The sun beat down on the bright green airfield; blue skies had been a constant feature of this summer. On and on went the unbelievable heat, the air sultry in a manner not often found in England. And as the sun appeared every dawn, so the RAF had one sortie and then another and then another, day after day after day. Down came the German planes; few managed to breach the white cliffs of Dover. Down came Allied planes too. Too many, she thought. She was flying out planes from the factory at the rate of knots and every day, fresh-faced and innocent pilots took them, flew for a few precious moments and died. She tried not to think of that fact each time she felt the rumble, the satisfying growl of the engine as she started up and swung her Spitfire or Hurricane towards the airstrip.

Whose mother was receiving that dreaded letter this time she wondered, as she strode towards the small collection of rickety huts at the edge of the field. She could smell the salt in the air; they were only a couple of miles from the coast and so very much on the front line. Ducking through the hut door, she was greeted by a sea of faces looking at her with either surprise, confusion, outright hostility or a smirk. Stilled pens hung over crosswords, a card was about to be laid out on a table, a page about to be turned. About twelve or so men were strewn haphazardly on tatty sofas and armchairs and deck chairs, their bright yellow Mae Wests coming up to their chins in that awkward manner they had as they waited for the bell to send them running for their planes and the foe. Their squadron shield hung proudly on the wall; the gold scrolled letters spelling out Kingsguard, the crest showing it had royal approval. It had no member of the royal family in it at the moment, but it was a collection of the best fighter pilots Britain had, and my gods didn't they know it.

She coughed self-consciously. It was always like this; the men had seen ATA girls dropping off planes for months now but they still looked at her like she was German spy. Perhaps if she had been pretty and not the six foot one she was, there might have been more smiles than smirks.

"I'm looking for Wing Commander Selmy?" she asked, pulling off her flying helmet and running her hand through her sweaty short hair.

"He'll be back in five minutes."

"Right."

"You can wait here if you like."

She nodded, perching on the edge of a table. She rifled through the transfer papers in her hands as a reason not to catch a glance from the still vaguely hostile men.

"Aren't you that Tarth girl?" someone asked. Her heart sank.

Refusing to look up, she nodded quickly.

"Tarth, as in winner of the 1938 aerobatics competition in Paris?" someone else asked incredulously.

She was about to answer when someone else cut in. "No, can't have been her, Trant. Sure it wasn't a brother or someone?"

Her fists clenched in anger, crunching the papers. She shot a killing look to the plummy flight lieutenant who was about five years younger than her. "No, that was me. And bet I could fly that Spit," she pointed through the open window at the beautiful plane outside the hut, "better than you ever could, chum."

The huddle of three chaps that had just spoken looked suitably shocked, she was pleased to see. No fear of being brought up on disciplinary charges either; she was the equivalent of a squadron leader and so could put down as many flight lieutenants as she liked.

"Well, we do have a high opinion of ourselves don't we?" said yet another pilot, from the other side of the room. She turned towards him and saw the face that had been on every newspaper front page fifteen years ago. He had been accompanying the king on one of his test-flights when the king had crashed, died and caused a succession crisis. The remaining Targaryens had been forced into exile as Britain's current king took the throne in a manner that felt remarkably medieval. Conspiracy theories flew around the son of the richest earl in Britain: that Lannister had been the scape goat for a wider plot to get rid of the king, rumoured to be quite mad; that he had done it of out of spite and for celebrity; that his sister, socialite and now queen, had persuaded him to do it to improve her position. Despite the scandal, the family had survived. More than survived; they had help bring in the thirties with a new dynasty on the throne, a new direction for the country, and the money to see off the economic crisis. Indeed, Lannisters had never been far from power for hundreds of years. And Jaime Lannister, he had come out of the whole thing with only a faintly awful nickname and a reputation that no-one would be proud of. Anyone else would have been hung, drawn and quartered for treason and regicide.

"If there was a way we could prove your abilities, I would do it here and now. Shame that you can only fly from the factory and back again." His pitying smile was infuriating as it was false, twisting his face into something detestable. He ran his fingers through his bryl-creemed blonde hair, a perfect picture of relaxation in his role as the persecutor. It was clear he was in charge; not just because he was a squadron leader but the men seemed to hang onto every word.

It touched a sore point; more than anything she wanted to fight and fly, and not be a glorified lorry driver. She felt the fury building in her.

"I can't help that, as well you know. But then again that means I don't see the King come down in a ball of flames either, Kingslayer."

His look turned icy in an instant. His hands stilled, though he leant forward for maximum impact.

"I could sue you for libel. And then you and your little island would be stripped bare," he said, his voice as hard as his eyes. He raised his eyebrows at her surprised face. "Oh yes, I know you Brienne, even if you don't know me. There was only one hulking beast on the air circuit that didn't have something dangling between her legs," he paused for effect as a grubby titter ran through the men, "or perhaps I was mistaken?"

His cutting words did just that, and she felt herself wilt and pale at the insult. She caught one last look from him as she turned away, but she couldn't believe that there had been the tiniest flicker of regret there.

"What the hell is going on here?" the Wing Commander asked, picking up on the poisonous atmosphere immediately as he walked in.

"Nothing, sir. Here are the papers for the new Spit." She spat out the words as she shoved them into his hands.

"Ahh, right. Yes, of course. I'm glad the replacement got down here quickly, we're in damned need of them."

"Glad I can be of service, sir." With that, she stalked out of the hut. She had no-where to go until her lift back and so she sat on the perimeter of the airfield and wept.

It was just her misfortune to be allocated to be the regular girl for that particular airfield. She had absolutely no wish to see the Kingsguard or Lannister ever again. The first few times she had the fortune of arriving when the boys were out flying sorties or catching the group captain without seeing anyone else and each time she breathed a sigh of relief.

Today though, was not her lucky day. First, she had to abort her landing as she struggled with mis-functioning landing gear. She throttled the engine hard to lift the plane's nose up again and wheeled her around, fiddling with this and that until the hydraulics suddenly hissed into action and she felt the reassuring thud of the wheels coming down. She had done belly landings before, her old plane was renowned for not behaving, but a brand new Spit was not a prospect she fancied. Anyway, this meant she fell behind a sortie just coming back. In contrast to her newly painted, immaculate plane, theirs were bullet ridden, dark with engine smut and the boys extracting themselves looked tired and hot. As she unbent her own long body from the cockpit, stepping neatly onto the wing and jumping down while explaining the problem to the ground staff; she spotted Lannister heading in her direction. She wouldn't hide from him, but if conversation could be avoided then that would be preferable.

He nodded at her; she acknowledged it suspiciously. Where the rims of his goggles had dug in, his skin looked lurid and his face was flushed, sweat darkening his hair. Brienne recognised the look of a man who had lost a fellow pilot and she told herself to be nice. As he came up next to her, she awkwardly fell in step as they walked to the mess.

"My condolences," she said quietly.

"You can tell?"

"Sorrow is not hard to spot. I have seen it too much not to recognise it at a hundred paces."

He glanced at her, but asked no further questions.

"I should apologise for my behaviour at our previous meeting, m'lady."

No-one had called her that for years; not since she'd escaped Tarth to seek adventure four years previously. She had hid her ancestry, knowing that it was just another thing to make her stand out from the crowd. But hearing the term made her suddenly miss home. She hadn't had a letter from her father for ages and she felt guilty about not checking up on him.

"At least you remember your etiquette. What you said then was…" The heat of shame found its way to her cheeks again, "was unforgivable."

"I said I'm sorry."

She spun on her heel, making him stop in his tracks. A long finger poked at his chest and she looked him straight in the eye. She realised she was ever so slightly taller than him. All for the good, she thought.

"And yet, I don't believe you. You sound like a petulant child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. I know I am not your equal – though god knows who would be able to reach such heights – but really, were you taught no manners at all? I may come from a smaller house, have none of your wealth, but I know what constitutes respect or decency at least."

"Can't you take a joke?" He sounded bored, looking over her shoulder instead.

"About as well as you can, judging by your court cases against various newspapers," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

His eyes snapped to hers, finally showing some emotion. "They were lies," he shot back, scowling.

"And so was yours. And not even an original one, I hasten to add. And I'm sick of it." Now it was her time to look away. It was hard to admit that she let the taunts get to her, let alone tell the bully in front of her.

"I envy you, you know," he said, after a moment. He almost sounded sad, but she wouldn't be fooled and still refused to look at him.

"I find that hard to believe."

"I envy you because you really have no idea at all. Ignorance truly is bliss."

He made to move away, but Brienne grabbed his arm and pulled him round. He bumped into her, eyes flashing in annoyance.

"You're a pig, do you know that? A right royal pig," she declared, exasperated.

He looked at her for a long moment and she wondered whether she had gone too far, but then he laughed. Uproariously and without restraint, hands slapping his thighs. She looked at him, confused. Eventually he quietened down. "Only one person ever calls me a pig and gets away with it. My brother."

"The Imp?" Perhaps the most charming of Lannisters and in contrast with his older brother, the newspapers loved him and his dalliances with call girls; entire careers had been forged on rumours created by the Imp.

"Tyrion," he corrected. "But you can be the second." And with that, he flashed her a white-toothed grin and walked away.

She watched him go, distinctly un-amused at how once again he had had the final word.