Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“That’s enough. We’ll practise again tomorrow. Harder.” Brienne lowered her tourney sword, the three boys facing her doing the same with obvious relief. She removed her helm, pushing at her damp hair and rubbing a sleeve across her forehead as she strode across to the large water barrel beside a pillar. Even during all the rebuilding on Tarth, boys needed to be trained at arms, and her father had entrusted her with this task, among so many others. Boys training to be men, trying to grow up quickly because the war had taken so many husbands, fathers and brothers.
Setting down sword and helm, she drew a full dipper and sipped gratefully. The liquid was cool and sweet-tasting, drawn from one of the deep springs that were channelled into Evenfall castle.
"You need more practice against a left-handed opponent.”
She spun round, water sloshing from the dipper. He was leaning against the nearby wall, with that familiar air of relaxed nonchalance.
“Jaime.” Despite the water, her tongue stuck in her mouth and even that one word sounded half-strangled to her ears. It was like being twelve again. Only when you were twelve, no-one could rip the scab from a gaping hole in your heart just by standing there.
“Lady Brienne.” He dipped his head in polite greeting, mouth quirked slightly as though a jest was lurking ready to spring. “It’s good to see you again, my lady.”
Lady Brienne. Since when had Jaime taken to calling her ‘lady'? She swallowed, thoughts whirling, trying to find something, anything, to say. Oh gods, he was alive. Jaime. He was here. Carefully she replaced the dipper on top of the barrel, hoping he hadn’t noticed the tremor in her hand.
“I thought – I thought you must have been dead. I mean – we hadn’t heard – it’s been so long and - and you said ... ” Her voice rasped and she trailed off, stomach clenching and churning. How could Jaime turn her inside out with just a few words or a single look?
“My head is still attached to my body, I believe. Unless of course I am in one of the seven hells. But you're here in front of me, so I can't be in hell. Or at least, not that sort. ” A wry smile, then he straightened and came towards her, holding out his hands.
One good hand, one of steel. Where was his golden hand? Wordlessly, she allowed him to carry her own larger hands to his lips in formal greeting, suitable for the many eyes that she sensed were now watching them in this public place. Courtly, elegant – the politeness of a knight to a noble lady. The gentlest touch that burnt her from ears to toes.
“Jaime ... I thought ... I mean ...” By all the gods, what had she thought? And feared? What had happened - where had he been - why hadn’t he written?
“There are some things that cannot be said in letters. I tried. I - I tore them all up. I'm sorry.” A pause. “I’ve missed you, Brienne.” His voice was low, for her ears only.
She swallowed. Brienne. The word rolled off his tongue in the way that only he could say it. ‘Wench’ had long become a term of affection or jest rather than insult. But sometimes, just hearing Jaime say her name would ... Desperately avoiding the issue, she looked down at his hands. “Your golden one?”
“In my saddlebag. This one’s better for travelling – doesn’t attract outlaws and cutthroats. A one-armed man with a good sword and a steel hand might be dangerous.”
She met his eyes, saw the glint of shared amusement. Jaime Lannister was always dangerous, in ways that didn’t need a steel hand or a golden one. She'd forgotten how green his eyes were. Bright as emeralds, with tiny gold flecks that you only noticed when you were close. They danced wickedly after you had just kissed him, and lent warmth when he smiled before settling down to sleep beside you.
“I am glad you arrived safely then.”
“The crossing was smooth. But I'm disappointed. The sea was grey, and you promised me sapphire waters.”
Sapphires. She swallowed again, the memories sweeping back, knew Jaime was following her thoughts. Releasing her hands, he stepped past her to the barrel, took up the dipper and drank deeply, then refilled it and offered it to her. She sipped again, glad of this simple gesture while she gathered her wits. It really was Jaime. Her Jaime.
“Tell me, my lady – does this Sapphire Isle have quiet coves or streams where we can match our skills? It's time I continued the dunking I was once giving you.”
The dunking he had been giving her? When they fought while his hands were chained? When he’d told the Bloody Mummers that he’d been chastising his wife? She choked on the last mouthful, spluttered and spat the water out, narrowly avoiding his boots.
He jumped back, grinning as only he could grin, smugly mischievous. “Now that’s more like the gracious and well-behaved wench I remember!”
She tried to choke out a retort, only to end up in a coughing fit, bending over and gasping for breath.
“Lady Brienne? My lady, are you all right?” One of the older boys who’d been watching them stepped forward, hesitant about interrupting.
Jaime thumped her on the back, and she straightened, aware that his good arm was suddenly around her shoulders steadying her. “Her ladyship is fine, lad. Alas, unexpected compliments often have this effect on her.” The boy retreated uncertainly.
Brienne regained her breath. His compliments? She stepped back, set her hands on her hips and tried to glare at him. Jaime folded his arms and waited.
Dear gods, but he looked well. Clean-shaven, golden hair cropped above his shoulders, still lean, though this was a healthier-looking muscled lean. His eyes were clear, now regarding her from a face that had lost its gauntness and regained some of its usual tan. Black boots, black breaches, a soft grey tunic and matching grey cloak, lined with Lannister crimson. Not the white of the Kingsguard. What had happened to that? But he was alive, and he was here.
Here, in Tarth. Not dying in a black cell, or his headless body rotting somewhere in an unmarked grave, or at best with the Quiet Sisters on its way to Casterly Rock. She remembered coming to his cell that last night in Kings Landing ...
“They will execute me, you know. I killed Aerys Targaryan. I betrayed another king, sired three bastards, and two of them sat on the iron throne. And I pushed a boy out of a window to protect my affair with my beloved sister.” His voice was flat.
“And what about everything else you’ve done? Doesn’t that make a difference?” She thought of Jaime fighting Lady Stoneheart, of helping the orphans, sharing the quest for Sansa and rescuing her. Of how he’d fought the wildlings and the Others, how he’d battled dragons and risked his life as a member of the Kingsguard to protect the man who now sat on the Iron Throne.
“No. I’m a Lannister. That damns me from the start. The best I can hope for is a quick death, with a swordsman who strikes true.” He turned away from her, staring out the window into the night. “At least they haven’t shut me in one of the black cells yet. I can still see the stars and dream of what might have been. What I might have been.”
She understood the horror he felt at the thought of imprisonment, knew of the nightmares he sometimes had when the blackness overwhelmed his dreams, when the ghosts of his past had come riding in with that darkness. She remembered nights when she’d been woken by his mutterings and cries, when she’d held him and murmured words of comfort to drive away the demons. Just as he had held her and awkwardly stroked her hair when she’d faced her own nightmares, each of them understanding that which could never be put into words.
Some called her his whore of course, though never in his hearing. The kinder ones assumed they were lovers. No one would believe she was still the Maid of Tarth, not when she and Jaime had travelled so far and so long together, had fought side by side and defended each other, had spent nights huddled close for warmth in beds or bedrolls, had shared baths and traded clothing when occasion demanded. Jaime Lannister would never have been so honourable; the man who had broken the most fundamental of Kingsguard oaths would surely have seduced or forced her by now. That is, unless they believed even he had thought her too ugly to be bothered. The truth - their truth - was not for others to comprehend.
“I will beg the king, Jaime.” She wasn’t ready to give up, not even now. “Surely he will at least listen. You’ve kept your word, you’ve more than shown your honour, you’ve ...”
“No.” He turned back to her, and she was surprised at the sadness in his eyes. “A Lannister always pays his debts, Brienne – you know that. By all the gods, I owe a few. And now it’s time for them to collect.”
She shook her head, unwilling to believe. “What good will it do, to kill you now? Too many have died – there has to be an end to it.”
“Yes, but they need my death to be a part of that end. Someone needs to rule a line at the bottom of the page.” He reached out, touching her scarred cheek with his good hand, brushing his fingers lightly over the puckered skin, pushing at a wayward strand of her hair. “What is between us – is – is more than they will ever know or understand. And they can never take that away.”
She tried to smile. “We should have died gloriously in battle. Then they would sing songs about us.”
“The beautiful maiden and her shining knight. Somehow, that doesn’t sound like us, does it.”
“The Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth.” She moved into his arms, resting her forehead against his, wondering how long the guards outside would let her stay.
“Brienne, I want you to promise me something. On Oathkeeper.”
On Oathkeeper. She leant back, staring at him.
He glanced down at where the sword hung off her left hip. “I’m surprised they let you bring it in here with you. Or perhaps they weren’t brave enough to try and take it away?” He chuckled. “How many of them are out there in case we make a break for it?”
“Four nearby outside the door. Another four at the end of the corridor, with loaded crossbows. Half a dozen stationed down the stairs.” Odd, how even in her despair a part of her mind had still managed to count possible opponents. As Jaime had known it would.
“Only fourteen? Against Brienne of Tarth and the Kingslayer? Wench, they are showing us no respect at all. Even if we do have only one sword between us.” He gave a dramatic sigh.
“Maybe they now believe in your honour.”
Jaime snorted. “I doubt it. Though it seems they believe in yours.” He reached down to touch the sword’s pommel with his stump. “Draw it, Brienne.”
The sword glittered black and red between them, blood and fire.
“I want you to swear that you will leave Kings Landing first thing tomorrow morning and go home to Tarth. Leave and don’t come back, whatever you may hear on the road. Give my regards to your father. I wish - I wish I could have met him.”
“Leave you?”
“Yes. I don’t want you standing there in the square with the baying crowd, watching the Kingslayer die. I want you to remember me with my head on my shoulders, a sword in my hand and a smile on my face. And one last kiss, my wench.”
Once she would have argued, but she knew him too well. So she’d promised through unshed tears, her hand on Oathkeeper, because she understood that he needed to believe she was safe and away.
There'd been more than one kiss after he led her across to sit on the edge of his narrow bed, but nothing more. The time for lust and desire had long passed: there would be no desperate fumblings, no first and last passionate sharing of bodies. In the songs, a maiden sent her gallant knight off to war with a kiss and a token, perhaps a ribbon or a glove that would be worn against his heart. And would be found on his body when the knight was gloriously slain. In the real world, they both knew that many a woman sent a man off to die after a night of love, leaving herself with only memories and a bastard child in her belly.
Neither way was their way.
And so at last they'd simply held each other closely, wordlessly, until a guard knocked on the door and came to escort her out. First light found her heading south, but she had blamed herself all the way to Tarth, wishing that she’d had the courage to break her oath. The nights ever since had been haunted by guilt and regrets, and every day another tiny little piece of her had crumpled up inside and died.
I should never have left you, Jaime ....
Something crashed across the courtyard and she jerked back to the present. Jaime was regarding her with quiet amusement.
“You're as talkative as ever. How did I ever stand all your useless chatter on the road?”
“I put up with your compliments.”
He grinned. “Alas, wench, I haven’t paid you too many of those lately. Should I start writing songs about all your finest qualities? Let’s see – where do I begin? Stubborn ... pig-headed ... obstinate ... damn it, nothing rhymes properly with those.”
She could never match Jaime in verbal games. He delighted in teasing her, though the jests had long been affectionate rather than cruel. Sometimes she'd respond in kind; other times she’d ignore him, or roll her eyes and shrug; mostly she'd just smile. She’d been surprised to discover that her smile could usually disarm him, though occasionally she still wished she had the wit to make some clever retort that would startle him and wipe the look off his face. Pig-headed? She half raised one hand, desperately wanting to push him away, or punch him, or do something that would ... . And then, for the first time in those desperately lonely months since she’d returned to Tarth, Brienne started to laugh. It began as a smile, became a chuckle, then exploded out of her as though someone had punched a giant hole in a dam wall.
It felt so good to laugh again, to feel the rush of ridiculous happiness surge up from some deep place inside, to see Jaime’s surprise, then hear his own rich laughter matching hers.
Without thinking, she clasped his shoulders and gave him a quick shake. He grabbed her in return, steel hand hooking onto the shoulder padding of the training tunic she wore, and suddenly she was pulling him into a fierce hug. Friends, partners and companions, comrades in arms who’d travelled down the darkest roads of fear and danger and loss, sharing more than words could ever express, two people whose love bound them together yet had kept them apart ...
“Brienne – my own Brienne.” So soft she could have dreamt it.
Jaime, my Jaime! She couldn’t say whether she answered, or whether she just grasped his shoulders harder as she drew back slowly to hold him at arm's length. There was so much she needed to say, but she didn’t know if she’d ever find the words, or if they’d just stick there like great stupid lumps in her throat. As they’d done so many other times. She hated crying - it was stupid to cry when you were happy anyway - but tears trickled hotly down her cheeks as she gazed at him, knowing that if she ever took her eyes from his, he would vanish once more, just as he'd done in her dreams.
“A-hmmm.” Someone coughed discreetly nearby and Brienne dropped her hands sharply, painfully conscious that they were in full view of what was probably by now half the population of Evenfall. Gods, she was crying! She felt herself going deep red, a blush that would hide even the most obstinate of freckles and stand out like a scarlet beacon for all to see. Hastily she wiped a sleeve across her eyes, trying not to sniff too noisily.
“Ser Goodwin.” At least this elderly face was almost family, with an expression that was affectionate rather than mocking or disbelieving.
“I assume I have the honour to meet Ser Jaime Lannister?” Grey eyes, keen yet kindly, glanced shrewdly between her and Jaime.
Her ears must be playing tricks. An honour to meet the Kingslayer? Even now, few in Westeros would hold that idea. “Jaime, I’d like you to meet Ser Goodwin Harvey, our master at arms who trained me,” she said, managing a half smile. “And yes, Ser Goodwin, this is Ser Jaime Lannister.”
Jaime smiled. “The honour is mine, Ser Goodwin. Brienne is one of the finest swordsmen I have known. I owe my life to her skills more than once. Her teacher must be a remarkable man.”
Brienne swallowed. Painful experience had taught her to distrust praise, to be wary of men’s flattery and compliments. The wager by Renly’s knights had hammered home that lesson for ever. But Jaime didn’t believe in idle praise, especially on matters such as swordsmanship.
“Thank you, Ser Jaime. Brienne was an interesting pupil.” Ser Goodwin returned the smile. “She’s spoken highly of you and how you also saved her life. With words and wits as well as sword, I believe.” He glanced down at Jaime’s steel hand. “It is no mean feat to learn to use a sword with your left hand, and re-learn everything that was instinct with your right.”
Damn the man. She hoped Jaime wouldn’t think she had been gossiping about him, telling tales in Tarth, speaking of how he was no longer the dreaded Kingslayer but just an average swordsman. Jaime wasn’t ‘average’ of course, not now, but he would never accept that. In truth, he was all the better for not being so carelessly confident about his skill, fighting now with a grim determination and hard steel in his eyes, but a small part of her sometimes wished that she could bring back just a touch of the wild enjoyment she’d sensed when they first crossed swords.
“Needs must, I’m afraid.” Jaime shrugged deprecatingly. “Ser Ilyn Payne was a hard taskmaster, and Brienne is even worse,” he flashed her a smile, “but at least I am still alive.”
Ser Goodwin chuckled. “Indeed. She quite terrifies these lads at times,” he nodded at half a dozen boys watching them with obvious interest, “even when she takes on three or four of them at once. Alas, I am much too old now to trade blows with her myself. It will be good for her to have a worthy sparring partner.” He shot Jaime an amused look before turning to her. “Excuse me for interrupting, Brienne, but a messenger arrived from your father. He’s staying the night at Northcliff with Ser Jeclan - something concerning new boats and repairs to the jetty. He'll return tomorrow. You may want to let Mistress Margitte know.” He nodded pleasantly and took his leave, marching across the courtyard and shooing the spectators away like a flock of chickens.
“Margitte?”
“Father’s – companion. A widow.” She tried to keep her tone neutral, as in truth this older woman was better than most of the ones she remembered, and she couldn’t really blame her father for wanting female companionship. Especially after his daughter had gone off to war and not returned for several years. She'd been shocked at how much he'd aged while she was gone, but he hadn’t remarried.
“Ah.”
Brienne shrugged and turned towards the door into the castle, Jaime falling into step beside her. She'd told him about those women long ago, when they'd talked of her own family. "Did they make arrangements for you, when you arrived?" she asked, suddenly remembering her duties as lady of the castle. "Did you come alone, or bring some men?" They were still restoring Tarth after the war, and though supplies were adequate, large numbers of unexpected guests would be a temporary strain.
"Your castellan had our things taken to the guest chambers. Only three of us. A squire, Clovis Bettley - youngest in his family, says he's eager to see the world. But he's bright enough, and I told him Tarth might mean hard work other than just squiring." She grunted, appreciating the implied acknowledgement of the damage caused by sellswords during the war. "And, ah - I brought Pia." He glanced sideways, sounding ruefully amused.
"Pia?" She checked her stride for an instant.
"Yes." He sighed. "She didn't want to go back to Harrenhall, or stay in Kings Landing. She doesn't know anything else, except being a - a servant - and she's got no family. I'd found her a place with the White Tower servants, but she heard I was headed for Tarth and begged to come along. I hope you don't mind. Says she likes you and will work at anything."
Brienne squeezed his arm, smiling. "No. I'm glad you did." How very Jaime, to concern himself with the fortunes of a camp follower like Pia, and not abandon her to whatever group of men could find a use for her at the time. Few would believe that the Kingslayer had any sort of heart, let alone such gentleness or consideration. It was one of the delicious contradictions that she'd slowly come to learn, and love, about him. As they walked, she remembered the woman who'd shyly looked after her when she and Jaime had returned to the Lannister forces. A washerwoman they called her, a lowly servant who'd been sleeping with Jaime's squire Peck, but who'd been oddly devoted to Jaime himself. Brienne had eventually found out her story.
They reached the door of the guest chambers and stood back while two servants carried in buckets of hot water.
"Doesn't Evenfall have a bathhouse?" Jaime inquired innocently.
"Yes. But we consider it polite to offer important guests a bath in their chambers, at least at first."
His grin was decidedly wicked. "I'm sure the bathhouse ones are much larger."
"Single men and women usually take separate baths," she said, trying not to smile.
"That isn't nearly as much fun. Meanwhile I suppose that asking the Maid of Tarth to scrub my back the moment I arrive would cause a scandal?"
"I'm sure Pia will be happy to help." Jaime, my love, if I stayed to help you, I'm not sure where it would end ...
"Not the same at all." Dancing eyes spoiled his attempt to look miserable.
"You'll manage something," she said, giving him a gentle push as the two servants emerged with empty buckets and hurried off down the corridor. "Go on. I have things to do. I'll see you before dinner."
"I'll look for the saddlebag with my best behaviour in it!" He glanced around, then swiftly leant in and kissed her on the cheek. Her hideous, scarred cheek.
"Jaime?" He stuck his head back round the door and she took a deep breath. "Jaime - I - I'm glad you're here." She turned quickly and strode after the servants.
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