In the morning, someone came to invite him to breakfast with the lord, and Jaime assumed Brienne would be present (it was her damned house this time, after all), but she was not. When he offered to go fetch her, Lord Selwyn said that was unnecessary and it was just as well since he had wanted to talk to him alone.

Jaime, having expected this at some point, although perhaps not first thing in the morning, sat back in the carved chair and strove to look attentive.

"I trust you rested well?" the other man began.

"Excellently. My gratitude. The environment here—" Jaime waved a generous but purposely vague arm around. "Is without equal."

Selwyn's head moved fractionally in acknowledgement. "We are glad you are comfortable." (Who we might include he did not specify. There was no sign of a mistress of Evenfall.) "And that you have spared me some time. I did not wish Brienne to be present during further talk of recompense lest it make her uncomfortable."

"I maintain my position of yesterday," Jaime said, "which is that there is no need for payment of any kind, my lord."

"Yes, very courteous of you. I quite realize you are probably not in any shortage of personal wealth, yet I prefer to discharge my debts in full. Is there nothing which I might offer you?"

It could have been a loaded question, yet the man's lined face was fully imperturbable. Jaime thought about making it easy and suggesting the gift of a good horse, but this was part of his initial, albeit impulsive decision to come here with Brienne in the first place. He ran a hand along his jaw. "I don't wish to call it a debt, but if you do, I would consider it discharged after the granting of a favor."

The older man's eyes narrowed, just perceptibly. "Please name said favor."

Jaime smiled in a manner calculated to be (typical for him) disarming. "I have not settled on it yet."

"I see. May I ask if your favor has anything to do with my daughter?"

"It might," Jaime said promptly, refusing to be caught hesitating on such a leading question. He was fluent in the language of deception, but it also didn't hurt every now and again to be completely truthful. Keep people from ever really knowing what to expect.

"You have not known her long," Selwyn commented.

It was likely purposeful that he'd spoken in kind; stated a fact, without emotion or inflection to give Jaime a hint as to what, if anything, to say next.

He settled on amiable agreement: "No. Though of course we did meet when I first came to these shores."

"And in your brief acquaintance," the lord continued, still without any intonation, "what would you say is true of her?"

True was a good word to describe Brienne, Jaime thought. True. He could picture her face if she heard such a thing said about her. Wondering if it were mockery. Wanting it to be real. Tending towards denying it on principle.

"She'd make a good soldier," he said without blinking. And was reminded of his dream, but how easy it was to imagine it in reality.

Selwyn studied him for a moment and then nodded. "Aye. She was trained well."

Jaime waited, expecting him to follow with but I've been trying to get her married off for some time now and the cursed lass is stubbornly refusing, or something along those lines. But Selwyn said nothing, and in the silence Jaime wondered about those suggested liaisons, including the most recent Brienne had scorned. Why? Was the fellow so desperate for grandchildren that he'd pass his daughter off on some old fart who would probably expire upon the very act of siring an heir?

Of course even in wonder it was a rhetorical thought, since Jaime well knew how much his own father would have given to see him with an appropriate wife—and child arriving in a timely manner thereafter.

What remained of their conversation was unremarkable: Selwyn inquired in not so direct language how long they might expect Jaime to remain their guest, and he answered equally indirectly, being polite but also without committing himself (though his idea still was to leave whenever he and Brienne finished having it out—whatever finished ended up looking like). They concluded their meal, and Jaime was left, he presumed, to spend the rest of the day as he wished.

But the morning left him bored, and when he went out to the yard expecting to find Brienne at work practicing as she'd expressed her intention to, there was only a lad sweeping who told him without much coercion that milady had taken her sword to the green fields (he pointed helpfully in their direction, south).

It made sense that she'd gone elsewhere to train, probably wishing to avoid any questions. Jaime, himself armed, took off on foot in search of her. The boy had said it wasn't far, and he'd no desire to be on a horse again today.

A quarter of an hour took him to the aptly named verdant fields, still oddly so this late in the year. The appeal of this location was clear: plenty of wide flat space, the growth short enough to have been sheared by a farmer's scythe. Jaime spotted Brienne from a distance and watched her with a critical eye for a time before approaching.

He hailed her, knowing she would accuse him of sneaking up if he didn't. She still didn't look delighted when he got close.

"Your left foot was dragging," he said, clinically. "On on that one move—" he did a quick imitation to show her what he'd seen.

She started to retort (he saw her start to retort) but then she hesitated. After a few beats she said, "I'm only practicing."

"You know better than that," he said. "Do it right or don't do it at all."

She gave the smallest of eye-rolls but performed the motion properly, then turned, relaxed her sword and asked, "Why are you here?"

"Well, looking for you, obviously."

"But why?" Warily, she took a few steps further away.

"To get this over with," he said, making that up on the spot.

Her eyebrows flicked concern. "You agreed I might practice today."

"You have done," Jaime pointed out.

"I'm not ready."

"Yes you are. And even if you weren't, that wouldn't change over the course of the night. So let's get on with it."

"I'm not ready," Brienne repeated. As a firm protest it came out rather squeaky and with a tiny bit of panic.

"May I remind—again—that you were the one who asked for this?"

"Yes, but on my terms!"

"Let's talk terms then." He withdrew his sword, not entirely clear himself on why he was pressing her to this extent but he was tired, suddenly; he wanted to be finished. On your terms, wench...If she really didn't know by now that the world was never going to yield to her terms, it was past time she found out.

"I haven't even had time to think." Brienne was already taking the circular steps of defense, sword low but leveled.

"I know what you want, king's rules, right?" He rattled off a summary in a few quick sentences: what was and wasn't allowed, the proper response should such-and-such occur.

If she was going to cry now, damn her—her face was so white. What was she worried about? He should be getting worried if he wasn't going to take every chance, high or low, that came his way.

Maybe he should up the stakes.

Sardonic expression, one he hadn't shown her yet. Tilted his head. Rolled his shoulders a little obnoxiously. "It's better this way."

"How is that?" Brienne marked his advance, continued to back. Watching him carefully, analyzing all that she could.

"You can't plan for a fight, girl. You have to be ready any time." Patronizing.

"I know what you're doing," she said, tentatively, "and it won't work."

"Do you now?"

"You're trying to make me angry. I don't want to fight you angry."

"You already are. It's right there. Just—" he tilted his sword. "Under your skin. If I nick it—" darting, like a snake's tongue—"I bet it'll spill."

"Jaime—"

"That's ser Jaime if you don't mind, my lady." He slashed again.

She did frown now, and advanced with more defiance. "I thought we had moved beyond honorifics—" she ducked back.

"You thought," he scoffed. "You think you know anything about me? Let me show you who I am."

A flash of hurt in her expression. Again their swords met, rattled. "You're not good enough for me," he said, through the blades so close to faces, pushing. "Accept it now, or risk injury."

"I'm not afraid," Brienne gritted, as they disentangled. "You don't scare me, Kingslayer."

"Mm," he drew back, abruptly, poised, and she hesitated, pausing her own attack. "We're back to that, are we?"

"Since you objected to your name just now!" Fire sparked in her eyes.

"You're not good enough," he said again, imbuing more meaning into the lazy, hateful drawl than merely an observation on battlefield skills. And she received the comment, flaming in her face like he'd tattooed the insult there.

It was the skin-nick he'd talked about.

They warred.

It was a bad combination really, one of the worst for a true test of skills. He bored and looking for trouble, she confused and angry.

But they were both fully in it.

And there was no giving, only taking.

Actually, Brienne's anger made her cross the line, once (according to the damn king's rules which he hated anyway—so constraining), and when Jaime didn't punish her for it but just widened his eyes theatrically to let her know it hadn't gone unnoticed, that was punishment enough, from her face.

The engagement was so very similar, and so different, to their first outing. Then, it had had an experimental flavor. Then, she had been largely defensive. Now, she was still careful, but striking out more. Not waiting for him.

He could fight any way anyone liked. He could take whatever came his way. And he was considerably more experienced.

But now Jaime definitely had to concede that, despite her emotions clouding her judgment, she was very good. And that was the same from the first time. It hadn't been a one-time achievement.

They covered ground in both directions, beating paths in the wispy grass; not challenging terrain by any means, but their ferocity made up for that. He could see Brienne getting tired—though he'd moved into a rather single-minded intensity that blocked out most other considerations. Still, it tweaked something in him. He wasn't sure what and didn't have the ability to examine it mid-battle. He wasn't looking out for her.

Then she struck first, and it was a real skin-nick, grazing his upper left bicep cleanly through the fabric of his sleeve, the quick fire-sting of steel on flesh. He was so unprepared that it didn't even hurt for the first few seconds.

And it was very hard to know exactly what happened next—thinking about it later, he suspected she must have hesitated, because he lashed out not in anger quite but in some kind of wounded passion, and it shouldn't have connected with her, she should have been on her guard for it, but she wasn't, and he saw her stagger.

And she dropped her sword, her hand going to her chest, her neck, oh seven hells, where had he stabbed her?

"Brienne." He dropped his sword too, his own wound forgotten, and tried to catch her halfway down, pulling her awkwardly to rest against him while blood seeped slowly into the fabric she clutched at. Somewhere around her right collarbone. "Get this off," he told her, tugging at the shirt but it was quilted and impossible to rip.

"You get it off," she muttered.

That was his Brienne. Not his Brienne, gods, where had that thought come from? He made himself breathe. It wasn't a terrible injury—though he had to make sure. His fingers fumbled with the ties. Hopefully for her own sake she was wearing something underneath but he didn't care if she was, the damn thing was coming off...she gave a quick yelp of pain when he had to move her arm and he muttered "sorry—" and pulled the sleeve away. Shoulder of cream and crimson, a gash the width of his blade just between collarbone and breast, but not deep—he heard himself sigh. Her fingers came up, tentatively, but he pushed them away and then wrapped a palmful of sleeve and pressed against it.

"I'm fine," she said, not sounding fine.

"Don't talk." He shifted, moving her in his lap to better apply pressure, though she moaned again. "Just be still."

Brienne closed her eyes, lines creasing her forehead deeply.

Now he ascertained that she was, in fact, wearing a thin shift. He resisted the urge to check on the progress of her bleeding.

"Don't sleep," he said, when her eyes remained closed after minutes.

She opened them to glare bluely at him. "It hurts. How could I possibly sleep."

"Good...be still." He would have patted her, but his other arm was under her back.

"Your father is going to kill me," he added, as an afterthought. And maybe I'm close to deserving it at this point.

"Only..." Brienne's voice faded, and her nostrils flared in pain, then she said more evenly, "Only if he finds out."

"Of course he's finding out, I'm taking you back as soon as this stops. Which is going to be soon."

"I can..I can walk. My legs are fine."

"We'll see." He risked a look, reapplied pressure. A little longer yet. She's going to be all right. She was strong. The wound wasn't terribly deep. She would heal quickly. Shouldn't have any lasting impact.

Still, he had done this to her. Not something for either of them to quickly forget.

He kept feelings of recrimination at bay. There wasn't time for that.

When he judged they could safely move, he made her apply pressure while he helped her to her feet. Then he belted both of their swords on himself and offered an arm, but she wouldn't take it. Chagrined, he followed closely at her side as she started slowly to walk.

"I can go ahead," he said, "bring a cart, some men—"

"I do not want...to bounce about...in a cart," Brienne said, through pain-gritted teeth, "and I certainly...don't want...more men."

"Will you take my—" He reached for her elbow again.

"Will you let me be?"

"All right," he said, and "sorry," under his breath, maybe apologizing for everything.

The return to the castle was slow and painful; though she was trying not to flinch or make sounds, it was still written on her face. Once they were within sight, they stopped and Brienne got his help to put her sleeve back on.

"Wait," he said, as she grimaced but shouldered her arm in. "We're not actually trying to pretend this didn't happen, are we?"

"I am," Brienne said, "so you would probably do well not to make a liar of me."

"I'm quite prepared to take responsibility for this," he began.

"No."

"What if someone finds out anyway? As they're likely about to." Jaime gestured at the castle, frustrated. The chance that they could get inside unnoticed seemed very low.

"They will not if you do not give us away," Brienne said. "And I was not going to go through the front gates. I assume Casterly Rock also has hidden entrances."

"Indeed, but they aren't always the most navigable, certainly not for the wounded."

Brienne took a breath, winced, held it. "We've one that is quite manageable. Under other circumstances, I would blindfold you before I let you in, but—"

"Injured and blindfolded are poor companions."

She nodded in reluctant agreement.

The pain was considerable by the time they had made it to Evenfall's interior; Brienne had to count on it becoming more bearable once she was able to lie down, or she could scarcely imagine keeping this a secret for long. She declined Jaime's assistance every time he tried to offer it, largely because she didn't want to show that she needed any. She bore him no actual ill-will, ever since the look on his face showed he couldn't believe he'd injured her.

But then she'd cut him first, though not badly.

They were entering her corridor now, and Brienne spotted Nira coming from the opposite direction. There was no time to consider; she darted in through her door and though Jaime hesitated she muttered "Get in here," before Nira was upon them. He closed the door behind them.

There was a brief pause while they stared at each other, Brienne wincing and trying not to gasp, and then came Nira's tap against the wood. "My lady, do you need anything?"

"..No," she said, higher-pitched than normal.

"Very well, my lady."

Jaime reached behind him and slid the bolt across which was probably just as well, though Brienne had never known any servant to burst in announced.

She turned and made it to her bed, easing down. "Make a fire," she said faintly when Jaime came to her. "I'm cold."

He obeyed without question. (She could get used to that.) Brienne struggled with her boots, biting her lip when the urge to whimper struck, and lay down against the pillows. Jaime came and pulled a blanket over her and she did not object. He looked down at her for a moment. "I want to seek out your maester."

"No."

"Brienne—" He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand that still had her blood on it.

"I'm sure you've dressed field wounds before."

"I didn't need them to look pretty!"

"You don't need to make this one look pretty either." No one, including me, cares what my breastbone looks like, she considered adding when he looked dubious.

"When I said I would take responsibility," Jaime said, "I meant for doing it. Not for...sewing you up afterwards."

"Well," she said, shifting and tilting her head to look down at her blood-encrusted tunic, "we don't always get to decide how things turn out. Help me take this off."

Jaime looked around as if someone else was going to appear from behind the tapestries to take his place. He sighed out through his nose, leaned over her and began to peel away the fabric from her body again. They got it fully off this time and Brienne would have felt terribly vulnerable with just her thin shift on except that she'd been showing more at the bath anyway.

"We need to do yours too," she pointed out.

"Mine—" he glanced at his shoulder as if he'd forgotten. "It's nothing."

"Bring water," Brienne directed, seeing she was probably going to have to order every step from here. "On the stand over there, and the cloth."

He brought them, and she was going to do it herself, but wringing the cloth out with her left hand was awkward and he grabbed it away, making an impatient noise. "Let me do it then."

He sat down, carefully, not jostling her, and swabbed gently around the crusting wound, his face all concentration.

"Ow," Brienne said.

"Don't be a baby," he answered without inflection. His hand was hovering just over her breast and despite herself she felt her face warming to match the heat rushing to the wound. She tried to focus again on the pain, which actually wasn't difficult, because it did hurt. To further distract she said, "There's things we can use for binding in the—" she nodded vaguely in the direction of her wardrobe.

Jaime wrung out the cloth, having cleaned the areas around the wound adequately at least, and went to rummage around. He came back, ripping something efficiently into pieces along the way, and she groaned.

"What?"

"That was my second best...never mind."

He held up what was now just simple linen scraps as if they had never been anything else.

"Yes, just..."

He brought them over, knelt this time beside her and began to wind some under her arm and over the wound. He was efficient, if not tender, but he was frowning. "This is going to scar."

"That's your fault. You stabbed me."

"I know. I didn't—"

She smiled a little wryly. Really, he still couldn't quite get out that he hadn't meant to?

He tied the strip at the top of her shoulder and rested his hand on it for a few seconds.

"Take yours off," she said, remembering how he had so instructed her on the battlefield.

He glanced at himself again. "You barely touched it."

"I want to see for myself."

He capitulated without comment, pulling his top over his head with a small wince and twisting his arm towards her for inspection.

She reached with her good arm, fingers just grazing his skin, but it was true, her blade had scored only shallowly. Still, he had bled; a dry stream of crimson trailed down to his forearm.

Her fingers traced the line; a curiously intimate moment during which neither of them breathed audibly.

Jaime broke it first, reaching for the bowl of reddish water in which the cloth still lay. There was only the sound of the drops as he wrung it out slowly, then brought it to his arm, with dispassionate concentration. For whatever reason (even if just because pain had overwrought her emotions) it oddly moved Brienne, the mingling of their blood. She bit her lip for further punishment. I must need rest. Last night had been largely sleepless, her mind having occupied in going over all her feelings after their communal bath.

"What do I do with this?" He'd finished cleaning, and indicated the basin.

"Pour it through the casement."

He did as bidden and returned, then pulled his clothing back on.

"You should probably go back to your room," Brienne murmured, "so I can rest."

"I can sit there while you rest." Jaime pointed to her chair by the fire. It was a comfortable chair to be sure, lined with furs, but he didn't belong in it. And she didn't want to form a picture of him there, either. A picture she'd only remember once he was gone.

"I had rather you didn't."

"What if you need me?"

"I will have to do without you." It felt strangely prescient to say so.

He contemplated that for a moment, then rose abruptly. "As you like."

"Jaime?" For an equally quick moment, she felt something close to panic.

He looked at her.

"Come back later."

"I was going to."

She nodded.

He went and without asking put another log on the fire, then to the door, to unbolt it and go through, closing it after quietly without another glance.

Brienne closed her eyes and allowed a few tears of repressed pain and self-pity to leak past her eyelids. She didn't know how she'd imagined that this day would go—or that it would be this very day, for that matter—but this was not it. He would grow tired of his self-imposed task—perhaps it wasn't even entirely self-imposed, since she'd insisted on keeping her injury secret—and leave Evenfall, and she would have to recover from a wound which shouldn't have any lasting effects (but nothing was ever certain, even less so without a maester's attention, opinion, and herbal remedies.)

She didn't mind the pain so much, but her heart hurt. And worse yet was that it had no reason to and she couldn't even really be sure why.

Sleep when it came was scattered and fragmented, shot through with the discomfort of her wound. She drifted in and out. At some point, Nira came and knocked at the door again, but when Brienne barked for her to leave and not interrupt until the morrow, she left without attempting to enter. In this case, the girl having no particular loyalty or close tie to her was a blessing; a more devoted servant might have refused to listen.

By the time Jaime did come back, the fire had long since died and a persistent rumbling had taken up residence in Brienne's stomach; she had foregone breakfast, and so had not eaten anything since dinner, a full day ago. At first she tried to push herself up on an elbow, but that was not wise, and she succumbed, waiting for him to come to her side. He set down something steaming. "Soup."

"You went below?"

"The kitchen, not the hall. I told your cook you were indisposed, isn't that the word for female difficulties?"

"Please," she muttered.

"I do have a sister. And I brought this." He pressed a small vial into her hand. She brought it to her nose. It smelled vaguely medicinal. Shocked, she demanded: "You didn't go to the maester—?"

"I showed him my arm," he said, patiently.

"And he didn't ask you what happened?"

"He did, but—" Jaime shrugged, then winced—"I told him it was none of his business."

"Is that what you said, or did you stab him too?" Brienne couldn't resist; maybe she was a little vexed, after all. And yet, relieved, to have him back. She'd almost thought that he would disappear the same day.

"No, wench, I didn't stab your maester. Despite the way today is turning out, I'm not trying to initiate a war on your pretty island."

She grudgingly accepted that, and the small compliment.

"Morning and night," he said, nodding at the ointment.

"Did you take dinner? Did you see my father?"

"Full of questions," Jaime sighed. "No. I am not hungry. And no. I did not see him. Anything else?"

"My fire has gone out."

He obliged her by taking the time to rebuild it. From the bed she watched his movements and manner closely, trying to determine if there was anything that indicated impatience or irritation but not finding such. That didn't mean he wasn't feeling them; she now knew how good he was at concealing sentiment.

Though it hurt, she did raise herself to an elbow then—pulling up the blanket for more modesty—in order to drink some of the soup.

Jaime crouched by the fire and poked the charred wood back to life, his expression impassive.

"Thank you," Brienne said, trying to settle comfortably again. The light in the room was low, which would be good for the night, if she could only manage some proper sleep. The ointment should be applied, and perhaps it would help to dull the pain somewhat; their maester had always prepared efficacious treatment in the past.

She began working on the knot on her dressing, one-handed, without making a great deal of progress before Jaime noticed and came over.

"Stop," he said, when she rather defiantly continued to work at it despite him being right beside her. "Why do you never stop?"

I don't know. Frustration gathered in her tear ducts and threatened to spill out.

He put his hand over hers. Warm from the fire. Kept it there a moment, then gently pried each finger away from the knot.

She didn't know what his eyes, on hers the whole time, were conveying. Some kind of controlled tolerance, perhaps.

He undid the knot himself, while Brienne breathed as shallowly as possible, because, irrationally, it felt as though her chest would explode if she did not.

Coming away, the dressing stuck and caught on her wound which had oozed pink, and her breath did catch in her throat then. His eyes crinkled, sympathetically, and he made a murmuring sound which sounded like a wordless apology. He eased the rest of the fabric away and reached for the ointment she'd put to the side. Opened, it had a strong smell.

With her good hand Brienne gripped a handful of blanket as he sketched the salve across the wound. Gods, that hurt. She let out a solitary whimper and saw his mouth tighten. Does he think less of me? Let him think less of me.

She inhaled air, held breath a few moments longer and pushed it out slowly between pursed lips, continuing to repeat this cycle while Jaime coated the injury.

He took a breath then, too, before gathering the binding and fastening it again. "There. Now you should sleep."

She nodded tractably. "Will you—will you stay until I do?"

"I'll stay the night if you want me," he said, and even knowing he was not implying anything salacious, she felt a flush of confusion.

"I...I would, but the servants..."

"Fuck the servants."

"I cannot so easily dismiss their gossip—"

"Dismiss them if they do. I'll make any of them sorry for speculating. Can't that girl of yours keep them at bay?"

"She and I are not especially close," Brienne sighed, "less so since I have been away."

They were both silent for a moment. Then Jaime said, "It won't matter if you leave Tarth again."

His voice was indifferent, so she couldn't interpret what that might mean. A suggestion? A dismissal? An invitation, but an invitation to what?

Or, most likely of all, she was thinking too much and it was none of those things and merely a statement of fact.

"I suppose not," she said, rather dully because now leaving wasn't an immediate option while injured.

"Not that you can go anywhere any time soon," Jaime said, apparently having read her thoughts.

She said nothing.

"Brienne," he warned, like a commander. For some reason, she was helpless against that, where she would have been as a rock to pleas or persuasions. She blinked, submitting, but a spark of childish petulance made her say, "What do you care if I leave or not?"

"I don't. But you'd be a fool to risk greater injury."

"If it were you, and you wanted to go, you would not let such a thing stop you."

He accorded that with a head tilt, but reminded, "We are not the same."

"Right. I'm a fragile woman." She said it hatefully, the way he'd spoken to her during the fight.

He rolled his eyes. "You're young and probably heal faster than I do. Not going to kill you to lie on your back for a sevenday."

"I will be completely out of condition by then."

"There a battle coming up you need to be ready for? Gods, wench. I'm wounded too, remember?"

"You are hardly incapacitated!" she yelled, though it caused a surge of pain.

"All right!" He put out a hand. "What do you want me to say? You want me to be sorry? I'll say it. I'm sorry I put you here. I'm sorry I brought you here."

"Don't be sorry for that," Brienne spat. "I wanted that."

"Yes, well, you got all of me. People don't tend to come away from a fight with me unscathed, my lady." He leaned close, a foot away from her face. Damn him, how did he smell good? She hated him. But his mouth. Mean, compelling. She wanted to bite him, maybe.

Just seconds later they were, somehow, kissing. Or biting, or both. An angry clash of faces. His lips hard, punishing. His skin rasping hers. For a few moments it was thoroughly satisfying and she didn't notice her injury at all. But then he leaned a little too hard and she gasped with discomfort. He broke away at once.

"Now you don't have to wonder if it's ever going to happen," he growled.

"Fuck you," she said, too hurt to care that it was unladylike, unknightlike, and coarse. "Get out."

"I wasn't going to stay," he derided, rising.

"Oathbreaker," she whispered, having no other meanness left in her.

His lip curled, just fractionally, enough that she knew it had hurt. And that was the most terrible satisfaction, knowing the power of it, a power she never thought she'd have or want to wield in that way.

Then he was gone, and though he hadn't slammed the door it still felt like it.