Light filtered through her eyelids. Brienne came awake suddenly.

Jaime's arm was thrown across her, not really in an amorous manner, but as if he found her a comfortable bed bolster. Still, it was a little unnerving. She elbowed back into his ribs. He grunted and pulled away, rolling upright.

She sat up too, muttering that she had not intended to sleep through their watch. He mumbled equably that they were still alive.

They breakfasted on more of the bread and ham from the previous night, and she asked him what he had found out about their location. It seemed they were nearest to the town of Duskendale, so quite a bit further east than she had imagined. Jaime intended to go there to regroup, rather than trying to struggle on foot and unsupplied to King's Landing. It appeared the more sensible plan so she couldn't think of a reason to do otherwise.

"And no one recognized you?" she pressed, as they set out again. He was leading the way, marching with confidence down a path he must have discovered the night before. Through the trees she could catch glimpses of the settlement they were skirting around.

"Mostly pig farmers," he said, shrugging in easy disdain.

"Pig farmers with coin?" Brienne asked skeptically.

"Well, that's why I didn't get much. Tight-fisted, the lot of them. And not over-bright. I'd be surprised if they recognized their own king, much less myself."

"I appreciate your attempt at humility just now, but at least they are making an effort at honest living, no matter how distasteful you find it."

"I don't find it distasteful. That ham was prime quality."

"Always full of japes," she sighed.

"Oh, well, if it pleases you, I shall endeavour to be grave today. Though I think the combined weight of my dourness added to yours might very well send the sun back abed and bring a monstrous rainstorm of gloom upon us."

She said with a touch of despair, "Truly you love nothing so well as the sound of your own voice."

"What do you love, Brienne?" He glanced back over his shoulder at her. She was unprepared for the question and when he stopped, so did she.

He elevated an eyebrow.

She shifted the weight of her sword from one hand to the other. Suddenly it seemed very heavy. Aware of muscles clenching in her back, she said stiffly (because it was apparent he wasn't going to move until she answered), "I love truth."

"You love an abstract construct?"

"It's not a vague concept. Either something is true or it's not."

"So unsophisticated. We have to work on that."

"We have much to work on with you," she said, anger swelling despite her attempt to override it. He was constantly doing this: bringing a discussion point right to the edge of something real and genuine, then holding back, refusing to commit.

"Why do you always want to talk about me when I am trying to talk about you?" he complained.

"Because you are a far more interesting—did I say interesting, I meant problematic—subject!" Brienne realized she was on the verge of shouting.

He regarded her with an analytical eye. "You want to swing that sword at me right now, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, since she was, after all, trying to teach him it was important to tell the truth even if one was furious. Even if it hurt.

"I wouldn't," he said. "Your anger's leading, not your skill."

"Test me if you like," Brienne bit back.

He smiled, almost indulgently, and turned away.

But she was ready, and a moment later when he spun back, though lightning-fast, his sword swinging up and out—she parried.

He grinned at her through their crossed blades.

"Don't," she said. "I'm not playing."

"I'm not playing either."

The weapons clashed again.

I will take that smile off your face before this is done, she vowed, lunging.

The world reduced to the sounds of their skirmish. Breaths, sword-scrape and clang, branches breaking underfoot. They continued to battle. Brienne became aware at some point that the scrap itself was, in fact, calming her down. There was something about the patterns she was naturally falling into that encouraged control. Rhythm. Discipline. Jaime, too, had lost his grin and was concentrating, which helped her to treat it like a training exercise. Although she was still deadly serious. She didn't know what would happen if he made a mistake. It didn't occur to her to worry about making one herself. And as the moments passed by, she began to realize that she was, on a professional level, admiring the style and skill for which he had come to be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

"Stop," Jaime said, after a long period of silence.

"Are you getting tired?" She held his sword at bay for a moment.

"Brienne," he said, his voice going up conversationally, "stop."

She did, surprising herself. Whether it was the voice of the weapons master instead of Jaime's that she heard, or whether she knew it was just time, she did, driving the tip of the sword into the ground, isolating it, giving her last action a chance to connect with something solid.

He lowered his own sword then, eyes on her. "You realize that if you did manage to kill me, you wouldn't be able to keep your promise to Catelyn Stark? And I'm not sure what, other than angering your father, my killing you would accomplish."

He circled her in a rather predatory manner, but she had taken a step back from her sword, not about to pick it up again. She stared into the middle distance, not able to look at him.

"You weren't trying to kill me, were you?"

"No," she said, softly.

"I don't believe you."

"It's as you say," she said, willing her breathing to slow and even out. "If I don't get you to King's Landing—I have nothing to bargain with."

"So stay focused." He was right behind her when he said it, leaning into her shoulder, almost at her ear.

I'm trying, she thought furiously. She could never have imagined what a difficult promise this would prove to keep.

"Get your sword," Jaime said, then, lighter. "And let's go."

She did.

Hours later they finally stopped to rest again. The air between them remained bleak, without any further exchange of conversation. The peak of midday had passed. They had seen a few smallfolk coming and going near distant farms and fields, but there had been no close encounters.

The weather remained fine and clear and the night promised to be warmer than the last.

They kept going.


Jaime's legs were tired.

As he had earlier announced, marching through the Crownlands like an ordinary foot soldier was not his preferred method of travel. But there was no way around it until they got to Duskendale. A day or two anyway, he estimated, based on the information he'd gleaned back at the village settlement.

By the time the shadows were lengthening and the moon could be seen beyond the horizon, he picked a spot to bed down. The pleasant valley still retained the sun-warmth from earlier that day, and there was a shallow river beyond for drinking water and washing, which would serve his purpose well, since he recalled Brienne saying something about rotting corpses.

She was still angry at him, or if it wasn't anger, something else he didn't feel qualified to define. He never pretended to understand women in general, and Brienne was no ordinary example of a woman. She did appear subdued, however, not actually radiating the kind of anger she had at the start of their swordfight. Well and good, if she was subdued. Maybe she realized he couldn't keep up not injuring her (or worse) indefinitely.

It wasn't cool enough to warrant a fire and he didn't feel like building one, anyway. But he dragged a couple of storm-downed trees into cross angles to provide something for them to sit up against.

Brienne looked very tired. She was just resting, with closed eyes, occasionally brushing at her face—which was doubtless itchy, in various stages of healing—with her knuckles.

Jaime leaned back into the v-shaped shelter of trees and closed his own eyes, inhaling the earthy smell of bark and decomposing plant matter, far more pleasant than decomposing animal matter. There was a hum of evening birdsong in the trees that was quite soporific.


When dark had settled, and Jaime seemed to have fallen asleep, Brienne stretched her stiffening muscles and quietly got up. At last, her chance to have the bath she'd been thinking about since the previous evening. The banks sloped down to the river, putting it out of sight from their sleeping spot. After a hesitation at the water's edge, she stripped off her quilted padding, tunic and trousers, and stepped bare into the water. She longed to bring her clothes in to wash too, but did not want to face the idea of sleeping in them wet or even damp again.

With a sigh of satisfaction she went under the surface and out again, smoothing her hair back from her face, feeling the gentle current tug at her legs. It wasn't very deep. She began to wade further to the center. Bathing in the dark was a little intimidating, even after getting used to the temperature, but the moon was bright and illuminated the surface of the water. And there was something about swimming unclothed at night that could not help but make one feel—if not alluring exactly (she blushed at the silliness of the thought) at the very least, not as unattractive as normal.

Jaime appeared, striding down the bank with a complete lack of self-consciousness despite the fact he was just as completely naked. For a few moments Brienne was stunned into a lack of reaction. Then she sank quickly under the water to her shoulders. It seemed a more dignified choice than fleeing.

"Ah," he said, spotting her, and if he was feigning surprise, she couldn't tell in the moonlight. "I thought you'd gone somewhere."

"Go—get away." She shooed at the water in front of her ineffectively.

"Why? There's plenty of room." His gesture took in the long expanse of the river. She stared at a fixed point above his head because he was still standing there unashamed.

"I do not wish to bathe with you!"

"That's not very generous." He began, slowly, to wade into the water. Not far from her. She held her ground, however. "You were the one chastising me for how terribly I smelled. Besides, it's dark. I can't see anything, if that's what you're worried about." He sounded faintly derisive.

"I'm not worried," she muttered.

"No? Let me see you go put your clothes on then."

"I will not, you...deviate. I just got here. If anyone leaves first it will be you."

"The enormity of your stubbornness," Jaime said, "is matched, perhaps, only by your naivete." He squinted into the moonlight at her. She was about to turn her back on him when he added abruptly, "Still. You are a good sword to have around in a fight."

The terse masculine compliment left her unable to reply, rooted to her current spot in the water. Damn him. She could see how he could be an inspiring leader, a force for good, with only the slightest effort; he had that much natural charisma.

She scrubbed at the skin on her arms, self-consciously seeking an occupation. It was all very well to dally languorously in the water like a mermaid of legend when one was alone, but accompanied, it felt ridiculous.

Jaime was exploring the back of his head and wincing. Brienne recalled belatedly he too must have sustained an injury, the night of their capture. She didn't usually see pain reflected on his face. Instinctively she came a little closer. "Are you—"

"It's fine," he said, dropping his hand, and then, somewhat more mildly, "Just tell me what it looks like, will you?"

She swam to his side, pushing him into the water and turning him away from her so that the interaction would feel less inappropriate.

"Ow," he said, floundering against her not-so-gentle ministrations. "Try not to drown me."

She put one hand on his head and used her other to pushed away the damp hair at the back, though he flinched. "The skin is split, and you have a lump," she announced professionally.

"I know that," he muttered. "It hurts."

"Now who's being a girl? I think it will heal if you don't damage it again."

"I didn't damage it the first time."

She remembered; he'd mouthed off to their guard so she could have a drink of water. She felt a twinge of guilt, and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

He made an equally uncomfortable sound in his throat and edged upriver.