"A moment," Brienne gasped out, clutching her side where she'd fallen in the snow.
Jaime dropped his sword and watched her, tempted to crouch and ask if she was all right, but suspecting she would take it as an insult.
The night air was cold and still and the howl of wolves in the distance lent an eerie cast to the small clearing they'd found to spar in. In a fortnight, they would need to be wary of the Mountain clans and their late night dueling would have to come to an end.
Brienne struggled to her feet, unused to fighting in the boiled leather and heavy wool garments he had insisted on before they left Gulltown. He could still recall her stubborn scowl when he told her she would freeze if she didn't listen to him. "Your childhood winters in Tarth were tame things compared to what you will find in the mountains," he had told her.
He didn't like fighting in the extra clothing anymore than she did, but he remembered enough winters to know he hated being cold even more.
"Enough for tonight, my lady," he said, seeing her wince as she tried to lift her sword.
She looked up sharply at him. "I can continue."
He only shook his head and started to walk back to the campfire and the others. Each night she tested him, giving him more than he could handle. She was much better than Ser Ilyn, stronger, if lacking his precision, and she was younger, faster, and determined Jaime should be battered into becoming better-though she never actually spoke her intent. Still trying to save me...
They'd given up trying to hide their nightly activities after the first night out of Gulltown when they'd returned to the fire and Clegane had looked up and said, "Is she fucking you, Lannister? Or are you fucking her? From the sound of it, it's hard to say."
Now Sandor looked up at their approach, a faintly mocking cast to the look he gave Jaime's sweat matted hair and Brienne's grimacing attempt to sit without jostling her wound. Jaime wanted to ask Sandor how well he thought he could fight with a lame leg, but knew it wasn't as difficult to overcome as losing a sword hand. Besides, Sandor would likely challenge him to see who was better, and Jaime knew how that would end.
"How will you ride tomorrow?" Hunt asked Brienne, who was slumped before the campfire doing a poor job of pretending she wasn't in pain.
"Same as I ride every day," she said through clenched teeth.
"Has the wound opened?" Jaime asked, sitting down opposite her, the sleeping boy next to him stirring for a moment.
She shook her head no, but he wondered how she could be sure.
"This is no time for swordplay," Hunt grumbled. He gave Brienne a glare. "You shouldn't even be out of your sickbed."
"I'm well enough," Brienne said.
Hunt glared at Jaime then, but all Jaime could do was shrug.
The next morning Brienne was barely able to mount her horse and Jaime felt a pang of remorse. As the hours of the morning wore on, he and Hunt exchanged glances several times when Brienne was too pained even to converse. When they reached a small village not long after midday, Jaime suggested they stay and take rooms in the inn for the night.
Jaime nudged Brienne up the stairs to one of the two small attic rooms the innkeeper had given them. "Let me see that wound", he said, "it may need a new stitch or two."
"And you'll stitch it one handed?" Hunt asked from behind him. "Let me see to her."
"I'll see to it myself," Brienne said, entering the room before either of them could do anything but stare at the closed door.
Jaime and Hunt went downstairs to eat and found Sandor and Pod at the table nearest the fire.
"Done playing nursemaid?" Sandor asked them as they sat.
Hunt said nothing, just got up and went back up the stairs. Jaime let him go and sat at the table next to Pod.
"You should let him have her," Sandor said from inside the shadows of his cowl. "It's like watching a prince fight a peasant boy for a moldy crust of bread."
Podrick looked carefully from Sandor to Jaime and back again.
Jaime sighed and looked away. He didn't know why Hunt bothered him so much. In truth, the wench could do worse. Red Ronnet Connington's vile face came to mind.
A few minutes later, Hunt and Brienne joined them. Jaime didn't look at either very closely and didn't ask Brienne how she was feeling. The inn's taproom filled as the day wore into night and Jaime kept an ear to the chatter in the room.
Baelish was as unpopular here as he had been in Gulltown, but Jaime had assumed he would be. Here and there he heard snatches of talk about the queens and their trials. Margaery had supporters even in the Vale. Cersei had enemies everywhere; the loud man at the next table referred to her only as "that whore".
The second time the man said it, Brienne looked up at Jaime from across the table. Jaime smiled reassuringly at her. I know when to keep my mouth shut, Brienne, he thought. But he itched to hit the man as he imagined Cersei's face, as he'd last seen it, treacherous and disdainful and more radiant than sunlight.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Sandor and Hunt were arguing about Targaryen loyalty in The Reach, Podrick was lightly kicking the table leg in a steady rhythm, and the oaf at the next table had just called Cersei a "brotherfucker".
Jaime stood abruptly and left the room. Days ago, Brienne had asked him why he hadn't returned to Cersei. Because she never loved me, he'd wanted to say, knowing it was the truth. And now, he'd left his beautiful sister to her enemies. Even if he took a horse and left that minute, he could never reach her in time. Whatever she had done, her voice still echoed in his head and he still felt the ghost of her touch in the night.
He burst out the door into the cold air just as the last light of day was dying in the east. Rounding the corner of the inn, he had every intention of trying to ruin his sword against a tree, Tyrion's mocking voice about to break into its usual litany in his head when he was seized from behind.
Jaime tried to knock back into his assailant's nose with his head, but the man was shorter than he. As cold steel slid to rest against his throat, he threw each of his elbows back in succession. The gut blows landed, but the man kept his grip and pulled Jaime backward with him to the ground. The dagger at his throat drew blood.
"Keep it up boy," the man said, "and this will end even sooner than I intended."
Jaime knew that voice. He couldn't resist a low chuckle.
"Blackfish."
The blade tightened against his flesh and he felt the blood run down his collar and under his clothes, though the cut was shy of life-ending. Beneath him, the Blackfish whispered, "Before I end you, Kingslayer, tell me-"
The sound of a sword being drawn stopped the man cold. Jaime looked up and saw Brienne calmly pointing the red and black rippling blade of Oathkeeper at them.
"Release him," she said, "and I will allow you to live."
"I can guess who you are, woman," Tully spat. "Did he purchase your loyalty with gold, or did he win it between your legs? How quickly after you left Riverrun did you betray your oath to my niece?"
"I never betrayed my oath to Lady Catelyn," Brienne replied, "but you have my solemn vow, if you hurt Ser Jaime, your life's blood will mingle with his on the ground."
The Blackfish laughed. "You're welcome to try, girl. Now, Kingslayer, tell me what you know of Sansa Stark and I'll give you a clean death."
"We know no more than you," Jaime told him, staring up into the steel of Brienne's eyes. "My guess is that she went to Lysa."
"And you mean to bring her to justice for the death of that abomination you put on the throne?"
"I mean to get her somewhere safe before my sister can find her."
Tully scoffed, then Jaime felt the other man stiffen and take in a sharp breath.
"You are surrounded," Brienne said, in a deadly quiet voice. "Drop the dagger and you have my word you will remain unharmed."
"Your word, what is that worth?"
"If you die, what will become of Sansa Stark? Do you imagine Edmure will escape the Rock and save her?" Jaime asked, feeling the dagger bite again.
Then the dagger fell from Jaime's throat and he rolled away to see that Brienne's bluff had been spectacular. It was Pod who had snuck up behind Tully and held a sword to his throat.
"Podrick Payne," Jaime said, "I have misjudged you."
Brienne had moved in and shoved her own sword to Tully's neck as Pod backed away.
Jaime stood and clapped a hand to the wound on his neck. "Let him go."
Brienne shot him an incredulous look, but Jaime just raised an eyebrow. She pulled her sword back and the Blackfish stared up at them. Treason, he thought, this is treason against my own son.
Of course, it had all been treason: when he'd released Tyrion, when he'd sent Brienne after Sansa, when the Elder Brother had offered to send a raven to King's Landing and he'd refused, when he'd set sail for Gulltown rather than ride south to his duty. He looked up and caught Brienne's eye and he knew she could read his thoughts.
"I seek the girl," Jaime said, recalling Catelyn's undead face as he stared down at the Blackfish. "For her mother's sake. I won't see her harmed, and if you can keep her safe you can take her wherever you think best, so long as you don't hand her over to Stannis."
It was a calculated risk. Bolton held the North and he doubted the Blackfish could change that in the middle of winter, even with the Stark girl. And she was still married to Tyrion, which would make even the staunchest Stark loyalist sour.
"Join us if you wish," Jaime said. The older man stared up at him, sneering. Jaime simply shrugged and turned to Pod and Brienne. "It's cold out here, let's go inside."
Jaime turned and walked away, wondering if he'd wake in the night to again find the Blackfish's dagger at his throat. As he entered the inn, he dug in his pocket and flipped a copper out to the boy. "You've done a man's work tonight, Pod. Go buy a cup of ale."
Pod nodded and looked as pleased as Jaime had ever seen him as he went to join Hunt and Sandor who were staring at the three of them.
Brienne took him upstairs and laid him out on her bed. A serving boy brought boiled wine and bandages, needle and thread. She grimaced as she sat on the bed beside him, adjusting her position until her wound no longer pained her. Then she tended to his cut with silent efficiency, sleeves rolled up for her work; her fingers were so gentle they were almost a caress as she kept nudging his chin up when he would try to look at her.
"It would wound the pride of a lesser man to be so regularly saved from certain death like a helpless maid," he said.
She gave him an irritated sigh and smoothed her fingers over his throat. "Don't talk."
"Why won't you marry Hunt?"
Brienne's eyes looked at the floor for a moment, then slid back to his wound. A faint blush crept up her throat and fanned around the wide scar on her cheek and toward the frontier of her hairline, under the wisps of straw that had escaped her haphazard attempts to pin them at the base of her neck. Her freckles were more faint than when he'd first known her, casualties of the loss of the summer sun, but he saw them better now, thrown into light brown contrast against her pink skin as her blush deepened.
"Every time you talk I have to start over," she said, pressing some linen to his wound to stop the fresh bleeding.
"You must have known him when you were with Renly, if he was Tarly's man."
"I knew him," she said softly, concentrating on threading the needle.
"And you hated him," he whispered.
She gave him a sharp look and brandished the needle, but couldn't hold his gaze. Somehow, she turned even redder.
"No," she said softly, trying hard to concentrate as she pulled through a stitch. "I liked him."
He watched her as she pulled another stitch. "How is it my secrets spill like an overfull goblet of wine whenever I see your face, yet I learn more of you from strangers than from your own lips?"
She snapped the thread, giving the last stitch a deliberately hard yank that made him gasp in pain. None too gently, she began to wind a bandage around his neck. Her eyes were watery when she finally met his gaze, but the blush had receded.
"There was a wager," she said. "Ser Hyle and some of the others were bored and sought a way to pass the time before Renly began his campaign."
She stood and put the bandages and needle on a small side table. Jaime sat up against the rough headboard of the small bed, watching her closely. For a moment, she looked as though she would walk out the door, but instead, she sat at the foot of the bed, wincing as she arranged herself carefully to rest her back against the wall.
"Before this," she began, pausing to gesture to her scar, "when I was only ugly, my father's inability to find me a husband was legendary in the Stormlands. When the men of the Reach joined the Stormlords under Renly's banner, the legend grew and spread."
"Brienne the Beauty," Jaime said, watching as her eyes flicked closed when he said it. The serving boy had lit a fire in the small hearth before he left, but Jaime felt too warm suddenly. Brienne was beyond embarrassed. It pained her-tormented her-to speak of this, he could see, yet he wanted to bathe in the thick poison of her tale. Don't stop now, wench, I want more.
"Brienne the Beauty," she confirmed with a subtle sarcasm he'd rarely heard from her. "A wager was begun. A gold dragon was the fee for every entrant, the purse to go to the man who claimed my maidenhead. And so, I was beset with suitors. They brought me gifts and sang me songs. Where before men had only laughed at my sword, suddenly I had sparring partners. At meals, they would fight to sit beside me. I could not understand why men would suddenly want my company, for I had grown no fairer and my tongue no more witty."
She paused then and ran her fingers over the rough wooden rail across the foot of the bed. Her forearm, still exposed where her sleeve was turned up, was long and sinewed with muscle as thick as his own; her arms were unlike those of any woman he'd ever known and he tried to imagine how it must have been for her in Renly's camp. But instead he found himself watching her long fingers as they traced almost delicate designs into the wood grain.
"Randyll Tarly heard about the wager, not long after one of the men tried to steal a kiss to force the issue. He put a stop to it, he told me, though he considered the fault my own for living in the camp among fighting men."
She swallowed hard, and seemed to have to force herself to look at him. "That is why I will not marry Ser Hyle. I will not marry at all. Any hope that lingered of such a life was cast aside when Renly fastened that cloak about my shoulders."
Then her shame made her blush again and she stood quickly, her wound obviously giving her pain.
"Renly is dead," Jaime said as she neared the door. If he thought that would stop her from leaving, he was wrong, for she barely glanced over her shoulder before exiting the room.
He found her seated at the table with the rest of them in the inn's main room. The Blackfish sat alone at a corner table and from beneath his cowl, Sandor gestured at the older man with his eyes, asking Jaime for details. Jaime merely shrugged.
Brienne sat next to Sandor, spine straight, jaw clenched as though she were bracing herself for a blow. Jaime sat next to Hunt, across from her, and simply watched her face.
Podrick was nursing his ale, watching the Blackfish with wary eyes.
"Renly would have trounced Stannis," Hunt said softly in what was clearly a continuing argument.
"The Tyrells would have trounced Stannis," Sandor responded in a quiet rasp.
Jaime glanced around the room. It was full of people and their conversation was thankfully drowned by that of the rest of the crowd.
"I think you're overestimating Stannis because he had you on your heels at the Blackwater," Hunt said.
"I think you're overestimating Renly because you liked the taste of his cock," Sandor replied.
Hunt merely smirked with derision, but Brienne was reaching for her sword. Jaime hopped up and around the table, sat beside her, and thumped his golden hand firmly down on her thigh to keep her seated.
Sandor glanced at her as though she were a buzzing insect. "What do you care? They say you killed him."
"Oh gods, not that," Jaime spat at Sandor.
Brienne was spoiling for a fight after he had badgered her about Hunt upstairs, Jaime could see that now. Picked raw and festering, Brienne the Beauty needed nothing so blatant as the excuse Sandor was giving her to come to blows. As she stood, Sandor stood as well and they were chest to chest. She looked like the girl she was when toe to toe with Clegane. Jaime couldn't get between them, but he slid his arm around Brienne's waist and pulled. Over her shoulder he made Clegane meet his gaze.
"Touch her," Jaime told him, "and I will burn you alive."
Sandor actually snarled at him. Jaime felt Brienne reaching between herself and Clegane for Oathkeeper's hilt, but luckily Hunt stood, reached across the table, and clamped his hand over it to keep it firmly in its scabbard.
With strength he hadn't been sure he'd regained since the Whispering Wood, Jaime put his other arm around Brienne's waist and yanked her back from Sandor Clegane. She fought him, but he had the momentum, and he intentionally ground the heel of his hand into her wound.
"He will kill you," Jaime hissed in her ear.
Any hope he'd had of reaching the Gates of the Moon without ravens flying to tell Baelish they were coming was gone. The whole of the taproom watched with quiet awe as Jaime wrestled Brienne toward the stairs. The Blackfish smugly raised his tankard to toast them as Jaime dragged the muttering wench around and forced her up first one stair and then the next.
With his body pressed tightly to hers, he somehow got her up the stairs, even with only one hand. But there was a price to pay for the close press of her backside every time he used the whole of his weight to nudge her up another step. By the time he closed the door of her room behind them, she was shaking with rage and if she'd noticed how hard he was, she didn't say anything.
Jaime was on edge and panting and so was she as she turned to try to wrestle him away from where he'd plastered his back to the door. He was at the end of his strength, certain now it was only her injury and sheer desperation that had allowed him to win the fight. When she pressed herself against him while trying to pull him off the door, he moved his hips to the side so she wouldn't feel his arousal.
"Enough," he growled.
That seemed to reach her and she rested her forehead against the door for a breath or two, pressed against him like a second skin, before she pushed back and her eyes focused on the bandage at his neck. She reached up to touch it and he flinched at the feel of her suddenly gentle fingertips running along his jaw.
Pulling back a step, she looked at him questioningly, then reached for the bandage again, slowly this time, as though she were approaching a wounded animal. He wondered if she understood about the lust that followed a battle, wondered if it was the same for women, then he thought of how he had learned to deal with a violent Cersei and that only made it worse.
He almost groaned as Brienne brushed the sensitive skin of his throat while she unwound his bandage, and when she gave him a mystified look from the corner of her eye, he knew she hadn't noticed the state he was in and didn't understand a bloody thing.
"You're bleeding," she said, leaning close to examine the stitches. She turned and went to retrieve the supplies she'd left on the side table earlier.
Bleeding, Jaime slipped back out the door, went down the stairs and outside into the night.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
...Jaime VII, A Feast For Crows, George R. R. Martin