"Sister, I would ask that you show some respect to Lady Brienne, who now out-classes you on more than one level. You will be a foot soldier in this war we go to fight, and your survival is no sure thing out there where we all must depend on each other's readiness for battle." Jaime told Cersei.

"And you will not protect me, my love?" Cersei had asked, her voice dripping seduction as she advanced on Jaime in her new armor. Brienne sighed inwardly, noting Cersei's curved breastplate, the inviting way she batted her eyelashes at Jaime. Though she moves in it like an arthritic old cat, Brienne told herself with some satisfaction, of courseI move in a fine dress like a trussed up turkey.

"Cersei," Jaime said, "we all protect each other, out there." Did she note tenderness in his manner? At least he had not outright agreed that he would be protecting Cersei above all else.

"But you are her protector, are you not?" Cersei had accused.

Brienne could hardly remember a time she and Jaime had not stood side by side or back to back against danger and in defense of those around them. In truth they did protect each other, working as almost a single creature, together greater and mightier than half a dozen other warriors. Just as they slept together and ate together, where there was one there was always the other. Brienne felt her eyes prick with threatening tears at the thought of that not always being true.

"He is my brother in arms, and we do what we must so that we both survive." She told Cersei, but it was Jaime's face she watched.

Jaime looked between Brienne and Cersei, seeming unsure of what to say or how to break the tension between the three of them. Brienne had been afraid of this, had wondered how they could possibly exist peaceably together. If they couldn't do it here in the training yard how were they to manage it when the only way to survive was to band together or perish?

Why did he not speak?

She wondered if he was very angry at her for implying his sister was a whore a few minutes ago. Once she might have chided herself for throwing Cersei's words back at her, but she found that her only regret now was having suggested that Cersei was the Kingslayer's whore. Let her go be somebody else's whore. There would be plenty of men in the camp who would be thrilled to be wound around her vicious little finger.

Gods, just don't let it be Jaime, she prayed.

"If you will put on your helm My lady, we can begin." She said courteously to Cersei, and Jaime took that as a good time to retreat to the hay bales to watch them, joining a small assortment of men, including Loras and Ser Barristan, that had come out in the swirling snow to watch them.

Brienne was surprised to see Tyrion there also, perched on a bale of hay he had swept clean of snow, looking almost like a child out to watch a tourney, if one didn't look at the seam of scar across his nose and face. Still, not as ugly asmy scar, thought Brienne. How capricious of the gods to make the already freakish even more conspicuous, while blessing someone like Jaime's horrible sister with looks which did not match her deeds. Hah, was horrible too kind a word? Try malignant, scheming, grasping

Brienne turned back to Cersei, who looked up into Brienne's face, sneering. If the White Walkers were susceptible to scary expressions, thought Brienne, then Cersei would do just fine in the north. But they weren't, so Brienne sought to continue their lesson.

Cersei had still not put her helm on, so Brienne asked "Do you need assistance settling your helm, My lady?"

Cersei coyly tossed her head, setting her hair flickering in the breeze that had come up, "Is it really necessary? It's not as though you will be using a sword against me."

Yet, Brienne told herself, taking a deep breath for patience.

"It is important to get used to having the weight of a helmet on your head, so that your neck muscles may develop strength."

"I see that has worked out very well for you, my lady," Cersei said with a pointed look at Brienne's gorget-covered neck before she finally put on her own helm, which was decorated with small silver lions inlaid about the eyes and cheek guards.

Brienne felt her face burn beneath her helm, knowing that Cersei was referring to her own thickly muscled neck. Cersei's neck was slender and graceful, and Brienne wanted to grasp it like that of a Stark Swan and choke her. Cersei would make an especially unappealing Ice Goose stew, thought Brienne with a tiny shudder.

First she began by working on Cersei's stance, showing her how to plant her feet wide apart so as not to be easily knocked over.

"If I were teaching you tourney fighting we would go through how to move around your opponent effectively while keeping yourself balanced, but that kind of finesse is useless in the snow, where standing your ground is more important."

Cersei continued to watch Brienne as though she was a particularly repulsive bug for a while, but eventually she seemed to get caught up a little in the instruction. Brienne had not allowed her a practice sword or a shield yet, preferring to cover some basics that most squires learned by the time they were seven or eight years old.

"As women we do not have the same musculature as men," Brienne said, and Cersei huffed out a particularly un-ladylike snort.

"That may be the case for one of us," Cersei snarked, "it certainly holds no truth in your case."

Brienne glanced to where Jaime sat watching, relieved he could not hear the conversation. She knew he could get downright violent when he thought somebody was being offensive to Brienne, but she had no idea how he would react to his sister's goads. How far would he be pushed before he had to choose a side?

Brienne smiled grimly down at Cersei and continued with her task. They stood side by side in the same stance, feet planted, forearms pulled in to their chests as though they were about to throw a punch.

Or imitate chickens, thought Brienne.

She showed Cersei how to twist her torso around to one side and then use the power of her hips to propel her shoulders back to center, only snapping out the sword arm toward the end of the movement, keeping her shield arm protectively bent in front of her.

She was gratified to see Cersei execute the move without difficulty.

"You see," she explained to Cersei handing her a light practice sword, "lacking the strength in our arms and shoulders, if we swing a sword like a man it has little power behind it." She allowed Cersei to swing the sword from her shoulder, knowing that most beginners would make that movement when presented with a sword. "Now, if you use the power of your hips to drive your blow you will deliver a stronger cut, and be able to recover more quickly, always bringing your sword back home to your shield to protect yourself." Cersei pulled the sword in as Brienne had shown her, rotated her shoulders and then twisted back, snapping out the blunted sword.

"Good!" praised Brienne. Cersei had a little glow in her eyes, was that pride and interest? wondered Brienne. She remembered her first lessons with a real master at arms, and how a little instruction had made the sword seem to sing in her hand. She hoped Cersei might be feeling some of that same excitement. Jaime had told her once that Cersei had always lamented not having the same opportunities and powers that any man was granted as a birthright. Wielding a sword was one of the few things a woman could do to have some power of her own, Brienne thought, though she doubted Cersei had thought through what being a knight, or even a squire, really entailed. Be careful what you wish for girl, she thought ruefully.

"So a lot of our strength comes from our hips?" Cersei asked, still swinging from side to side, punching out with the practice sword.

"It does," Brienne confirmed.

"Then you must be the most powerful of us all. With those child-bearing hips and sturdy thighs it's a wonder you haven't pushed out a passel of squalling brats," Cersei stopped and gave Brienne a triumphant smile, "but I suppose that would require a man to want to bed you."

Fuuuuuuckk.

How had Jaime ever survived this woman? If being a desirable woman meant she had to be a woman like Cersei then Brienne would rather reach inside and pull her womb out through her own throat. Brienne looked over at Jaime again, and noticed Cersei was also looking intently at him. He looked uneasy under their scrutiny and pretended to look around himself as though to find what they were looking for. The other men watched the lesson avidly; completely unaware of the beating Brienne was taking.

Brienne picked up a tourney sword of her own and called Cersei's attention back to her training.

"Next, I think we should work on how you grip a sword," she announced.

Cersei laughed throatily and said "That is a skill I perform very well already, I should think," throwing a meaningful glance in Jaime's direction.

Brienne could hold back no longer. "It is a good skill to have, My lady," she said, "but to be sure the hilt of a sword is unlikely to become softer in your hand no matter how you treat it, which might lead you to think your hold on it is more secure than it is." And with that Brienne smoothly went into the proper way to hold a broadsword, managing not to look pointedly at Jaime. It is not for nothing, she thought, that I endured listening to the camp followers squawk about their conquests. She was glad Jaime hadn't heard her, or she would never live down pretending to experience she didn't have.

Brienne sank back in the bath as far as she was able. What she wouldn't give for a proper tub, something more along the lines of a hot spring, long enough to properly stretch her legs under the water, to drift and submerge all but her nose, letting the water slosh over her eyes and forehead, to sift like fingers through her hair. It didn't even have to be a hot spring. What she really wanted, Brienne decided, was a warm summer day and the salt waters around Tarth, one of the little coves she knew of where she could be alone. She tried to put herself there in her mind, imagined she could hear the calling of sea birds high overhead, the grumbles of parrots in the trees, quarreling half-heartedly over fruits and nuts, the shhh shhh shhh of the surf as it rocked her in the buoyancy of salt water, soothing on her naked skin. The sun could bring out the freckles on her flesh all it wanted, she wouldn't care. No one would care, while she dreamed there in the water.

But that was the problem; her dreams had been of valor and chivalry, honor and sacrifice. She had followed those dreams and ended up here, in this piss-pit of a city, teaching the likes of Cersei Lannister, no, Cersei Waters, how to combat the undead when they traveled back to the frozen hell of the north, to live or die at the world's end, far from home. Despite all that she had gone through Brienne still believed she had chosen the correct path. She had rescued Sansa, and she had done good in the world. She had fulfilled her vows as best she could. She regretted her scars and mourned for her losses, but it was still better than being trapped by marriage, living her life to satisfy a man who never wanted her in the first place, who only took her to gain the island of Tarth. She thought of Hyle Hunt, and his many proposals. His suit had eventually seemed sincere, for he had grown to regard her with some affection but she did not return the feeling.

At one time she thought she might have been grateful for someone like Ser Hyle. In the dark you'd be as beautiful as any woman, he had told her. No, she never would have been grateful for someone like Hyle; in the dark he would be as hoggish as any man. Why did men assume a woman would be grateful for their regard, yet give no thought to how they themselves were regarded?

Brienne turned to the side in her cramped tub, curling into herself, the light of the fire in the room's brazier beating against her closed eyes. She thought of Jaime and found herself holding her breath to keep from letting out the sobs threatening to escape, trying to stem the tears stinging beneath her lids. Everything had been nearly perfect, if you didn't count the undead and the cold and the lack of decent food, the stink and hopelessness…she could bear it all with Jaime by her side. He didn't have to return her love, not the kind of love she felt for him, anyway. He did love her in his own way, she was sure of that. She was not about to say he loved her like a sister. Okay, if he loved her like he had loved his sister…but no, that was just icky. Whatever they had together was wonderful, and it had been enough. Would it be enough to keep Cersei from coming between them?

And then Brienne did allow herself to cry, eventually falling asleep in tears as salty as the blue waters of Tarth, her bath water growing colder around her.

Brienne hurried across the courtyard to Traitor's Walk, taking the steps two at a time to Jaime's chamber, the eyes of the Dothraki guards following her form as she climbed. She arrived slightly breathless at Jaime's door, pausing to compose herself before she knocked.

"Enter," Jaime's voice called from within. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her eyes widened as she took in Jaime's freshly trimmed beard, his neatly combed hair. He sat on the bed, chin in hand, and looked up at her questioningly, "Where have you been? I had thought we were going to eat together. I'm nearly hungry enough to eat onion stew."

"Only if Cersei hasn't been near it," Brienne said, hoping he would smile at her little jape. He did. "Shall we go now, then? I am hungry as well."

Jaime stood and stretched ostentatiously, even going so far as to yawn loudly. Brienne stood and quietly admired his figure, hoping it looked like she was just being patient with his display. She knew he did this on purpose, that the man had an ego like a lion and enjoyed having admiring eyes upon him. She gave him a sly look and said "If you're quite finished, we should go before Varys has eaten everything worth having."

"Gods, do you think he's still there? You're at least an hour late."

"Perhaps not, but it you're lucky maybe Ser Loras will be there to laugh at your jokes and tell you you're pretty." Brienne said, trying to look coyly at him.

Jaime laughed and reached out to grab her around the waist and pull her to him. Brienne tried to hide her surprise as he held her against him. He put his mouth near her ear and said "if I make you laugh will you tell me I'm pretty?"

"You're pretty enough, I suppose," Brienne said in what she hoped was a steady voice.

"Gods, your hair smells good," Jaime said, sniffing close enough to her ear to make her shiver. He leaned back from her a little and tilted his head, "and it looks good enough to eat, too. Have you been doing something new to it?"

Brienne was about to answer when Jaime lifted his hand and pushed a strand of it off her cheek, smoothing it down to her shoulder. Torture, she thought and resisted the urge to purr like a kitten.

"I washed it." She said.

"I can see that. Washed it with what?"

"Oh, something the maidservant gave me. It was sudsy and had some kind of flower ground into it."

Jaime took a deep, exaggerated breath, "I like it. Your hair smells like summer." He released her waist then and picked his cloak up from the bed, swinging it easily about his shoulders single handed.

"Let's go. You never did tell me why you're so late. Were you in council?"

"No, I took a bath, as you have already guessed."

"It's a wonder you don't look like one of Bolton's prunes."

"I suppose it is. I fell asleep in the tub."

"Ah, much like I did in the tubs of Harrenhal?"

"Not like you did in the tubs of Harrenhal."

Jaime grinned at her, "Wish I had been there to pull you out, Wench."

Brienne laughed, the Harrenhal baths being a subject they often joked about. "My name is Brienne," she told him, still laughing.

"It is 'Wench' if I say it is." Jaime said smugly. "So come share a meal with me, Wench, and we'll see if your hair can compete with that of the gorgeous Loras."