A/N: If Bran is the Robin to Jamie's Batman, does that make Brienne the world's most responsible Catwoman? Survey says yes.

"Are you quite finished yet?" Jaime stood outside Bran's door, rapping his knuckles against the wood.

With a huff, Bran opened it. "We're not even late for dinner."

"Good," Jaime said, already striding off down the hallway. "Let's keep it that way."

Bran scrambled to catch up to the longer-legged knight. "Why are you in such a hurry? You don't even know anyone here."

"I'm about to," Jaime muttered under his breath. He threw open the doors.

The hall was teaming with guests. Selwyn must have called every landed family on the island, all of them eager to make a good impression on the representative of their king.

"Ah, Ser Jaime," Selwyn greeted him, coming close to clasp his hand. "Allow me to introduce you to Septon Maewyn and Ser Brantwent of–"

But across the hall, Jaime had spotted her. Huddled to the side of the head table, Brienne looked absolutely miserable. Her blue dress was a better color on her than the pink monstrosity she'd been forced into for the bear pit, but the garment still hung awkwardly on her muscular frame. Worst of all, she clearly knew it, shoulders hunched as she picked forlornly at a seam.

Septon Maewyn stood waiting, hand outstretched. Jaime barely remembered to give the man a nod as he passed, his long strides eating up the distance to Brienne.

A servant came to speak with her and Brienne stood to converse with the girl.

A gasp came from Jaime's side. "That's a girl?" Bran whispered in awe. "She's as big as the Hound."

"Quiet," Jaime snapped.

The servant said something and Brienne turned, laying eyes on him. A blush stained her cheeks, her mortification only increasing as Jaime continued his march straight towards her.

Jaime didn't hear the hall fall silent as he stood before her. He simply swept his most gallant bow, bending almost double. "My lady."

When he straightened, her face was as red as an apple. "My lord," Brienne answered weakly.

He grinned, taking in the sight of her. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Everything he'd remembered, and more.

Except that she was cringing away from him.

"Brienne, is it?" he asked, desperately trying to put her at ease. She nodded. "Call me Jaime, please."

He hadn't thought it possible for her blush to deepen. "Alright, ser."

"Jaime," he corrected again.

Brienne said nothing.

"I'm Bran Stark," came a voice from his side that Jaime had forgotten existed. "I'm Ser Jaime's squire."

Bran offered Brienne a hand. Hesitantly, she took it.

Jaime looked down at the boy. It was the first time he'd used Jaime's proper titles. It seemed Bran could tell that Jaime was trying to make a good impression – and, for what it was worth, wanted to help.

Selwyn came over, his smile at Jaime tight. "Ser, the feast is about to begin. If you would take your seat–"

Near him, Jaime knew Selwyn had been about to say. Jaime turned to Brienne. "Is the seat next to you available?"

Brienne swallowed. "It is, ser."

Jaime smiled. "Very good, thank you." He turned back to Selwyn, a pleased smile on his face.

No one beat a Lannister at petty politeness.

No one.

Selwyn was forced to retreat to the middle of the head table, gesturing at the hall for their attention. Gradually, the room fell silent.

Jaime pulled out the seat next to Brienne, Bran on his other side. He flashed a smile at Brienne. Her return smile looked slightly sick.

"I thank all of you for coming," Selwyn's voice boomed over the hall. "The King has blessed us with a representative of his presence, for which we are grateful."

Weak applause scattered through the hall, well aware of the insult. Jaime dipped his head, pretending not to hear their lack of enthusiasm.

"Now, let us feast!" Selwyn concluded. Jaime was glad for the brevity.

But as he dug into his plate of lamb, and Brienne into hers, neither of them spoke.

"Delicious meal," Jaime ventured, although he'd certainly had better.

Brienne gave a wan smile and no response.

"Do you, er…" Jaime tried again. She stared silently at him, not about to rescue him from his own stupidity. He gave up. "Why aren't you wearing breeches?"

Brienne choked on her bite. "Come again?"

"I mean…" He gestured lamely at all of her. "You look like you'd… be more comfortable in them."

Her face flushed with embarrassment. "Because I am a woman, ser."

"I know that," Jaime snapped. "But you look like an uncomfortable woman, especially in a dress that suits you so ill."

Her jaw clenched. "I'm used to dresses fitting me ill."

He let out an irritated sigh. "Because your septa can't sew worth a damn, not because–"

With a clatter, Brienne set her fork down. "Ser, you do not have to speak to me. There are plenty of other lords in this hall who–"

"Jaime," he cut her off. "And I never speak to anyone with whom I don't want to speak."

She made another pained face. "If you're here to mock me, please finish so that I may eat in peace."

"Mock you?" Jaime frowned at her. At the other side of the hall, a couple of fiddlers had started up a tune. "Why in the name of the gods should I do that?"

Picking up her fork, Brienne stabbed viciously at the meat. "Haven't you done it enough already?" But she said nothing further, taking the excuse for silence while she chewed her bite.

Jaime frowned down at his own plate.

Bran leaned over from his other side. "Were you trying to insult her?" the boy whispered.

"What do you think?" he whispered fiercely back. Jaime let out a weary sigh and dryly added in another whisper, "I was hoping she'd like me at least as much as your father does."

Bran giggled, knowing full-well how little that was. "Father let me squire for you. There's hope yet."

Jaime raised an eyebrow at the boy's wisdom. Then again, knowing who Bran had become the last time around, he really shouldn't have been surprised.

A pretty little slip of a girl stepped up before the table, smiling shyly at Jaime. He'd seen her like in every town, in every kingdom, and had two lifetime's experience paying them no mind. This one had brown hair and green eyes and little else to recommend her.

"Ser Jaime," the girl giggled. "It's a pleasure to have your company. We don't get to see proper knights very often around these parts."

Jaime couldn't help glancing at Brienne. If they wanted a proper knight, they'd had the best one he'd ever known sitting at supper with them for the past decade.

Brienne shrunk into herself, pretending not to hear the girl as she pushed peas around her plate. Whoever the girl was, there was history between her and Brienne. Jaime could bet what it was.

He made no reply to the girl, simply took another bite of lamb.

The girl smiled again, thinking herself far prettier than life off an island would have led her to believe. "What I mean is," she continued. "I would be honored if I could have this dance."

At his side, Brienne stilled. Jaime paused. Whatever this brunette wanted, Brienne didn't want her to have it. Perhaps there was an opportunity here. Slowly, Jaime lowered his fork. Slowly, he wiped his mouth. "You would, would you?" As he asked, out of the corner of his eye, he watched Brienne.

The brunette nodded. "I've heard everyone from the capital is a marvelous dancer and–"

"I'm sure," Jaime cut in, his smile false. "But why you?"

The girl didn't know what to say. Her eyes darted to the sides, as if Brienne or Bran would have her answer.

Jaime barely kept from rolling his eyes. Apparently he'd need to assist her, even in this. "Are you a marvelous dancer?"

The brunette smiled, not quite sure what to make of him. "Fair enough. I'll make no claims a high lord such as yourself would be able to disprove."

Jaime's smile turned cutting. "If you're only fair enough, why would you assume I want to dance with you? I thought I'd made my choice in partner perfectly obvious."

The girl gaped, looking from him, to Brienne, and back again. A laugh burst from her before she stifled it. "You can't be serious!"

Brienne flinched.

"I have never been more serious," he replied with a dangerous edge.

The girl laughed again. "But she's… and you're…" The brunette giggled, still with the audacity not to believe him.

Jaime wished he could duel her, wished he could do more than simply stand and turn to Brienne, offering her his hand. She stared dumbly at it. "Apparently people on your island despise subtlety. Lady Brienne. May I have this dance?"

Brienne stared at him, her face going red. "Jaime, please, you don't have to–"

A grin split his face. He'd embarrassed her into using his name. Perfect. Still, he stood, his hand still outstretched. On the other side of the table, the brunette still gaped at him.

"My lady?" Jaime prompted.

Blushing redder than Jaime had seen in his life, Brienne stood, taking his hand.

Jaime continued grinning at her as he led them to join the dancers. Brienne still couldn't look at him, blushing off to the side. Everyone in the room paused to stare – the only variance in how overtly they studied the pair.

Jaime ignored them all, as cool and confident as a lion. Brienne tried not to meet their eyes, her blush never fading. More than anything, she never once dared to look at him.

After a few turns (clumsy ones; for all her martial grace, a dancer, Brienne was not) she finally whispered, "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," Jaime said, leading her through another turn. "I wanted to."

She was silent for a moment. "Well, thank you."

"My pleasure."

Brienne frowned, saying nothing, as the dance continued.

Jaime couldn't take it any longer. "Speak, if you insist on thinking so loudly."

"I just…" Her brows creased. "At dinner. You really did… want to talk… to me?"

"Yes," Jaime said, impatient with her insistence on seeing the worst. "That would be why I'd been speaking to you."

"But…" She finally dared look at him. "Why?"

Jaime wished so badly that he could tell her the truth. Could spin the tale of their months on the road together, their shared trauma from the Boltons, and all the wonderful bits of trust and respect that had followed after.

Maybe someday.

He cleared his throat. "I'd heard of you."

A bitter sigh came from Brienne. "The Maid of Tarth. And wanted to see if the rumors were true?"

"And wanted to talk swords and weaponry," he continued. "But it seemed impolite to begin a conversation there."

Her head whipped to him.

"I've heard you're quite good," Jaime said. "If you'd permit, I'd be honored to spar with you."

"Of course," Brienne said instantly. "I'd… I'd love that."

He smiled at her, soft and warm with everything he'd ever wanted. Hesitantly, her lip creeping upward by degrees, Brienne smiled back.

One of the dancing couples spun too close. "Look at them," the man drunkenly whispered more loudly than he'd meant. "The Kingslayer, come to embarrass all of Tarth by bearing tales of its abomination back to the king. I'm sure she's all they'll talk of in the capital for a week."

Brienne flinched. She turned her face away. Jaime stared at her, waiting, but she did absolutely nothing in response to the man. Instantly, Jaime dropped her hands.

He grabbed the man roughly by a shoulder, pulling him from the dance. The man stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise. Behind them, the fiddlers ground to a halt.

"You insulted a lady in her own hall," Jaime growled. "I demand satisfaction."

The man recoiled. "Of course, ser! I never meant to impugn your honor, I just–"

Jaime shook the man's arm he still held. "Her honor." The man still didn't understand and Jaime had never felt so disgusted. "Bran!" he called across the hall. "My sword!"

His squire's scampering feet exited the hall.

"I didn't say anything that hadn't been said before." The man gave a simpering smile, glancing at Brienne. "I just… I thought it was known, about Brienne the Beauty, and–"

"Known?" Jaime snarled. "That you can disrespect your future liege lady?"

"I mean, she's…" The man stopped, seeing that the usual excuses weren't working.

Bran was at Jaime's side, out of breath, Jaime's sword in his hands.

As he reached to take it, Brienne put a hand on his arm. "Please, Jaime." Her earnest gaze stopped him, giving him no idea what would follow. "Please don't."

He recoiled as if she'd punched him. "You heard him," Jaime hissed. "And you expect me to just let it go–?!"

"They all say it," Brienne continued. "I'm used to it. It's fine."

Jaime ripped his arm from her grasp. "I don't plan to ever be used to that." With a rasp, he drew his sword, pointing it at the man. "Apologize to my lady. Now."

"I'm sorry!" the man babbled, falling to his knees. "I didn't mean it, you're beautiful and wonderful, and–"

More disgusted than ever, Jaime shoved his sword back into its sheath. The man took his chance to scramble out of the hall as Bran took Jaime's sword back.

A glance at Brienne stopped Jaime cold. She looked on the edge of tears.

Behind them, Selwyn clapped his hands. "Well. That was exciting! Music!"

The fiddlers started up again, playing more furiously than ever. Slowly, the dancers resumed their movements. None took their eyes off the most interesting pair for long.

Brienne turned, tears glistening from her eyes as she headed off the dance floor.

Jaime's hand snagged her wrist.

"I've been humiliated enough for one day, thank you," she woodenly replied. "Unhand me or–"

"Keep dancing," Jaime cut in. "Or else all those petty little people will think they've won. Get your vengeance by not letting them spoil your night."

Slowly, she returned to him. Although her dancing was stiffer than usual, at least she still danced.

Jaime said nothing, for once content to wait her out.

"One day," she softly started. "After my father is gone and I'm alone in the world, I'll have to rule these people. I can't challenge every single one of them to a duel every time they say something I don't like."

"Nor can you let them continue to show you such disrespect," Jaime replied, leading her through a turn. "If my father heard even a fraction–"

"Tywin Lannister rules through fear," Brienne cut in. "I love my home. I love its people. I could never–"

"Do you think they'll pay your taxes, abide by your laws, follow you into war?" Jaime hissed. "When they don't even respect you enough not to call you an abomination to your face?"

"Better than they would after I embarrassed all their men in combat!" Brienne replied.

"So don't do it yourself," Jaime said. "Have someone loyal to you–"

"Who?" Brienne sneered. "You?"

"Yes!" Jaime said heatedly.

Brienne's jaw clenched. Not daring to look at him, she spoke slowly, "And why you, ser? You are sworn to the king. Unless you plan on breaking yet another sacred oath?"

Filled with shame, Jaime looked away. Kingsguard didn't marry. Of course they didn't. And he'd… well, he'd… forgotten seemed like too small a word, but it wasn't far from the truth. He'd come here to win Brienne, but what could he actually do with the prize?

Nothing. As ever. Not one damned thing.

Well…

Maybe there was one.

His shrill whistle split the air. The fiddlers halted yet again, as Selwyn's watchful stare followed him from across the room.

"I thank you for your generous hospitality, Lord Selwyn!" Jaime called over the crowd. Brienne dropped his hands, fearfully awaiting the rest of his words. "But I'm afraid you've all come here to see a knight, and I've been a bit of a disappointment!"

A drunken, "Here, here!" answered from the crowd.

Jaime grinned. "So! How would you like to see a duel? Friendly, of course, but I'd wager you haven't seen a proper swordfight in far too long."

"We've been to tournaments, ser," Brienne said, offended by his implication that Tarth was a backwater. "And we've fighters here–"

"Fighters need partners at their level to be able to show off their skill," Jaime replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. "I'm afraid, my lady, that as there's only the one of you, Tarth has been sorely lacking in that department. If you'd allow me?"

"Yes," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I'll take your challenge, ser."

Bran appeared at his side in an instant, Jaime's sheathed longsword again held awkwardly in his hands.

But Jaime put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'll need more than just my sword. I'll not risk dueling Brienne in anything less than full armor."

The compliment filled Brienne's cheeks with a flush.

...

Jaime knew what an impressive figure he cut in his golden armor, white cloak fluttering in the wind, the best steel money could buy strapped to his hip.

Brienne stood opposite in her armor, a plain gray that she would paint gold before swearing to Renly. Jaime missed her black armor. He wondered how long he had to wait before buying it for her again. He still knew her size.

The crowd surrounding whispered and chattered, Selwyn speaking amiably to Bran. Sunset was nearing and golden shadows cast across the training yard.

Brienne hefted her sword in her hand. "Are we going to wait all day?"

Jaime swept a bow. "Ladies first."

Brienne charged.

Unlike Ser Meryn the Useless, she was terrifying. Jaime felt the utter focus of battle sweep over him as he analyzed her moves, the shift in her weight, barely blocking every blow she gave.

Then, after they'd been sparring for quite some time, he found an opening. He pressed it, pressing her backwards, until finally – he knocked her sword from her hand.

Brienne stared at her sword lying in the dirt. Disbelief colored her face.

"Been awhile since you've seen that?" Jaime asked, his grin as broad as ever.

"Years," Brienne admitted.

The crowd cheered for the duelists as Brienne went back to the weapons rack. This time, when she stepped away, she was twirling a mace.

"Oh, seven hells," Jaime swore.

He didn't get a chance for another breath before Brienne was on him.

He was off-guard, wrong-footed, and utterly embarrassed by how quickly Brienne had him on his back.

She smiled. "Everyone loves to–"

"Praise a famous name, I know," Jaime muttered savagely, picking himself out of the dirt.

Brienne looked flabbergasted.

But the next round, it was Brienne's turn in the dirt. Jaime couldn't help his cocky grin as he offered a hand down to her, preparing to kiss the back of her hand in his, to enjoy the sight of her blush–

Brienne batted his hand aside, lunging for his throat.

Jaime had never been so in love.

After a dozen rounds and dripping with sweat, Jaime turned to the crowd. "Any other takers?"

"Sure. Why not?" A cocky young man swaggered into the ring. "Since she's making beating the Kingslayer look so easy and all. Though I don't have all that fancy armor with me."

"That's alright." Jaime gestured Bran over, who instantly started undoing the buckles and helping him out of it. "I was getting tired of it, anyway."

Once he was out of his armor, Jaime rolled his shoulders, happy to be back in his leather jerkin.

The young man raised his sword–

In two moves, Jaime had disarmed him. The man's sword lay in the dust three feet away from him as he stared at the blade in shock.

"Go on." Jaime gestured with the point of his own. "Pick it up, if you think it was a fluke."

Hesitantly, the man picked up his sword. With trepidation in his eyes, he again leveled it at Jaime.

Again, Jaime knocked it to the dirt.

The young man bent to pick up his sword… and shook his head, backing away.

"Smartest thing you've done yet," Jaime said.

The crowd chattered amiably as Brienne toweled off on the other side of the sparring ring, her father helping her out of her armor. She kept sending inquisitive looks over Jaime's way, clearly unsure what to make of the strange knight.

But Jaime had other business to attend to, first. In the middle of their duel, one of the men watching had cheered for Jaime to 'get the beast.' Jaime spotted the man talking to a boy and made his way towards him.

The man offered him a warm smile. "Ser Jaime! Well met!"

Jaime returned the smile. "Brienne's too nice to run you through for insulting her." Jaime clapped a friendly hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm not."

At the man's stunned expression, Jaime sauntered off into the crowd, whistling a jaunty tune.