Brienne dreamed of a long warm bath, and woke up realizing that she could completely indulge in one once she reached home that night—home, was it still?—and the thought was almost enough to compensate for whatever unpleasantness might happen before then. Almost.

Of course she could have had a bath while at Storm's End, but she'd wanted privacy more, at the time. It was hard for her to truly relax in a host's space.

The inn room's bed had been a bit lumpy, but she'd still had a solid sleep, having turned in early and left Jaime to his drinking. Rolling over and rising, she wondered how late he had stayed— though of course she didn't care, he could do as he liked. She washed her face, dressed and assembled her things before going out to the common area, where the girl from last night was pulling flat cakes from the hearth. "Is my companion up yet?"

"Haven't seen him, m'lady," was the reply, and Brienne deliberated. It wasn't particularly late, but they had a lot of ground still to cover before Evenfall.

"Perhaps you would be so good as to ask him to stir," she said.

The girl removed the last of the cakes from the heat, dipped her head, and went off to do her bidding. Brienne helped herself to a cake. Doing so wouldn't normally have occurred to her, except she'd seen the coin change hands last night and Jaime had been generous, for once (she thought uncharitably).

Before long the girl returned. "M'lord says he'll be down directly, m'lady."

"Very good," Brienne said, and honesty drove her to add, pointing at the hearth,"I helped myself."

The girl bowed and insisted she take more, to which Brienne at first demurred but then she accepted a second and slid it into her pocket. Perhaps if Jaime was not obnoxious later she would give it to him.

He was down not soon enough to qualify as "directly", nor long enough to give actual offense, which Brienne found typical, so she regarded him with a rather sarcastic eye when he did appear, buckling his sword-belt and running a hand over his impossibly smooth hair.

"Did you sleep well, my lady?"

"Well enough, ser."

His expression didn't alter at her crispness, most probably because the girl was watching them both curiously. He gestured instead.

They exchanged no further words until atop their saddled mounts and well down the road.

"A little chilly this morning, isn't it?" Jaime remarked, clearly not referring to the air temperature. She was aware he was watching her profile.

She sat up straighter. "I don't find it so."

"No? Perhaps you're used to it."

She shot a glance sideways now, but his expression was bland, as it typically was when he was being his most aggravating.

"I prefer warmer weather myself," he said, with cheerful inflection.

Brienne nudged her horse closer to his, just enough to make the other animal sidestep in mid-stride, jostling him in his seat.

"Whoa," he said, though it was unclear whether he was addressing her or his mount. "You're not looking for a race, are you?"

In lieu of a fight, she needed something just like that, actually—something physical and vivid to get herself out of her head and back into her body. Some form of competition where his witty tongue wouldn't give him any edge.

"Your ride isn't up to it," Jaime warned, seeing that she was considering the idea. "Poor thing would probably drop dead. And that would be two horses you've killed this week alone—"

Brienne swore at him. She didn't often swear, but she couldn't help herself. It was worse because he wasn't wrong. Nudging heels to horse, she spurred her animal forward. Even if they weren't going to race, she wasn't going to ride beside him, damn his green eyes.

Jaime kept pace just behind her, which was further infuriating; he could have least respected her space and dropped back. But no, his horse was snorting, right there at her flank. Taunting, it felt like.

She pushed from a canter into a full gallop, which was not sustainable for very long. They flew down the road, any other sounds drowned out by the hooves spitting up gravel and the panting of the mounts. Jaime took over, and as much as it galled her to do so, Brienne pulled up her horse a degree, unwilling to make the creature suffer for her own pride. They slowed to a canter again, and then to a walk, letting the animals cool.

Eventually he circled too, waiting for her to catch up, his face one of pained patience. "You know we might not want to be at odds today of all days."

"I believe that is what I said last night," she snapped. "You need not worry, you will be treated exactly the same whether we are at odds or not."

"I am not worried."

"Unsurprising. Of the things you lack, confidence is not among them."

He raised an amused eyebrow to register the hit. "Why are you angry, again? I do seem to anger you terribly often."

She wished he didn't have that power, but there was no point in saying so. She wished she could be indifferent. She wished that she could yell at him that it wasn't only him, that there were a lot of feelings competing for her attention at the moment, primarily those related to returning home, and, if he weren't so arrogant, he would realize that.

Then again, honesty reminded her, he did know, he had said as much aboard ship. Maybe it won't be as bad as you think, he'd said, unprompted. She hadn't even had to unburden herself for him to say that.

Damn the man, having the audacity to know things without her telling him them.

But the jab about the horses had stung.

They continued on at a more moderate pace. The day was beautiful, golden-sunny and trees turning vibrantly orange, if only Brienne had been in the mood to appreciate fully the changing of the season. The waterfalls and valleys were commonplace to her, though they were always the subject of conversation from visitors to the island.

Upon taking what she estimated should be their last stop of the day before reaching Evenfall—they were eating a late afternoon snack in relative peace, if not a completely amicable one—they heard a group of riders. Six men who slowed, coming through the clearing where they had stopped and tied the horses. Brienne recognized the uniforms of her father at once. They would know her too, and they did, paying respectful tribute to her while saving curious glances for Jaime. As they passed by, walking the horses rather than scatter up dust, someone near the back of their group sniggered. Brienne paid it no attention, such a thing being nothing new, but Jaime rose at once. "You!"

"Jaime, no," Brienne began, but he said, "I'll have them back or ride them down."

The last two men hesitated, having slowed their horses to look over their shoulders, and Jaime pointed and called. "Both of you. Back here, now."

They exchanged glances, as Brienne turned a sigh into a murmur, "Why are you doing this. Please do not try to impress me."

He had strode towards the road but swung around on her. "Impress you? They're your men."

"It means nothing," she pleaded, and would have reached out for him had no one been watching. It probably would not have stopped him anyway. His mouth was grim. He was firmly in soldier mindset.

The two decided they had better obey or risk the chance of a chase which could be potentially more embarrassing, so they brought their horses round. The four preceding, now more in the distance, realized what was happening and stopped their mounts too, though did not return.

Jaime gestured for them to get down, circling like a predator, the lion at work.

Brienne almost felt sorry for the lads. Almost. She was resigned to this moment, regardless.

Reluctantly, the two men slid from their horses, holding them warily.

"You are sworn to this lady," Jaime said, "are you not?"

"Yes, my lord," the taller murmured, while the shorter, younger one echoed, "yes, my lord."

"And you know what that means. Do you not?" His tone was pleasant still—deceptively so, Brienne thought, knowing him better now.

They murmured again their quiet assent.

"If you did," Jaime was warming to his subject. "If you did know that...You would know that what that means, is if my lady here, told you, right now, at this very moment, to cut off your own cocks and hand them to her—"

Brienne flinched. "Ser Jaime..!"

"And hand them to her," Jaime continued, ignoring everyone's widened eyes, "you would compete to see who could do it the fucking fastest."

Throats moved visibly under collars. Brienne's own mouth felt dry at such a thing being spoken aloud. Such a thing being conceived of at all.

Jaime let the silence sit for a few long heartbeats, with only the whicker of restive horses to disturb it.

"Is that not so?"

Brienne chanced a look in the direction of the four other men in the distance. None appeared inclined to intervene. Which was as well.

"Yes, my lord," came the murmurs. Still quieter.

Brienne thought they might be done—this was all he needed, surely—but Jaime looked at her now, apparently still serious: "Does my lady demand the removal of any body parts?"

"No," she said, repulsed, giving him a look that said please stop. He countered with a quick bow, then turned back to the soldiers. "Now get on your knees, whoresons, and beg my lady's pardon."

Deeply uncomfortable, Brienne pardoned them almost as soon as they fell in front of her, bidding them get up and be on their way. They backed away, eyes on Jaime, and couldn't scramble into their saddles fast enough, with final stammered words of contrition. Bent on catching up with their compatriots, they vanished into the distance.

Brienne supposed the fact that neither she nor Jaime had even to touch their swords was a small comfort in the whole situation. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then let it out, blinking.

"Cunts," Jaime said succinctly.

"You didn't have to—"

"No discipline."

"Please tell me you're not planning on lecturing my father as to the training of his troops." In fact she could already envision it.

"I may have a word or two with him on the subject."

"If my opinion matters to you at all, I would much prefer that you mentioned nothing of this." Brienne reached out impulsively and rested a hand on his forearm.

Jaime looked down at it, then back at her. "Might I remind you that they are your own men? Not some Stark whelps or Dornish dogs?"

"I am aware. And you...championed me—" she struggled for words that would adequately define what all of that had been, " ...very—ably."

"You're welcome." He seemed mollified.

"And now we should move on." Brienne cleared her throat. Having someone not her kin come to any kind of defense on her behalf was a circumstance so unlikely that she could not remember the last time it had happened or, indeed, if it had ever happened. And so, she had little idea what the proper responses were, beyond thanks. He did not seem to expect more, at least.

Onward, to Evenfall Hall.

Selwyn Tarth was said by outsiders to be a hard man to read, but Brienne had never found him particularly easy, even considering she was his daughter. Blood didn't account for everything, apparently.

If he was surprised by her return, or by the scion of Casterly Rock being the one to escort her back—and no other company by way of assistance or chaperone—he did not let on at their initial interview, conducted in the great hall. He and Jaime renewed their acquaintance with the expected formalities observed on both sides, and Brienne was happy to stay quiet in the background for as long as possible, coming forward to bow to her father and receive his hand on her head when the moment became necessary. They would have to have a proper conversation, but tonight was not the night for it.

Her father inquired of Jaime, as expected, what expenses he had incurred in accompanying Brienne home, and Jaime demurred giving any actual account. Selwyn let that sit, but Brienne doubted that was the end of the matter. For all the Lannisters talked about paying their debts, the house of Tarth was just as fond of discharging theirs. Her father would not be beholden to anyone for long, least of all to a house that wasn't a close ally.

"I would retire, if I may, my lord," she announced eventually, knowing that the servants would have been scurrying around in preparations for her rooms to be warmed and readied after their long vacancy—probably from the moment a watchman had seen them coming from the roads.

He gave her permission, having explained that the dining hour had long since passed but that they would both have hot food brought to their rooms; tomorrow would suit well enough for formal dinner. She found herself wondering in which guest rooms Jaime would have been installed (she could scarcely ask here and now, but a servant could tell her later) because she was going to need to talk to him at some point too. Before any of that, however, she was going to go underground to the long-awaited baths.

Her erstwhile servant, Nira, seemed dutifully if not genuinely happy to see her back and assisted Brienne with finding a robe and towels, preceding her through the halls and down to the facilities, updating her as they walked with the various happenings in and around the castles, though Brienne's murmured sounds were not especially meant to encourage further expositions.

"Would you have me stay while you bathe, m'lady?"

"No, please be about your own business," Brienne said, having no idea how the girl had been occupying her time, and really not caring either. Nira bobbed her head and departed, and Brienne was left to the warm waters of the capacious bath, the soothingly dim lighting, and her own rather tangled thoughts involving all the events and emotions of the past days.

She had nearly achieved peak relaxation when Jaime's voice, out of nowhere saying—"Don't fall asleep," brought her back to shocked alertness.

"What are you doing here?"

"I need a bath too," he countered as if that should be obvious.

"At this exact moment!?" She tucked her knees to her chest protectively.

He waved a hand at her as if to say not to bother. "Found your maid in the hall, asked her where you were."

She averted her gaze while he cheerfully shucked clothing and climbed in on the opposite side. "There is another one right over—"

He had already sunk to his chest. "Want me to get out again?"

"No." Brienne felt her face flame. He was a mere six feet away. The water was naturally cloudy with the addition of salts and herbs, but still. If one disturbed it, one didn't have much cover.

"This is nice," he said, tilting his head back, rotating his neck. "I had a bath at Bronzegate, too. This one's nicer. I'd have asked you to join me, but I assumed you wouldn't have come down."

"You assume very correctly." Brienne was trying to find a compromise between sitting very straight to indicate her disapproval and needing to slouch to hide her chest.

He gave her a look of appraisal. She struggled to meet his eyes, wanting to remain defiant. "I told you before, you didn't have to worry. I can still control myself even if you aren't wearing anything."

"It is still in no way appropriate for us to bathe together."

"We're not really..." he dragged the last word out, "—together."

She raised her eyebrows.

"I mean—" He slid across the underwater ledge, covering most of the distance between them, sending water up all over and causing Brienne to give a tiny but embarrassingly girlish shriek of dismay. "Now we sort of are."

She crossed her arms and put hands underneath her armpits in a mostly successful effort at maintaining decency. "If my father were here—"

"He's not coming down too, is he? Good gods, that could be awkward, all three of us."

"You are completely incorrigible, ser!"

"Not for lack of effort," he said, staring into her eyes.

What did that mean? On his part, hers, or the world's?

"I wish you would let someone correct you," she muttered, voicing her thoughts.

"Saint Brienne," he said, but softly, without mockery.

Sometimes, oh, as in this moment, that was worse. Mockery, she was used to.

"I am not," she contradicted again.

He turned his head, restless once more. "I suppose correcting me will be the job of whatever poor soul they'll have me take for a wife."

Brienne felt the unsteadiness of the emotional territory he had suddenly brought them to, but murmured anyway, "Why should she be a poor soul?"

Muscles in his jaw twitched. "I'd make a terrible husband."

She might have concurred with this sentiment at almost any other opportunity, but it was a rare flash of vulnerability and she felt the urge to at least soften such a punishing self-assessment, only she didn't know how. She could already imagine his sarcastic dismissal if she refuted it outright.

"Have I finally rendered you wordless? I thought I would never manage it."

"There you are," she said. "I lost you, for a moment."

They gazed at each other, outwardly peaceful if anyone was observing, in conflict within.

He moved away, suddenly, and said, "Tomorrow we fight?"

"I would practice tomorrow, if it's the same to you," Brienne said. "The day after?"

He granted that with a nod.

It was necessary to part ways now, but she did not want to send him off—even if he'd joined without invitation (which she would never have given), he was still their guest. Brienne cleared her throat delicately. "If you would but—" she made a turning gesture.

He made a sound of assent not exactly disrespectful, and shifted to the edge of the pool, putting his elbows on it so his back was to her. She rose quickly from the water and grabbed her nearby robe, putting it on over her wet self rather than taking the time to dry properly. That could wait until she reached her chambers.

"Good night, Ser Jaime," she ventured, uncertain what she was feeling.

He turned his head a little, as if not sure she was fully decent, then further. "Good night. My lady."

She all but fled the room.

Seven hells, he thought, watching her go. She probably didn't realize but the damn thing she had covering her was useless considering she'd put it on while still wet and it dispelled any notions he might have had about what she looked like under her heavy man's clothing. She had all kinds of curves. Calm the hell down, you're not a teenager anymore—and you're not even attracted to her. Still, he was going to spend a few more minutes in the bath until he did calm down. He blew out a slow breath and tried to think about tomorrow.

In fact he was already restless at the idea of spending tomorrow doing nothing around the hall. Brienne's father would probably try once more to engage him in conversation, if only to derive more details relating to how they had made their way here—and why Jaime had bothered to get involved at all. He hadn't really come up with any plausible excuses other than the fact that he had been unencumbered by any family duties and in possession of plenty of free time. And he'd been bored and in search of a diversion. Not that he planned on saying so to Lord Tarth, of course. The man would probably not want to hear his only living child being labeled a mere diversion.

Was that all she was? He considered. Soon they'd have it out, their second and final clash she'd wanted so terribly in the name of honor, and regardless of who was the victor (though it would almost certainly be himself), the story was going to end in the same way. He was going to return to the mainland and pick up some other thread, find some other diversion, for as long as was possible.

And she was going to—well, that wasn't his problem. And it wasn't his business either.

Jaime had had to admit, upon seeing the rooms he was given earlier, it hadn't been a hardship imagining spending any length of time in such surroundings. He was accustomed to opulence at Casterly Rock, and indeed at any number of other great houses, but his quarters here boasted the most sumptuous linens and furnishings within, and the finest views of Tarth's famed waterfalls without. He doubted Brienne's quarters were as nice. Come to that, Brienne probably had an iron bed shoved against the wall of a dank inner turret, knowing her. He should go see. One of the servants would tell him where to find her; the girl who'd informed him that Brienne would be in the baths had been willing to give out that information.

Then again, the maid of Tarth might well want her space to herself for the next day, and she'd a right to that too, if anyone did, having spent a week in mostly his company alone. (Though he considered himself an excellent traveling companion, she might not wax so enthusiastic, if asked.)

He finished his bath and went up to bed—and the bed was all that had been promised—and had a long sleep in which he dreamed mostly about battle. Brienne was not his opponent, however; she was at his side while they led a ragtag band of ne'er-do-wells against a ridiculously large army. In the morning, he couldn't remember if they had triumphed in the end or not. Mostly it was just the memory of the pleasure derived from warring with a competent sidekick.