Jaime could still smell snow in the air, though his rooms in the Gates of the Moon were warm and dry. Podrick was asleep before the four of them had a chance to gather quietly in front of the hearth in Jaime's bedchamber. They stood close and kept their voices low, for Jaime knew Baelish had ears in the walls.
"The gall of the man," Jaime whispered into the small circle of Sandor, Hyle, Brienne, and himself. "To keep Sansa in plain sight. It's lucky he thinks we're fools and doesn't know Pod was Tyrion's squire."
"Arrogance," Sandor said. "He has no fears here."
Jaime glanced over at Brienne, who had said nothing. Her hair was wet still from her bath, hanging over her shoulders in snarled damp tresses she occasionally patted with a towel. Her jaw was set stubbornly, but other than a sharp denial when he asked if she'd spoken to Sansa, she had not participated in the conversation at all. He knew he'd been cruel to her the night before, but her sullen refusal to even look him full in the face was growing tiresome. She might have told him about her bloody island rather than let him drone on about Cersei and his own troubles.
He hadn't even told them how Lord Nestor had pulled him aside to ask if Brienne was the woman accused of killing Renly, along with killing Nestor's cousin Ser Robar Royce. That last, at least, was a crime he could easily lay at Loras Tyrell's feet. He'd told Nestor that Stannis was to blame for Renly, though he hadn't said how.
"Maybe Lady Sansa's safe enough here," Hunt said. "Maybe we ought to leave well enough alone."
"You don't understand," Jaime said, "Baelish is hiding her from the crown, he's hiding her from Cersei, yet he's almost daring me to find her. Something is not right here. And guest right will mean nothing to him. He means to kill me or keep me, I cannot guess which."
"Couldn't he just be a decent sort, hiding his dead wife's niece?" Hunt asked.
"Decent sort," Clegane snorted. "Littlefinger keeps brothels, that'll clean the decent out of any man. Not to mention he helped put Ned Stark's head on a spike. Keep your dagger to hand."
Jaime thought of the girl Bolton's bastard had married, the one who was not the real Arya Stark. Baelish had a hand in that, and he also happened to be harboring the only known Stark heir. He wished the Blackfish was there to offer some insight. Or perhaps he didn't. Who knew what the Blackfish's game was? Whatever it was, it likely involved removing Littlefinger as Lord Protector and Jaime wasn't certain that was wise, even if the whole situation smelled rotten. Could the Tyrells be in league with Baelish? Or Doran Martell? Surely not Stannis? And I thought Petyr Baelish could be Tommen's Hand, he remembered ruefully. Baelish had my father cozened as well.
"We'll have to watch carefully on the morrow," Jaime whispered. "The Blackfish said he would find me, though I can't guess how."
Sandor and Hyle left to go to the room next door where Pod was already sleeping, and Brienne slowly walked toward the small adjoining room she'd been given. It was more a closet than a room, really, and he wondered exactly what impression Baelish had drawn from Jaime's attempt to keep Brienne near enough that he could keep her safe. Is it you keeping her safe, cripple? Or is it the other way around?
"Brienne," he called softly before she could exit the room.
She paused and turned reluctantly back to him. Her hair was a mess and he noticed she made little attempt to keep it out of her face. Her eyes were cast down and his gaze was drawn from her eyes down to her neck where she had not fully laced the linen undertunic she wore. The scar the noose had left around her neck was still a light red, like a forgotten necklace haphazardly clinging high about her throat. There's a keepsake of the safety I give her.
"I'm tired, Jaime," she said, not looking at him, shuffling her feet. There was something endearing about it that made him long to tell her all would be well. I'm sorry, my lady, but we are likely doomed. He found himself moving toward her.
"You're anxious to go south," he whispered, stepping near her, chest to chest. Ever mindful of the listeners in the walls, he brushed his cheek against hers, his lips near her ear, as he had once before on a moonless night. Best not think of that. And if there were eyes in the walls? How would this conversation whispered ear to ear look? Would Baelish actually believe they were lovers? The idea made him want to laugh.
Then she sighed and he felt the hot rush of her breath on his ear, and there was no thought of laughter at all.
"My father did not understand my need to follow Renly," she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, even when they were this close. "He allowed it, but it wasn't what he wanted. I sent him a raven when Renly named me to his Kingsguard, but he did not reply. And after that, the accusation that I killed Renly must have reached him. I know he would not have believed it, but the shame... He has had no word of me but horrid rumors, save whatever Vargo Hoat told him while I was at Harrenhal. And now, he may be gone and I may die in this place, and I have not even had the courage to write him."
"I wrote him," Jaime told her, willing himself not to inhale the freshly bathed scent of her as his nosed brushed the damp hair clinging to her face, willing himself not to slide his hand across her waist and grip her hip as their bodies pressed together. "I wrote him after we reached King's Landing. I told him of your exploits while serving Lady Catelyn and delivering me back to my king. I didn't mention that Loras Tyrell had you locked in a tower cell at the time, but I knew that would all be resolved."
Her sigh was soft and long and full of both heartache and relief. He felt her fingers faintly trail along his chest, barely touching the fabric of his tunic before she dropped her hand again.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They stood like that for a moment after she was done talking, and he began to think he was a man who could not have any contact with women, even ugly ones, if he was to keep his vows, when she whirled suddenly away and the thought left him. It was as she walked toward her little room this time that he caught her gaze darting to the small silvered hand mirror that hung on a nail next to the door. Her eyes flicked to it, watching her reflection, and he saw her shake her hair further forward on her face.
The first she's seen of the scar, he realized.
Jaime thought of Myrcella, somewhere between Dorne and King's Landing, far from her mother or brother, scarred and frightened, likely in pain, and perhaps equally unsettled by a glance in a mirror. He felt sick over all of it and cursed himself for whatever impulse made him want to follow the wench on this ridiculous quest. You follow her because she thinks you're a man of honor, the voice in his head mocked. Because she's the only living being who thinks well of you.
"Brienne," he called before she closed the door behind her. "Leave the door open, I may have need of you."
She finally met his gaze at that, her blue eyes narrowed and pensive. He wanted the door open so he could hear if anyone crept into her room to do her harm. But he also knew it meant Baelish would hear of it and think she was his lover, though that was as likely to do her harm as good. And you want to listen to her breathe as you have when you slept beside her under the open skies, he mocked himself.
Whatever she thought his reason, Brienne nodded briefly and left the door open wide as he heard her remove her boots and climb into bed.
He got into bed himself, but knew Brienne did not sleep. He kept his dagger under his pillow and his sword slung over his bedpost near his head. He wondered how quickly he could reach her door if they were attacked.
The open door made him think of the nights he'd stood posted outside Cersei's chamber in the Red Keep. He would sometimes crack open her door and reassure himself just listening to her breathing within. Some nights, Cersei would creep to the door, slip her hand out and pull him inside. He thought of her golden body limned in firelight and tried to imagine how she'd survived her walk from the Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep. She had doubtless endured it like the queen she was, head held high, too radiant to be mocked. But he remembered the laughter of the Bloody Mummers and his hand hanging from a tether about his neck and knew anyone could be mocked.
As he drifted to sleep, he wondered how often his beautiful sister had pulled Kettleblack into her room when the man stood outside her door.
Jaime dreamed that night that he stood guard outside Cersei's door again, but when it opened and she reached for him, his right hand rose to meet hers and he gently pushed her delicate fingers back inside, then quietly pulled the door closed again.
When day broke the snow was still falling and Jaime rose from his fitful slumber and stumbled to Brienne's doorway, needing to be sure she was well before he closed the door so he could dress. He found her wide awake, fully dressed and cleaning Oathkeeper. She looked at him quietly then went back to her task.
Servants brought food, and after they'd all broken their fast, Jaime had suggested that they find the practice yard, thinking it was a fitting excuse for why they were all armed to the teeth. As they stepped out into the courtyard and the falling snow, Jaime realized they would not be leaving the Gates of the Moon for days, even if Baelish would allow it. In the places where the servants hadn't cleared paths, the snow had already reached his knees and it showed no sign of stopping.
Petyr Baelish seemed to materialize at his side and Jaime cast the man an annoyed glance, still playing the entitled Lord Commander with no respect for the former Master of Coin.
"Lord Baelish," Jaime said, "excellent timing. You can lead us to the practice yard for we're all weary of travel and eager for swordplay."
"Yes, of course, my lord, but if I may have a word once we've reached the yard?" Baelish asked, his voice too thick with obsequiousness for Jaime not to be alarmed. It chafes at the man to play the part of a lesser lordling now, Jaime realized, fighting his urge to glance at Brienne, fighting his rising sense of panic at their predicament.
At the practice yard, Jaime let Littlefinger lead him off to a corner of the yard against the back of the stables where a small alleyway was hidden between the stables and a tower wall.
"Ill tidings from the south, my lord," Baelish said.
"What now, is my sister accused of fucking Moon Boy?" Jaime asked, trying to sound bored and irritated. "The High Septon would do well to remember how to address his betters, and will when I return."
"Ah, my lord," Baelish said, "it is not our beloved queen regent, but Ser Kevan Lannister to whom I refer."
Fear shot cold and fast down Jaime's spine as he feigned a yawn. "What of mine uncle? Was he foolish enough to bring his wife to court? Has she embarrassed us all?"
"Ser Kevan has been murdered," Littlefinger said. "Shot with a crossbow and then stabbed. Along with Grand Maester Pycelle, I fear. There are apparently whispers in the capitol that your brother played a hand in it, for it is eerily similar to Lord Tywin's death."
"And what do your whisperers say?" Jaime asked, suddenly unable to feign anything.
"Ah, my lord, I am so far removed from King's Landing now, I fear I know only what the maester's ravens tell me."
I doubt that, Jaime thought, his heart racing as he thought of Cersei and Tommen alone amongst the Roses.
"I must return as soon as possible," Jaime said, trying to recall the game he played. Trying to entice Baelish with something that would allow him to extricate his ragged band of compatriots from the tangled mess he'd unthinkingly led them into. "We will have need of a good man on the council, have you any ambition to be Hand of the King?"
"I am flattered my lord, truly, but Lord Mace Tyrell has been named Regent for King Tommen, and he has named Lord Emmon Frey as Hand."
A sot to Lord Walder and Bolton through him, their allegiance bought away from the Lannisters as easily as it had been purchased by Tywin. His father had made pacts with the faithless and now he and Cersei were left to deal with the aftermath. Mace either believes me dead or means to make me so, Jaime thought.
And by naming his Aunt Genna's husband as Hand, Tyrell was extending a hand of peace to the other Lannisters as well, Jaime realized. "I'm glad I didn't have to sit through the squabble on the small council to reach that decision. Still, I must return, I suppose," Jaime said, trying to pretend he'd only been told his favorite horse had come up lame and not that the danger shadowing his family loomed larger and darker than ever. "What rotten business. Have you any ideas about where the Blackfish may be?"
Baelish could barely disguise his amusement that Jaime could be so easily distracted, that the last standing Lannister so clearly misunderstood the catastrophe awaiting him in King's Landing. Continue to think me a fool, Littlefinger, it is the only weapon remaining to me, Jaime thought.
"I had not forgotten your hunt, my lord," said Baelish. "I thought you could question Ser Harrold Hardyng who has only this sennight joined us from the household of Lady Anya Waynwood."
"Excellent, excellent. Eh, I confess I am in no great hurry to mourn another relative. Funerals are so tiresome. First Joffrey, then my father, now this..."
"A sorry turn of events, but doubtless all will be well once you return," Baelish said with a smile, as he turned to walk down the narrow passage behind them. Then Jaime noticed the man turn back and say, "Oh, and my deepest condolences, my lord."
"Yes, yes," Jaime said as he walked away.
Hunt had Pod hitting a straw man with a wooden sword and Sandor, hooded, was watching two squires duel. Jaime stopped next to Brienne who gave him a searching glance as he walked over.
"What is it?" she asked softly without looking his way.
"They've killed my uncle and Mace Tyrell has declared himself regent," he said, watching the fight and pretending he merely commented on the swordplay.
"Oh, Jaime."
"Don't. Watch the sword fight. Don't look at me."
"What can we do? In this snow..." Brienne trailed off, trying to look disinterested and failing miserably.
"Littlefinger won't let us leave alive anyway," he whispered so only she could hear. "He just needs to find a way to deal with us that won't give the lords of the Vale an excuse to oust him-oh gods, Brienne, stop looking at me. Watch the fight!"
The wench looked as though her heart was breaking for him. She also looked like she wanted to commit murder for him. He'd been a fool to think she could participate in the subterfuge, but he was almost beyond the point of caring.
The fight ended and the winner sauntered over to Jaime. "I wondered if you would do me the honor, my lord?" the young man asked, with arrogance his skill didn't merit.
"My swordplay is less than elegant without my sword hand," Jaime replied, knowing he needed to distract Brienne. "The lady does my fighting for me. She will give you a good duel, Ser...?"
"Ser Harrold. Ser Harrold Hardyng," the young knight replied, as though the name carried some weight. Baelish had mentioned him, Jaime remembered. "But, though I'm sure the lady amuses herself at swordplay, I am a knight as you see and I must refuse for it would be unsporting-"
Jaime gave the boy a knowing smile. "I insist. Brienne?"
Brienne gave him a resentful look as though he had asked her to juggle for a crowd. He merely shrugged and held out his hand as she unstrapped Oathkeeper from her waist and shoved it at him.
She stretched as she chose a blunted blade and squared off against Ser Harrold. The boy opened easily with a few hard swings, his blows easily met by Brienne. But she was clever and let the blows sink her blocks a bit more than they needed to. The boy began to grin, thinking he was stronger than she. When did you learn to toy with a man, Brienne?
Brienne allowed Ser Harrold to push her about the yard, let him wear himself out, as was her wont, her own breathing fierce but strong as the boy's began to sound strained. Her icy blue eyes were riveted on her opponent, missing nothing. Finally, she countered a clumsy wide open attack with a sharp and deadly strike that sent Ser Harrold's sword flying when he tried to block it. The boy looked shocked and sputtered as Brienne's sword went to his throat, her eyes cold as the steel she pressed to Ser Harrold's skin.
She gave her opponent a disrespectful nod before she walked back toward Jaime, never noticing that every man in the yard watched her. Jaime felt her triumph as though it was his own, recalling the feel of walking away from a win as though it had taken no more effort than opening his eyes in the morning. Then she looked up and met his gaze as she advanced. She looked murderous, she looked like fury.
Jaime gave her a small smile and took in the way the falling snow clung to the battle wild straw of her hair, the way the cold painted a deep red on her lips, the smoldering flame of her enraged blue eyes, and was unable to fight the thought that it made her look like someone had just fucked her against a stable wall. Someone?
He pulled his gaze from hers and gave Oathkeeper back to her. She angrily strapped it around her waist.
"Well done, my lady," said a voice from behind them.
Jaime turned to see a very short man with orange-red hair.
"Ser Shadrich," Brienne said.
"You remember me, then?" Ser Shadrich asked. "Still looking for your maid of three-and-ten?"
Jaime watched as Brienne stiffened, still trying to catch her breath from the fight, and said, "I seek Ser Brynden Tully now."
"Well, I hope you find him," Ser Shadrich said, giving Brienne a nod before he walked away.
"What was that?" Jaime whispered sharply to Brienne, catching Sandor's eye and motioning him over.
"He seeks Sansa, for bounty. I met him in the Riverlands," Brienne said in a whispered hiss as her breathing evened.
Jaime watched as this Ser Shadrich fell into step with two other armed knights after they'd conferred briefly. The three men stalked off in the direction of Baelish's solar. If Ser Shadrich told Baelish that Brienne had been searching for Sansa, they were lost.
"Baelish went over by the stables," Jaime told Sandor and Brienne, trying to fight his rising panic. "I'll get Hunt, you go through that small alleyway in the corner and see if you can find him-and keep this Shadrich away from him."
Shaking her head, Brienne said, "Ser Shadrich hunts her too, why would he-"
"Baelish must own him, now go."
Brienne set off, with Sandor trailing after her with his slight limp. Jaime managed to catch Hunt's eye and they followed after the other two while Pod continued to hit his straw man.
Ahead of him, Jaime saw Brienne reach the alleyway and enter it, then mere moments later, she exited again and he saw her grab Oathkeeper's hilt as though she would draw it, then abruptly turn away, eyes wide. Jaime and Hunt reached her at the same time as Sandor.
"Baelish, I heard him whisper," Brienne hissed to them, jerking her head toward the alleyway. "I heard a noise behind a doorway in the alley, I thought I heard a stableboy and a kitchen maid, but it was his voice. He has Lady Sansa I think, and it sounds-"
Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing he needed to think, but before he could even begin, Clegane was moving toward the alley. The three of them trailed him, but the bigger man was suddenly moving as though his leg was never injured at all.
As they rounded the alley, Jaime saw Sandor lean his weight against a wooden door, breaking the thing off its hinges. Within, Baelish had Sansa against the wall with his arms around her, and the man barely had time to note the falling door before Clegane was on him.
Jaime and Hunt tried to stop him, but Sandor already had his dagger out. Sandor grabbed Baelish by the throat before the man could cry out and lifted him high on the wall, ignoring Baelish's scrabbling attempts to pull away the choking hand. With a deft move which had clearly been used before, Sandor rammed the knife upward through the fabric of Baelish's breeches into his genitals and, with a sideways slash, gelded him.
Jaime moved forward, pulled off his glove with his teeth and shoved it into Littlefinger's mouth just as the man's face began to purple and his eyes bulge. Baelish fought Sandor's hand at his throat, but to no avail, quickly losing consciousness.
Jaime turned to see Hunt had grabbed Sansa and was trying to convince her not to scream when he noticed Brienne outside the door in the alleyway with Oathkeeper drawn. He watched her step into a swing just as he reached the door to see her fighting Ser Shadrich with his two companions close behind. Leaving the small man to her, Jaime narrowly sidestepped Shadrich's swinging blade in the tight alleyway and drew his sword to confront the other two before they could go for help.
They both came at him at once and Jaime had to move quickly, dancing to the side, trying keep their blades from finding flesh. Then suddenly Brienne was beside him, drawing off the larger brutish one while Jaime fought the other. The other man thought him weak and swung wide. Jaime ducked and scarcely deflected the blow which grazed his arm, but was able to slide his blade quickly away before his opponent could recover and shoved a quick thrust into the man's heart.
Jaime glanced around to see that Hunt and Brienne were eliminating the large brute, and blessed the sounds of swordplay in the yard which may have covered the sounds of the battle.
"Quickly," Jaime said, gesturing Brienne and Hunt back into the small room where Sansa and Sandor watched one another from opposite walls.
"Sansa," Jaime greeted her with a nod.
"You will execute me for Joffrey's murder," Sansa said softly, scarce looking at him.
"No one is executing you," Jaime replied.
"The Blackfish is here," Sandor said. "Your uncle. He'll keep you safe."
"My uncle?" Sansa sputtered.
"Your story of being Baelish's daughter is a good one," Jaime said. "And as we've just breached every rule of hospitality, you can help us. Say Ser Shadrich and his fellows tried to rape you and your 'father' intervened but they killed him for it. We'll be the gallant rescuers who saved you."
Sansa glanced around the room at them, her gaze landing on Sandor. "When he said you were the one in the cowl," she said to Sandor, "I told him you would know me. But he said you would not see what you did not expect to find-"
"You know what I came here for," Sandor cut her off.
"Yes," Sansa whispered.
"My lady," Hunt interrupted, "will you follow along with our story?"
Sansa never took her eyes from Sandor.
"She'll go along with it," Sandor said as he bent down and drove his dagger into Baelish's heart to finish the unconscious man.
Jaime bolted out the door toward the practice yard and shouted, "Quickly, brigands!"
Whether Lord Nestor believed the tale or not, he let it stand. And when Baelish's man Lothor Brune questioned the story, Nestor silenced him. Jaime knew he should not have been surprised to see the Blackfish come striding up to the grisly scene, bold as brass, clearly certain he faced no threat.
When the Blackfish pulled him aside, Jaime said, "I can't pardon you outright, I don't have the authority. But I could broker a peace."
"Make me Lord Protector," Blackfish said. "Send me Edmure and his wife and child. I heard about your uncle. You'll need allies if you're to face off against the Tyrells and Frey and Bolton...and whatever else stirs in the south. You'll need the Vale, and you'll need whatever remains of the Riverlands."
Jaime sighed, "Am I to believe you'd bestir the Vale forces in winter? I can't do anything about Riverrun, not until the Freys are dealt with."
"If need be," the Blackfish replied. "If I say the lords of the Vale will bestir themselves, they will. And I'll have your word Riverrun will be returned before the end of winter. The sooner we have it back, the sooner I can promise the support of Tully bannermen."
"And Stannis?" Jaime asked.
"Difficult to imagine him brokering an actual alliance, but maybe he'll have learned something in the North," the Blackfish said. "Shireen Baratheon is near Sweetrobin's age."
"And near Tommen's."
"You know that will never happen," the Blackfish said. "Leave it to House Tully and House Stark to bridge this gap. We can all agree anything is better than Martells and Targaryens and Freys."
"Even Lannisters?"
"Mayhaps."
"Stannis will never treat with me, it's true," Jaime said.
"Give up the throne," the Blackfish said, "and even Stannis may surprise you."
Jaime had been trying not to think too heavily on it yet, but that may be the only way to save his children. Though it could as easily cost them their lives. "If we are allied and you make an alliance with Stannis, you will keep faith with me? I have your word, if I call your forces you will not hesitate?"
The Blackfish sneered at him, "So long as you keep your word, Kingslayer. However long that will be."
Jaime stared at the other man for a long moment, then turned back to Lord Nestor who was waiting nearby. "Lord Nestor, Ser Brynden and I have reached an accord, perhaps you would care to help us work out the finer details?"
That night, the Gates of the Moon was alive with feasting. An impromptu, thinly disguised celebration of Petyr Baelish's untimely death had lightened the weight of the unending snow falling outside. Lady Myranda Royce had seated Jaime in the middle of the high table across from herself, with Lord Nestor to his right and Sansa to his left.
At the far end of the high table, free of the robes of a brother of the Quiet Isle, Sandor Clegane scanned the room with a killer's eyes, seeming to dare someone to point a finger of accusation at the butcher of the Riverlands.
Brienne had been seated at Sandor's side. She sat rigid and tall in her men's garb, eating with the delicate table manners of a lady while watching the room with the battle wary eyes of a knight. Her hair had been pulled back and pinned tightly at the base of her neck, her scar exposed and naked to the eyes of the room. So you have abandoned your newfound vanity, wench, he thought, fighting a smile.
Pod and Hunt had been seated at a table with some of the household knights and seemed contented enough. When he caught Jaime's eye, Hunt held his tankard up slightly in salute.
While everyone carried on the pretext that Sansa was a child mourning her father, Myranda Royce seemed to act as though the girl should simply be enjoying herself. They already know who she is, Jaime thought. For her part, Sansa played the role well, looking forlorn and rarely talking to anyone save in the sparest replies.
Later in the evening, when all had turned to revelry after the draining of too many casks of wine, Jaime turned to Sansa and quietly asked, "Have you had any contact with Tyrion?"
The girl glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "No, my lord."
He doubted she lied. "Does he know where you are?"
"I cannot imagine how he would, my lord," she said.
"Come, you need not be so terrified of me. We're family you and I," he said.
She looked up sharply at that, a fearful loathing filling her face for a moment as she looked at him. Then the look was gone, smoothed away as though it had never been. "Yes, my lord," she said.
Jaime wanted to laugh at how much she hated him. "Come, your husband rid you of Joffrey, surely that is enough to convince a Stark not all Lannisters are evil, even if they're kinslayers, or Kingslayers."
"Tyrion did not kill Joffrey," she said quietly but sharply, then bit her lip as though she hadn't meant to say it.
"Never say so to Tyrion, for he's convinced he did."
Something like steel asserted itself in Sansa's spine as she turned to face him. Then her gaze flew to the Blackfish who was on the other side of the room in conversation with Ser Harrold and she swallowed hard, the show of strength fading. She knew something, he could see it. He had the feeling she wanted to throw it in his face until she thought better of it.
"Who?" he asked softly.
Sansa's face lost all expression as she looked down at her hands and she spoke no more.
The merrymaking went deep into the night, though the crowd began to thin as the older guests abandoned the cheery hall for their beds.
It was midnight when the last dozen revelers gathered around the hall's main hearth, dragging over chairs and wrapping in quilts, to enjoy the roaring blaze the servants kept tended. Sandor stood in the shadows on the edge of the room, watching. Hunt laughed with Lord Nestor's son Ser Albar and Sansa had slipped out a side door to a balcony. Likely to brood, Jaime thought.
In the shadows at the side of the hearth, Brienne stood. Jaw tense, eyes cautious, he wondered why she stayed. Then he saw her hand flit over the handle of the dagger at her belt, and he knew she was playing bodyguard. The thought made him smile.
"Tell me, my lord," Myranda Royce called to him from near the fire, "is it true what they say? Did Lord Renly's shade ride with Ser Loras against Lord Stannis? One hardly knows what to make of such a tale."
Jaime looked at Brienne. She had frozen in place at the sound of Renly's name.
Jaime smiled at Lady Myranda, recalling Loras's tale of being too small for Renly's armor. "So they say, my lady. I suspect Renly's ghost is still seen often throughout the Seven Kingdoms," Jaime paused and glanced at Brienne. "Even here in the Vale, there may be those who still see his face."
"It is said you were with Lord Renly, my lady," Ser Albar said to Brienne.
"Lady Brienne was a member of Lord Renly's Kingsguard," Hunt said from where he was seated near Brienne.
Jaime saw the quick exchange of glances then, Ser Albar to his sister Lady Myranda, Lady Myranda to Ser Harrold, and around the small group of the Vale's young gossips; they were predators eager to flush out new prey, or perhaps they wanted some misguided vengeance for Ser Robar Royce. Obviously the rumors about Brienne had flown so far as the Vale, even the dark haired girl who tried to dress like a man looked on curiously from the edges of the crowd.
Sansa stepped back into the hall, lingering against the balcony door.
"A woman in the Kingsguard," Lady Myranda said lightly, turning to address Brienne with a pointed friendliness. "I can scarce picture it, even with a lady as fierce as you, Lady Brienne. What stories you must have to tell. Were you...present for Lord Renly's death?"
Jaime looked at Brienne just as the rest of them did. He thought she would blush at the scrutiny of the crowd, but she only met their gazes with a cool look.
"I was with Lord Renly when he died," Brienne said, her expression showing no emotion at all.
"Forgive me, my lady," Ser Harrold said, sounding anything but polite, "but I have heard it said that you killed Lord Renly."
"Who says it?" Brienne asked, an almost imperceptible menace in her voice as she stared down the young knight. "Let the man who says I killed Lord Renly stand and declare himself, and tell him best he do so with steel in his hand."
Jaime felt the corners of his mouth tug upward as Brienne quietly unsheathed her claws, the woman who'd trounced Ser Harry stood before them again now. It is the scar, he realized, it had chased the last of the girlishness from her face and left a woman who looked capable of anything.
"Do forgive Ser Harry," Lady Myranda said to Brienne, "he's unsure what to make of you, my lady. My friend Mya Stone likes to wear men's garb, so we do not find that so strange, but I fear she has never perfected the art of a man's deadly menace the way that you have, Lady Brienne. You quite terrify us all."
Brienne blinked down at the smaller woman, but said nothing, her face revealing nothing but vague contempt.
"Forgive Lady Brienne, my lady," Jaime said softly to Lady Myranda, wishing to end this charade of conversation. "She is too excellent with a sword to stand about looking like a helpless maid."
"Oh, of course, my lord," Lady Myranda said, her large brown eyes flipping up flirtatiously at him. "No woman can help how she looks. I was never so beautiful as I wished to be and doubtless Lady Brienne, like all women, has had to make the most of what the gods gave her, cruel though they may have been. Regard how she so cleverly scowls to frighten us all."
Hunt stood at that, stepping away from the fellows with whom he had been laughing and drinking moments before. Pod stirred from where he was quietly seated at Brienne's feet. Jaime dared not look at Brienne, but thought he heard even Sandor step away from the wall.
Jaime smiled at Lady Myranda, his sword hand flexing and stretching, the fingers he had lost longing for the hilt of a sword.
"Yes," Jaime said. "Regard, the Maid of Tarth, fearsome creature that she is. But you are wrong, my lady, to think the gods have been cruel, for Brienne holds their favor. As you see, they blessed her at birth with an ugly face."
Jaime looked up at Brienne then, and though he could see the hint of pain in her eyes, he knew it was hidden from the rest of the room.
"Without that face," Jaime continued, holding Brienne's gaze with a steely grip, "she may have been ordinary. Married young, spending her days at needlework and gossip and her nights cringing as some worthless red haired sot worked away atop her. Instead, a sword was put in her hand, and there she stands: a warrior maid stepped fully fleshed from song. Look closely, for a legend stands before you and when you are old and grey, you will say, 'Once, in my youth, I broke bread with the Maid of Tarth'."
Brienne blinked slowly, her gaze intense and full of something Jaime didn't understand. Suddenly, their stare was broken by a loud creaking sound that turned every eye in the otherwise silent room to a blushing Sansa, who had leaned too hard against the balcony door which had opened to reveal a bright full moon peeking betwixt the clouds.
"The snow has stopped," Ser Albar said.
"Oh, it's so bright outside," Lady Myranda said with cheerfulness that sounded forced. "I must find my cloak. Who will build me a tower of snow?"
There was boisterous chatter and activity again as the party moved outside to play in the snow. Someone threw wide the doors of the balcony, revealing the full globe of the moon and Jaime watched Brienne slip outside through the open door behind Sansa, away from the rest of the group as they streamed toward the entrance of the stairwell at the end of the hall.
Hunt was herding Pod toward the stairwell, promising to show the boy how best to make a snowball. The knight paused as they passed and gave Jaime a brief understanding nod. Jaime returned the nod and followed the two of them.
In the courtyard, the young knights and ladies frolicked in the snow, dark cloaks whirling against the white drifts, voices raised in frivolity. Large snowballs were rolled and battlements erected for the snowball fight that quickly ensued.
Jaime had no cloak, so he stopped just outside the door, watching from the edge of the courtyard. Hunt was teaching Pod to make snowballs, but Pod needed no instruction in throwing them. Every one he threw hit its target and with a speed that was unmatched by any other in the field of battle. When Pod and Hunt took refuge with one of the warring parties, Jaime stepped forward to keep them in view, laughing and watching the boy beam as he was cheered by his fellows.
Above him, Brienne had cleared snow from the balcony bannister, a space wide enough for her to lean on with her forearms as she watched Pod at his heroics. Jaime heard Brienne giggle when Pod hit Ser Harry in the nose. And when Pod fired another almost immediately that knocked Ser Harry in the calf and drove him down to one knee, Jaime heard her break into laughter and had to look up, for he could not imagine such an unabashed sound coming from the Maid of Tarth.
And when he saw her, Jaime's breath caught in his throat, for Brienne was smiling-and it was such a thing as he had never seen.
Her eyes were bright and blue in the soft light of the moon and her smile was wide and carefree. The sight of it was like a fist tightening within his chest and he found himself drawn toward the balcony.
She looked down as he approached, and her gaze, full of mirth, met his as though they shared some secret jest. Then a shower of snow blanketed him and stole his breath.
Jaime shook off the freezing stuff, wiping it out of his eyes to see she had pushed it off the bannister onto his head. She leaned forward, bent double with laughter and their gazes caught again and held as though some invisible cord had been drawn tight between them, thrumming with a pulse that made his breath grow short and ragged. He began to move toward the entrance back into the castle, never looking away from her.
Brienne's eyes followed him, but as he slipped nearer the castle, she began to back away from the balcony. He broke their gaze then and entered the door, taking the stairs two at a time, climbing back to the dining hall just in time to see Brienne edge off the balcony and back into the room to face him. The snow was still in his hair and clung to his face and he swiped another bit out of his beard as he met her gaze again.
Her eyes still held some laughter, but her smile was nearly gone. She watched him carefully, her wide blue eyes full of questions, and she began to back slowly away from him as he advanced, the distance between them pulsing with the deep beats of the drums of war.
Sandor and Sansa stood in the middle of the hall, Sandor clearly giving Sansa some instruction on how to use a dagger to stab a chair, but they had paused in their lesson to watch Jaime as he backed Brienne, step by step, toward the far end of the hall.
Brienne's legs were longer than his own, but Jaime was moving forward and she was moving backward and he was gaining on her, his eyes holding hers in an unbreakable stare.
They had nearly reached the end of the hall when Jaime narrowed his eyes at her, increasing his pace. Like frightened game, she suddenly broke and turned to run. He chased her through the far door of the hall and down the winding stair to another entrance to the courtyard bound in by low garden walls. Brienne set out to run through the gate in the wall, but Jaime vaulted the wall and caught her, tackling her into a bank of snow that enveloped them both.
"There is no honor in this!" she cried out in a tone that fell somewhere between a gasp and a taunt; she offered almost no resistance when he wrestled her beneath him. He grabbed a handful of snow and mashed it into her face.
Brienne sputtered and laughed and tried to shake the snow off, for he had pinned one arm under her and held the other trapped between them as he rolled atop her. He laughed and reached up to clear the snow away, his hand cradling her cheek as he brushed his thumb along her brow. She took a shaky breath then, and when he met her gaze again it was dark and heavy.
Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his thumb over her cheek, then moved it lower to brush the snow from her mouth. Her breath hitched when he touched her there, and she looked almost sorrowful as he ran his thumb with deliberate slowness along her upper lip which was cherry-red from the cold. Her gaze left his then and slipped down to watch his mouth and he felt his own breath falter as he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was a slow and gentle thing, their kiss, for a heartbeat or two, but when his hand slid beneath her neck and pulled her to him, it became something else. His teeth grazed her lower lip and her mouth fell open easily, eagerly, and the softest moan vibrated through her as he deepened the kiss.
One of her hands had been freed and as her fingers ghosted along his jawline he gave her a moan of his own, pushing her down into the snow as their kiss became all consuming.
It was the sound of laughter that reached him through the haze of the kiss, a warning that the snowball fighters were approaching. He lifted his mouth from hers, pausing for a moment to look down at her well-kissed lips and uncertain eyes. A young maid staring at a man who just stole a kiss, he thought. A man who just happened to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
"No, there is no honor in this," he whispered and gave her one last long look, then jumped up and walked toward the doorway of the castle before they were discovered.
Jaime slipped inside and leaned against the wall beside the doorway, trying to catch his breath.
In the courtyard, he heard the shrieks as the fight came near, he heard Hunt laughing, then the footsteps pounded away as they ran elsewhere.
"Ser Hyle." Brienne's voice called softly from outside.
"My lady?" Hunt responded, sounding out of breath.
"Ser Hyle, can you see me?" Brienne asked.
Hunt laughed. "Of course, my lady. You're standing right before me."
"No, I... Can you see my face clearly?" she asked.
Jaime almost glanced out the door, but something kept him where he was.
"I can see you've been dunked in the snow," Hunt said quietly. "I can see that someone has tugged your hair free from where it was pinned. I can see your lips are freshly kissed."
"Oh," Brienne replied in a whisper Jaime barely heard.
"Have I need to defend your honor, Brienne?" Hunt asked with no playfulness.
"No," Brienne said.
"Marry me," Hunt said. "Be my wife."
Brienne gave a short, bitter laugh. "I may never recover Tarth, ser. As far as I know, I am orphaned and penniless with only the clothes on my back."
"We would do well enough, I think," Hunt said. "If Tarth is never recovered, no matter. I'll take service with some lord or other."
"Ser, you do me great honor, but I will never wed," Brienne said solemnly. "I will never forget your friendship to me and should you ever need my help, you need only ask."
"Ah, my lady, you wound me," Hunt said with a chuckle. "What will you do now? Where will you go?"
"Tarth," she replied softly.
"As your friend, I would wish you valued your life better than to throw it away," Hunt said.
"My life is worth little while sellswords occupy my home," she said.
Jaime had heard enough and turned to climb the stairs to the dining hall. Sandor was alone, standing before the hearth with a tankard in hand.
"I heard a rumor you were drinking again," Jaime said.
"Did you catch her?" Sandor asked, barely sparing him a glance.
"I did," Jaime said softly.
"The fuck you doing up here talking to me, then? Your sister geld you before she sent you away?"
"You're the expert on gelding," Jaime replied. "Where is my sweet little good-sister?"
"Bed," Sandor said, then he took a long drink.
"Alone?" Jaime asked, feigning innocence.
Sandor's gaze sliced into him.
Jaime smiled and walked away, going out onto the balcony to stare awhile at the moon before going back inside to climb the tower steps to his bedchamber. The servants had lit the fire in his hearth hours before, for the logs had burnt down to embers. In the faint light, he saw that the room to Brienne's small chamber was closed and he wondered if she was already inside.
Jaime hung his sword from his bedpost and slipped his dagger under his pillow before he climbed beneath the heavy furs. It was only then that he noticed it, laid out perfectly atop the covers. Oathkeeper.
He reached for the sword and lifted it, the rubies in the scabbard and on the hilt catching the faint firelight with a blood-red glow. Gently, he gripped it in his only hand, the perfect weight of it evident even when held by the scabbard. Anger and sadness crept up from his gut and into his throat.
Her door seemed to call to him; he walked to it with heavy steps, awkwardly gripping the sword under his right armpit. With a sharp tug, he swung the door open, sending it banging against the wall of his bedchamber with a cracking sound.
Brienne sat against the headboard of her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees which were pulled up to her chest. She lifted her head from her forearm to look at him. The glow from his fire put just enough light on her face to show it was wet.
"This," he said through gritted teeth, grasping Oathkeeper from where he'd wedged it under his right arm and shoving it toward her, "was a gift."
She stared at him, then looked at Oathkeeper. When she spoke, her voice rasped. "You gave it to me for a quest. To fulfill our oaths, to find Sansa Stark. She is found. The quest is fulfilled."
Jaime swallowed hard, the rage he felt making it difficult to speak. "I gave this sword to you, Brienne, and asked you to call it Oathkeeper. It is not a tool to complete a quest. It is your blade, it is your weapon. It is the only thing I had to give and I meant you to wield it all your days, I meant you to leave it to your children, I meant it to be your legacy."
He threw Oathkeeper onto the bed at her feet. She looked down at it sadly and then back up at him, her eyes soft and heavy with unshed tears. "And now it is all I have to give," she said softly. "You go to meet your enemies, Jaime. Let me part from you knowing you meet them with Oathkeeper in your hand."
When he tried to draw a breath, the ache in his chest was nearly unbearable. The anger had left him and in its place was only sorrow and dread, for her gaze held things he dared not see. She grimaced, almost in apology and dropped her forehead back down onto her arms.
He backed out of the room, but stopped in her doorway and whispered, "Leave this door open."
Jaime saw her nod without lifting her head and made himself return to his bed, slipping beneath the covers. For hours he tried to sleep, but all he could do was watch the open door. He heard her soft sobs for a time, and when they stopped, he wondered if she might walk through the door, wondered if she might come to his bed, but she didn't.
Sometime in the night he drifted off to sleep, for he woke in the morning to see that the snow had resumed. And as he rolled over, he saw that she had taken his sword from where he'd hung it on his bedpost and left Oathkeeper in its place.
He rose and dressed and walked to the door of her room, but it was empty. With a sigh, he walked to the bedpost, took Oathkeeper down, and strapped it about his waist.