped forward and Brienne refused to look at him. “Ser Loras. You lost. Let that be a lesson to you.” Perhaps that was churlish of her. He’d done no less than Dickon after all. But Brienne couldn’t help blaming him anyway.

“Brienne –” Selwyn started reprovingly but gave up when Brienne simply stared at him. “It has been quite the morning,” he said instead. “Perhaps an afternoon’s respite will do everyone good. I think we can forgo the trick riding without upsetting anyone unduly.”

The men nodded and Brienne followed suit. She truly could not care what happened with the tourney. She was desperate to get back to Evenfall to check on Jaime. But first there was the duties of a hostess to see to. Brienne made a circuit of the grounds, speaking to those who’d competed, a few of the crowd who called out questions about Jaime or what this meant for the festivities. By the time she made the cool of the castle, her nerves were frayed almost to breaking and she was short with the maids who came to take her hair down for her. 

The gown and all its delicate edges went straight over the screen and Brienne got herself into shirt and breeches and a pair of comfortable indoor boots. Her swordbelt went back on again – she felt naked without it – and then she was down the hall, hair falling loose about her ears, knocking on Jaime’s chamber door and counting every second until someone opened it.

Cersei looked little better than Brienne felt. Her face was pinched though less pale than it had been. She ushered Brienne into the room and pointed her to the bed where Jaime lay quite still, Tyrion pressing a cold cloth to his cheek.

“He woke as they carried him in,” Cersei said. “Maester Sulvan said it would be good for him to sleep – that there was no danger in it. Jaime refused milk of the poppy.”

To be expected. Brienne would have done the same. Cersei sank down onto the edge of Jaime’s bed and then when Brienne hovered, unsure, shifted enough to make room for Brienne as well. 

It was the height of impropriety. Brienne was beyond caring. 

“I haven’t seen him lose like that in years,” Cersei said quietly. “Perhaps not ever.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

Tyrion sighed and set the cloth he was holding aside. “If the pair of you mean to quarrel like children, take it outside.”

Cersei’s mouth drew tight but she didn’t argue. Brienne wanted to ask what they meant to do about tonight. Whether she needed to tell her people to stand down, if Cersei wasn’t going to try to make the ride alone. Perhaps Brienne really should go speak to her father. Even if she couldn’t act as Cersei’s escort, maybe they could ask Ser Goodwin to go. 

“I’m going to ask Oberyn to take me to Eastport,” Cersei said quietly. “Jaime’s going to be furious. But I’ll leave a letter saying we’ve eloped. Father can’t touch him. And it will spare Jaime Father’s disappointment.”

Tyrion’s face said ‘disappointment’ was a very mild word for what Tywin Lannister would be feeling. 

“Will he do it?” Brienne asked. 

“Yes. He’s a good man. He’ll help me.”

You know a good man when you meet him, Sansa had said. Brienne only hoped she was right. 

“No one will expect you at the feast tonight. Either one of you.” Brienne said after a moment. “Let Oberyn do as you were going to. Claim the food’s made him ill or he’s had too much wine or just that he’s tired from the melee. He can retire early and meet you at the lesser gate.”

Cersei nodded. Beside them Jaime slept on. 

“I should go,” Brienne said, standing. Neither Tyrion nor Cersei protested but just as Brienne turned to go, Cersei grabbed her hand. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Jaime always said you were a good woman. I should have believed him before now.”

“He loves you dearly,” Brienne said, for want of anything else to say. “He’s going to be so cross with himself that he didn’t just lose to Loras early like he meant to.”

Cersei’s mouth twitched in something that might have been trying to be a smile. 

“Perhaps once he forgives himself he’ll also forgive me.”

Brienne thought it far more likely that Jaime would think there was nothing to forgive at all where Cersei was concerned and still be blaming himself when he was old and grey. But there didn’t seem much point in saying it. 

She slipped from the room and headed back to her chambers. 

Once there she locked the door behind her and sank into the window seat. Sansa’s embroidery was still lying where she’d left it. Brienne ran the hoop through her fingers, the threads of the half-finished love-knot catching the light and all at once it was too much. She put her head in her hands and burst into tears.

Brienne woke with false dawn. Gulls were already screaming in the bay as she opened the shutters and looked out across the Straits. Somewhere behind her Cersei and Oberyn would be halfway to Eastport. That part of the plan, at least, had worked as intended. Cersei had somehow smuggled a plain, serviceable dress into her luggage, skirts split to allow the wearer to ride astride. Oberyn too had been in plain leathers. Brienne had slipped from the feast just long enough to see them off at the gates and press a letter for one of her most trusted captains into Cersei’s palm, along with Tarth’s seal – a greater show of trust than Cersei had truly earned from her, but Brienne had meant to give it to Jaime and he wasn’t there to receive it. Cersei had stared at the ring with its plain iron band and then nodded, once, brusquely, and mounted her horse.

“I will return when she is settled,” Oberyn had said, “if you would be good enough to keep my things for me until I return.”

Brienne had given her assurances that she would and then with a nod to the guards the gates had been opened and Cersei and Oberyn had disappeared into the night.

Now there was a spearhead of light splitting the horizon and Brienne just wanted this tourney to be over. Levering herself out of bed, she dressed once more in shirt and breeches. Hang them all if they wanted another gown from her. Brienne was done performing for men she couldn’t take seriously. 

Out of deference for her father, she at least chose a shirt of blue silk, one of the finest she owned, stitched with silver waves at the cuffs and collar. She debated trying to do something with her hair and then simply left it curling by her chin, with no real rhyme nor reason to it. Let them see Brienne of Tarth as she really was. Not the mummery of the past two days. 

The halls were empty of even the chambermaids as Brienne made her way to the Guest Hall. Smoke was just starting to curl from the kitchen’s chimneys as Brienne reached Jaime’s door. She debated knocking and then simply turned the handle and let herself in. 

She was only half-surprised to see Jaime propped against the window, a thin pair of linen trousers slung low on his hips and torso utterly bare. He had one hand pressed to his jaw, palpating the bruising there. He didn’t look around as the door opened. 

“I’m still cross with you, Tyrion. So whatever you’ve come here to say, speak quickly.” His words were slightly thick at the edges; no doubt it hurt to move his jaw too much. 

Brienne locked the door behind her and said simply, “I’m not Tyrion.”

Jaime jerked round to face her. “Brienne.”

“Cersei and Oberyn cleared the gates last night. I gave them my seal and the name of a captain I trust. He’ll know to take them straight to Pentos and he and his crew will keep the secret no matter what threats your father makes.”

Jaime only stared at her. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t wait for you,” Brienne continued, feeling she had to fill the silence with something, “but that was quite the blow. You weren’t in any fit state to ride.”

“Tyrion said as much.”

“Don’t blame him. When you went down we all thought you were dead.” Her voice cracked on the last word and Brienne hurriedly coughed to cover it. Jaime gave a quiet grunt – though whether it was acceptance or only acknowledgment, Brienne couldn’t say. Possibly both.

“Well, as you can see, I’m expected to make a full recovery.” He tried to smirk and then winced, hand coming to his jaw again. He turned back to the window. 

Brienne debated leaving and then joined him instead. Jaime glanced sideways at her, posture stiffening just slightly, but he didn’t tell her to go. 

“I am sorry we didn’t consult you, but there wasn’t time.”

“I know,” Jaime sighed. He poked at his bruise again then forcibly crossed his arms over his chest to keep from doing it. “And they’re right: Father can’t touch Oberyn. My father wants many things but war with Dorne is not one of them.”

“He’ll keep her safe,” Brienne promised. She knew that without a shadow of a doubt; she expected Jaime did too. 

“He shouldn’t have had to.” And that was the crux of the issue wasn’t it. 

“But he has. And it’s left all of you safer for it. Make your peace with that.”

Jaime looked at her, mouth twisted with some mix of guilt and fear and frustration. “That simple is it?”

“No one said simple’s the same thing as easy.”

Jaime barked a laugh, wincing as his jaw stretched around it. “You always were the most eminently practical person I knew.” 

Shrugging, Brienne rested her weight against the window, putting her back to the view. It gave her a better read on Jaime's face. 

“What are you afraid of?” Because he was afraid of something. She could see that a mile off. “Are you worried Pentos won’t be far enough?”

Jaime was silent a long moment, simply looking at her with his head cocked. “How is it,” he said slowly, “that after almost a decade apart, you still know me better than anyone else?”

“We were friends.”

“Were?”

“You stopped writing.”

Jaime’s face spasmed, and he looked abruptly away from her, before his gaze slid back to hers again. She saw his mouth move, as if he were trying to find the words, and then he said, slowly, “I owe you an apology for that. I had meant to keep writing, even knowing we wouldn’t meet again in King’s Landing, but Father forbade it. He felt our friendship was entering dangerous territory.”

So Brienne had been right all along. Jaime had worried he was giving her false hope. It left her chest oddly tight. A grief she was only just now realising she’d never really processed. She breathed past her hurt and reminded herself this was the cost of her own foolish pride. It always did come before a fall. She found she couldn’t meet his gaze and looked down at her own lap. The empty finger where Tarth’s sigil had once sat. 

“You could simply have told me.” The words were out before she’d decided to say them. “The silence was cruel, Jaime.”

“I am sorry, Brienne.” She was startled to feel his hands on her face, turning her to face him. When her gaze met his, Brienne felt her breath freeze in her throat. That look. That look wasn’t a man who’d stopped writing because he hadn’t wanted to deal with a stupid little girl’s infatuation. Quite the reverse. Jaime’s thumb stroked over the arch of her cheekbone. “When your father announced the tourney for your sixteenth birthday, I wanted to come and explain myself in person. Father locked me in my room. Two guards on the door and another four on the windows. I wasn’t permitted to leave again until the tourney was two-weeks concluded and he was satisfied I’d remembered just who rules at Casterly Rock. I tried writing to you anyway but he burned every letter he found. The one time I asked Tyrion to help me –” He broke off. “Honestly, the less said about that the better.”

“Was it very bad?” Brienne asked quietly.

Jaime’s huff of breath might have been trying to be a laugh. “Let’s just say Father dislikes being defied.” And Brienne heard all the things he didn’t say. He’d done what he could to talk past his father’s nature when they were younger. But Brienne had seen him enough times – not broken but brow-beaten – leaving his father’s study after once again being told he’d never live up to the expectations of his House. That for all he was Tywin’s heir he was an unfit successor for Tywin’s legacy. Brienne had hated Tywin then and she hated him now. Looking at a good man, who only tried to do good in the world, whose father would have preferred a ruthless son who gave thought to nothing but his father’s aspirations.

“I’m sorry he’s such a cunt,” Brienne said simply and Jaime gave another startled bark of laughter. 

“I’m sorry too,” he said. “It would be an awful thing to ask any woman to live with: having Tywin Lannister as her father-in-law.” 

“I’m sure the right woman could handle it.”

“I’m sure she could.”

Jaime’s thumb was still stroking her cheek and Brienne thought her heart might be breaking. She wasn’t that woman. She couldn’t be. Whatever this was, whatever she was seeing in Jaime’s face, he was the heir to the Westerlands and her lands lay in the east. There was no future for them, for as long as that reality remained. She wanted to be here anyway.

With a careful press of his fingers, Jaime drew her to standing. They were so close she had to tip her head slightly to look down at him. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Jaime said. 

“Okay.” Which was probably the least romantic thing anyone had ever said in the history of the world. But Jaime’s eyes only crinkled with suppressed laughter and then he was pulling her mouth down to his and rising up on his toes and kissing her the way Brienne had wanted him to do since the day she woke up, not yet turned thirteen, and realised that Jaime was very, very handsome and she would like to kiss him very much. 

Sliding a hand into Jaime’s hair, Brienne revelled in the feel of it beneath her fingers. The warmth of him pressed all along her front. 

“By the way,” Jaime murmured into her mouth, “I’ve been meaning to ask: the Blue Knight? Really? You thought that enough of an alias to compete for your own hand in Tarth’s tourney?”

“It worked,” Brienne protested. “No one knew it was me until I took my helm off.”

His laugh ghosted over her lips, swallowed as he kissed her again. 

When Brienne at last pulled away, she placed a hand on Jaime’s chest to keep him from chasing the kiss a third time. She could feel his heart thudding beneath her palm, the warmth of his skin sinking into her own. Jaime’s hand closed over her and Brienne had to bite her lip against everything she was feeling. 

“You know this doesn’t change things, Jaime. No matter how sweetly you kiss me or how much I like it. You’re still your father’s heir and I’m still mine.”

“I know.”

“Then why do this?” It was going to cause so much heartache. For both of them.

“Because I’ve spent the last ten years wishing I’d done it when I was seventeen. The day I was knighted and you gave me your handkerchief as a favour. You meant it as a joke and I’ve carried it with me into every tourney, every battle, every skirmish ever since.”

Brienne could remember that day like it was yesterday. Jaime – face alight and shining as the sword tapped his shoulders, once, twice, thrice. As Jaime Lannister became Ser Jaime, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. The tourney afterwards. His first as a knight. And Brienne wrapping her handkerchief around his wrist, telling him he could take it off when he learned how to recite poetry to a lady.

“I had to make it a joke, but I didn’t want it to be one.” 

Jaime kissed her again, fierce and a little desperate as Brienne clung to him and tried to pour years and years of things unsaid into the kiss. Had Jaime not still been dealing with the tail end of a concussion, the kissing might have tipped into something a little less easily explained to Brienne’s father but, as it was, Jaime tried shaking his head to get his hair out of his eyes and ended up having to brace himself against the window rather quickly as his world tipped sideways.

“Well,” Brienne said, “that answers that question.”

Jaime glared at her from under his fringe, embarrassed by his body’s own weakness. 

“It also makes it easier to say this,” Brienne continued mercilessly, “you can’t leave these chambers today.”

“What? No.” 

An unsurprising reaction as Jaime and forced inactivity went together about as well as oil and water. 

“Jaime, think for a moment. Cersei’s absence was going to be explained by her tending to you. If you’re at the archery and she isn’t the whole scheme falls apart.”

“We could say she’s tending Oberyn since apparently he’s indisposed with some mysterious ailment.”

“Like that wouldn’t send people sniffing around for a scandal.”

Scowling, Jaime folded his arms over his chest again. “Fine. You’re right. I’ll stay here. But I want it noted that I do not like being confined to my chambers. I have absolutely no good memories to associate with the experience.”

Brienne winced. 

“I’ll come check on you at the midday recess,” she promised. “And once Tyrion’s circulated the lie a few times it will carry itself. He can come back and keep you company.”

Jaime accepted that with a nod, then snuck a hand around Brienne’s waist again. “You’ll come back at midday?”

“I’ll come back at midday.”

She allowed Jaime to claim half a dozen more kisses, and even let him lift her shirt out of her breeches enough to place his palm, broad and warm, against the skin of her ribs. Then the bells rang to mark the start of the morning and Brienne plucked Jaime’s hand out from under her shirt again and straightened her clothing. 

“Appallingly responsible behaviour,” Jaime grumbled at her but he was also looking a little grey around the edges so Brienne chivvied him back to bed – and he must have been feeling worse than he’d let on because he lay down without protest. 

“Midday?” He asked again as Brienne made her way to the door.

“Midday,” she promised and went to join her father for breakfast.

The falsehoods required to cover three separate absences were a little difficult to arrange but Tyrion carried it off – perhaps with rather more success than anyone had intended. He spoke to this person and that, each time seeding just enough of the story that the audience could embellish it themselves and then he moved on, repeating the cycle over again until, by the time the bells rang for midday, it was widely confirmed that Jaime was mourning not only the loss of the tourney but also the loss of Brienne herself and that Cersei had gone to her brother to keep him from doing something drastic – such as challenging Lord Tarth himself to a duel to win Brienne’s favour. 

Oberyn’s absence (ascribed to too much good food, good wine or good company – possibly all three) was considerably less interesting to talk about and so was widely accepted and ignored. 

Brienne, on the other hand, found herself the repeated object of scrutiny. Whispers breaking out behind hands as she took a seat in the gallery, beside the chair still kept for Cersei, hair undressed and gown conspicuously absent. 

By the time the bells rang for midday it was widely accepted that Brienne had put the gown aside when she had put aside the quest for a husband. The winner of the tourney won the heir’s hand and as Jaime was now spectacularly out of the running, Brienne had apparently decided there would be no competition at all. It skirted close enough to the truth to make Brienne vaguely uncomfortable but the lie served its purpose. Everyone was content to accept Jaime’s absence as the natural culmination of the last two days and no one thought to go check on him. 

Only Selwyn watched Brienne with knowing eyes. Her father was not a fool. He’d been in King’s Landing. And he’d been at the tourney when she was sixteen. And for every one of the years that had followed. He knew there was more than a kernel of truth to the story being circulated and he was clearly concerned for where this road Brienne had set herself upon might lead. But he had promised if she held the tourney he would interfere no further and he kept his word. 

It was left to Margaery and Sansa to flutter over Brienne like a pair of anxious hummingbirds. Margaery in particular seemed upset that her own future happiness might be flying in the face of Brienne’s own broken hopes. She, at least, knew better than to credit half of what was being whispered in the halls – but she also knew Brienne had been quietly weathering this particular storm for the better part of a decade, and storms like that did not simply blow themselves out. 

“I could leave for Highgarden at once,” Margaery offered. “I don’t need to stay to wait for the raven. You can just send it on to Storm’s End when it arrives.” Loras would be heading there with Renly. Margaery kept making noises about accompanying them.

“Stay,” Brienne said. “No sense letting a raven chase you half across the country.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

Robb was keeping Sansa company – or possibly Margaery, it was sometimes hard to tell – and even he seemed unusually subdued. 

When Brienne stole ten minutes from the start of the luncheon feast it was to find Robb leaving Jaime’s room, Greywind at his heels. 

“We made peace,” was all Robb said. “We may never be friends. But we’ll be civil.”

When Brienne put it to Jaime just why there was peace to be made in the first place, Jaime sighed. “Starks have a very rigid code of honour,” he said. “Robb never much liked the way I flirted with you back then, when we all knew it couldn’t go anywhere.”

Brienne looked at him blankly. “You never flirted with me.”

“Brienne,” Jaime said slowly, “I flirted with you all the time. You were the only one who didn’t notice.”

“Oh,” Brienne said, thoroughly derailed from her plans to tell Jaime that Theon had taken the archery and that Dickon Tarly was expected to take the wrestling. 

Jaime rolled his eyes and tugged her close enough to kiss. 

Brienne missed lunch. 

By the time the evening feast rolled round, everyone seemed largely ready for the festivities to end. Dickon Tarly – having won the melee, the wrestling, and done well in the joust (if not so much the archery) took the victors laurels by weight of averages. No one seemed remotely surprised when Brienne clasped his forearm like she would any other soldier and said, “Well done. Let me know if you ever want to sail out with the navy. We could always use a strong pair of hands.”

She was forced to wait until all the guests had cleared the hall – Robb brazenly escorting Margaery back to his own chambers in full defiance of protocol – before Brienne could once more make her way to the Guest Hall where the door to Jaime’s room was standing ajar.

He looked remarkably better than he had that morning, or even at noon. He’d clearly called for a bath at some point because he was clean shaven again and his hair was still damp at the ends. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt though, which Brienne suspected was for her benefit. Rather than bothering with any of the chairs, Jaime drew her down onto the hearth rug, setting his knees either side of hers so she could lean back against his chest. It was still a little too warm to bother with a fire at night but Jaime had lit one anyway and they watched the flames crackle in the hearth as outside the window the moon played hide and seek with the clouds.

“Cersei’s ship should have left with the evening tide,” Brienne said quietly. “It’s five days’ sail to Pentos and then perhaps two to three days for a raven to reach Tarth. I can send word to you on the road, if you let me know which keep to write to.”

Jaime’s lips found her temple, hands wrapped over hers where they rested on Brienne’s knees. “I could stay,” he offered. “Just for a little while. Once I send him Cersei’s letter claiming elopement, Father will be furious. He won’t think twice of me being too much of a coward to face him when he’s in a temper.”

Brienne frowned, not liking Jaime’s tone. “You’re no coward.”

“I am when it comes to him.”

Twisting her hand so she could tangle their fingers together, Brienne weighed her next words carefully. “You’re welcome to stay. You know that. But do you want to?” Won’t it make leaving harder? was what she really meant. 

“Of course I want to stay,” Jaime said, fiercely. “The moment I set foot on the dock I never wanted to leave again. I didn’t even know what you’d think when you saw me – if you’d think anything at all – and I still wanted to be here. And I don’t care how hard leaving will be,” he added when Brienne shifted against him. “However hard the leave-taking is, it will have been worth it.” His lips found her temple again and Brienne sank into the sensation. Twisting to her knees she settled herself either side of Jaime’s hips, the better to kiss him soundly and get her hands on the smooth, bare skin of his back. Jaime gave a low groan of approval and slid his hands firmly around her waist.

Her shirt hit the floor shortly thereafter. 

Jaime’s hands left lightning sparking in their wake. Brienne shivered as his fingers trailed along her spine, tracing the constellation of freckles on her shoulder. 

Only Brienne wasn't entirely sure what to do with her hands. Sword-calloused and more used to a hilt than a person, they seemed enormous everywhere she put them – Jaime's shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck – and none of it felt like it was doing what she wanted it to do. Jaime, for his part, didn't seem to mind in the slightest, humming his appreciation against her mouth as though he'd been waiting a decade for exactly this level of incompetence.

"You could help," she muttered against his lips, and felt him grin.

"I'm otherwise occupied."

His fingers found the laces of her breastband, tugging them loose so the straps slipped down her shoulders. His mouth found the dip of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone, before working his way up to her throat. When he scraped his teeth against her ear, Brienne's head tipped back with an involuntary sound that startled her more than it seemed to startle him. Jaime laughed, low and delighted, and did it again just to hear it a second time.

"That's a filthy trick," Brienne informed him, none too steadily.

"I've been saving it up for years."

A knock on the door had Brienne jerking back with a squeak she would, to her dying day, deny as venomous slande, and diving back into her shirt. Jaime, looking furiously inconvenienced, waited until she was appropriately attired and then called through the door, “this had better be good.” 

Tyrion came into the room with one hand clapped over his eyes, and the other holding up a raven paper like a shield in front of him.

Jaime was on his feet in an instant. “A raven so soon?” 

He snatched the paper from Tyrion’s hand, carrying it back to the fire so he could read it properly. Tyrion peeked through his fingers and, satisfied that everyone was at least moderately dressed, lowered his hand. 

“Cersei and Oberyn have eloped,” Tyrion said and Brienne had a moment of wondering why he felt that news needed to interrupt her evening when that was in fact that lie they had been planning to sell all along when her mind caught up to her ears.

“They’ve gone to a sept?” 

“They’ve gone to a sept,” Jaime repeated a little faintly. He was still poring over the raven message. “Cersei’s letter to Father is, in fact, no longer a misdirection.”

“But –” Brienne looked helplessly between him and Tyrion who sighed.

“The general plan,” he said, “appears to be that Cersei and Oberyn will go to Sunspear rather than Pentos. Whereupon Oberyn will write to Father and demand he appoint Cersei as heir to Casterly Rock over Jaime.”

“On what basis?” Brienne demanded. She felt like she’d taken a blow to the head. Her ears were ringing and she couldn’t quite make sense of what Tyrion was saying. 

“On the basis that Oberyn would quite like to be lord of somewhere outside his brother’s control,” Tyrion said dryly. “Or perhaps that Cersei wants to be sure she can never again be traded away like a mule. Or perhaps,” he added softer now, “on the basis that the heir to Casterly Rock cannot marry the heir to Tarth, but that the second-born of Tywin Lannister who is heir to nothing at all, might marry wherever he wished.”

Jaime drew a sharp breath, when he looked at Brienne his eyes were burning. He didn’t look away from her as he said, “Do you think she can do it? Will Father agree, Tyrion?”

Tyrion made a thoughtful noise. “I think with Oberyn behind her she has more chance of success than anybody else might have. We could none of us find the leverage we needed to make Father release you. Cersei might well have just found it. Oberyn is royalty. If Father gives Cersei the seat then within a generation the Lords Paramount of the Westerlands might once more be Kings of the Rock. He’d have preferred it be you, of course, and if he does agree, he’ll insist Cersei’s children bear the name Lannister but I don’t think Oberyn will object to that. He’s wanted an identity separate from Doran for years. This gets him that and it lets him poke Father in the eye while he does it, which I imagine he’ll also quite enjoy.”

“Do you think they love one another?” Brienne asked, carefully. A political alliance was hardly unheard of but an alliance made so hastily with nothing else to back it up might prove precarious. 

“Yes,” Jaime said with utmost certainty. “She loves him. And I have to assume he loves her and isn’t just scheming, because Cersei wouldn’t love a man who’d use her like that.”

“No, she’s far too astute to fall for such a seduction,” Tyrion agreed. “For what it’s worth,” he added to Brienne, “from what I saw of them he does genuinely adore her. This isn’t the first time they’ve met, you know. Oberyn’s been in and out of King’s Landing since Cersei made her debut. I would hardly claim they’ve been carrying on some grand, secret romance. But they certainly have a good enough understanding of one another’s character to know whether or not they could be happy.”

That eased something that had clenched tight in Brienne’s chest. Getting to her feet, she joined Jaime by the fire. The raven message was, by necessity, brief but it confirmed everything Tyrion had said. 

Conscious of Tyrion still standing three feet behind them, Brienne slid her hand into Jaime’s. “Are you okay?”

He hardly seemed to be breathing and when he leaned past her to cast the message into the fire, Brienne worried for a moment that being so summarily stripped of the Rock, even in theory, had angered him. But when he turned back around his face was shining and he caught her up into a fervent kiss that lasted long enough for Tyrion to cough a little uncomfortably.

“It’s the answer to everything,” Jaime breathed, forehead resting against hers, then he pulled away to look at his brother over Brienne’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing the message, Tyrion. You’ll want to make yourself scarce now.”

Brienne hid her face in Jaime’s shoulder, blushing beacon-bright again, as Tyrion said, “yes, yes, that sounds very sensible,” and quit the room with all due speed. 

“Brienne,” Jaime said, tipping her chin up towards him again, “I can stay.”

“Maybe,” Brienne felt obliged to clarify. “If your father lets his arm be twisted.”

“Cersei’s not going to give him a choice. She was furious he tried to sell her off so cheaply. She can have her vengeance on him now and she can give me what she knows I’ve wanted, all in one fell swoop. She won’t stop until she has it.” 

“You’re certain?”

“I am.” Jaime slid his hands under her shirt again, lifting it over her head in one smooth movement. “Now. Where were we?” He was smirking, wicked and confident, and Brienne decided abruptly she was done feeling like a novice in this. Catching Jaime by the shoulders, she swept his legs out from under him. Then at the last minute she realised it might be a bad idea to let Jaime knock his head against the stones and caught him on the way down. 

Laughing, Jaime let himself drop the last six inches to the hearthrug and tucked his arms behind his head. “Almost. Points for effort, at least.”

“Ass,” Brienne muttered and then knelt down over his hips again. 

Jaime’s laughter lingered at the edges of his mouth as he helped her settle more comfortably in his lap. His hands found the edges of her breastband again. 

“We can get married,” he said, faintly wondering even as his gaze darkened into something just a little hungry.

“We can almost get married,” Brienne corrected and bent down to kiss him before Jaime could protest her pragmatism. 

Her breastband went the same way as her shirt and Brienne set questions of practicalities aside for the morning.

It would seem half the island had poured into Evenfall Hall to see their lady wed. Brienne stood at the far side of the courtyard, safe in the shadow of the archway and listened to the general murmur of voices spilling out of the sept. 

Margaery twitched Brienne’s maiden cloak straight one more time and then stood up on tiptoe to press a kiss to Brienne’s cheek.

“You make a beautiful bride.”

Brienne smiled gratefully, too nervous to actually put her thanks into words. Margaery squeezed her hands once more then stood back to take a final look. 

“I do good work.” 

And she did. Brienne’s hair was once more dressed with pearls. Her gown was beautifully stitched with galleys at full sail all around the hem and the cloak upon her shoulders bore the moon of Tarth in shining, silver thread. 

Margaery’s own gown was a gentle sage green; the soft swell of her belly just visible past the billowing fabric. On her shoulder a direwolf brooch winked in the sunlight. 

“Thank you,” Brienne said and meant it for more than just today. Margaery had been her dearest friend for most of her life and she’d never once told Brienne she was foolish for hoping or wishing or being unable to make Jaime only a memory. She’d borne witness to Brienne’s first real heartbreak at sixteen and now she would bear witness to the happiest day of Brienne’s life. 

Until her first child was born at least.

Footsteps sounded behind them and Brienne turned to see her father approaching. Margaery ducked a quick curtsy to Selwyn, gave one last smile to Brienne, and disappeared into the sept. 

“You look beautiful, Brienne.”

“Thank you, Papa.” The name she hadn’t called him since she was a child. Selwyn’s eyes were suspiciously bright as he pressed a kiss to her brow, lingering longer than he ordinarily would have done. 

“I am glad that you have him,” Selwyn said quietly. “A husband is more than just a man to help rule this island. He is a partner. I had one in your mother – and I was blessed every day to have her. I am pleased beyond measure that you have found someone you can trust so completely.” 

“So am I.”

Selwyn held her tight for a moment and then withdrew again. He reached into his pocket and offered up a fine pendant that Brienne at once recognised. 

“Your mother wore this on our wedding day. I think it only fitting you get to have something of her with you on your own.” 

Blinking back a sudden wave of emotion, Brienne nodded mutely, lowering her head enough that Selwyn could clasp the chain about her neck. 

“She would be so proud of you.”

“I miss her.”

“I do too.” Selwyn pressed her hands gently. “She would like him too, you know. Though she’d tease me dreadfully for not being nearly so handsome or charming.”

Brienne’s laugh was wet with tears but she could see it so clearly. Her mother sat in the solar, laughing as she teased husband and daughter both for their plain-spoken ways.

Above the sept the bells began to ring and Brienne turned back towards the archway.

“I’m ready.”

“You are.”

Selwyn tucked her hand into his elbow and led her through the sept’s doors. The room was laden with flowers, guests crammed wall to wall. There were faces in the crowd Brienne knew but she saw none of them. At the far end of the room, Jaime was waiting. 

He was glorious in the crimson and gold of his House, hair burnished in the sunlight and smiling wide enough to ache. Before Brienne was even halfway down the aisle he was holding out his hands to receive her and Brienne left her father’s arm to reach for him in turn before Selwyn could place her hand in Jaime’s. 

The septon tutted but Brienne ignored him. Jaime’s sword calluses caught against hers, the shape of his hands as familiar as her own. 

The prayers and hymns passed her by in a blur. All Brienne could focus on was the way Jaime smiled at her, the way his thumb ran the same path against hers that it had run a hundred times. And then the septon was asking them to say their vows and Brienne was pledging herself as Jaime’s and he was swearing to be hers. 

The kiss to pledge their love lasted longer than was proper based on the tutting from the septon and the whistle that came from either Robb or Tyrion. But when they finally parted the room was still standing, so no one could have been kept waiting that long. 

The septon cleared his throat and they turned, hand in hand, to face their friends.

“Let it be known that Brienne of House Tarth and Jaime of House Lannister are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

When Jaime stole a kiss again in defiance of tradition, the septon was the only one who minded.