Late January, 300 AC

Jaime gritted his teeth as Brienne's sword smashed against his thigh. His left arm shook with effort, his blade growing heavier with every stroke. His head still rang from the clout she'd given him on the helm, and sweat dripped down his face.

"Enough," Jaime said, lowering his sword. Much longer and the wench would beat him to death, blunted steel or no. Brienne nodded, brushing a hand against her face as she leaned against the weirwood tree.

With the singing of swords ended, the godswood slowly came to life. Bees buzzed about the flowers. A robin sang from a nest hidden in an oak tree. Dawn had crept over them when they began, and it was now midmorning.

Brienne had been very puzzled when he first visited her tower cell. Someone had dressed her in a blue gown, and her brittle hair was different, the straw colored locks soft about her face. Her cell was sparse but for the half-eaten meal on her table and the white and orange cat purring at her feet.

"Blue looks well on you, my lady," Jaime had observed. "But your gown will not suit." She'd gaped at him, eyes filled with hurt. Brienne was no less confused when he presented her with a pile of men's garb, tunic and breeches.

"Dress yourself," he'd ordered before leaving the room. He was growing impatient by the time she finally opened the door, clearly bewildered.

"I'll return her in a few hours," Jaime informed the guards, and off they went in silence.

Blunted tourney swords had awaited them in the godswood, the only space in the Red Keep large enough to practice without being seen. Perhaps Ned Stark had visited the godswood before he lost his head, but no one else ever did. In the nearly twenty years since he joined the Kingsguard Jaime had only been in there once or twice. When Cersei was newly wed, she'd taken him all over the keep's hidden corners. They'd only fucked in the godswood a few times before deciding it was unsuitable.

As Brienne drank from a waterskin, her cheeks rosy from their bout, Jaime idly wondered when the weirwood tree had been planted. It was a pretty thing, as slim and radiant as a maiden, crowned with flaming red leaves. Some notion of Robert's to please Lyanna's shade, perhaps? He'd shown more care to her in death than he'd ever shown Cersei.

She should have been my wife, not his. Jaime would never have treated Cersei as Robert did. The fat king had pawed over wenches before her very eyes, pulling them into his lap, groping at their teats. At least Robert was wise enough not to strike her. I'd have gutted him where he stood.

Leagues and leagues he'd traveled to reach Cersei's side, and yet since his return he'd barely seen her. Lord Tywin had not forgotten her loss of temper. The next day he had ordered her to host a fine dinner for the Tyrells, commanding her to show them every hospitality. Nor was she permitted to be any less courteous to the horde of nobility in the cornerfort, despite her distaste for the Dornish.

Jaime had been unpleasantly surprised at the arrival of Prince Oberyn and his party. He could not imagine Elia Martell supporting such an alliance, and her brothers danced to her flute, on the rare occasion she chose to play it. But then, he had not seen her since his father's men murdered her children.

Ned Stark had escorted Elia back to Dorne, and in Dorne she had stayed. Most women would have remarried, but not Elia Martell. No, she spent her days raising her younger brother's brood of bastards. To Lord Tywin and Cersei's ire, two of them had accompanied Prince Oberyn to King's Landing. Lady Nymeria Sand, a beautiful woman of twenty, was the fruit of a Volantene noblewoman. Olyvar Sand, a gawky youth, was the gift of some Lyseni courtesan.

Jaime avoided all the Dornish, but those two especially. Lady Nymeria always seemed to be smirking at him, one hand resting lightly on her knives, and Olyvar's eyes made him uncomfortable.

Jaime had just dodged Prince Oberyn's paramour when Ser Addam brought him the news that Robb Stark had finally blundered. Three days later, Jaime had watched the host stream out of the city, banners flying. Lord Tywin headed the column, of course, with six thousand foot and a thousand horse in his train. Ser Loras Tyrell had the honor of commanding the Tyrell host, fourteen thousand foot and six hundred horse.

Jaime almost felt sorry for Robb Stark. Taking the gold train was an amusing act of defiance, but not a wise one. The Young Wolf had only two thousand horse, and no foot, and off marched the Lion with over twenty thousand men at his back. Lord Tywin did nothing by half measures, and the wolf had irritated him long enough. Robb Stark and his men would be crushed like ants beneath a boot.

It was bitter to be left behind, but Jaime had counted on one saving grace. Without Lord Tywin in the keep, surely his sister would send for him. To risk Lord Tywin's wrath was one thing; to risk Uncle Kevan's annoyance was another.

Then the first day had passed without a summons.

"Where is the queen?" Jaime asked Ser Balon Swann on the second day. "At the theater," he replied. "She took Prince Oberyn and his retinue to see a play about Nymeria and her thousand ships." Surely Cersei would send for him when she returned.

"Where is the queen?" Jaime asked Ser Boros Blount on the third day. "With Lady Margaery and her cousins," Ser Boros answered. "Listening to poetry and music." Cersei hated poetry. Of course she would send for him when they were done.

For a week he waited in vain, his fury only growing. Was she waiting for Jaime to seek her out? To beg for her forgiveness? He had nothing to apologize for. Lord Tywin had struck her, not him. I brought her the girl, and she never even thanked me.

Normally Jaime would have taken out his anger on opponents in the yard, but he could not show how feebly he fought with his left hand. The single bout he'd tried with Ser Addam Marbrand had left him with a limp and a fine covering of bruises.

That was why on the seventh day, he'd fetched Brienne from her cell. Much as he trusted Ser Addam Marbrand, the man was liable to let something slip in his cups. Brienne was a captive, she did not drink, and even if she did, who would she tell?

They'd sparred almost daily for weeks, usually in the evening. The new year had come and gone, the three hundredth since the conquest, and every day it seemed there was more for Jaime to do. Being Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was worse than he had imagined. He had a seat on the Small Council now, to his great displeasure, and Ser Kevan always seemed to require Jaime's assistance.

Jaime wanted nothing more than to tell his uncle to leave him be, but Lancel's death had shaken him badly. No man should watch his firstborn son die in his arms. Where other men might have raged or wept, Ser Kevan buried his grief in his work. He had been a dutiful brother long before he sired a son, and Lord Tywin had entrusted him with running the realm until his return. Ser Kevan's appetite was the only sign of his despair. Some days Kevan barely touched his food; other days he stuffed himself as if he was Robert Baratheon returned to life.

"My lord?" Jaime blinked. While he was lost in thought, Brienne had begun to speak, and he'd caught not a single word.

"Is Lady Sansa well?" Brienne asked again.

"As well as she can be," Jaime lied.

He'd only glimpsed her a few times coming back from the castle's sept, the Hound looming over her. A beauty Sansa Stark might be, with her flaming hair and deep blue eyes, but she looked ridiculous in her too small gowns. At some point since her escape she'd grown legs and teats, but no one seemed to have seen fit to send her a dressmaker. Her expression was always bland and mournful, as though she knew how awkward she looked. Nonetheless, the girl made the obligatory courtesies each time they crossed paths, her voice gentle and sweet.

The longer Cersei ignored him the more bitter Jaime felt about taking the girl captive. He had imagined Cersei thanking him with her lips about his cock, but he hadn't really thought about what Cersei would do to the girl. The way she had raged at Lord Tywin… Before I am done with her, I promise you, she will be singing to the Stranger, begging for his kiss.

Lord Tywin was not a man to take such threats lightly. Within days Sandor Clegane had been charged to guard the Stark girl whenever she left her cell, and Varys had been charged to keep close watch over Cersei lest she try something rash. Not because Sansa was an innocent young maid, but because a Stark hostage was valuable property. Should that change…. amber eyes blazed in his memory and Jaime recoiled.

"Ser?" Brienne asked, alarmed, her blue eyes wide.

"Nothing. Just some insect buzzing about my nose."

Again he saw Ser Arthur Dayne above him, Dawn in his hand. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. He had broken those vows long before he laid eyes on Sansa Stark. Again Jaime heard Queen Rhaella's cries. You're hurting me, she had sobbed. Cersei would have scratched Robert's eyes out had he dared to treat her so, but poor Rhaella had never shared her spirit.

"Do you recall the names of Aerys' seven?"

Brienne frowned as she wiped her mouth, setting the waterskin aside.

"All knights know them," she said. "They were the finest men to serve the Kingsguard."

"Do you know how they died?" Her brow creased, but Jaime did not await her reply.

"Ser Lewyn Martell died on the Trident, forced to defend Aerys for the sake of Elia and her children. Tell me, wench, do you think he would have kept his vows had he any choice in the matter?"

Brienne stared at him.

"Ser Jon Darry died on the Trident too, but there was no sword at his throat, no beloved niece held hostage. No matter that we'd heard Aerys rape poor Rhaella half to death before he sent her off to Dragonstone. 'We are sworn to protect her as well,' I said when I could stand it no longer. 'We are,' Darry replied, 'but not from him.' Who was I to challenge one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms? And off he went to fight to defend Aerys' crown. But all agree Jon Darry was a better man than me."

The wench gaped, but Jaime could not stop the words pouring forth like vomit, like poison, the way they had at Harrenhal.

"And we mustn't forget Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Oswell Whent. Such brave men, to die defending Lyanna from her beloved brother. Were those honorable deaths, my lady?"

"They-they swore vows," Brienne stuttered.

"So many vows," Jaime said. "Tell me, which one should they have obeyed? The vow to protect innocent maids, or the vow to obey their prince? They all swore to protect the innocent before they ever swore to Aerys, but all of Aerys' seven watched him burn men to death because he could."

"Even the Sword of Morning?" Brienne's voice cracked with despair, and Jaime laughed bitterly.

"Ser Arthur joined the Kingsguard at twenty. Soon after, he was assigned to guard the crown prince. Rhaegar could not have been more than ten, but the two became inseparable, a friendship that persisted even as Rhaegar grew to manhood. By the time Aerys began burning men in the throne room Rhaegar was wed and living on Dragonstone, with Ser Lewyn and Ser Arthur as his guards."

"So he never saw the burnings?" Hope shone in her lovely eyes, and Jaime almost regretted what he must say.

"He saw the last of them. When Rhaegar returned to the city Ser Arthur came with him. The Sword of Morning was always quiet, stern and honorable, but something in him seemed uneasy. Rhaegar had meant for him to fight on the Trident." Jaime still remembered standing guard outside the prince's chambers as they argued in low voices, and the few words he'd caught had made no sense. Prophecy. Faithless. Children. Tywin. Blood.

"Ser Arthur stayed behind to guard Elia and the children. He was there when Aerys burned Lord Chelsted, and he did naught to stop it, no more than I did."

"Perhaps that's why he slew himself when the Red Keep fell," Brienne said softly.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear," Jaime said, the taste of bile on his tongue.

Arthur Dayne had killed a dozen men defending little Rhaenys, and taken countless wounds. But it took only one man to kill a little girl, and in the commotion of battle Ser Amory Lorch had fought his way into the royal apartments another way. When Ser Arthur staggered into the nursery, Gregor Clegane had already smashed baby Aegon's skull against the wall. Ser Arthur arrived just in time to prevent Clegane from raping Princess Elia, the fight so brutal half the chamber had been hacked to bits.

When Jaime ran in, Aerys' blood shining on his sword, he'd found Ser Arthur dead upon the floor, those deep purple eyes staring into nothingness. The Mountain was lurching to his feet, eyes filled with rage, but a dog was a dog no matter his size, and he dared not challenge his master's son.

Jaime had carried the trembling Elia Martell to a maester, avoiding the despairing fury of her amber gaze. While Pycelle tended the princess Jaime had returned to the nursery to find Ser Arthur gone. Lord Tywin would have no songs about the Sword of Morning's last fight.

At his father's command Jaime swore he'd found Ser Arthur dead by his own hand. Any men at arms foolish enough to say otherwise were quickly dealt with. When Jaime asked his father what Elia might say, his father had waved a dismissive hand. A woman in her position had every incentive to invent wild tales from spite or hysteria, and Robert Baratheon had every incentive not to believe her. Ser Arthur had slain himself, and that was the end of it. A few silent sisters would know better, but they were sworn to silence, and the bones returned to Starfall would tell no tales.

"My lord?" He had been silent too long; Brienne looked almost frightened.

"He died defending Elia Martell from the Mountain," Jaime said bitterly. "I'd not share that with anyone else unless you'd like my father to give you the same treatment Aerys gave Sir Ilyn Payne."

There was no sound but the leaves rustling in the wind. The silence was all around them, thick as the fog of memory. Over Brienne's shoulder the weirwood tree wept blood, its face strangely familiar, feminine yet stern. At last Brienne spoke, her voice hollow.

"Is there any word of Lady Catelyn and King Robb?"

Brienne might leave her cell to fight with him, but she was a prisoner still. The only news she received on the war was the scraps he shared with her when they caught their breath after a bout.

"Lady Catelyn is at Riverrun still, doubtless brooding over her prodigal daughter like a hen with an egg. As for Robb Stark..."

Jaime paused, trying to recall the name of the village where the gold train had been taken. It was near the Blackwater Rush; they should have come to battle by now.

"Lord Commander!" Ser Addam Marbrand stood at the entrance to the godswood, white cloak flapping. His eyes flicked from Brienne to Jaime. "There's been a raven. Ser Kevan has summoned the Small Council."

"Have I time to change?" Jaime asked, keenly aware of the mud on his clothes and the stink of his armpits. Ser Addam shook his head.

"Ah, well, perhaps honest sweat will cover the reek of the eunuch's perfumes. If you would escort Lady Brienne back to her cell?"

Jaime strode into the council chambers to find the entire small council awaiting him. Ser Kevan sat at the head of the table, a letter in his hand. Cersei had taken the seat at his right hand, a hairnet set with emeralds glimmering in her golden curls. To his left sat Grand Maester Pycelle, wisps of hair sprouting from his wrinkled neck. Beside the scrawny maester coughed into a square of silk, Lord Gyles of Rosby, his eyes watering. Jaime could not even begin to guess why Tyrion had chosen him as master of coin.

The lords of the Reach had the center of the table. Mace Tyrell was robust as ever, his chestnut curls and beard gleaming. The Lord of Highgarden's loyal bannermen had the places across from him, Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, and Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove.

The High Septon and Varys sat near the foot of the table, an uneasy buffer between the roses and the newest councilor. Prince Oberyn Martell lounged as languid as the ginger cat that lay under his chair, plainly unbothered by Mace Tyrell's glances of dislike.

"Welcome, Ser Jaime," the Red Viper said. "I had thought you'd arrive with the queen regent." He looked over Jaime, one eyebrow raised, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. The Dornishman was resplendent in robes of scarlet, a faint aroma of sandalwood hanging upon him like a lover. Jaime suddenly felt very aware of his stump and the muddy splotches on the simple garb he wore when training.

No sooner had Jaime seated himself at the foot of the table than his uncle rose to his feet, his portly face shining faintly with sweat.

"What news, Ser Kevan?" Mathis Rowan asked bluntly. Cersei was staring at their uncle, her lips pursed, while the Red Viper seemed amused by Ser Kevan's carefully composed demeanor.

"The Lord Hand fell upon Robb Stark's host near a village named Sweetroot. Rather than two thousand horse as we were led to believe, Stark had near four thousand, as well as four thousand foot. They destroyed most of the Lannister horse before Ser Loras Tyrell charged, breaking their ranks."

"Brave as his father," Mace Tyrell blustered. Jaime could almost feel Cersei suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

"True, my lord," Ser Kevan said evenly, "but unfortunately the retreat was feigned. While the foot soldiers drew Ser Loras and the rest of our men onward, the northern horse closed about them like pincers. Ser Loras was captured by Robb Stark's personal guard. Lord Lewys Lydden is dead, as is Lord Roland Crakehall."

Varys tittered, Lord Gyles coughed, and Mace Tyrell spluttered in outrage.

"Lord Tywin had twenty thousand men," Mathis Rowan said sharply. "How could Stark do this with only eight thousand?"

"The ground was carefully chosen," Ser Kevan answered, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "One flank was cut off by the Blackwater Rush, the other by hills. Once our host was encircled, Stark set his archers to work. Nearly half of the host was slain, and—"

The room was utterly silent, each nerve stretched taut.

"—the Lord Hand has agreed to make peace until winter's end."

As the room erupted around him, Jaime could have sworn he heard the Rains of Castamere begin to play.