JAIME

Gales of violent firelight flickered beyond his blindfold. The air smelled wet, and his footsteps echoed. By reflex he reached out to grope for his bearings, but his golden hand only banged into something that felt like dirt. Yes, they were definitely underground. Which of the hells, though? There are seven.

The blindfold had been on Brienne's insistence. "There is no time to explain," she had said. "We must go at once. Otherwise – " she gestured to her bandaged cheek, the livid rope scar on her neck, the bruises that covered face and jaw and throat – "the Hound will do worse than this."

How? Jaime wanted to ask, but didn't. Gods have mercy, she's even uglier than before. What had happened to her, poor dumb stubborn strong brave wench, tooling around the riverlands with a gold-and-ruby sword and a parchment signed by King Tommen, searching for Sansa Stark until it seemed like to kill her? It appears it has, at that. And for a moment, Jaime felt horrifically guilty. She is incapable of taking orders anything other than absurdly literally. If I told her to jump off a bridge, she would.

Briefly, Jaime wondered what on earth he would do with Sansa, making the considerable assumption both that she was there and he was able to rescue her from the Hound. Or rather, if Brienne is able to rescue her from the Hound. His participation would likely not amount to much more than waving a handkerchief and cheering. But he could scarcely tuck Sansa into his saddlebag to take back to King's Landing, and sending her north would play utter havoc with the Bolton alliance. Whatever nameless girl Littlefinger had conjured up to play the part of Arya Stark would then lose all value as heiress, if her legitimate elder sister abruptly appeared, and Jaime was fairly sure that entrusting so much as a houseplant to Roose and Ramsay Bolton was a dangerous idea, far less a prize of the magnitude of Sansa Stark.

We could always run away together, the three of us. Build a cottage somewhere. The notion entertained him, if for no other reason than its sheer ludicrousness. Aye, a useless knight with golden hair, green eyes, and a missing hand, a big ugly swordswench with half her face eaten off, and a beautiful young noblewoman who just so happens to look exactly like the kingdom's most coveted bounty. There's no way anyone would notice us, not at all.

Jaime lost track of how long they walked, but it wasn't more than a day, as Brienne had promised. Then the air had grown cool and damp, and she said that they were drawing near. He felt the tension ripple up her muscled arm; he'd been obliged to avail himself of it periodically, stumbling down the dark earthen warren with no eyes. I ought as well cut off my right foot, at this rate. Or both of them.

The smell was changing. Jaime took a deep whiff. He could make out leather, and old sweat, and steel. Over it all, the burning. That was when he saw the firelight, heard the voices and the hush that fell when he and the wench appeared. And that was when his suspicion, hereunto only distant and lurking in the back of his head, was thrust horribly to the forefront. He stopped dead. "Brienne. . ."

"I'm sorry." Her voice broke. "It was the only way. I'm so sorry, Jaime."

Jaime made a clumsy grab for the blindfold. Her hands, stronger and surer than his, caught them out of the way, and untied the knot at the back of his head, trembling. Brienne is afraid. Somehow, that thought unnerved him more than anything else that could possibly follow, and that was more than enough. Every animal instinct he had was screaming at him.

Brienne pulled away the blindfold, and Jaime stood blinking owlishly in some underground chamber. Roots writhed through the walls, the floor was mud, and fires smoldered dimly in the peat. And waiting for him, standing in a half circle, silent and stone-faced, was the outlaw brotherhood.

This was much more amusing when it happened to the Freys, Jaime thought. "Goodmen. What a surprise. If I'd known this was a court appearance, I would have brought my nice clothes."

"Spare us, Kingslayer," growled one of them, a big brown-bearded man in a stained yellow cloak and patched ringmail. "You're here on trial, all right. But everyone knows what the outcome is."

"It's not much of a trial then, is it?" Jaime glanced around disdainfully, trying to disguise just how taken off guard he had been. Brienne had – Brienne had done this to him, played this trick? But to judge from the way the wench was hunching her big shoulders, staring fixedly at the ground, this hadn't been any more to her taste than his. It does suddenly stop me feeling guilty, however.

"My lord," said another voice. "It does pain us to bring you here in such uncivilized fashion. Indeed, the loyalty of your companion is admirable – she almost suffered hanging rather than choosing to kill you. But the Lord of Light must judge your sins."

Shock jolted through Jaime's belly. He squinted. "Seven hells, Thoros, is that you?"

"It is." The red priest stepped forward. During his time in King's Landing, as a hanger-on at Robert Baratheon's court, Thoros of Myr been a fat, bald, merry fraud of a holy man, wading into tourney mêlées with flaming swords and drinking his winnings afterward. Now he was thin and hard, with a mat of grey hair. Pink rags were the only remnant of his red robes, worn beneath plate armor. He offered Jaime a smile that was apologetic without being sympathetic. "Please, do not blame the lady for bringing you here. We would have found you sooner or later. And she claims that she set out to find Sansa Stark on your orders. Therefore, we must uncover the source of this pernicious delusion."

"So I see. Before you hang me, like a proper gentleman." This was bad, this was very bad. "The Stark girl isn't here at all, is she. Or the Hound?"

"There you're mistaken," said yellowcloak. "I'm the Hound now. The wench killed the last one."

"What? Clegane?" Jaime was almost sorry he'd missed that.

"No. Rorge."

Indeed? How sweet that must have been, before you bastards strung her up. "If that's the case, Pisscloak, you're proudly upholding the tradition of the Hound being ugly as sin. But as for the rest of this. . ." Jaime actually failed to think of a suitably scalding epithet, a mark of the seriousness of the situation. "My lords, I give you my word, on my honor, that Brienne of Tarth is telling the truth. I did give her the sword. I did bid her to keep Sansa Stark safe."

"What in seven hells would you know about honor, Kingslayer?"

"I named a horse after it." Jaime smiled thinly. "But it does seem passing strange, doesn't it, that the wench would risk dismemberment and death on my behalf if I'd just lied to her? I do lie, after all. I'm known for it."

"So we've gathered," yellowcloak said grimly. "And I speak for all of us when I say that that fable makes even less sense coming from your mouth than it did from hers. King Tommen is your. . . nephew, your family runs this bloody kingdom, and Sansa Stark is the sister of the Young Wolf, Ned's daughter, heiress to Winterfell if she managed to escape you thrice-damned lions. Why would you ever want to save her?"

Why, indeed? Tread carefully. Very, very carefully. "I know it sounds ridiculous," Jaime began. "But this – " he held up his golden hand – "should show beyond any argument that I am not the man I was. That was the hand I killed Aerys Targaryen with, and quite frankly, I never knew that anyone loved the Mad King so much until he was dead. If anyone thinks that he would not have gladly slaughtered the whole of King's Landing, the whole of the realm – "

"Aerys had to die. No one denies that. But you – "

"Were sworn to serve him for life." Jaime suddenly felt old, and sad, and tired, and angry. He'd spent almost the last two decades having this argument – with others, with himself. "Am I here to answer for the Mad King? Truly?"

"No. We were just trying to guess what it was in you to possibly claim this story."

"If nothing else, it's too improbable to invent, isn't it?" Jaime smiled again. I will not beg, I will not apologize. "Tell me, my good outlaws. Has it always been your experience that a man's character is formed at birth, never to change by anything that happens to him afterward? Or do some of you know," he went on, pointedly catching Thoros' eye, "that the flames of life will sear us all, transform us, destroy us, rebirth us from the ashes? Has that not happened before? Or am even I beyond the reach of your Lord of Light?" Such eloquence, Lannister. Assuming you survive this, you should become a lawyer.

The outlaws exchanged confused, frustrated looks. "You speak well, Kingslayer," Thoros allowed. "But then, you always did. Your tongue is as glib and golden as the rest of you, and nay doubt you've had time to think over what you meant to say. But if you – "

"Thoros, if it's you and your lot's intention to hang me no matter what I say, then just bloody get on with it. I've always hated waiting."

"That decision is not within my purview." Thoros turned. "My lady?"

For a moment Jaime was confused, thinking he was addressing Brienne. Well, that would be a good thing, assuming she doesn't hold a grudge for me getting her into this mess in the first place. But then he saw a cloaked, hooded figure approaching from the back of the cave, and the outlaws respectfully cleared aside to make room for – her?

Jaime had just a moment to think that whoever or whatever this was, he was not going to like it one bit. And then two bandaged hands reached up to lower the cowl, and even he – Jaime Lannister, who had loved his sister, killed his king, thrown Bran Stark out a window, and seen Brienne of Tarth in pink silk and Myrish lace – was stunned into speechlessness.

Beside him, Brienne herself made a faint noise of pain. This was likely even worse for her the first time around. "Lady Stark," Jaime said at last, feebly, his voice sounding ridiculous to his own ears. "It's – good? – to see you again. . .? I – never properly thanked you for setting me free – "

The thing that had been Lady Catelyn Stark merely gazed at him. Her flesh was pudding-white, her face shredded, her hair gone, blotches of brittle decay splotched across her cheeks. Under the baleful stare of those sunken, inhuman, hating eyes, Jaime had never wanted anything in his life so much as he wanted to turn and run, but made himself stand his ground. To Thoros he said, "You should have let the poor woman rest in peace."

"It was Dondarrion's notion," the red priest replied. "She was already three days dead when we found her body outside the Twins, and I had never bestowed the kiss of life at such a late time. But the Lord of Light would not have sent her back if there was not yet still a purpose left for her."

Hanging me, apparently. Yet for once, Jaime kept his witticisms to himself. It suddenly struck him how absurdly they were in danger. We are going to die, both of us. He wanted to be angrier at Brienne than he was, but what use would it be?

"My lady?" Thoros said to the dead woman. "What is your decision in this?"

Not-Catelyn reached to her throat, underneath the bandage she wore, and pinched the ghastly slash closed. A succession of halting, spitting, hissing words emerged, of which Jaime could understand no more than one or two.

Thoros turned to her. "She says that you will have a chance to prove your innocence, Kingslayer."

This was more than Jaime had expected. "How?"

"By the sword."

Oh. There went that happy thought. Despite his practices with Addam Marbrand and Ilyn Payne, even a moderately good squire could have torn him apart if they were fighting in earnest, and for all that this lot wasn't about to win any beauty competitions, he had no doubt that they could do the same. They were broken men, men with nothing to lose, led by a corpse and schooled in the hard-bitten prowess that was this never-ending war, and it was good money that all of them had a particular hatred for Lannisters. It is hard to blame them.

While Jaime was still struggling for something to say, Brienne stepped in front of him. "By all the laws of the land, a man can name a champion to stand in his stead, if he is unable. I claim that right. I will fight for Ser Jaime."

Oh, gods. "Brienne, no."

She gave him a stubborn look. "I brought you here. I could not do anything less."

"No one asked you to butt in, wench," yellowcloak said. "He just refused your help, didn't he?" To Jaime he added, "So, Kingslayer. Answer for your crimes in your own stead, or condemn another to die in your place, just like you have always done."

"Bloody just. . . All right. I am not about to be mistaken for a member of the Most Devout any time soon, I confess it. But what crime? And don't give me the rot about the Mad King. Why do you buggers want my blood so badly?"

"There's an oath you swore. Never to take up arms against Stark or Tully. Strange the wench should fish you out of Riverrun and Raventree Hall, isn't it?"

"I never broke my oath." Cold sweat was beginning to trickle down the back of Jaime's neck. "Not that one."

"And it so happens, Kingslayer, you're wrong again." Yellowcloak beckoned to another of the outlaws, a small man with a pointed nose and thinning brown hair. To his further shock, Jaime recognized him. Seven hells, the singer.

"Tom?" said yellowcloak.

"Thank you, Lem." Tom of Sevenstreams drew out a melancholy note on his harp. "I had the pleasure of meeting Ser Jaime at Riverrun, 'tis true. He was having a small discussion with Lord Tully, in which he told Edmure that if he did not command the castle to surrender, it would be stormed with fire and sword. And that when Lord Edmure's wife should give birth to their child, it would be sent to him with a trebuchet. Then Ser Jaime instructed me to play The Rains of Castamere, in case the point was missed."

Jaime winced. "I was hoping not to."

"Your lies get more shameless every time, Kingslayer," Lem snarled.

"Call me Jaime, please. Or Ser Jaime, if a sudden fit of civility should happen along."

He almost didn't see the big man's backhand coming. He threw up his right arm, half-caught the blow, but couldn't turn it entirely. Then he was falling, there was blood in his mouth from where he had bitten his tongue, and Brienne was standing above him with her hand on her sword hilt. I truly do appear to be the maiden fair in this scenario, Jaime reflected, which seems to make her the bear. She's big and stubborn and stupid enough, if not quite sufficiently hairy. And brave and loyal enough too, Warrior defend her.

"Jaime," Brienne whispered. "Jaime, please. Let me do this."

Do what? Jaime got to his knees, working his jaw gingerly to be sure that nothing was broken. "So say I was to accept the wench's offer," he said, as conversationally as he could. "What bold champion would stand for the Brotherhood without Banners?"

"Don't say our name, Kingslayer."

"Only if you'll stop saying mine." Jaime turned from side to side. "Well? Who?"

Not-Catelyn gestured, and once more the outlaws moved aside to let another of their number pass through. Jaime briefly feared another corpse, but instead it was another face that was much too familiar for his liking. Not a corpse, a ghost. Tall and broad and muscled like an aurochs, with thick, shaggy black hair, blue eyes, a square, stubborn jaw. Robert. Except it wasn't.

"Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill, our blacksmith, will have that honor," Lem announced. "Since it was the wench who volunteered."

Brienne had suddenly gone stiff. "No," she said, barely audible. "No, I will not fight him."

Why not? Jaime was puzzled. Aye, the lad was big and strong and tough-looking, but to judge from the way he wore his sword, he'd not been wearing it that long; a smith wielded a hammer, not a blade. Furthermore, Brienne was as good with that longsword as any man he'd ever known. And why did this Ser Gendry matter enough for them to choose him for Brienne especially –

Oh. Understanding hit in a sickening revelation. He looks like Renly. Damn him, he must look just like Renly Baratheon.

Still, if that was really the champion they chose, he might stand a better-than-even chance of getting out of this with his head on his shoulders – assuming the outlaws honored the verdict, that was. Yet somehow, Jaime found himself sidling toward the lad, offering a friendly smile. "Gendry – Ser Gendry, was it? If you're interested at all in living long enough to whelp some little smiths, I'd advise not taking on the wench. She's as strong as Ser Gregor Clegane, and can be just as bad-tempered if she chooses. She'd make a mummer's work of you, and then you'd all be forced with letting me walk free, which would certainly grate horribly on your constitutions to the point of – "

"Be quiet, Lannister." The boy shoved him aside.

It's better than Kingslayer, if barely. Jaime suddenly wondered if it had been like this for Tyrion all those years. Take pride in what you are, then they can't hurt you. And it seemed he was about to share another unpleasant parallel with his brother, if he was forced to watch a duel for his life. But he did not want to think about Tyrion. If he ever saw me again, he'd kill me, and not without cause.

Briefly, Jaime saw his dwarf brother's face in his head, heard once more the last words Tyrion had ever spoken to him. Those words had scarce stopped chasing each other around his thoughts ever since. Very well, Cersei is a lying whore, she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know. And I am the monster they all say I am. Yes, I killed your vile son.

Jaime shook his head, hard. I told them not to bring old crimes into this. He moved closer to the wench. "Brienne," he whispered. "You don't have to."

She lifted her eyes to his. Her big blue maiden's eyes, which went so incongruously with the rest of her. "Jaime, I have to. But not him. . ." Imploringly, the eyes turned to Lady Catelyn. "My lady. . . any other champion you name, I swear it. But please. Not him."

The dead woman pinched her throat together once more, and spoke.

Jaime knew what the answer was, even before Thoros provided it. "Well then," the red priest said. "She says, Lady Brienne, that you will fight Ser Jaime himself."