BRIENNE

She cleared her throat. "My name is Brienne of Tarth. Until earlier tonight, I was a captive of Stannis Baratheon, among his prized prisoners. I have information to share with Ser Jaime Lannister, regarding his – niece, Princess Myrcella. But I will only give it to him in person."

In truth, she expected them to refuse, to tell her to bugger off and seek shelter elsewhere. Or worse, that they might capture her and take her not to Ser Jaime, but to his sister, the queen. Only now did it occur to her that Queen Cersei might have heard of her, and think ill of her name. Well. If the worst came about, she would have time to draw Oathkeeper before they took her, and if her luck was in, she might be able to wheel her horse about.

Her mount was well-lathered and sweaty. It had been no kind thing to ride him as hard as she had from Stannis's camp, but she had to make her escape seem genuine, for the sake of the guards.

Stop worrying, fool. There was nothing she could do now except hope. She thought about sending a prayer up to the Father but it seemed disingenuous. Besides, the Seven did not look favourably upon sneak-thieves, which was really all she was right now. Her armour gone, sword disguised as plain steel by its scabbard and wrappings, trying her best to look afraid, though that was less difficult to pull off.

She need not have worried so much. They did not open the big gate for her, but the sally port a little ways further down the wall creaked open just wide enough for her to ride through. Brienne came down from her horse, feigning exhaustion. "Ser Jaime," she said hoarsely. "Take me to Ser Jaime."

It seemed too good to be true. Even now, as she limped through the streets behind a stocky Lannister captain, she wondered if they were instead escorting her to some cell. But, to look at them, the Lannister soldiers were exhausted too. She could see dark shadows under their eyes in the faint torchlight, and many of them were simultaneously shivering and sweating through their wools. Half of them were boys who barely seemed to know how to grip a spear properly. And all this on the day before a battle. It seemed absurd, but Stannis's freezing soldiers looked better equipped for the coming fight.

They led her through the gatehouse of a high-walled stone fortress, up a drafty staircase, along the wallwalk again. Here the other soldiers fell away and Brienne began to relax. This seemed an unlikely location for a cell.

Sure enough, when they finally stopped outside a door, it was in a part of the castle that seemed appropriate as the seat of a knight of the Kingsguard. A squire opened the door, and stared goggle-eyed at Brienne for a long moment, bobbing his head in agreement as the captain talked. Then he led them inside.

Jaime was seated by the hearth, in quiet conversation with a fat, florid man in a bright yellow doublet. When he looked up and saw Brienne, he visibly blanched: in horror, she thought, and was confused by it. He stopped speaking at once, and that caused his companion to look round. "Ah," the fat man said convivially, "this must be our entertainment for the evening. Are you a dancer, woman?"

"She's not a dancer," Jaime snapped.

"Oh." The fat man looked disappointed.

Brienne felt it was her turn to speak. "Ser Jaime," she said. "I have information from Stannis's camp. We must talk." She eyed the fat man. "Privately."

Jaime was about to reply, but the fat man sat up, alarmed. "Why, woman, you cannot just prance in here demanding a private audience. Ser Jaime and I were just about to sit down to a well-earned supper. A well-earned supper, I say!"

"You'll have your supper," said Jaime dryly. "Though I fear it will not be with me, Ser Harys. Not tonight. The lady is right." He spoke to the captain. "Gared, see Ser Harys safely to his horse. And send some men to guard the door. We are not to be disturbed."

The captain nodded, and ushered the fat man out. When the door was closed Brienne said, "Who was he?"

"Who was who?"

"That man."

Jaime's mouth curled in distaste. "That imbecile was Ser Harys Swyft. My uncle Kevan's goodfather. My late uncle Kevan. Though he may not be the last imbecile to sit before me tonight, at any rate. What in seven hells are you doing here?"

"I came to talk with you."

"Obviously. You escaped?"

"No, I—" Brienne took a deep breath. "I am not Stannis's captive. And neither is Myrcella. We only played it that way in the hope that it would—"

"—that it would convince me to surrender." Jaime finished her sentence and sighed heavily. "And it might have done. But Cersei… there was no way I could convince her. Or her men."

The words flowed out of her thick and hot. "Your sister is no true queen. You know that."

"Speaking of my sister, we had best hurry. Ser Harys may be an idiot, but he may soon work out who you are. Or more likely someone else will tell, someone who saw you coming up. If Cersei's men find you here, you will spend the rest of your life in a cell."

"I know the risks," said Brienne. "I knew them when I came here. But the very fact that I am here at all proves that not all of the city's defenders are your sister's men."

"They are not mine, either." Jaime looked away from her. "Definitely not mine. Unlike you, Brienne, I am a prisoner. Her prisoner."

That sounded ridiculous to her ears. "If you are her prisoner, then why has she left you an army?"

"The army is not mine, I told you. It's full of men who'll fight, but they'll do so for their city and to protect their loved ones, or because their queen tells them too, but not for me. They won't fight for the Kingslayer."

"Have you asked them?"

Jaime gave her a distasteful look. "Sometimes I wonder if you are just stupid. You might follow a man blindly into battle, as you did with Renly, but no one else is as principled and stubborn as you are, wench. If I stand up there and tell them to fight and die for me, they'll kill me themselves."

"They might not have to die, if you rally enough of them."

"Cersei has the Rock," he said. "All she has to do is close those gates, as she has closed the gates of Lannisport to Stannis, and leave us to starve or freeze or go mad. I know that, they know that. And when you put a man in conditions as harsh as these, whatever morals he might once have held suddenly become meaningless. No, don't." He sighed again. "Sometimes I forget you are still young."

"I'm not a child."

"No, you're not. But you are young, and I am old."

There were only ten or twelve years between them. But you would not have known it to look at them now; she standing tall between the pillars of the hall; he sitting by the fire, hunched like an old crone before her knitting, threatening to turn grey. There was no life in him.

So make him come alive, she told herself. Suddenly she knew what to do. She unwrapped the hilt of her sword, and drew it with a single, swift flourish. Jaime was startled by the speed of her movement; his head swung round and saw her. "What are you—?"

"I trust you have not forgotten the name you gave this sword," said Brienne. "Oathkeeper. That oath in question was fulfilled when we brought Lady Sansa home to her brother. But we have made other oaths too, and this sword counts for those in equal part. When you joined the Kingsguard—"

"Spare me your bloody diatribe, wench, and I'll spare you the embarrassment of a prolonged speech in return. Nothing duller than a speech." With slow, creaking movements he rose from his chair, and walked to a chest by the window. He threw it open, and took out a sword. "Actually, allow me to tell you a story of my own." He unsheathed the blade, a little, but Brienne knew from just that brief glimpse that it was Valyrian steel. "This sword is twin to Oathkeeper. My father gave it to Joffrey on his wedding day. He named it Widow's Wail. An apt choice, you might say. After he died my father repossessed the sword, and gifted it to Tommen. He named it Lawbringer.

"You've probably heard conflicting reports of how he died. Shall I tell you how it really happened?" Without waiting for an answer he pressed on. "He was carrying out justice. Bringing law. To his own mother, no less. True to his sword, and true to his word. Always true." He sucked in a deep breath. "They cut his fucking face in two, Brienne. That gold giant stepped in and swung his sword and it went right across the middle, top left to bottom right, and sheared off his left ear as well. For a moment I didn't even notice. The blood was not a flood, just a thin red trickle through that seam in his head. He swayed on his feet. I will never forget that moment. Then he fell down, shaking and convulsing. He apologised to Cersei, and he called me Father, because he knew this was it, that those moments were all he had left. He didn't want to die, but he did, and when he went, he was afraid, I know it. He bled to death in our arms. I was cradling his head, trying to hold it all together as Maekar must have tried for Baelor Breakspear, and it just fucking fell apart in my hands.

"That boy was my soul, Brienne. I know that now, even if I never knew it then. He was everything that was good in me, and when he died, so did I. So died Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard, Goldenhand the Just, if he ever lived at all. What you see now, standing before you, is a husk. Yes, I swore some oaths, but when he died I failed them all. All my vows. So many vows. They make you swear and swear. Obey the king. Keep his secrets. Do his bidding. Your life for his. Obey your father. Love your sister. Protect the innocent. Defend the weak. And keep your children safe. All oaths I've sworn, and all oaths I've failed to keep.

"Believe me, Brienne. There are things I wish I could do. Sometimes I imagine doing them. I'll call in this army of mine, no matter meagre it may be. I'll take back Casterly Rock and kill every last one of the people who have wronged me.

"But I will die when I come up against Cersei's thousands, without a doubt. No law, and no sword named for the law, will aid me. 'Cause you know what law is, Brienne? You know what honour, and chivalry, and duty, and oaths are? They're just words. Some man with a voice to name things made them up and stupid fools like you and I devoted our lives in service to them. But in the end we are all just dust, we all end up like Tommen, bleeding to death in the arms of people who should have and would have bled to death for us, and they bleeding to death in the arms of people who would have bled to death for them. And your oath? All oaths are things of blood, Brienne. As are all laws."

Then Jaime sheathed Lawbringer, and fell back into his chair, entirely silent again. Eventually she became aware of time creeping on – and, as he had said, time was short. "Ser Jaime," she said at last. "Have you – will you help me?"

He was a long time in answering. "Cersei will crush you come the morrow. Stannis will send his men at our walls in their thousands and we will repel you every time. Your men are hungry, frightened, cold. And so are ours, but we have the walls."

"What if they weren't on the walls?" said Brienne.

Jaime scowled. "That's your grand plan. That I should send my men to chase after you? And then retreat when Stannis's forces – hidden forces, I presume – flank them? Leaving the gates open?"

Was he mocking her, still? "That might work," she said.

"It might," said Jaime. "But more likely my own men would cut me down. Especially if they are under Cersei's command."

"Your sister will not be in the walls. You will."

"Ah, yes." There was definite mocking now. "And I'll inspire them with tales of bravery and honour and duty, will I? It still surprises me, Brienne – you have fought during a war, but never in a war." He looked down at his feet. "No one walks away from war with their ideals intact. No one."

Brienne shook her head. "I don't believe you."

But she could see already that nothing would amount from this. Jaime told her that she must go, now, for Cersei's men would be on her way. Abruptly he hurried her down the stairs, out of the gatehouse, and to a stables near the gate she had entered by. They did not speak as they walked. When Brienne had mounted up, she turned away, full expecting that to be all, but he caught her horse's bridle. For a moment it seemed he might say something lengthy, but in the end, all she had from him was "safe travels, Brienne of Tarth."

"Safe travels, Ser Jaime Lannister," she replied. Then she turned her horse away, and Jaime called for the guards to open the sally port once more, and she was out into the night.

It was starting to snow, heavily; by the time she had gone half a mile, the snow was already piling up. She followed the ocean road south for some distance before circling back round to approach Stannis's camp from behind. The guards took her in without ceremony, recognising her horse. Ser Godry Farring was the first of Stannis's commanders she found. "I would beg an audience with the king, ser," she told him straight. Stannis would not be sleeping.

Indeed, it was said that the king never slept, that he drank the blood of infants to keep him awake at night. But when Brienne entered the tent the only drink there was wine – an unusual sight in Stannis Baratheon's tent, but hardly a sinister one. The king was not alone. His Hand, Ser Davos, was seated beside him at the wooden table, staring listlessly at wooden figurines and rather more interestedly at his wine.

Ser Godry announced her. "Brienne of Tarth, Your Grace."

"An unexpected sight," said King Stannis. "Though I would be lying if I claimed you were a welcome one, woman."

"That feeling is mutual, my lord."

He gestured for her to sit, at the other end of the table. "Did you win anything from the Kingslayer?"

"His name is Jaime, my lord."

"Fine. From Ser Jaime, then?"

"Nothing explicit, my lord."

"That means no." Stannis seemed strangely disappointed. "Well. So be it. Ser Davos—"

"I said it was nothing explicit, my lord," said Brienne. "I think when the fight is at the walls, he may reconsider. Ser Jaime is not without a heart. He saved thousands from wildfire when he killed the Mad King."

Stannis frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sometimes she forgot that Jaime's heroics were not widely known. But maybe if they were, he might be more easily believed. And so she told Lord Stannis and Ser Davos what Jaime had told her in the bathhouse at Harrenhal, years ago. She surely bungled some parts of the story, but they heard her out nonetheless.

They did not immediately go out and proclaim Ser Jaime's heroism, of course. Indeed, Lord Stannis did not even seem pleased. "That may be true," he said, "but that does not help us here. We cannot fight this battle in the hope that the Kingslayer might have a change of heart." Abruptly he reached for the wine flagon, poured his cup, and then walked down the table to fill hers.

"I thought you did not drink, my lord," Brienne said.

Stannis looked at her as if she were stupid. "All men drink."

"Not copiously."

"Well," he said, with his usual sternness, "we have to make exceptions every now and again. And it seems to me this is one such exception. The likelihood is that we will all be dead come this time tomorrow. So sit, woman. And drink."

She dared not refuse. Was it strange, she wondered, that the concept of her death seemed so foreign to her? It was never something she had really thought about; she had always assumed that she would live to a good age: not ripe and old, but good. There was no chance, for example, that she might perish in childbirth.

Stannis said, "It is strange how the fear of death makes drinking companions of us all."

Brienne looked up. "What?"

"You heard me," said the king. "And I know you are probably thinking the same thing. If these wights were no threat, you and I would be on different sides of this battlefield. And I imagine you would quite like to kill me."

Brienne only stared at him.

"Go on," he said. "Say it. For the love of the Seven, say it."

"You killed Renly."

He did not reply.

"It was a shadow that slew him in his tent, but it was a shadow with your face. Do you deny it?"

"I do not deny it," Stannis said. "More than that, I admit it wholeheartedly. And I admit, likewise, that the shadow acted with my intentions."

There was a long silence. He was, Brienne realised, waiting for her next question. So she obliged him: "Why did you do it?"

"Because I wanted to be king. And I wanted that more than anything. Because it was my right."

"He was your brother."

"He was my younger brother, and a traitor." A pause. "And yet my brother nonetheless. No doubt you think that I think nothing of it, that I have forgotten my own crime. You would be wrong. No man is so accursed as the kinslayer. But the worst part of my curse, perhaps, is the part I thought would be the mercy. I told myself, then, that it would be fine, because I did not see him die. But now, when I think of Renly, my vision of him is not the all-consuming horror of his moment of dying, but the other things, the innocent memories. Him playing with his blocks in the nursery of Storm's End, knowing nothing of our parents' death. Him, wastrel-thin, clinging to my leg as I patrolled the castle battlements during Mace Tyrell's siege. And his peach. Always his damned peach. I can repeat his words, as if he were before us here and now. "A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. Winter is coming." And he was right. Damn him. He was right."

Brienne chose her next question carefully. "If he were standing before you now, on that same parley field, in that same situation, and you had full knowledge of what was to come, would you have done as you did?"

Stannis Baratheon considered that question for a long time. "I would do as I did, and suffer the same consequences again." But she did not think he was telling the truth.

Outside, the snow kept coming.


From the Author: First of all, I would like to thank everyone for their support on the last chapter; in particular, it was great to hear from some of you who haven't been seen around for a while. If nothing else, the resurrection of Jon succeeded in that.

I did promise that this chapter would be out sometime earlier this week, but circumstances delayed it: firstly, the UK has been having stupid-hot, AC-less, not particularly writing-friendly weather, and secondly every bit of writing I have done this week for KOTN has been a series of random obscure vignettes. I've written for Sansa, Tyrion, Bran and Dany in depth, but it was only yesterday that I got round to editing this Brienne chapter - which had to be rewritten more substantially than I had hoped.