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Brienne wriggled her shoulders, stiff from being hunched against the wind. Her face felt raw, her arm ached and throbbed slightly, her fingers and toes were almost numb in the cold. Only a few more miles to the village – if they couldn’t get space at the inn, surely they could curl up in the common room, or even in the stable with their horses. Gods, she was so tired … She closed her eyes briefly. Lulled by the mare’s plodding steps, she let herself drift.
“Wake up! Brienne – don’t go to sleep! WAKE UP, WENCH!” Jaime’s voice seemed a long way away, then a hand reach out and grasped her arm, shaking it roughly. “Brienne!”
She jerked back to the present, aware that they’d stopped, and that Jaime was peering at her from under the hood of his cloak. “Not asleep,” she mumbled, fighting to glare at him. “Thinking.”
“Not now.” Jaime’s voice was gruff. “If you go to sleep and fall off your horse, you’re much too big for me to haul into the saddle again. I’d have to drag you behind.”
She opened her eyes at that. His hand was still on her arm, and he looked oddly anxious. “Not falling off,” she muttered.
“You’d better not.” Another shake of her arm. “It’s dangerous to fall asleep out here in this weather. Keep moving – not long now.”
Brienne straightened, forcing herself upright and taking a few deep breaths as she flexed arms and legs. She nodded at Jaime, who gave her another piercing look. He grabbed her mare’s rein and led it a few steps along the road beside his own horse, before Brienne grunted that she was not a child and didn’t need to be led, thank you.
“Come along – we’ll sing to stay awake. What songs do you know?
“I don’t sing.” The usual refrain: no-one wanted to hear her sing. She hadn’t sung at her father’s court, she hadn’t sung for Lady Catelyn, and she wasn’t going to sing for Ser Jaime Lannister.
“Yes you do. All well-brought up young ladies learn to sing. And if you don’t know any ladylike songs, I’m sure you’ve heard a few others. You can’t march with an army and not hear songs. How about this one?
“There once were three soldiers, three soldiers, three soldiers
There once were three soldiers, all marching off to war.
Come on wench – SING!”
She glared at him and pursed her lips obstinately. She knew the song, of course she did, but if Jaime thought he was going to get her singing …
“The first one was a miller’s lad, a miller’s lad, a miller’s lad …”
He has a good voice, she thought. It rang out more richly as he warmed to the task, only the words to the next verse certainly weren’t the ones she knew. She glanced sideways at him, and he continued blithely, the tale of the three soldiers and the women they met growing ever more bawdy.
“Jaime!” she protested at last, frozen lips trying not to smile.
“Those soldiers were the lucky ones. Sitting in a tavern – drinking ale – kissing lusty wenches in their laps and in their beds.” He winked. “Right then, you choose the next song.”
She shook her head mutely. She liked singing, would often hum and sing to herself as she walked or rode, or tended to the horses, but never when anyone could hear her. She could never hit the high notes, could never sing the sweet, courtly songs that were expected of her, could never sound like a lady. Even those women whom her father had brought home could sing better than she could – at least, so she’d once overheard Septa Rouelle telling someone.
“Come on, Brienne – SING.” There was a snap of command in Jaime’s voice, and she was about to protest that she wasn’t one of his soldiers to order around like that, but then she saw his face. It was an order, but there was concern mixed with the anger, and she realised that Jaime was worried. About them, out here in this foul weather. About her.
“Singing keeps you awake. And it helps keep you warm,” he said, nudging Honor into a slow trot on a more level stretch of grassy verge. Her mare quickened her own pace. “We’ll sing whenever we walk, and we’ll keep singing until we get to the inn or make camp.”
The level going lasted for several minutes before the road started to climb again and Jaime slowed to a walk. The horses snorted and blew clouds of misty breath; Brienne patted the mare’s neck, noting how her coat seemed to have thickened even since she’d brushed her down this morning. The trotting had warmed them all up, so perhaps Jaime would forget about her singing …
“Your turn.” No, of course Jaime wouldn’t forget a thing like that. “Come on, you still look half frozen. I can think of a few good ways to warm you,” he winked, “but right now we’re going to sing. How about The Bear and the Maiden Fair? Everyone knows that.”
Brienne swallowed. He was right: she couldn’t afford to doze off, couldn’t allow the aching grief and tiredness to overtake her and cause her to tumble into a heap at the side of the road. And Jaime was obviously going to nag her and prod her and irritate her until … At least out here, there was only him to hear her, and he wouldn’t expect her to sound like a court minstrel. Or even a lady. And she could endure his taunts by now. She hesitated, then cleared her throat and sang the first few bars, softly, very softly.
“That’s whispering, not singing. Come on, louder! You’re a soldier, not a meek little sheltered maiden. Well, you are the Maid of Tarth, but you’re a long way from there right now. And we’re nowhere near shelter yet.”
She rolled her eyes, but took a deep breath and this time allowed herself to sing properly. It must have sounded like a rusty door hinge in this cold, but Jaime nodded approval and hummed along. Our voices match, she thought in some surprise, as Jaime started on the next verse, and after a few bars she realised that he’d lowered the pitch. I can sing that – the range is better for me. It was her turn to wait, but next verse she joined him in full voice. He flashed her a grin, and they sang together until the final lines, which he belted out raucously and, she suspected, deliberately off key.
“That’s better. Your voice isn’t bad at all. So – your choice now.”
She hesitated, wondering whether Jaime would know any of the songs she did. “The miller’s lass?” she ventured, remembering that it had been popular in Ser Courtney Penrose’s hall. Soldiers and sailors all knew it there, and some of the versions she’d heard were definitely not ladylike.
He did know it, and they sang along in growing accord. He followed with a jaunty sea shanty, seemingly known from Braavos to the Iron Islands, and she found herself laughing at some of the verses he added. He didn’t know her next suggestion, a lilting song from the Stormlands, but he picked up the tune quickly and hummed along. They both knew The Ballad of Nancy Malloy, and the March of Brian the Black . The horses flicked their ears and strode out strongly, seeming to enjoy the singing also, and Brienne was almost startled when they came over a low rise and saw the small village of Oakford before them.
The palisade around the village was under repair; some of the buildings looked worse for wear, but there were lights at the inn, and as they dismounted stiffly, a man with a wooden leg hobbled out to take their horses. Brienne unfastened her saddlebags and bedroll with stiff fingers, and slung her shield over one shoulder. Jaime was doing the same, having given instructions about care for their horses, and she followed him inside.
The sudden warmth from the fire in the common room was almost a shock. Jaime was speaking to the innkeeper, and Brienne didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed when she realised that Jaime had been recognised. “Of course, Ser Jaime,” the man was bowing respectfully, “and your forces are only about a day ahead of you. A large party went south the day before yesterday – camped on the outskirts of the village, they did, but one or two of the lords came here for a drink.” Jaime nodded and thanked him, and was assured that they would be given “the very best room” and that bathwater would be heated immediately.
“Only one room?” she muttered as they took a table near the common room fire. The only other occupants of the room, two elderly men, cast them curious looks but said nothing and quickly returned to their tankards. A girl with long brown braids brought out bowls of thick stew, bread, cheese and mugs of ale, and she and Jaime fell on the food with almost indecent haste.
“Gods, I needed that.” Jaime cradled his bowl with the stump of his right hand, and wiped up the last of the stew with a hunk of bread. “If you’re finished, our bath should be ready by now.”
“Our bath?” Brienne murmured, rising stiffly to her feet. The room suddenly swayed around her: she grabbed at the table, wincing as a sharp pain stabbed through not-quite healed ribs.
“Brienne?” Jaime was at her side, good arm around her waist supporting her.
“I’m all right,” she protested weakly, but Jaime didn’t release her.
“No you’re not.”
“I am.” She forced herself to straighten up, trying to push Jaime away.
“Don’t argue. You’re out on your feet. Lean on me – that’s right.” He managed to get her good arm around his shoulders and she stumbled out of the room with him, wishing that her legs would obey her and not behave like some drunken rag doll. He pushed open the door of their room: as promised, it was a reasonable size, with a large bed and a smaller pallet near the fireplace, and a bathtub to one side. Their saddlebags and bedrolls had been brought up.
“You first.” Jaime jerked his chin at the bath. “Let’s get you out of these things.” He deposited her on the bed, and knelt down to tug awkwardly at her muddy boots. She managed to help him by wriggling her feet, then pushed his hand away crossly as he rose and started on the laces of her jerkin.
“I can manage,” she said firmly. “I can undress myself. And I’d rather bathe alone, please.” She’d argue about the bed later.
Jaime shrugged. He stepped back, watching through narrowed eyes as she fumbled at her clothes, tugging the jerkin and then the tunic over her head, only turning away as she glared at him when she reached for the lacing of her breeches. “I’ll check the horses. Try not to drown while I’m away.”
The bath wasn’t large, certainly for someone her size, but the water was warm and Brienne closed her eyes as it started to thaw her leaden feet and soothe aching muscles. Remembering that Jaime would return soon, she reached for the cloth and small bar of soap that had been placed nearby and started to sponge herself, pausing when there was a knock at the door. It was the innkeeper’s wife, hefting two more buckets of water.
“Want some help, luv?” The woman set the buckets down and eyed the way Brienne held the cloth to her breasts in reflex.
“No thank you.” She felt herself redden at the woman’s expression. She’s wondering what a man like Ser Jaime Lannister is doing with someone like me. As if in answer to the thought, Jaime appeared at the door, and the woman hastily bobbed a slight curtsey.
“Will that be all then, m’lord?” Deferential to Jaime.
Jaime assessed the amount of wood stacked near the fire and nodded. “Yes. We’re tired and don’t want to be disturbed, thank you.”
“Very good, m’lord. You can leave the bathwater until the morning, or you can empty some of it out the window near the privy,” the woman jerked her head towards a door and small window at the far end of the room. Jaime nodded, watched the woman leave, then shut and barred the door behind her. He frowned, then pulled a small storage chest against the door as well.
Brienne stared at him. They were precautions she would have taken against robbery or rape when travelling alone, but surely they were safe enough here where Jaime was known.
“The innkeep’s honest enough, I’ve no doubt,” Jaime seemed to read her mind, “but his wife strikes me as nosy, and I don’t know about any servants. I’d rather we got a good night’s sleep. I’m too tired to stand watch and watch about.” She was still clutching the washcloth and he eyed her in amusement. “That doesn’t hide very much, wench, and anyway, we’ve seen each other before. You finished yet? I want some of this before it gets cold.” He dipped his hand into one of the buckets.
“Yes.” She flushed under his frank scrutiny, and bent to retrieve the soap.
“No you haven’t. You forgot your hair.” Jaime dumped a dipper of water over her head, laughing as she spluttered indignantly and took an ineffectual swipe at him.
“Ge-roff, you …you … ” She tried to lurch to her feet, but Jaime shoved her back down and she couldn’t get leverage without tipping the whole tub over. She took another swing at him but he evaded her easily and laughed even harder.
“Give me the soap.”
“No.”
His good hand tilted her chin up. “Do I have to put my hand down in there and find it?”
“You could try.” She pushed back a hank of wet hair and scowled up at him.
Chuckling, he grabbed the washcloth and started to sponge her back, ignoring her protests. “I’d do the front too, but you probably bite and I don’t want to lose my other hand,” he remarked. “Now, give me that soap.” A pause. “Please, Brienne.”
Please, Brienne? The courtesy and change in tone caught her off-guard, but fighting Jaime while trapped in a small bathtub was one battle she clearly wasn’t going to win. She bent forward, retrieved the soap and handed it to him, hunching forward while he rubbed it gently over her hair. A pause, then she felt his fingers begin to massage her scalp, moving in slow circles, awkwardly at first, then with greater assurance. His touch sent tingles through her body; she quivered to her core as she felt the stump of his right arm rest on her shoulder while he worked. Despite herself, she let out a small sigh of contentment and relaxed, letting her head drop forward so he could move to the nape of her neck. She heard a soft hiss of breath as he touched the still-red marks of Lady Stoneheart’s noose.
A dipper of clean water followed, then another, this time more gently as he made sure the suds were out of her hair. A moment later she felt him move the cloth slowly down over her shoulders, still massaging gently.
“You’ve got more knots in you than a Dornish carpet,” he muttered, working his thumb into a spot below her right shoulder. “Though at least I don’t have to hang you over a railing and beat the dust out of you as well.”
“Hmmmph.” It was the best she could manage, and brought a small chuckle from him. The cloth moved down, soothing yet exciting, over her ribs and spine, down and still further down until …
“That’s far enough,” she said, sitting up suddenly and grasping the sides of the tub. “I’m quite clean now.” She lurched to her feet, taking a moment to squeeze the water from her hair before stepping out of the tub. Wordlessly, Jaime passed her one of the rough towels that had been left for them; it wasn’t large enough to wrap around her, so she did her best to ignore the way Jaime watched as she walked across to the fire and started to dry herself. I’ll never get the knots out of my hair, but at least it’s clean. I hope I haven’t lost my comb.
“Here.” He was holding out the spare tunic she’d bundled into her saddlebag. “I’d ask the innkeep if his wife could lend you a nightgown but I doubt anything of hers would fit you.” Once she would have taken that as an insult, a caustic comment about her size and lack of femininity, but tonight there was a softness to his tone that stopped her making any retort.
“Thank you.”
“You’ll need this too.” He’d found the comb; she nodded her thanks and he turned back to the tub. Brienne shrugged into the tunic, gave her hair a vigorous towelling, and now it was her turn to stare at him. The baths at Harrenhal – the way he’d walked in, so unselfconscious about his nakedness – so beautiful despite the months of imprisonment and his bandaged stump. He was doing the same here, fumbling at the laces on his tunic and breeches, shedding his clothes in a pile and stepping into the bath. The firelight played red-gold across his muscles, and glinted on the fine hairs down his chest and legs. His hair was growing back, and now the short curls seemed sculpted to his head like a golden helmet, paler than his beard. He is beautiful. A golden knight.
She averted her gaze and tried to concentrate on the knots in her hair, but somehow her eyes kept darting back to him. He soaped himself slowly and she saw how even with the cloth draped across his stump, he found it awkward to reach his left shoulder and side. She understood his frustration at such simple tasks; knew too that he would never ask for help and would resent anyone who presumed to intrude on his efforts to appear as normal. Briefly she considered washing his back as he’d done for her, but the fire was warm and she was tired, so very tired, and she doubted that her legs would allow her to stand up again.
Brienne worked doggedly at her hair, combing it out strand by strand and fighting the desire to simply close her eyes and curl up in a heap on the floor. She was dimly aware of splashing and some muttered curses, and then Jaime was standing nearby, drying himself near the fire as she had done. She forced herself not to look at him, though she was oddly aware of every movement: he said nothing, just pulled on a clean undertunic and tossed their towels carelessly onto the small chest.
“You have pretty hair when it’s clean.” She must have nearly dozed off, because she hadn’t noticed him returning to her side. Gentle fingers lifted her hair where it hung loose over a shoulder, letting it fall softly strand by strand. “It’s longer than I remember.”
“No one to cut it,” she mumbled.
“At least you didn’t hack away at it with your dagger,” he chuckled, taking the comb from her and running it through her hair slowly, sensuously. She thought about objecting, but his touch was somehow soothing, and she let him comb it out until it lay around her shoulders in a pale golden sheet. “Better,” he murmured at last, and she twisted slightly to look up at him.
He was smiling slightly, but not a mocking smile, and for an instant she fancied there was an almost wistful expression on his face. “Jaime …?”
The expression vanished, and he was back to brisk and practical. “Come on, it’s bedtime.” She found herself being hauled to her feet and propelled towards the bed, where she collapsed with a grateful sigh. The mattress was thin, but wonderfully soft after nights spent on the road, trying to get comfortable on the hard damp ground. The pillow was lumpy but it didn’t matter and she couldn’t possibly raise her head again even if she wanted to. She felt Jaime tuck the covers over her and closed her eyes.
They flew open again as he settled beside her. “Move over, wench. The bed’s big enough for two, and you’ll keep my back warm even if you do steal all the covers.”
She wanted to protest, thought about telling him he could sleep just as well on the pallet by the fire, but she heard the exhaustion in his voice under the banter, and she couldn’t be bothered arguing. Reluctantly, she shifted slightly and he sighed, stretching out and tugging the covers up over both of them.
“Don’t think you’re going to do this all the time,” she muttered, aware that even back to back their bodies fitted together and that somehow it was comfortable and reassuring to have him there.
“That’s the grateful wench I know and love,” he grunted sleepily. “G’night Brienne. Wake me next week.”
She closed her eyes again. “The wench I know and love.” Perhaps she was already dreaming …
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