Chapter Text
BRIENNE
Jaime took his leave of her in the blue-black twilight that lingered before the sun rose.
“I should go,” he said when he noticed the growing brightness. His voice was tight. He made to stand, breaking their embrace and pressing his lips to her forehead one last time. Brienne closed her eyes and relished the feel of his kiss. He had lain with her for the better part of the past hour, holding her close, whispering sweet words in her ear. She had never imagined a man’s touch could be so gentle. And yet…
Blood rushed to her cheeks as she recalled what they had done. It all felt like a dream. But there was a very real soreness between her legs, an ache foreign and new, reminding her of the way he had felt inside her. There had been pain at first, so strong that water had sprung to her eyes, but Jaime had kissed her tears dry and spoken softly to her until the pain ebbed into a strange form of pleasure. The sensation had moved through her like the swell of the sea, and his fingertips had sent ripples across her skin, ghosting down her arm, her hip, her thigh, mapping her flesh.
Now, as he dressed, Jaime’s eyes were fixed on her, traveling over her body as if he were trying to commit every detail to memory. Perhaps he was. He had told her of his plan to head to Casterly Rock with Bronn, to gather troops and bring them north to join King Jon’s forces. They would not see each other for a month at least. The thought made Brienne’s heart clench.
“Although I prefer you unclothed,” said Jaime, interrupting her musings, “you’d best dress as well, my lady.”
Brienne flushed, but she knew he had the right of it. The camp was like to wake soon, and she did not want Podrick to happen upon her in such a state, nor any of the other men who may need speak with her. She extricated herself from the sleeping furs and began to pull on her smallclothes. As she was lacing up her breeches, Jaime’s arm wrapped round her waist from behind, his fingers splayed against her belly. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
When she turned to face him, however, her smile died. Jaime’s expression was grave. His eyes searched hers, brimming with dread, and suddenly she understood. Another goodbye.
But this time there was no stretch of sand between them, no boat rowing her away, no conflicting loyalties. Just him standing in her tent, body so close she could feel the heat radiating through his leather jerkin. When he kissed her, slow and sweet, it was a promise that they would meet again.
Brienne watched him leave, looking through the flap of the tent to ensure no one had taken note of his exit. To her relief, Bronn was the only man in the clearing, his form illuminated by the fire he had evidently coaxed back to life. At the crunching under Jaime’s boots, he shot up, alarmed. His features twisted into a wry grin a moment later.
“Don’t,” warned Jaime.
The knight said nothing, but his knowing smirk was word enough. Brienne let the tent flap fall closed. She listened as the two men readied their mounts, leather creaking and horses snorting. Soon there was the sound of hooves pounding through snow, fading into the distance until quiet descended upon the camp once more.
Brienne sat on the mound of furs, alone now. Images from the previous hours swirled in her mind. She saw the candlelight reflecting in Jaime’s emerald irises, glinting off his tousled golden hair, glowing against the play of muscles in his arms. Naked, he had looked half a corpse and half a god. Just like in the bath at Harrenhal, she thought. Her heart fluttered as she remembered the feel of his lips gliding over her body, kissing her face and neck and breasts, and the way his eyes had glittered with lust all the while…
A fear hit her suddenly, not for the first time. It was a notion old and familiar, sprouting in her mind like a weed. She did her best to ignore it, but the roots were buried deep, and in her solitude she was helpless to distract herself. She found her hand reaching for Oathkeeper, releasing it from its sheath, laying it across her lap. The surface of the blade was rippled from a thousand folds, yet she could still make out her face in its reflection. Lips so plump they seemed swollen, nose crooked and broken, skin marred by scars and freckles alike. Ugly beyond a doubt.
All compliments from men are lies, Septa Roelle hissed sharply in her head, and if you want the truth all you need do is look in the mirror. The truth was staring back at her, plain as day. There was no beauty to be had in her prominent teeth and thin, straw-like hair. She knew that. Had always known. But she also remembered how Jaime had looked at her as she undressed, his green irises full of tenderness and hunger at the same time. You’re beautiful, he’d whispered, gazing at her like she was the most desirable woman in Westeros.
She had seen the honesty in his features, heard it in his voice. He was not lying, she told herself, despite the demons muttering otherwise. She took a breath and pushed the doubts away, burying them within. She was no beauty, but in his arms she had felt like one, and that was enough. She was enough.
Brienne repeated the words over and over until she almost believed them.
Eventually the camp began to stir, and the smell of frying blood sausages wafted in with the laughter of men and the clangor of squires taking down tents. Podrick appeared some time later to help with her armor. As he was working the clasps of her breastplate, she could hear the question in his silence, but the boy made no move to speak. Doubtless Jaime’s presence in her tent had made the rounds, and rumors had reached his ear.
“Ser Jaime intends to bring aid north,” Brienne said finally. “He came to speak with King Jon, and figured I was the next best option. I will need a raven to inform Lady Sansa of his plans.”
By the time the escort was packed and mounted, the sun was well up, its golden rays peeking through cracks in an ashen sheet of clouds. Snowflakes piled on the metal helms and shoulders of the knights as they pushed on through the glittering landscape. Although no one confronted her, Brienne could sense the glances of the men around her, could hear the whispers of the squires at her back. Let them talk, she instructed herself. Words are wind. She had dealt with the sneering of men all her life. This was just more of the same.
As she rode, Brienne thought of Jaime, of his being branded the Kingslayer for over twenty years. He had known the truth behind his motivations all along, but never been able to tell a soul. The world had painted him a man without honor, called him oathbreaker behind his back, judged and sniggered and condemned. Despite his attempts to feign indifference, Brienne knew that it bothered him, and he had been forced to live with it every day. To harden his heart against the preconceptions that would haunt him for the rest of his life. No matter what he did, he would always be the man who killed his king.
Suddenly Brienne’s chest swelled with pride. Jaime had chosen honor, deciding to do what was right instead of dissolving into his reputation. She wanted to wheel her mare around and find him, to tell him she was proud of him. The rest of the world could have their assumptions. She knew who he was.
Who she was.
The remainder of the journey passed with a lightness of heart Brienne was not sure she had ever felt, not even when she was a young girl on Tarth, when the world had seemed so black and white and far away. Even then there had been the humiliation of broken betrothals, the longing for respect and acceptance that had been so elusive. Now she walked the camp like one half-asleep, ignoring the stares of the other men, letting their whispers wash over her. She did not owe them an explanation, nor did she need their approval. Nothing could touch her so long as she kept the truth close.
They arrived at Winterfell late one evening under a dark felt sky. The snow was deep in the North, so high their horses trudged through to their chests. Brienne’s calves were drenched when they dismounted inside the castle walls, but she did not bother to change. Instead she went in search of Sansa.
She found the Lady of Winterfell in her solar, nursing a glass of steaming spiced wine and reading over various parchments.
“My lady,” greeted Brienne.
Sansa looked up. Her long auburn hair glowed like fire in the light of the oil lamp, shimmering red and orange and gold, deep russet and black. She had half of it pinned up in braids, reminding Brienne distinctly of Lady Catelyn. Her irises were pale slivers of ice.
“Brienne.” Sansa set the papers down on the desk. “I received your letter.”
Two ravens had flown from the Stark camp; one to inform her of Jon’s trip to Dragonstone, another to inform her of Jaime’s trip to Casterly Rock. Brienne had a pretty good notion which of the two she was referring to.
“Cersei lied to everyone in the meeting. We will get no help from her.” Brienne had provided such details in the letter, yet even so she felt the need to repeat them now. “Ser Jaime has gone west to call his men to arms. To bring them here, to the northern cause. Only-”
“He hopes the North will not see it as an act of war.” Sansa’s fingers played with the stem of her goblet. “I know. Tell me truly, do you believe the Lannisters have ever cared about anyone but themselves?”
Brienne’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No.”
“And can you tell me the last time they brought anything but deceit and death upon the North since the day they chopped my father’s head off?”
“No.”
“So why should I allow them to march their entire army to our gates?”
“Ser Jaime is not Joffrey,” Brienne insisted. “He kept his word and convinced Cersei to let us into the capital unharmed. He sent me to find you and keep you safe, to make good on the vow he swore your lady mother. His intentions are as he says.”
“What of his intentions when he thrust his sword through his king’s back? The king he also swore to protect?”
Shivers raced across Brienne’s skin. She could not answer. The truth was there, sitting on her tongue, but would accomplish nothing. She stood mute and let quiet envelop the room.
Sansa studied her for a long while. Her pupils were large black pools in the dim light. Finally she said, “You love him.”
Brienne’s pulse stopped. She remembered her conversation with the queen at the royal wedding, feeling blindsided and confused. She had said nothing then too. My mouth was full of cotton.
She took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”
There was another stretch of silence. Lady Sansa watched her from across the table, rigid and unmoving. The oil lamp flickered. Then something shifted in her features, and she sighed.
“I trust you, Brienne,” she said at last. “You saved my life, and brought my sister home to me. Those deeds are not easily forgotten.” Sansa’s eyes softened. “And I know you would never do anything to deliberately bring me harm. If you believe he means what he says, I will take your word for it. I will send riders to the Neck with instructions to let the Lannisters pass. And when they arrive, I will treat with him.”
Brienne’s entire body sagged with relief. Or perhaps it was exhaustion. She nodded her thanks and went, unable to form any proper words of gratitude. When she reached her bedchamber, it was all she could do to remove her armor. No sooner had the last piece fallen to the floor than she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
She woke to a cold white morning dancing with snow. Spears of ice hung from the roof of the Great Hall, as large and sharp as dragon teeth. Within, groups of knights huddled at the trestle tables like flocks of snow geese, their cloaks coated in white. She found Podrick at the end of a bench, alone, warming his hands by the hearth. To break their fast the servants brought out barley bread and bowls of warm porridge, crisp bacon and tart jellies and mulled cider. Brienne ate ravenously. The meals nearing the end of their travels had consisted almost entirely of leathery dried meat and oatcakes, whatever was left over after so long on the road, and even that had become scarce the last few days.
She was scraping her bowl clean when a man plopped down heavily beside her. He was very large, easily one of the fattest men she had ever encountered, and the weight of him caused the wooden bench to creak in protest. Her spoon fell from her hand and clattered to the ground as the seat shifted under her.
The man whipped around at the sound, thick cheeks quickly turning scarlet. “Oh! My apologies, s-” Somehow his face managed to redden further when he realized his mistake. “My lady.”
He bent hurriedly under the table to retrieve her fallen utensil, but his large middle made it nigh impossible, and Brienne leaned down to grab it instead.
"It’s quite alright,” she said as they both straightened. The man was young, hardly a man at all, although his dark beard seemed to lend him a few years. He had kind hazel eyes, and a heavy chain lay against his chest. “You’re a maester.”
He gave her a humble smile. “Not the most decorated, I must admit. I only stayed at the Citadel long enough to forge a few links.” It was true. Just three different metals made up the chain he wore: silver, black iron, and copper. The rest was a thin length of rope that kept it circled round his neck. “I figured Jon - King Jon - would want me to return as soon as possible.”
“His Grace sent you to the Citadel?”
“He and I used to be brothers. Sworn Brothers, that is. Back at the Wall. I asked him for leave to Oldtown after Maester Aemon died so I could study, and help with… everything.” All at once the man’s eyebrows shot up. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Samwell Tarly. This is Gilly, and that’s baby Sam.”
Brienne hadn’t noticed the woman sitting behind him, nor the toddler on her lap. Gilly was slight of build, with a pale face and mousy brown hair. The boy had similar features. His chubby fingers were wrapped around a strip of bacon.
“Brienne of Tarth,” she replied. Baby Sam gave a gurgle of delight and clapped his hands together.
“You’re the Evenstar’s daughter,” said Samwell. “The warrior maid.”
Maid no longer, Brienne thought abruptly. She cleared her throat to distract from the blush creeping up her neck. “I’ve sworn my sword to the Lady Sansa.”
“Ah.” Just then baby Sam reached up and tugged on Samwell’s ear. The man gave a surprised shout. Seemingly satisfied, the toddler began to laugh, a high sweet giggle that rang across the hall. The sound was as beautiful a song as Brienne had ever heard, and when Samwell began to tickle him, filling the air with more of it, the entire hall stopped to listen.
She watched them for a time, Samwell and baby Sam and Gilly, entranced by their momentary gaiety. They seemed to be in their own world, removed from the harshness of reality if only for a moment. A stab of envy struck her then, fast and sharp, and she resolved to take her leave before it became too much.
Brienne had never wanted a family. Her father had made three matches for her, and each she had dreaded. The thought of marrying, of bearing children and settling down to a life of dutiful mundaness, had been abhorrent to her. It still was, to an extent. But at times she found herself yearning for something, something she could not name, a sort of closeness that ran only amongst kin. She had heard it in Lady Catelyn’s voice as she spoke about Bran and Rickon and the rest of her children. A bond as fierce and unyielding as Valyrian steel.
The chill outside cut through her cloak and loose woolen shirt, seeping deep into her bones, but still the strange sadness would not relent. She walked past the sept and through a gate to the main courtyard beyond. She was of a mind to return to the Guest House, or perhaps pick up a sword from the armory, but her feet carried her past both. Soon she was crossing the threshold into the godswood.
Growing up on an island off the southern coast of the continent, Brienne had only ever worshipped the Seven. Evenfall Hall had housed a grandiose sept, and it was there that she had knelt with her septa and prayed to the seven faces of the deity. There had been no godswood, only sprawling gardens filled with fragrant flowers and rustling aspens and burbling creeks. She could still feel the sunlight that had streamed through the canopy above, warm golden coins kissing her skin.
These woods were a darker sort. The trees here were ash and chestnut and ironwood, twisting gnarled oaks and soldier pines, all black shadows in a sea of white. Their trunks pressed close together, so close they seemed to drink all sound. Even her footfalls were silent. Snow had landed here too, but the hot springs that flowed beneath had warmed the ground, letting patches of soft humus poke through.
Brienne walked slowly over the forest floor, breathing in the earthy scent of the place, a smell as primal and ancient as the North itself. This was the home of the old gods. The children of the forest hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years, yet the northerners still kept their faith, a religion whose gods dwelled in stone and earth and tree. It seemed to Brienne that their eyes were on her as she weaved through the tangled roots and rocks underfoot.
Eventually she came upon the heart tree, a great white weirwood that lived at the center of the grove. Its sap was red as blood, flowing like tears from the eyes of the face carved into its thick bark. Crimson leaves swirled through the air to float on the pool of water at its base.
This was where Sansa had been married, Brienne knew. In her own home, under the gaze of her own gods, she had been forced to wed the son of the man who had killed her brother. And after… Brienne did not like to think of after, of what Ramsay had done to her over and over for months on end. Anger flared in her chest. Littlefinger had pulled those strings. No doubt he had known what kind of a monster Ramsay was, yet he had persuaded Sansa into his bed nonetheless, all as some calculated move on his cyvasse board.
Brienne would have to keep her guard up regarding Petyr Baelish. With Sansa now sitting as Lady of Winterfell, she was a sweet plum indeed. Doubtless the man was already trying to drive a wedge between her and Jon. Bran had declared himself uninterested in taking his place as lord of Winterfell upon his return, and if Littlefinger convinced Sansa to stake her claim as the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark and the rightful heir to her family’s stronghold, a marriage proposal would not be far behind. Such an arrangement would give him control of both the North and the Vale, making him one of the most powerful players in the Seven Kingdoms.
Brienne inhaled and tried to shake the thoughts from her mind, sucking in a lungful of crisp air. So far Sansa had proven herself wary of Littlefinger’s silver tongue, and Brienne knew she loved her half-brother deeply. She would not fall for his tricks again.
The heart tree loomed above as Brienne moved closer, its broad pale branches climbing high into the sky. Its face was twisted and solemn, with a hard thin line for a mouth and weeping eyes. Gooseflesh prickled her skin. The austerity of it reminded her of the Stranger.
It was only when she neared the pool that she noticed the figure at the weirwood’s base. The person sat kneeled between its roots, facing the trunk. Brienne drew up short, but it was too late. A twig snapped under her boot, and a moment later the girl spun around, skinny blade extended.
“You’re not a northerner,” said Arya. Her tone was barbed. “These aren’t your gods.”
“No,” admitted Brienne.
“Then why are you here?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Brienne had been in the godswood once before, the morning after her conversation with Jaime in the kennels. She had wanted to escape the stifling confines of the castle, but the courtyard had been too full of people, and the godswood had seemed her only chance to think in peace. She had wandered tentatively past the open gates and through the trees. It had proven a good place to calm her mind, albeit a dreary one. She hadn’t made it as far as the heart tree that time. The deeper into the wood she had traveled, the more she had felt the watchful eyes of the gods, judging her, deeming her a trespasser. So she had turned back the way she had come. But afterward, when she had confessed her crime to Lady Sansa, she had been assured that visitors were welcome.
Arya did not seem to agree. Her sword was held at length, its silvery reflection shimmering across the surface of the water. Brienne knew the girl was not fond of her. They had barely spoken since arriving at Winterfell together so many months ago, and whatever interaction they did manage to have was curt at best.
“I oft pray with my sword as well,” said Brienne. She kept the words light, attempting to invite some form of amiable exchange. Sansa was slow to trust me, too, she reminded herself.
“I wasn’t praying,” snapped Arya. Her features were drawn into a scowl, and her fingers were tight around the hilt of her rapier.
“My septa used to say, ‘A wise woman uses the word of god as her sword’,” Brienne recalled. The memory was a bitter one. Septa Roelle had been a hateful woman, always chiding Brienne for her mulish attitude and her decision to wield a sword. She had never ceased to remind her that swordplay was a man’s duty, and a woman’s was in the birthing bed.
Arya scoffed. “That’s stupid. Words can’t poke a man full of holes.”
Brienne’s lips lifted into a smile. “I told Septa Roelle much the same.”
A moment of understanding seemed to pass between them then, reaching across the pond. Brienne was reminded of their first meeting, back when she had found the girl with the Hound. Arya had grinned when she’d told her of her father teaching her how to fight. Now the girl’s arm lowered, and the point of her sword sank into the spongy ring of moss along the edge of the water.
“You fight well,” conceded Arya.
“As do you,” Brienne returned. “I rely mostly on strength. You, though…” The girl was slim, like her sword. Both were better suited to speed and quick thrusting attacks, and she used the style effectively. “Who taught you?”
“My father hired a Braavosi fencing master,” said Arya. Her face grew pensive. “Syrio Forel. He died.”
Brienne felt a pang of pity. The Stark children had lost nigh everyone they had ever cared about. Their father had been beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept, their mother and brother slaughtered behind the walls of the Twins - even their great uncle had been killed during the fall of Riverrun. Suddenly Brienne thought of Jeyne Heddle and her sister, orphaned and running an inn all their own. When the lords play their games, children highborn and low are forced to grow well before their time, or else perish like their kin.
It was no great wonder why Arya mistrusted her. The Lannisters had arranged the murder of half her family, and Brienne had shown up with their gold about her hip, promising to protect her. She was surprised the girl hadn’t tried to kill her a second time.
“Perhaps we could duel in practice some day,” Brienne said. She gave a nod of farewell. “My apologies for disturbing you.”
Brienne turned to leave, pulling the fabric of her cloak tight around her to ward off the chill. She did not get far. A few steps in, a voice came from behind.
“Today’s some day.” Brienne turned around. Arya was looking at her warily still, but the glower had left her face, and there was a lightness to her tone that had been absent before. “I don’t want to use wooden swords, though.”
They found the courtyard busy, bustling with sparring soldiers and servants going about their tasks. Brienne picked a decent bastard sword from the armory, thinner and longer than Oathkeeper, the better to match Arya’s technique. The men around them watched as they began their fight, each circling around the other, blades drawn across their chests. Arya struck first, sending a stab to Brienne’s side. She blocked it easily, meeting the rapier with a swift upward cut. They danced across the muddied snow, steel scraping as they parried blow after blow, never slowing.
By the time they were both panting, a crowd had gathered around them, a loose circle of scullions and men-at-arms. Some were shouting out bets on who was most like to win the fight. Brienne tried her best to ignore them, but one cut through her focus like a knife, causing her heart to jump into her throat.
“Twenty coppers on the Kingslayer’s whore!”
Brienne stopped in her tracks. Arya’s blade whizzed through the air and caught her along the forearm, but she hardly noticed. As she turned to the man who had called out the words, her body began to blaze, the heat coursing through her in waves. The rest of the onlookers sensed the shift in the air and fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw Arya lower her sword.
“Why would you call me that?” Brienne asked the man. He was a knight of the Vale, dressed in sky blue and white, young and lithe and blonde. He couldn’t have seen more than twenty name days, and there was a twist to his mouth that betrayed the easy arrogance of youth. She recognized him as one of the retainers that had accompanied King Jon to the capital.
“Everyone knows Lannister paid a visit to your tent the first night back,” said the knight. “Why else but to rip off your armor and fuck you like his sister?”
A few spectators laughed at that. More looked uneasy. Brienne saw two or three soldiers’ hands fly to their sword hilts; no doubt they expected a fight to break out, and intended to come to their fellow’s aid.
“What, cat got your tongue?” goaded the man. “Lion, more like. Bet he’s already got a bastard in you.”
“Enough, Eon,” said a burly redheaded knight, placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Leave her be.”
The knight called Eon wrenched from his grasp. “No, no, I want to hear what she has to say for herself. Tell it true, wench, what would the Evenstar do if you crawled back to Tarth with a lion cub in your belly?”
All eyes turned to her. Brienne could feel their stares boring through her clothes, singing past her skin, tearing into her soul. Her entire being hummed with anxiety. There was a part of her that screamed to run, to go to her room and bar the door and never leave, but she knew it would do her no good. She had ignored them long enough, had contented herself with letting them whisper behind her back. She would have to find the courage to speak.
And somewhere, deep within, she did. She remembered herself, a girl of twelve, waiting in her father’s hall for the boy she was to marry. She had been shaking with nerves, as panicky as one awaiting an executioner’s greatsword. Then the boy had arrived. He had taken one look at her and thrown his rose at her feet, disgusted. Her worst fears had been realized, and as he walked away her face had burned with the strain of holding back tears. The humiliation had consumed her.
She would not allow herself to be humiliated anymore.
“I am no man’s whore,” Brienne growled, pointing her blade at Ser Eon’s chest. Adrenaline surged through her veins. “I am a sworn sword and advisor to the Lady Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell and your liege so long as you fight under the direwolf. I have fought and won against men more seasoned than you. You would do well to remember that. And guard your tongue, lest you want to lose it, ser. ”
The silence that followed her statement was complete. A mule brayed from the stables across the yard, and somewhere a wagon creaked. No one dared speak. Then Ser Eon blew out through his nose, derisive, moving forward so the tip of her sword dug into the falcon on his surcoat.
“There’s a stink of lion about you, woman,” he sneered. “You still have yet to deny that the Kingslayer took you like a bitch-”
“Ian, is it?” cut in a voice. Brienne’s insides curdled at the sound. The group of men parted, and Lord Petyr Baelish strode into the circle.
“Eon, my lord,” said Ser Eon, tone suddenly bereft of its edge.
“Ah, Eon.” The Lord Protector of the Vale gave a cutting smile. “My apologies. It’s terrible of me, I know, but most of your names escape me. There are just so many of you… Ser Albar, Ser Mychel, Ser Donnel… How could one possibly keep track?”
The insinuation in Littlefinger’s words did not go unnoticed. You’re dispensable, it said. Ser Eon’s face went pale as milk.
“You’d be smart to heed Lady Brienne’s warning,” Littlefinger continued, flicking his gaze in her direction. A shiver climbed up her spine. “The Lady Sansa would not take kindly to your insulting one of her dearest friends. And I’ve no doubt Lady Brienne could easily take your head from your shoulders if she so desired.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” stammered Ser Eon. “Of course, my lord.”
“Good. Now leave us, all of you.” The bystanders scrambled back to their duties like scolded children. Littlefinger stroked the point of his beard for a moment, watching them. Then he turned his pale grey-green eyes to Brienne. “I must apologize on behalf of my men, my lady. One taste of victory and they think themselves Barriston the Bold. They grow restless behind these walls, hungry for another battle.”
“For a certainty,” Brienne replied. She did not try to thaw the ice in her tone. “But I needed no saving, my lord.”
“Of course not. I hope I gave no offence,” said Littlefinger, in a way that sounded almost genuinely repentant. Almost. “I do not question you can manage yourself.”
“So why did you help me?”
Lord Petyr’s mouth quirked. “You helped Lady Sansa. I figured it was the least I could do in return.”
“Yes, I helped her,” Brienne snarled, “to escape from the people you sent her to. ”
Something flashed across his face, dark and hostile, but in an instant it was gone, hidden behind his expertly crafted mask. “I will regret that mistake until my dying breath,” he said, the picture of remorse.
“I don’t believe you.” Brienne met his stare. “I’d be a fool to trust anything that comes out of your mouth.”
Littlefinger grinned. “I see you’re as able of mind as you are with a sword. Lady Sansa has good taste in companions.” He glanced to the Great Keep and adopted a sorry expression. “I’m afraid I must cut this conversation short. I’ve been summoned by our lady.”
Our lady. Brienne clenched her fist to keep from punching her sword through the man’s bowels. He gave her a nod of farewell, then bowed to Arya. The girl regarded him coolly, fingers twitching along the hilt of her sword. Both of their gazes followed his back as he slithered away across the yard.
I feel like I need a bath, Brienne thought, shuddering. But she must have said it aloud, for she heard Arya snort beside her. They locked eyes, and a moment later the girl broke into a fit of laughter. Brienne found herself following suit. As they struggled to regain their breath, she realized she could not remember the last time she had laughed.
Arya accompanied her to the armory to drop off her borrowed blade. On their way, Brienne inclined her head in the girl’s direction. “Needle, is it?” Arya nodded. Her thumb ran over the pommel, a habit Brienne had noticed on more than one occasion. “Who gave it to you?”
“How do you know I didn’t steal it off some corpse?”
Brienne gestured to her hand. “You treat it too fondly.”
Arya flushed. “Jon,” she admitted. The yearning was clear in her voice.
“The king will return soon,” Brienne assured her. She thought of Oathkeeper and Jaime, and hoped the same was true for him.
That night sleep did not come easy. She lay awake for hours, tossing about in her bed, unable to still her mind. Kingslayer’s whore! shouted Ser Eon through the darkness, over and over, and when she finally fell unconscious he shouted it in her dreams. But in sleep Ser Eon was a bear, not a knight, huge and ferocious and snarling, looming above like a mountain. The pit around them was small, smaller than the one at Harrenhal had been, and it seemed as if the walls were shrinking ever closer. Soon her back met stone, and she was trapped. Freak! yelled the spectators in the benches. Kingslayer’s whore! roared Ser Eon, fangs sharp and glistening. Panic seized her heart. She looked around frantically for Oathkeeper, but her hands were empty, and so was her scabbard. My sword, she thought. I cannot fight without my magic sword. Ser Eon raked the ground with his claws, sending sand and gravel into the air. Brienne closed her eyes and awaited the strike that would be her end.
But the end did not come. Instead she felt a pressure on her hand, warm and steady, and when she opened her eyes Ser Jaime was beside her, fingers interlaced with hers. “Jaime? What are you doing here?”
He said nothing, but there was a sword at his waist, and he took his hand from hers to unsheath it. “I need a sword, too,” Brienne said, and suddenly there it was, lying at her feet. She bent to retrieve it. The pommel was the familiar lion’s head, but the ripples in the blade glowed in a way she had never seen before.
All at once Ser Eon let out a fearsome bellow. She and Jaime exchanged a glance, and together they attacked the beast, circling around it, cutting and slashing and stabbing as it whirled about. Blood stained the sand and ran down the length of their blades. Once, when the bear swiped a paw in Brienne’s direction, she was too slow on the retreat, earning her three deep red slashes across her middle. The pain was so blinding she fell to her knees. She watched in horror as the bear came lumbering after her, but it had begun to stagger in the fight, its gait growing labored and stumbling as the life bled out of it. Jaime made quick work of thrusting his sword through the animal’s heart. As it lay dying, he ran to her, taking her in his arms. He pressed his hand to her wound, attempting to stanch the flow of blood, but the effort was futile. She could feel herself slipping away, succumbing to the darkness. The last thing she remembered was the soft pressure of his lips against her own.
Brienne woke with a start, sweating. Her breath was ragged, her pulse rapid. Still half-asleep, she moved a hand to her belly, to the place where the beast had ripped her open. There was no claw mark, no blood. It was just a dream, she thought, sinking back into the bed with relief. Ser Eon was no bear, only a man, and his words could not kill her.
Still, the events of the dream lingered long after she regained consciousness. She could taste the blood in her mouth, metallic and warm, bubbling to her lips. Her thoughts wandered to another nightmare, another death her mind had used to torture her. Jaime. His blood had flowed down the marble steps of the Great Sept like spilled wine. The memory twisted her stomach. How long until such visions came true? The army of the dead would be upon the North soon enough, and then only the gods knew who would survive. There was no guarantee that either of them would make it out alive.
The more she pondered the notion, however, the more she supposed there was a certain comfort in it. With death so close and time so short, Ser Eon’s taunts seemed a small price to pay for the feel of Jaime’s arms around her, his heartbeat thudding in tandem with hers, so alive and warm and real. The end of the world was on the horizon, and Brienne did not want to waste whatever time was left worrying about the thoughts of others. She had done that too much already. The people would take what they wanted, no matter what. She resolved to live her life in spite of them.