The Sapphire Isle was not a vast place, and Brienne had sought to explore its contained reaches from the time she was able to take her first steps away from a watchful caretaker. As she grew, those steps took her further, so that she was roaming Tarth's valleys and shores while others her age still lingered at their mother's side. By ten she was hefting too-heavy swords. By fourteen, already taller than some men, she was riding furiously across the low-paths and trails, pushing the horse to its limits. Wanting desperately to be a boy in this world of men.

Either way, she was an explorer.

Her father soon realized that his daughter not only did not look like a lady but refused to act like one (refusing, in fact, to marry the men on offer), and when this caused strife between them, Brienne took it upon herself to leave.

She'd had trepidation, of course, she would have been a fool not to have. What little the world had then shown of itself to her was not so pretty or kind as all that. People high or low could mock her, or she could make them afraid of her, and there was not much else between. And once she'd left the isle, Brienne realized quickly that her best chance was to stay largely unrecognized, keeping the lowest possible profile while distancing herself from the world of lords and ladies.

And it worked, for a while.

She hadn't wanted to leave with any of her father's wealth, nor could she live indefinitely without income, so for a time she was a sell-sword on a small scale, acting as guard, gatekeeper or some other such temporary position in whatever places didn't laugh her away right at the outset.

There seemed little honor in such things, so far.

One month found Brienne swallowing what remaining pride she had and agreeing to work cheap labor for a wealthy innkeeper along a well-traveled portion of the King's highway, not far from Bronzegate. The owner had her hauling water to and from rooms, stabling and readying horses, gathering firewood and other such menial tasks. Brienne didn't mind the tasks that kept her out of the public eye. She was not afraid of dirt nor of hard work. It was the scoffs that made her duck her head and wait until quieter times of day to perform some of the duties; otherwise, she heard nothing but colorful variations of nicknames based on her size, her strength, her unwomanish manner.

But there was a bed—a pallet—and a roof—which leaked occasionally, given that it covered an old sheep-shed—and plenty of food from the kitchens, and though she was paid an absolute pittance for her labor sunup to sundown, at least it was a temporary means of living.

One evening a trio of men came riding with boisterous energy into the yard, trading quips and jests and hollering at each other over their exhausted horses. Brienne lingered in the shadows—often the young squire, Kenet (with whom she worked side-by-side, amicably enough) would bring the horses in first. Once the men had gone in she would see to their animals' care.

The light-haired one dismounted in an arrogantly effortless manner, catching her attention and she realized she recognized him. It wasn't so much his features, which were still in the distance—but she'd definitely seen him before. Kingslayer. He'd been to Tarth, had eaten and drunk in her father's hall. A few years back, she'd still been in her mid-teens and slightly, unwillingly overawed by all the shining Lannister company. Jaime's was a manner difficult to forget, though they'd surely never shared more than a quick introduction and the few words exchanged that courtesy demanded.

She supposed, staring unabashed from the shadows while Kenet took the reins of the horses from their riders, that it wasn't so strange to see him here—whatever business brought him this far east of Casterly Rock, the inn was just off the busy southern Kingsroad.

Pulling off gloves, Jaime Lannister made a brief survey of his surroundings, and Brienne instinctively shrank back, but his gaze did not land on her. Within a few moments he had joined his friends to enter the inn through the front gates.

Mildly distracted—she'd been recognized for herself in the past but this was the first time she'd encountered someone of whom she'd heard stories—Brienne resumed her duties in the stable alongside Kenet, cooling down the horses and getting them ready for the night. Once that was done, the evening was still early and she headed around the back to chop some wood for the capacious indoor fireplace, which burned steadily now that the nights were cooler.

Her hands had never been soft, but they'd grown even tougher after many rounds of this activity. Though there was no art in it, the work was purposeful and pleasanter than shoveling dung or hauling water from the river or well. Brienne was working on a fine layer of sweat before, mid-swing, she was aware that someone was approaching.

She split the log and swung slowly, warily, to see him—the Kingslayer—ambling in her direction. Cloaked, armor-free, sober?—difficult to tell, some men wore their liquor better than others.

Brienne straightened, an act she usually performed fully conscious of her height. No point hiding now, though why he was out here or what he might be about to say she had no possible idea.

He stopped before getting too close, and regarded her, a measuring look on his face (this she was used to, whether it was the other person trying to determine her actual stature or just trying to assess her more generally).

"I do know you," he remarked, just as she was about to set another log on the scarred block, but this statement stopped her hand and she hesitated, looking back at him.

"My lord," she inclined her head, thinking it the safest non-committal action for that moment, neither admission or denial.

"Selwyn Tarth's—child. Gods, you did nothing but grow, didn't you? What did they feed you on that island?"

It was nothing she hadn't heard from others. From lesser men. Perhaps none so famous. In her more truculent moments, Brienne had drawn sword from sheath upon such words, upon the men who had swords to draw themselves. She would never threaten the unarmed, even the most wicked.

Now, she only had an axe, a weapon, to be sure, though a coarse one, but even the idea of drawing the finest of swords on Jaime Lannister would give any sane person pause.

Not that she was actually imagining drawing a sword on him.

"What are you doing out here?" he said, switching from his ignored rhetorical questions to bemusement.

She found her tongue. "Surely you can see that I am chopping wood for the fire."

He looked at the building alongside them, pointed at it, pointed back at her.

She chose to ignore this, turned her attention back to the log, positioned it on the chopping block and, mindful of his regard, split the wood cleanly into two perfect pieces. She had added several more to the pile before he said, cocking his head, "But of all things, why?"

Brienne told herself to assume that he was well-meaning in this instance, despite the things she might have heard. "I quite enjoy it," she said, flatly.

"I've never seen anyone chop wood with such verve," he commented, "much less a lady."

An appellation she despised for how much it had come to mean, though of course a Lannister couldn't know that and hadn't imbued it with any tone of insult.

"The work is honest," she said, at last, because he seemed to have no intention of leaving. And then wondered if that had sounded too defensive. The word work hung heavy in the ensuing silence. It was on both of their minds that work was not something a man in his position nor a woman typically in hers would need to consider. Now, surely, he would pursue that line of questioning.

But he didn't. He watched her split another log into tidy pieces before taking his leave, giving her a final thoughtful glance at the last moment when she unfortunately happened to be looking back at him. At least, the shadowing light doubtless concealed her warming face. And then he disappeared back into the building.

This interaction, she assumed, would be the end of it, but sometime later when she entered the tavern through the back to check if anything else was needed before turning in, Kenet found her, touching her familiarly on the shoulder—"Oi, you're wanted to bring water up to second room on the left, lord wants a bath."

"Does he then, you'd better get started," she retorted, but he shook his head, unjesting. "Keep asked for you to do it."

Brienne frowned, weighing the chance that there were no more lords than had ridden in with the Kingslayer tonight against the likelihood that he'd specifically asked for her. "What if I haul it to the door and leave it there, you can knock—"

He lifted shoulders to ears, eschewing responsibility, and turned away. Curses. She wiped grubby hands on her jerkin, set her jaw, and collected two of the massive buckets from storage. Well water was closer to fetch, but far too wasteful for washing, so she took the extra time to go down to the stream and fill both buckets, then string them across a sturdy branch to bear over her shoulders. By the time she made the second trip up the stairs with the tub, leaving the noise of the patrons below, she would have given much for her own soak in such a bath. (Her personal ablutions, performed hastily in the still of night by the river's edge with her sword close at hand lest anyone stumble upon her, had nothing of relaxation about them.)

Brienne tapped with the back of her hand on the scarred door, not very loudly, hoping this would result in a discharge of her duties. But she was bade to come in, so she did, arranging her expression into inscrutability, because it was indeed Jaime Lannister and no random unknown lord. That he appeared to be alone, she wasn't sure to take as a good or bad sign.

"As you requested, my lord." She set down the heavy container in the middle of the room with a decided thump.

"Thank you. How prompt you were."

Sarcasm? She tried to think how long it had taken, decided he must be paying a genuine compliment. She dipped her head and turned to bring in the buckets.

"I'd offer my help," he remarked, "but you have the shoulders for it."

She would not hunch. Brienne unloaded the buckets, knelt by the tub and began to pour them slowly in. "The water is cool from the stream. If you require I can bring a kettle from the fire."

He came over, close, and she tried not to tense, aware of his fine clothing, his inquiring gaze. He did smell like a horse however and that made it a little easier. He took one knee at her side and put his hand in the water. "Two kettles, perhaps."

Brienne emptied the one bucket and started on the second, staring steadily at the filling tub.

"If you don't mind," he added.

"As you like, my lord."

He put a hand on her wrist, startling her into steadying the bucket and pulling it back. "I must know," he said, genially, "what you are doing here."

Brienne felt her lips moving wordlessly for a moment. "I—you requested my attendance."

"Here," he emphasized, taking in the room with a rotation of his neck.

"It is as good a place as any to be," she stalled, deftly moving her arm away from his.

"Do you require assistance? Is someone—" he shook his head, bemused—"keeping you against your will?"

"Certainly not." Brienne drew herself to her feet. He rose, too. They stared at each other for a few moments.

Finally he said, tossing his mane of blond hair,"I demand that you explain your circumstances."

"Beg your pardon, my lord, I don't believe I owe you or anyone an explanation." Demand, indeed. As if he had the rights of family (a brother, an uncle) to do so.

"Oh, very well," he sighed, "request, then. Do me the honor of, and so forth." He waved a lazy hand that was meant to indicate the entire range of formalities and how little he clearly thought of them. Honor, that was another strange word for him to use, she thought, and was tempted to say. But it was swordplay, not wordplay, in which she was experienced and to venture into the latter was risky territory indeed.

A knock at the door—which Brienne had left slightly ajar—startled them both, revealing one of the kitchen maids with a tray of food and pitcher of drinks. "M'lord," she curtsied, hurrying over to set the things at the modest table. She took her time walking back. Brienne glowered at a point on Jaime's chest while he was momentarily distracted, like all men presented with a pretty face—or swaying hips in this case. Once she had gone Brienne realized her own desire to make such an escape. "I leave you to your dinner," she began, aware of how wooden her voice was.

Jaime glanced back at her, meeting her eyes again now that the girl was gone. "Join me."

She felt her forehead creasing almost painfully with the effort of making sense out of such a curious offer. "I couldn't possibly."

"There's plenty. You haven't eaten yet, have you?" He crossed over to the table and poured out a measure of glistening wine.

In fact Brienne hadn't, being delayed by this particular assignment, and whatever comestibles he had been given smelled delicious. For a few heartbeats she actually wavered. Then common sense stepped in. "I am in no condition to join you, my lord, as you can see." Her sensible trousers, grubby jerkin, and quilted sleeves were nothing that could be worn by even a man in a formal setting. Much less a lady. His jab of earlier sprung to mind.

"I'm not in condition myself," he said with a shrug, dusting near his collarbone. He proffered the goblet.

Brienne felt lodged in place as though something very heavy was weighing her down. The door was only a few steps away. She must immediately excuse herself and return to her sheep-shed. The trouble was she very much wanted to drink the entire contents of that cup and possibly help herself to some of the—roast quail, was it, by scent? as well.

Pure nonsense.

But he was still extending the drink, and if he meant, in a moment, to dash it at her feet and laugh, his expression did not seem to suggest that was a likelihood.

Be wary of men, still more of noblemen, her septa had said. They play games. Harmful ones.

Game or not, she wanted the wine.

He gave her an amiable smile when she took it and drained half in one long gulp before pausing to breathe.

"There," he said as if she were a child. "Now sit. Eat something."

"Where are your friends?" she asked, impulsively, emboldened by the warmth swirling into her belly.

"Dining below with the rabble, I imagine." Jaime pulled out a knife from his belt and used it to efficiently split the bird on the platter into two sections. He extended a hand, palm up, to the chair, inviting her again to be seated.

Brienne did, easing herself onto the stool instead, having to crook her legs awkwardly to do so. The meat, upon first bite, was tender and delicious and assuredly not what she would have been given from the kitchen before heading to bed. Nothing but the best for their high-born guests. She took another long swallow of the wine.

The kingslayer ate in what seemed like companionable silence alongside her for a few moments, though she could have done without his scrutiny. Then he pointed a bone—"Does your lord father know where you are?"

"I am a woman grown," Brienne said, mustering dignity to her tone.

"Grown," Jaime agreed with an eyebrow arch, and she gave him her most baleful stare. He refilled her wine by way of making amends. "You have to admit," he said, resuming his conversational manner, "that it's very unusual that you should be here. In whatever capacity you are...serving."

"I work for the innkeeper, yes." Was he implying something else? A thought struck her and she said with sudden panic, "You did not reveal my identity to him, did you?"

"Ah, was it a secret?" He kept her in mounting horror for a few moments longer. "Be at ease, I did not."

"And your companions?"

"They remain ignorant," he said, suavely. "This wine is quite good, isn't it?"

She'd been about to thank him but was silenced by the rhetorical question which was apparently intended to divert from precisely such a statement. Unable to carry out even the simplest conversation on the subject of the relative quality of wine, she drank instead. Though if he meant to make her drink enough to render her insensible, she thought darkly, he would go unsatisfied—one experience with overdrinking in her past was enough that she'd sworn off doing so a future time.

He moved to refill her cup from the pitcher.

"I should take my leave," she said, the thought coming first before she said it aloud, aware of how truly inappropriate this visit was.

He raised eyebrows. "Why?"

Did he mean to make her say it so plainly? "It may be—of little consequence to you, but I ought not to be seen in the rooms of our patrons."

"As a general rule, I suppose not. Though I daresay I'm not your average patron."

"No," she murmured agreement, "that you are not."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said in an engagingly confiding manner,"I'd like to return you to your father, Lady Brienne. What do you say to that?"

"I would say, not being kin, you would have no reason to suggest such a thing."

"Can I not suggest it as a fellow high-born?"

"I am not in need of assistance, nor rescue, Ser Jaime. Thank you."

"Lord Tarth would surely—"

"I must make my own way. I cannot concern myself with what he would or wouldn't want."

"You're his only child," Jaime said, rather smugly she thought. But since it was true she accorded it with a nod of her head.

"So is this what you consider making your way?" He gestured at the room. "Cleaving wood, hauling water? Admirably built for it though you are. What is it you truly wish to do?"

If told he would laugh, as everyone did, though she'd stopped vocalizing her desire to be a knight long ago. She pretended to consider that question all over again, as if it was the first time she'd heard it.

And no, he was right, this was not where she wanted to be, of course it was not. The inn had only been temporary. She could move on whenever she chose.

Perhaps that time had come.

"I am not bound here," Brienne said at last, with some defiance.

"Then let us go back."

"What of your friends?"

He shrugged elegantly. "They don't need me."

"Neither do I."

"You are stubborn, aren't you?"

"It has been said of me. What of you?"

"What is said about me? Surely you know that."

"No, I—" Brienne felt unaccustomed heat rise along her neck. "I meant why are you here, so far east?"

"Should I not be free to roam the world as I may?"

"Freer than most, if that is all you are doing. I beg your pardon. It is none of my business. Nor my interest."

"You're quick to defend, my lady. There's nothing wrong with asking questions. More wine?"

"No, I have had enough." She was, in truth, pleasantly sated.

"As you like." He took some more for himself, then said abruptly, "Do you have any means?"

"My lord—?"

"Coin, gold, anything of value with which to make your way."

"I have already said I do not require any assistance."

"It's nothing to me," he said, with supreme casualness.

"That is precisely why I would not take whatever you offered."

He rolled his eyes at the stiff response. "Then how do you plan on getting by?"

"I have something of value. Not belonging to my father. My sword."

"And what good is that?"

"I know how to use it."

"Ah, yes, I'm sure you watched the master-at-arms a few times from the balcony—"

"No, ser, I am in earnest." This was ground she had covered, the skeptical glint in his eye, he thought she was a dreamy fool. Now he would say something even more patronizing, and she'd have to decide if she was bold enough to challenge him—challenge the Kingslayer—or if she must back down, pretend she wasn't really that good.

But his expression, as before, was more thoughtful than mocking, as if he were actually giving her words consideration. And that, Brienne couldn't deny, was more than a little mesmerizing. She sneered at herself: are you taken in so easily by a man seeming to listen for once?

"And you think you can make your living with your sword?"

"I have! I will...I wish to." It is only convincing men like yourself that is the difficult part.

"I'd like to see that," he said, and now he smiled. Lazily, like the lions he came from.

Brienne quickly regrouped. "I do not play, ser. Battles are not a game to me."

"You think they're a game to me?"

"I do not know, ser." Her septa again in her mind, that knowing look, that warning finger. All men play games.

"Well," he said eventually. "Brienne of Tarth. A far more interesting second meeting for us, wasn't it? In the morning, if you're still here, why don't we see this sword of yours at work, hmm?"

"I will not perform for an audience." Not knowing what he had in mind, Brienne was compelled to establish that, though she spoke quietly.

"I'll send my friends on their way," he said, soothingly. "I'm not so fond of crowds myself."

She doubted that. But he had promised. And even a man who could kill a king could still keep a promise. Perhaps she was a fool to think so, but she did. And maybe the only way to reclaim one's lost honor was to try a little at a time. It was possible to hope, if not believe, that was what he was choosing to do with his life now.

She rose, startled into awareness of how long they had actually been speaking. He stood, too. "Don't bother with the kettles," he said. "Rather, get yourself some sleep."

Brienne inclined her head, and strode to the door, economical in movement as possible. She was glad to escape below and out back through the darkness to her sheep-shed, to fall on to her flat-hay pallet and stare up through the holes in the thatch roof. Breathing deeply, and deep in thought, she lay for some time awake, the faint animal smell lingering in her nostrils, and the wine warm in her belly.