Archive of Our Own

When Brienne was a girl and still had it in her heart to believe, she loved nothing better than song and rhyme. If she tried hard enough, she remembered the lullabies from a time when she clung to her mother’s velvety gowns, her septa’s coarse robes, or her wet-nurse’s homespun skirts.

The nurse was the harbourmaster’s daughter, whose babe died before his naming. She received handsome pay to put the lord’s second child to her milk-swollen breasts. In her brawny, sun-burned arms, Brienne heard the sailors’ workday songs, whose rhythms would lull her to sleep, and the sailor’s fancies, full of strange words from the Free Cities and stranger tales of pirate gold and shipwreck, of souls lost in winter storms and children rescued on dolphin’s back with the coming of spring.

Her septa rewarded her for learning how to curtsey and how to say ‘if it please you’ with gifts of song: hymns of mother’s love and maiden’s piety; praises for the devotion of brave sisters in the Faith, who ventured to the North and admonished its rough people not to bow to idols hewn out of trees. Their chorals would save the most hardened of unbelievers.

Brienne loved her mother’s songs best of all. Lady Alys did not come from a small port town, ruled by waves and winds, by fishermen’s boats and trading galleys, nor from a motherhouse in the Stormlands, where hard work and a recital from the Book of Holy Prayer were all its young wards ever got. Her lady mother’s home was a castle on the mainland, in the grassy hills and budding meadows of the Reach, where knightly traditions held strong sway. Lady Alys brought the scent of the South’s lavender fields to the salt and smoke of Evenfall Hall, the sun’s splendour to a darkling isle in winter, and the lays of chivalry to her children’s eager ears.

Even when her brother drowned and her mother wasted away with childbed fever, cradling a dead daughter to her chest, Brienne did not stop believing in the songs’ promises. They offered her comfort with ballads of siblings torn asunder by the seas and reunited in the merking’s pearly palace; with anthems for the dead, whom the Heavenly Mother received in her embrace; with feats of ancient heroes, reassuring her that dragons were there to be beaten and the sun did not set on those who slew them.

"Take me to Ser Jaime."

The guards gaped as though they had seen the ghost of a warrior from the Age of Heroes ride up to the camp: Aemon the Dragonknight, clad in Kingsguard white, or Serwyn the Dragonslayer, brandishing his bloody spear. Brienne could not blame them for their astonishment.

She had spotted her own face in the slate-grey surface of a small lake, and her own appearance had frightened her: a ghost indeed, but not a hero — a wan and brittle woman, looking much older than her nineteen years. The wound fever had abated, and the pain from the infested bite and her splintered arm started to wane. Her cheeks remained rather hollow, for someone as large; her clothes reeked of filth and sweat; half her face was covered in grubby bandages, and the scarf slung round her neck — to hide the weals — was stiff with dirt and frozen snow.

She had pinched herself at the sight, leaving a purple bruise on her hand — the only way to convince herself she had not died on that accursed tree, swinging alongside Pod, left to feed the carrion-eaters.

"I want to see Ser Jaime," she repeated, stubbornness and exhaustion forcing her tongue where she would once have been timid. "Now." When she repeated her demand for the third time, they obeyed.

Brienne had assumed that persuading the soldiers would be the most difficult part — but it was seeing Jaime again that almost undid her. "My lady," he said in greeting as he scrambled to his feet. My lady. If he had insulted her or belittled her, the lies might have come easier. As it was, she could scarcely string two sentences together, stumbling through the much-rehearsed tale of damsel Sansa in the clutches of the Hound.

My lady. Two little words which forced her to recall all the bigger ones: the oath she had sworn to Lady Catelyn, in another lifetime; Ser Hyle’s revelation that he’d quit Ser Randyll Tarly’s service to travel with her; Pod’s soft-spoken stutters, suffocated so cruelly for her sake.

The boy’s death had been gruesome to witness. Whichever outlaw tied the knots for the hangings had erred grievously. Podrick had twitched on the sturdy branch far too long, breeches turning brown with shit and piss running down his bony legs. Wheezing and coughing, Brienne pleaded with the Brothers to take pity. The older, hardened men shrugged and spat on the ground as they called her a Lannister slut. At last, a lanky youth heeded her pleas. He hung onto Pod’s feet and broke his neck with one swift pull. No matter how much she used to resent Ser Hyle, this was a fate none of Renly’s sworn knights deserved.

"My lady?"

Brienne flinched. "I beg your pardon?"

His brow creased with concern, Jaime wrinkled his nose. "I asked you if you needed anything: a decent meal, our barber-surgeon’s care, a bath, fresh clothing. You look worse than when the Mummers caught us. And frankly, you stink like a latrine."

He smiled, but she could not respond in kind. His eyes sought the bejewelled hilt of her sword, glimmering softly in the brazier’s shine. Oathkeeper; oathbreaker. "Leave. We only need to leave," she rasped. "He might kill her if we don’t arrive soon."

"You are in no state to ride anywhere or bargain with Clegane. What if it comes down to a fight? You are dead on your feet, Brienne. Eat, rest, and we shall set out on the morrow, at the first light of dawn."

Without waiting for her reply, he called for his squire. "Peck, take my things to Ser Addam’s tent, and have Pia heat some water for Lady Brienne. She’ll stay in my bed tonight."

She cowered in discomfort. Jaime laughed, mistaking her despair for coyness. "You will stay in my bed without me gracing it with my presence. Very decent and courteous, I promise. The Lord Commander’s quarters are the most comfortable lodgings our army has to offer, and it seems you need some comfort."

Brienne did have need of comfort, of comfort and counsel, none of which he could give. So she nodded her assent, accepting the proffered repast, change of clothes, and washing pan, to rid herself of his company. He would refer her lapses into silence to weariness and her taciturn disposition. Jaime soon left her alone, muttering: "Good night. Rest well. Don’t fret too much. We will go once you have slept a little."

As she could have told him, his words were in vain. Although she did feel somewhat stronger, warmer, and cleaner, she did not wake well rested in the morning. Sleep came in fits and starts, a light doze for an hour or two, interrupted by unquiet musings.

Suppose they were too late — what then? Would Ser Hyle add to the tally of her dead? She burrowed deeper into the blankets, as if they could protect her from the Brotherhood’s revenge. They smelled of sweat, horse, leather, and of something — someone — else underneath: they smelled of Jaime. She blushed in the darkness without quite knowing why. If they did arrive too late, she wouldn’t have to kill Jaime to save Ser Hyle. It would not even be her fault that he was dead, for she would not have strung him up…

No. Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood awaited her return. Somewhere, less than a day’s ride away, Lem Lemoncloak was hidden under the Hound’s helmet. If they failed to meet him, Ser Hyle would dangle from the gallows, and it would be on her conscience, as surely as though she had slung the noose around his neck herself. "I have to save him," she whispered into the lonely room. "I have to save him…"

Bleary-eyed, she stumbled out of the tent, into the nipping morning air. Jaime handed her the reins of a blue roan gelding, fresher and better fed than her mare from King’s Landing. He grinned at her enormous yawn. Bright and golden against his white travelling cloak, his smile burned her more fiercely than the cold and pained her more strongly than her wounds. No, she thought, I have to save everyone.

The road to the copse where Lem was lying in wait stretched ahead endlessly. With the first snowfall, the watery light of the winter dawn had given way to a sky of lead. The world was hushed in grey silence, snow muffling the hoof beats of their mounts. The soggy ground, which had but started to freeze, squelched under their weight; loose clods of earth stained the fallen flakes.

Brienne wished that they could ride faster, so it would all be over, or that the frost would swallow them and wrap them in its pale shroud forever, like the children from a northern folktale, who rode into an ice storm to claim a place in the snow queen’s crystal court. They were never heard of again. In truth, those poor souls were probably surprised by a blizzard, she thought miserably. The woods of the North are deep and dark. No wonder that no one found them and gave them a godly burial.

Despite the low-hanging clouds, there was only a mild wind blowing in the Riverlands. No wondrous storm of snow would spare her that agonizing decision. Their leisurely pace, due to the onset of winter, might keep it off for a while, but not forever.

"Bugger," Jaime cursed. "My horse has come up lame."

His destrier was limping, and he brought it to a halt. Brienne shifted nervously in her saddle.

"We can’t afford to take much longer," she said.

Jaime shrugged. "I suppose it’s a stone caught in the shoe. If I don’t remove it, a pebble could do worse harm. Let’s rest briefly, take care of the horses, and move on."

He pointed to a group of rocks in the grassland, the sole shelter from the wind. The woods were some miles away, and they had been riding across open fields and fallow land since sunrise. Occasionally, they would jump a cropped hedge, trot past the ruins of a farmhouse, or circumvent a pond.

There was such a small lake near the rocks. In summer, it might have served as a fishing pond for the deserted hovel down the dirt path, but the water had begun to freeze over. A thin film of ice covered most of the surface, hiding whatever else had been tossed in of late. Brienne shuddered to recall the bloated corpses in the springs of Maidenpool. Here, the only thing, living or dead, was a duck paddling helplessly around a hole in the ice, as trapped and confused as she was.

With some effort, she turned her attention back to Jaime.

"Hobble your mount and have a look at this," he said, nodding at the hoof he held up. "I think I see something, but you must lend me a hand here. I seem to have mislaid one of mine."

When she dismounted and kneeled in the mud, something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. Jaime’s dagger sliced through the cloth around her neck.

"Don’t move," he said softly. "I don’t intend kill you on the spot. Not until you’ve explained that fucking ridiculous mummer’s play. You have always been a horrible liar, wench, and I’m not quite as mutton-headed as you."

Though she should have been afraid of the steel above her vein, Brienne went limp with relief.

"I’m sorry," she gasped. "I did not want to — I — I refused, right up to the gallows — but they killed the boy, and they’ll kill Hyle too, and I didn’t know what to — ow."

The pressure of the knife increased. "You’re not making sense, damn you," Jaime growled. His blade was drawing blood, warm droplets rolling over her clammy skin into her collar, an answer to her prayers. Brienne closed her eyes.

"If you want to kill me, I beg you for one thing only: wait until they can watch," she said. "If they see you slit my throat, they may let Ser Hyle go. And if I’m dead, I won’t have to choose between leading you into a trap and letting an innocent man die."

The edge of Jaime’s knife vanished, and Brienne squinted up at him. With a forceful gesture, almost angrily, he slid the dagger back into the strap on his belt. "Truth be told, I’m not particularly eager to slit that particular throat," he said, "even though you’re bloody foolish enough to deserve it."

Jaime held out his hand to help her up, glancing at her sword, which was within easy reach. "Just riddle me this, Brienne," he said, a slight crack in his voice. "Why did you lie to me?"

Letting go of his grip, she turned towards the destrier, patting its warm rump and scratching a bit of dirt from the saddle leathers. "It’s a long story."

"We have some way to go, I reckon," he replied. "If you tell me what happened, perhaps we can devise a better plan than me cutting your throat, tempting as it seems. As we’re meant to come alone, I assume that sending for an army is out of the question."

For the first time since she’d spied the Bloody Mummers riding into the yard of the Orphan Inn, Brienne found herself smiling. "Do you remember that inn whose owner was in league with some outlaws…?" she began.

When Brienne returned to her father’s hall, barely twenty and feeling a hundred years old, dried blood on her sword and scabbed scars on her face, she cursed everything the songs had taught her. Oath-broken and broken-hearted, she rued that she had not learned any that spoke of grief and loss and desolation. But then, she would never sing again.

In the songs, which refused to pass her lips, the knight came back victorious, his quest fulfilled, the seat of his fathers unchanged, albeit a little smaller, his ageing parents biding him welcome with a feast. As Brienne made the arduous climb to the castle on foot, nobody recognized her under the homespun hood. Instead of fishermen’s huts, craftsmen’s cottages, and merchants’ houses, she passed blackened walls and burnt-out trusses: Tarth had fought back when the Dragon Prince’s troops invaded.

There was only one man-at-arms standing watch at the gate — young Bryce, Brienne realized with a start. He had been a green boy, with jug ears and knobbled knees, when she set out for Renly’s camp, hardly older than Pod. (Would they ever sing of poor Podrick Payne?)

"It is me, Bryce," she said, throwing back the hood. "Lady Brienne. I have come home. How is my father?"

For one anxious moment, she thought she had come too late. There had been no news of Lord Selwyn’s death, but nobody would care about some lesser lord — not when the Age of Heroes seemed to have come again; when the dead walked the snowy earth and the sky was alight with dragon fire; when kings fell and queens rose from the ashes.

Bryce gaped at her, then smiled. "He has been waiting for you, m’lady."

It was the hope to see his child once more that kept Lord Selwyn alive. Brienne gasped as she saw the haggard figure, crushed by the weight of the furs that could not stop the shivers brought on by wound fever. The yellow skin along her father’s jaw and throat hung loosely, and his spotted, veiny hands were dwarfed by her palms. She sat at his side for a day and a night, grasping his fingers as he lay dying. In his waking hours, he gave her a feeble smile, a twitch of the lips, but he did not speak.

While the castle’s surviving septon, who’d been in his dotage before she left, droned on and on, reciting the anthem for the dead in a trembling voice, Brienne found that words had deserted her. She should sing a dirge to ask the Stranger for his blessings, to pray for her father, for all the dead she’d failed to save: Lord Renly, the first man to ask her for a dance and the first to break her heart — Lady Catelyn, who had begged her for a song and got a grave for her kindness — Ser Jaime, who — Ser Jaime, who —

Brienne had no tears left. Sometimes, she wondered whether she had died on the gallows tree and had, too, become a cursed, shambling thing with a heart of stone.

Once more, Brienne shared her mount with a feverish man. They’d bound Ser Hyle to the pommel before her, to keep him horsed and upright. After they outran the Brotherhood, her mare changed its pace to a gentler gait. Hyle slumped against her, threatening to slide sideways off the horse.

"Jaime," she called. "Jaime! We need to stop. He’s too weak to go on."

Nervously, Jaime turned his destrier around, casting glances through the sere leaves to see if nobody had followed them into the woods.

"Very well," he said.

When Brienne tried to help Hyle down, she had to close his arms around him and haul him off the horse. Although his body was burning hot, he shivered harder than his two companions in the light snowfall.

"If you wanted to lie in my arms, you just had to ask," Hyle whispered, clearly and more sensibly than any of his ramblings during their flight. He tried an insouciant grin, but it came out as a grimace. Brienne smelled the stench of sweat and pus on him.

The effort of speaking seemed to have robbed his strength. Before she had the chance to guide him to a fallen trunk where he could sit and rest, he collapsed in her embrace.

"Have we got a blanket? Or an old cloak?" Brienne asked, trembling under Hyle’s weight. "He needs to lie down, so we can look at the wound in his thigh."

"We can take my saddlecloth," Jaime said, fumbling to undo the belt with one hand and stiff fingers. He shot her an angry look. "I didn’t pack for such a lengthy journey. Someone lied to me about a quick rescue and a day’s ride."

Brienne was too tired to argue or to apologize. "Please," she said. She felt each of Hyle’s shallow, rattling breaths in her chest. "Just help me."

The stink became stronger as they cut open Hyle’s breeches where Tom O’Seven’s blade had hit him. Brienne covered nose and mouth with her hand while peeling away the wool that stuck to the cut. Hyle twitched in his unconsciousness, but did not cry out — a bad sign.

The injured limb was blackened and putrid. Between the layers of encrusted blood and filth, a yellow-white stream dripped out of the wound. When Brienne felt for Hyle’s pulse, his heart beat faintly under her palm.

Jaime sucked in the air between clenched teeth.

"He needs a maester’s care or a septon’s prayers." He shrugged. "There’s nothing we can do."

For an instant, Brienne was sorely tempted to lie down next to Hyle, and never get up again. Freezing was an easy death, everyone said. When your limbs had gone numb from cold and pain, you were as comfortable as in your mother’s lap, growing drowsier and drowsier. The snow would cover you, like a silken blanket, while you fell asleep…

She shook her head to rouse herself.

"You made it, too," she pleaded. "They cut off your hand, and you made it. You were running a fever, and sweated so hard you drenched my shirt. They forced me to feed you honeyed water, drop by drop, and to clean you when you pissed and shat yourself. You were in so much pain you threw up on me, but you lived."

Jaime’s gaze softened as he looked down upon Ser Hyle, whose breath grew faster and more laboured with each moment.

"We could drain the pus and clean the wound," he said. "But don’t hold out much hope, Brienne. You can’t save everyone."

His words stung harder than any taunt about her homely looks and mannish ways. You cannot save everyone. As if she did not know.

She could not save Ser Hyle, either. While Jaime kept first watch around their makeshift camp, she bandaged Hyle’s wound and knelt beside him, letting him suck on a wet kerchief drenched with melted snow. At dusk, Jaime returned to the clearing with an armful of dry twigs from the undergrowth.

"We might risk lighting a fire to keep him — and us — warm," he said. "I haven’t seen a soul or heard a noise for hours, save a few coal tits and a squirrel rustling in the shru—Brienne?"

She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle her sobs. Was she crying for Ser Hyle, who should have stayed in Maidenpool as she’d told him to? Or for Pod, who would not be swinging from a tree, birds picking at his eyes, if he hadn’t followed her? For Lady Stoneheart, who had twice suffered the agony of death?

Jaime hovered uncertainly over her. He patted her head, as if she were a child weeping over a bloodied elbow, or a frightened warhorse. His fingers began toying with her damp, snow-crusted hair, lingering on the nape of her neck, gliding over the shallow cut his knife had made upon her pulse point, stroking the bruised welt around her throat. When he brushed the bite wound on her cheek, she whimpered in pain, and he snatched his hand away.

Brienne sprang to her feet, snuffling and wiping dried snot from lips and chin. "We need to bury him. Then we can rest."

The half-frozen ground was hard under the slush and the mud. They tried hacking at the soil with Jaime’s axe, and Brienne dug into the earth with her bare hands. An anguished cry escaped her when the effort proved too much for her injured arm.

"It’s no use," Jaime said. "You don’t have a shovel, and I don’t have a hand. To the right of the clearing, there’s a little brook. We’ll find enough stones over there to cover him."

It took them four tries to get a fire going and kindle a torch. Jaime held the flickering light while Brienne heaped as many boulders upon Hyle’s corpse as she could gather in the near dark. Eventually, she plucked a few twigs of rowan berries and twines of ivy to adorn his grave.

"May the Stranger give him easy passage and the Mother grant him mercy," she mumbled. Jaime remained silent until they were back at the camp.

"Who was Ser Hyle?" he asked. "What was he to you? You never said."

A liar and jester who put a wager on my maidenhead. A false knight who knew less of chivalry than I. A poor man who died for me, with a stupid joke on his lips, bravely, and far away from home.

"One of Renly’s followers," she said. "I met him at Bitterbridge when Renly called the banners. We … had a quarrel there, but he joined me later, in Maidenpool, to help me look for Sansa Stark. It was an apology, of sorts, and he paid for it dearly."

"A quarrel?" Jaime echoed, an odd tension creeping into his voice. "What did he do to you?"

"’twas nothing." She shrugged. "He is dead now. Let it rest."

"He also gave me a book," she said, dimming the fire for the night when the horses were watered and had fed on some sparse, brownish grass. Jaime, who was busy rolling out their saddlecloths as near to their dozing mounts as he dared, looked up from his task and laughed.

"Let me take one guess. It was full of knightly deeds. He didn’t seem the pious sort, and I doubt you would appreciate the hundred merry tales about the lusty septon and the cuckold’s wanton wife."

Brienne ignored him. "The book was beautiful, but I lost it fleeing Renly’s camp," she said wistfully. "It had every legend about Ser Galladon, and each chapter sported the loveliest pictures — of his education with the septas, and the unicorn he tamed as a youth. There was an entire parchment in scarlet, indigo, and gold that showed how the Maiden fell in love with him and brought him an enchanted sword."

"You have kept my Valyrian steel," Jaime said, and Brienne tried not to think about whose blood coated Oathkeeper’s blade. Oathkeeper; oathbreaker. She made a motion to undo a swordbelt and return his gift. Jaime shook his head. "And keep it you shall. But I’m afraid that even the armoury of Casterly Rock doesn’t boast any magic swords. They might come in useful on our search for the Stark girl."

Brienne went utterly still under her cloak. "What do you mean, ser? I thought we’d try to elude the Brotherhood and go further north to Seagard. From there, you could take a ship to Lannisport and return to your army with reinforcements from the Westerlands."

"Or we could go further east," Jaime said, from his heap of fur. "We’ve crossed the Blue Fork today. If we make it across the Red Fork, we can resume the search. The outlaws have allies up to Oldstones, but not so much to the east."

A surge of hope made Brienne’s heart beat faster, filling her with warmth that the threadbare blanket did not provide.

"We could head for the northern pass to the Vale," she said. "It’s the only place no one has looked yet, and one place where she had family. She could have arrived before she heard of Lady Lysa’s death…"

"But Lord Baelish was wed to Lysa Arryn," Jaime objected. "He also knows Sansa Stark. Why wouldn’t he send word to the crown?"

"Maybe he’s loyal to the memory of his wife," she suggested. "He might want to protect her niece."

"I doubt that Littlefinger is as devoted as the grieving widower of your fancies. In my years at court, I’ve learned that he loves two things best: secrets and money. I never cared for his attempts to better himself. He’s a councillor, not a soldier, but he’s mostly an ambitious man. If Sansa is in the Vale, Lord Baelish has his own reasons for keeping it secret."

"Or I may be doing him wrong," Jaime said. "He was fostered at Riverrun. Perhaps he does have some loyalty to the Tullys — who knows?"

"So we’ll head for the Vale on the morrow?" Brienne asked, through chattering teeth, curling up as tightly as she could.

"We will. And this will not do."

Before she could ask what he was talking about, Jaime flung off his fur cloak and tossed it in her direction.

"Move over, wench. We’ll share — or you will freeze to death before we reach the mountains."

Brienne was glad he would not notice her blush, but he laughed at her nonetheless. "Must I repeat myself? You needn’t fear for your maidenly virtue," he said, and she grimaced although he couldn’t see. "Just keep warm. Don’t snore too loudly."

As it turned out, Brienne mused, lying awake for what seemed like hours, falling asleep in a man’s arms was not the height of romance that certain books from Lord Selwyn’s library mistook it for. It was Jaime who snored rather badly, rather unromantically, and rather close to her ear. His knees dug into the back of her thighs. Although her right arm had gone numb under her, she dared not turn around, afraid to put pressure on her wounded cheek or to jab her elbow into his face. Besides, they were as chaste as the two lovers who put a sword between them, before their wedding night. Not that they were lovers, she thought drowsily, but they were warm, and for that, she was grateful.

When she went to sleep, she fell into a fitful doze, full of blood and corpses — headless corpses in a cave, fresh corpses in the woods, crow-ridden corpses swinging in the trees. Every time she woke with a hammering heart, it was the weight of Jaime’s arm, flung across her hip, that reminded her where she was; the noise of his regular breaths, even his snores, which banished the shouts and moans from her dreams; the solid heat of his body that eased the chill in her limbs and her heart.

On Tarth, there was no time for self-piteous weakness. It was not even a time for mourning. Brienne had an island to rule. Assuming her place as the Lady of Evenfall Hall defied her childish fears and expectations. In hard times, a lady — especially one without father or brother, betrothed or husband — was too busy for curtseys, needlework, and gallantry. Her rule began with filling empty stomachs, with mending walls and roofs.

There were fewer mouths to feed and smallfolk to house than Brienne assumed. Most of Lord Selwyn’s household guard and the harbour garrison had been slaughtered by Connington’s troops. Her past loathing of Ser Ronnet paled in comparison to the havoc his uncle had wrought. She faced greater worries and hid deeper wounds than maidenly humiliation, more fearsome than the pangs of unrequited love.

"The folk from the port set sail when the greyscale came," Ser Mathis, her father’s old castellan, said. He spat a clump of sourleaf on the floor, his teeth and gums flecked a bloody crimson. "Gods-damned cowards! I beg your pardon, my lady. But some of us stayed."

Ser Mathis and Lady Janna, his wife, had lost three daughters to the plague, the same bout of illness carrying off Septa Roelle, who’d taught Brienne her first Mother’s prayer. Her tongue had been sharp and her counsel a bitter lesson, but Brienne missed yet another familiar face.

Her wet-nurse, by then a matron with half a dozen children, fled on a fisherman’s barge, braving the straits in the season of winter storms. Had they reached a safe shore? Or had the Narrow Sea claimed them? There would be no reunion in the merking’s court, no feasts at the snow queen’s table, for Goodwife Diera and her kin.

"I reckon not," Janna said, one wind-blown morning when the three of them helped Maester Wyllis to rout the remaining servants. The maester wanted to examine them for signs of the grey plague, although he did not doubt — or so he claimed — the survivors were resistant to noxious fumes and the poisonous touch of the sick.

"The Stranger took my Jeyne, my Deleyna, and my Margot," Janna said, thick brows furrowing into an ugly frown. "If the Father is just, those who ran suffered a cold death, out there at sea." Though Brienne did not have the strength to contradict her, so loyal and so harrowed, her own thirst for retribution had been slaked forever. Lady Janna must have glimpsed a flicker of disappointment in Brienne’s eyes, for the older woman added hotly:

"Forgive me, m’lady, but what do you know of a mother’s grief?"

Nothing, Brienne could have said. More than you think. Lady Catelyn’s head bowed in prayer, her auburn tresses hiding a face bereft of blood and motion. Lady Stoneheart’s chin jerked up in defiance, exposing the gap in her throat, where reddish muscle and white bone lay bare. "Kingslayer. Oathbreaker," she hissed. Everything.

Brienne did say nothing — nothing of the wheezing breath that comes when a noose tightens, nothing of the ringing noise that a blade makes afore it finds its aim — and went about her day’s tasks. Looted storerooms and granaries, cellars and pantries needed filling. The long wars had disrupted both fishing and trade. Despite the mercifully short winter, vittles were scarce. If there were no words left to tell the saddest tale and not a tear to shed, there was always plenty of work.

The compact keep of the Bloody Gate rose out of the morning mist like an island out of the wintry Narrow Sea. And like to the sailor who cannot wait for the lights of a safe shore to draw close, Brienne feasted her weary eyes, stinging with cold and brows caked with frost, on the brightly lit windows of the castle that guarded the entrance to the Vale. Fortunately for Jaime and her, the current Knight of the Gate was not quite a worthy successor for the missing Blackfish.

Ser Donnel Waynwood was an eager youth about her age, pimply and pock-scarred, and easily swayed by the self-important air of a Lord Commander on an urgent mission from the Iron Throne. He did not dare ask to see King Tommen’s missive, hastily faked during their last rest, and nearly fell over himself with the desire to come to their aid.

Ever polite, Ser Donnel did not even flinch — much — while to talking to two dirt-covered travellers with filthy hair and foul breath. When he called on his ostler to bring them new mounts and on a maid to provide them with bread and smoked bacon, he bowed deeply before Jaime, sending them onwards to Lord Nestor Royce with his best regards.

Brienne saw Jaime’s lips twitch under the exuberant growth of his beard, and he broke into laughter as soon as they turned into the road towards the Giant’s Lance.

"Thanks be to the Warrior for the gullibility of honourable young knights," he said pointedly, through the last mouthful of bread-and-butter. "It would be such a waste to slay the likes of Donnel Waynwood. Besides, dead men seldom order their cook to raid the pantry for their killers."

She scowled. "Finish your meal," she said, "and give thanks to whichever gods you’d like for Ser Donnel’s well-stocked storerooms and, above all, his generosity." "I consider myself suitably rebuked," Jaime said with a mock bow and spurned on his steed.

Brienne’s poor gelding had slid into a ravine as they crossed a particularly treacherous ridge on foot, and the packhorse, which they’d bartered Jaime’s rings and brooches for, broke a leg on a steep slope. Half-raw chunks of its stringy flesh had been their main meal for two days. For the last miles down the mountain, they had shared his destrier, taking turns at guiding the reins and resting, leaning against the other.

Both Ser Donnel’s generous spirit and his gullible mind yielded them more than a repast and two horses — a most hospitable welcome at the Gates of the Moon. While Brienne soaked in a scalding bath, she stopped feeling guilty about their blatant lies. The mottled patches of skin, where chilblains had taken hold, prickled in the heat; once she could flex all her fingers again, she scrubbed herself until her body was red and wrinkly like an old prune.

A maid had combed the lice from her hair and rubbed her scalp with a milky ointment that smelled of beer and vinegar, and the persistent itching finally ceased. After Brienne finished washing herself, the cooling water in the tub had turned a dark grey, with swirls of reddish brown: she hadn’t had a change of clothing since the Lannister camp. When her monthly bleeding came, she’d let it run into her smallclothes, where it dried and chafed her raw.

Brienne desired nothing more than to slip into a clean shift and crawl into the bed, which beckoned her with soft linen and cushions stuffed with eiderdown. Perhaps sheer exhaustion would guard her from the nightmares she’d come to dread. But they must needs sit through dinner with Lord Nestor and his household first.

Unhappily, she eyed the gowns the maid had laid out for her. Even the unschooled eye of someone never giving much thought to ladies’ garments could see that these were old-fashioned dresses, crimped and crinkled from lying in some chest, damp in a few spots. They gave off a whiff of lavender, from the sachets to keep the moths off. The scent reminded her of Lady Catelyn and Septa Roelle, even of her lady mother.

She picked the blue one, purely based on the colour she liked best. It proved too wide in the chest and too narrow across her shoulders, with skirts that ended above her calves and sleeves that pinched her forearms. Still, it was by far the better choice than the silk and satin dress in the colours of House Royce, a bright purple with orange trimmings. With a final shrug that nearly cracked a seam, she set about braiding her hair.

"Are you decent?" Jaime called over the loud knocks on her door. "I need to talk to you."

"What is the matter?" Brienne asked as he closed the door behind him. He, too, had bathed and donned fresh clothing: a white linen shirt and a pale doublet, and she wondered if he’d chosen them for their colour as well. It was more modest garb than befitted someone of his station, but Ser Jaime was still the most handsome man she’d known.

Suddenly, she was far too aware of his amused gaze taking in her ill-fitting dress, and she started fidgeting with the ribbon in her braid. "I doubt their seamstress has ever made anything in my size," she blurted out.

Jaime laughed, closing his hand around her fingers to keep them still. "If you are angling for compliments, wench, I’ve told you before: blue becomes you."

"My old blue armour would be more practical," she said, flustered. "And you did not come here to praise my garments, did you?"

"Indeed not. I just wanted to remind you to be careful." His tone turned low and serious.

"Nestor was recently raised to lordship by Baelish himself, as a groom told me. Until we know if the Stark girl is here and why Littlefinger chose to hide her, we should guard our tongues. Apparently, there’s no love lost between the Lord Protector and the other branch of the Royces, but it’s Lord Nestor who controls the way to the Eyrie."

Brienne sighed. "We wouldn’t fare better with House Runestone, either. Have you already forgotten? Ser Loras killed two of Renly’s sworn shields for their failure to protect the king from, well, me. I’m the one responsible for Ser Robar’s death."

"The fuck you are," Jaime said sharply. "You didn’t touch a hair on Renly’s well-groomed head, and I doubt you ordered that young hotspur to draw steel. Be that as it may, we must dine with Lord Nestor tonight. Maybe we can find out something useful while we deplete his cellars. After sloughing through all that snow, I hope he’ll serve us decent wine."

He offered her his arm. "Let the mummer’s farce begin," he muttered.

Fortunately for the new Lady of Tarth, the dragon’s men hadn’t carried off all of its riches. Together with Ser Mathis, Bryce, and Jovan the smith, Brienne dug for hidden treasure. Her right arm ached less badly than the last time she’d tried to dig the frozen earth, to bury Ser Hyle, and the soil was softer on the isle: the snows were slowly melting. Together, they unearthed chests of coins and the septon’s chalices, Lord Selwyn’s decorative daggers and Lady Alys’ jewels. Save for a selected few, she would pawn or sell them to get more coin for grain and sheep, fishing boats and timber.

"Raising money would be much easier, wench, if I hadn’t invented your sapphire mines," a dead man said merrily over her shoulder, and Brienne all but dropped the spade. This was the first time Jaime Lannister’s voice echoed in the crisp air of early spring.

On the following midday, or the one after, Bryce whistled ‘Six Maidens in a Pool’ as he sat down for a bowl of watery seaweed soup. It was the first joyous sound Brienne had heard in months, and yet her heart clenched at the cheerful tune. She stood rooted to the spot until Jaime’s mockery startled her.

"Don’t gape like that. It does not become you. You look like a cow choking on its own crud."

She smiled wanly. She preferred his cruel jokes to his rare compliments: it was almost pleasant to remember her initial revulsion at the Kingslayer’s vile deeds, or her pity at his moans of pain when the stench of his rotting flesh filled her nostrils. She would not think of what came after.

"I kept my last oath," she said to the tawny tomcat crossing the yard. "I did as you bade me. I am home — and now?" The cat stuck to its path and vanished into the hayloft. Jaime did not answer.

The cheery whistle should be the first song of many and more to come. While her retainers, servants, and smallfolk would often hum a mournful melody from the service for the dead, some of the old work-day songs came back too, and the island was full of noises.

Lord Nestor treated his unexpected guests with every courtesy. The wine was a costly vintage from Highgarden, and he had chosen his own children to be their dinner companions. Jaime was seated next to the Lady Myranda, a very merrisome girl, despite the dark purple and muted bronze of her widow’s weeds, while Brienne would spend the evening at the side of Ser Albar Royce, the son and heir.

Once she’d have assumed that he had loved his distant kinsman, Ser Robar, very much, but she was no longer so innocent as to believe this the reason for his tight-lipped demeanour. With thinly veiled disdain, Ser Albar stared at her lips, lacerated from the mountain winds, at the jagged scar on her cheek, and the half-healed chafing round her neck, which showed whenever her silken kerchief slipped. In spite of his curiosity, he did not ask how she had come by these wounds — not even to enquire after her well-being.

Tongue-tied, she gobbled up the seawood soup with egg drop as fast as she could without seeming ill-mannered or becoming sick. Only when they came to the customary toast did Ser Albar deign to speak. "Thank the gods you made it though the mountains in that season," he said, and Brienne silently added a more heartfelt prayer of gratitude for whichever of the Seven had protected them.

"The weather was rather rough," she said since he’d taken to eying her again instead of attacking the roast venison on his trencher. "But it scared off the wild animals."

"Well, there was that large lynx I dispatched with a crossbow," she added.

"Once, we had to hinder a boar from rummaging through our stores, and just before the Bloody Gate, there was something lurking amidst the rocks. We waved our torches in its direction and shot some fiery arrows, and it was gone. We were lucky, though. If we’d run into wolves or the mountain clans, two men wouldn’t have stood a chance."

"One man," Ser Albar corrected her, his clean-shaven chin dripping with fat. "A cri— an invalid at that. I hope they hanged whoever dared to mutilate a royal knight. Ser Jaime used to have such a formidable reputation."

Brienne spilled most of her fine wine upon the table. Her hand clenched round the glass: astonished, she found herself entertaining the uncharitable thought of flinging the rest into Ser Albar’s face. Her heart beat in her throat, bringing back some of the hot anger that’d suffused her as her sword cut through Zollo’s wrist.

Oblivious, Ser Albar graced her with a supercilious smile: "But no need to fear in retrospect, my lady."

"The tribes have crawled back into their caves. I think they’ve grown fat and complacent with the bounty from King’s Landing, and others say they hide in superstition from some unnamed curse. The clans are unlettered, ignorant and brutal, so who knows — or cares — what they believe? I only care how many my blade can send to the Stranger’s seven hells."

He looked at her expectantly, as though he was waiting for something other than an acknowledgement that he did his duty and defended his home. Uncertainly, she nodded and that seemed encouragement enough.

"Last year, in the height of summer, I surprised a raiding party in the woods," he began. Discourteous it might be, but Ser Albar would not notice that she did not listen as long as she gave an occasional nod.

She strained to hear what Jaime was talking about, a few seats away. Lord Nestor laughed so hard that his massive belly danced, and thus he concluded a long and complicated story about his visit to King’s Landing, to see Jaime’s sister wed His Grace, King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, may he rest in peace. No word about the course of the war or the recent accusations flung at the dowager queen passed his lips.

"When the weather is milder," Jaime said with his most magnanimous smile, "we will be happy to welcome you at court again. The crown is most grateful for your largesse and your aid to our errand."

Myranda sighed audibly. "I’d dearly love to see the capital myself and to get just a glimpse of His Highness and Her Grace." She twisted a glossy brown curl around her finger, and her rosy cheeks dimpled as she beamed at Jaime. "My time of mourning will be over soon, you see, and I am held captive here by that dreadful winter."

Jaime bowed a little in his chair. "Then winter is doubly at fault, my lady: for robbing you of entertainment and for depriving our court of such bright ornament."

Myranda giggled. Her blush was echoed in Brienne’s own cheeks. Confused, she took another sip of wine and bowed over her plate to hide the flush. "You flatter me, kind ser," she heard Myranda say.

"The truth cannot said to be flattery," Jaime replied. "It must be lonely for a young woman up here. At court, my sister has her ladies-in-waiting, and Queen Margaery has her cousins. You appear to keep a cheerful household, but you have little company."

"I have the girls of the Vale." Myranda poured him another glass of wine and made sure he had the largest, richest piece of gingered wintercake.

"They are sweet, even though they are low-born, like my friend Mya, or born on the wrong side of the blanket, as the saying goes. Poor Alayne. She’s such a shy and pretty thing. If only she weren’t the Lord Protector’s bastard, she could rise far."

The fork laden with cake kept hanging in the air until Jaime remembered that he should enjoy the delicacy. His foot sought Brienne’s shin under the table, and she winced.

"Oh, he has brought his daughter here?" he asked nonchalantly. "I’ve never heard much about Alayne. Lord Baelish was always very … discreet."

However, the dessert, as well as Jaime’s conversation with Myranda, was abruptly cut short by the arrival of several agitated, dishevelled guardsmen.

"What has happened?" Brienne asked quietly when the guards demanded to speak to Lord Nestor. "Is anything amiss?"

"Don’t distress yourself," Ser Albar said, vaguely past her head, addressing himself to Jaime. "Someone was skulking round the kitchen and tried to break into the stables and make off with a mule or two. But our men drove him away. If it was a lone hillman, we’ll have his head on a pike tomorrow."

Nonetheless, Lord Nestor made his excuses and marched out of the hall to talk to the captain of his guard.

"My apologies," Jaime said, still as polite as Brienne had ever seen him. "The Lady Brienne and I, we are much exhausted from our journey. We will retire early tonight."

Again, he took her by the arm, as though she were one of the charming women at court, clasped her hand to his, and walked her out.

"Well, well, well, isn’t that interesting, Brienne?" he said when they were out of earshot. "I suppose," she whispered, "that no one knew of Littlefinger’s natural daughter."

Tarth had not been wrecked as badly as other parts of the realm. When the port fell and Lord Selwyn suffered his fatal wound, Ser Mathis had the good sense to bid everyone on Evenfall’s battlements to lay down his arms: they begged Connington’s host for mercy. It was thanks to the castellan, in part, that Brienne had kept Tarth at all. She must bend the knee to the dragons as well, and she had hailed Queen Daenerys the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, the New Conqueror, as her rightful sovereigns. In exchange, they granted her the Sapphire Isle — if nothing else.

Her home could have fared so much worse. The Riverlands, torn by plunder, rape, and slaughter as she left Riverrun behind, had been buried under man-high drifts of snow. Those that had not been slain had frozen to death, and those that did not succumb to the cold fell prey to the grey death. There might be nobody left in the hamlets between Fairmarket and Maidenpool to ever sing again.

Or maybe, Brienne thought as she heard the rhythmic thumping of the washerwomen’s beetles, accompanied by the plain work-a-day tunes, she should not underestimate the survivors’ resilience, the doggedness with which they clung to life. In Stoney Sept and Harroway’s Town, they might be singing lightsome ballads about the Brotherhood without Banners at that very moment: ballads where the brigands lay under the greenwood tree, sweet birds amidst the leaves, and the bare gallows tree did not reign supreme.

In Riverlands and Stormlands alike, every minstrel knew the folk’s favourite ballads about the Kingswood Brotherhood of old, "that fearsome outlaw band": Simon Toyne carried the winged heart of his house into all their adventures; every tale ended with a kiss for his sweetheart, fair Wenda, lithe and doe-eyed as a fawn.

Were there ballads about the Lightening Lord, who’d died more often than Ser Osney Longneck had been hanged? About Lady Stoneheart, who’d hanged more traitors by the dozen than Lord Beric had challenged to mortal combat? Traitors and innocents, like Pod, who jerked and kicked for half an hour. If there were such songs, they would belie Brienne as the Kingslayer’s treacherous whore.

"A fearsome band of outlaws? Simon Toyne and his merry men?" Jaime had snorted, his laughter brittle and his breath white in the Vale’s frosty air. "Fearsome they certainly were, but merry?"

"They gave coin, game or firewood to the smallfolk who sheltered them. And if they found a peasant who tattled to the king’s soldiers, they’d drive off his cattle, cut off his ears, and rape his wife and daughters. But they are remembered as heroes. Those singers have a lot to answer for…"

"Of course, I thought I would be remembered as one of the true heroes," he said. Never before had he smiled so wistfully. It cut her to the bone. "I’d held off the Smiling Knight before he crossed swords with Arthur Dayne. Nothing merry about him: he was a butcher, and half-mad to boot. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief after Ser Arthur took his head. Dawn was still dripping with his blood when Ser Arthur knighted me."

"You see, wench, how it goes. Every bloodthirsty knight was once that green squire eager for a valiant fight. But in the end, you kill and kill, devoid of honour, until someone has your head."

He took a swig of mead from his hip-flask and drew his knees closer to his chest to keep himself warm. Even under the rocky promontory, the cold was biting. Brienne would have liked to inch closer and clasp his icy hand to hers — if only she had dared. She said through numbed lips: "If you believe so, why are you really here? You could be sitting snug and warm in your tent at Pennytree, not freeze before the Bloody Gate."

For once, she had seen Jaime Lannister at a loss for words.

The slender, grey-haired lord leaned back on his stool, which looked ostentatiously modest next to the carved throne of the Arryns, crossed his legs and smiled. It was a cool smile, harder than the blue-veined marble of the High Hall, and chillier than the howling winds atop the Giant’s Lance. Brienne shivered.

Petyr Baelish was a short man, with the impeccable clothes and unfailing manners of a courtier. She dwarfed him by almost a foot, and would have laughed at him on the tourney grounds, but something about his ready smiles made her sword-hand itch. They did not reach his handsome eyes, and yet he gave the constant impression of making mock of his audience.

Brienne flexed her prickling fingers, letting them venture closer to Oathkeeper’s hilt. Luckily, she had crossed the mountains without suffering any injuries worse than frostnip and some blackened blisters. Even after their stay at Lord Nestor’s hall, her white-patched hands retained some numbness. The ascent to the Eyrie had not helped with that. The waycastles lay open to the gale, and the dizzying heights had turned Brienne’s stomach, not unlike the heaving waves of Tarth’s winter storms — or like the smiling stillness of Lord Littlefinger.

Finally, their host broke the uneasy silence. Nodding towards Jaime, he said: "Forgive me, ser, but for how great a fool do you take me? How long are you going to fob me off with that ridiculous tale? Pray tell me: why are you really here?"

The tops of her boots held a sudden fascination for Brienne. She stared at the cracked leather, hoping to hide the rising colour in her cheeks. She’d always been a terrible liar, as Jaime said. Septa Roelle had guessed with unfailing accuracy when she spent an afternoon with the tales of Florian the Fool and Fair Jonquil instead of saying her prayers.

Jaime had a glibber tongue.

"I have told you twice, Lord Baelish, and I am running out of patience to tell you thrice. We are here on a privy errand from the crown, one that involves matters of state." He glanced towards the guards at the door and the two behind the throne. "It is not meet to disclose this before an audience. Send your retainers away, and I can show you the message from His Majesty’s councillors."

"Have you lost your wits alongside your swordhand, Kingslayer?" Lord Baelish replied, his smile as openly mocking as the bird embroidered on his lavish doublet. "These are my loyal servants. They may hear whatever I decree fit."

He gave an exaggerated sigh.

"But let it not be said that I judge a man’s word prematurely, on the strength of his previous oaths. Produce that letter; let me have a look at the royal seal, and I shall offer my profuse apologies. One cannot be too careful in such dark times. A singer murdered my poor lady wife, here, on this very spot. — The letter, if you please."

With a flourish, Jaime pulled the piece of parchment from the bag at his belt and gave a slight bow.

"Here, my Lord Baelish. From King Tommen, the First of His Name, and his lady mother, the dowager queen. Don’t forget that I am the queen’s brother. I am in her confidence, and she will not be pleased with the way you’ve treated us."

"Her Grace’s brother, yes. That you certainly are."

He knows, Brienne thought, her mind searching frantically for a way out. He knows about — about Jaime and Cersei, and he knows this letter is just a scribble sealed with my father’s old ring. He knows everything.

Her hand reached for the sword as Lord Baelish ordered languidly without moving from his seat: "Guards! Seize them!"

Brienne had no time to think how they might make their escape from the fortress, no leisure to rest her aching fingers. She was acting on pure instinct, and Oathkeeper bit into the doorkeeper’s hand before she had one moment to contemplate her moves. He dropped his pike with a horrible yell. It fell to the ground, together with his thumb, blood splattering the gleaming stone.

The loud clatter of weapons came from the other end of the hall. Lord Baelish said, very calmly, over the din: "Stop, my lady."

From the corner of her eye, Brienne espied Jaime’s sword on the tiles — and the blade at this throat. Her arm, raised to parry the other guard’s halberd, froze in mid-air. As she hesitated, the man was upon her, striking Oathkeeper from her hand with a savage blow that left her clutching her elbow and doubling over in pain.

"I am afraid you have raised your weapons to the Lord Protector of the Vale in his own hall," Lord Baelish continued as though they had but halted their conversation to sip some wine. "For that, I shall have to imprison you. But the sky cells have instilled a proper sense of regret in many. If you reconsider your hot-headed actions and deign to explain your sudden visit, I may reconsider my hospitality."

The guard Brienne had wounded was trying to staunch the flow of blood with his cloak. He jerked his chin toward the weirwood gate behind the throne.

"That ugly bitch should go out the Moon Door."

His companion hauled Brienne upright, twisting her arm behind her back, and pushed her a couple of steps towards the marble plinth. Jaime struggled in vain against his captor: the sword pressed harder against his neck, and a bit more blood joined the splashes on the marble tiles. Littlefinger’s amused smile seemed genuine.

"Leave them both unharmed. I need them alive and well in their cells."

Jaime bared his teeth in an insolent grin as the guards frogmarched them out of the hall. In another man, Brienne might have called his smile careless, fearless even, but if he knew when she lied, she could read his face when he was bluffing. He was at his wit’s end, and desperate.

"I am afraid that it is you who’s acted rashly, Lord Baelish," he called. "We are here on the crown’s business. Don’t you think they will wonder if we do not return? Upon my request, the knights of the Vale sent a raven to King’s Landing when we arrived at the Gates of the Moon."

"No, I do not think so," Littlefinger said.

"Nobody sent this bird because Ser Albar made sure to ask me about it first. But I do receive many a raven from the capital. No one has heard of you there in ages. Your sister has been waiting for you in vain."

Jaime flinched, as though the guard had struck him again. Brienne would have liked to comfort him — to do something — anything, but she knew not what or how. The heavy doors of the High Hall opened wide. For the first time, Lord Baelish’s laughing eyes narrowed in apprehension.

A girl was sitting in the antechamber, her hands folded demurely around a letter in her lap.

"Maester Colemon bade me bring you this. There’s news from the capital, fa—"

She looked at the prisoners in surprise and shyly bowed her head, long dark hair falling like a curtain before her pretty face. Brienne glimpsed her for a mere moment, but it was enough. She saw Lady Catelyn’s high cheekbones and vivid eyes in those blank features.

"Sansa," she shouted. "My lady Sansa! Your mother sent me!"

"Shut up," one of her captors growled and struck Brienne across her lips. She spat out a glob of blood and craned her neck to look at the girl. She sat there, motionless, without glancing in Brienne’s direction.

"I promised your mother I’d keep you sa—"

For the second blow, the guard used his clenched fist. Brienne swallowed the blood around the pain, around the words stuck in her throat, and let herself be dragged limply through the antechamber, down the Eyrie’s draughty halls.

Brienne’s grief filled up his absence, rendering everything in Jaime’s likeness and his form. The castle’s youngest scullery maid skipped through the corridors, her wicker basket full of eggs, which they’d distribute to the families with hungry children. Her girlish voice reverberated from the walls, the draughty hall alive with the silly roundel about Big Belly Ben in the Kingswood and the High Septon’s goose or the lewd verse about the bear and the maiden.

Brienne looked up from the clerk’s inventory list, her eyes stinging. Angrily, she wiped them with the back of a flour-covered hand. It was the first time since her return that she wept for the memory of that other Brotherhood, for Catelyn Stark and Jaime Lannister.

"Now you are being soft-headed and maudlin," Jaime said, next to her ear. All in all, she was inclined to agree.

Far too often, she caught a snatch of his voice, or a glimpse of his tall figure. Once, she expected to see him standing in the doorway to Lord Selwyn’s solar, but it was only young Maester Wyllis, lanky and fair-haired, come to bring her good news from Ser Mathis: a shipment of spelt had arrived from the Free Cities. Together with the neeps and the cured cod, this should tide them over until they could harvest the fields of barley they had just sown.

Maester Wyllis bowing and taking his leave, Brienne stared after him for a while. The antechamber remained empty. Although she ought to worry about her strange sights, she almost longed for them to reappear. She had suspected the dead would visit her dreams again: so far, taking care of her isle and her people had proven tiresome work. She would fall into bed every night, half-asleep before her head hit the pillow. There was no time for dreams in bone-weary slumbers.

After Jaime talked to her for the third time, making a bawdy jest about Bryce’s lovelorn gaze at the smith’s buxom wife, the dreams began. In the sun-lit stableyard, his voice was a welcome distraction, and she hid her indignant laughter beneath a coughing fit. At night, the dead were less amusing.

Sometimes, night terrors came to haunt her as soon as she extinguished the bedside candle and slipped her feet between the hot bricks burrowed under the eiderdown. Garish, loud and gory, those nightly visions reminded her of a mummer’s tragedy she’d watched as a little girl.

The players had stumbled across a stage slippery with blood, their rich gowns and doublets soaked in it. Brienne squealed and buried her face in her hands. Lord Selwyn stroked her hair and whispered soothingly: "Hush now, child. It’s only blood from the oxen the cook killed for the banquet. You see their wounds beneath the shirts? They have pig bladders filled with ox blood, and they stab them with blunt blades when they pretend to die."

In her nightmares, there was no one to comfort her. Like the spectre at the feast in that old play, her dead would glide into her dreams, their silence more reproachful than anything they could have accused her of: Renly beckoned her, with a wink of his gauntlet-clad hand, to help him strip his armour. Brienne stood and stared as he took off his gorget, and the blood came rushing out. Lady Catelyn motioned her to kneel and swear an oath: when Brienne laid her rough hands in the lady’s dainty ones, the flesh felt too soft to her touch, soft and doughy, smelling of the river and rot.

On some nights, it was Lord Selwyn who crumbled in a heap before her eyes, broad brow and heavy jowls turned gaunt and sallow by fever. On others, Ser Hyle lay before her on the frozen earth, reddish hair plastered to his skull with sweat, gaze glassy and unseeing. At times, Pod would beg her mutely to save him, blackened lips moving in his swollen face. If Pod left her alone, Jaime appeared. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, his face bending towards hers, for a kiss, and Brienne would recoil in disgust from the blood-encrusted line around his neck, from decaying features dipped in tar.

Certain nights were worse. The nightmares would stay away, and the visions would torment her with their relentless ordinariness. In those dreams, Brienne was dancing with Renly, gilding through the measured steps of a pavane, or brushing Catelyn’s hair, tying a velvet-blue ribbon around the coiled braids. Pod groomed Ser Hyle’s horse and her piebald mare; he laughed when Hyle tossed him a silver coin, and blushed when she tousled his hair.

Her father was alive and well, leading her lady mother to the sept, calling over his shoulder and chastising his four children not to dawdle. And Jaime, always Jaime, clad in Lannister gold and crimson, or his white cloak billowing around gilded armour: she had just beaten him in the practice yard and gripped both his hands to help him up, his fingers lingering in hers.

Each dream would end the same. With a sinking heart, Brienne remembered they should not be here. She had to banish them, or she’d have to see them die once more. "I pray excuse me," she said with a curtsey, so politely that Septa Roelle would have leapt with joy, "but aren’t you dead?"

Tugging her woollen cloak tighter around her, Brienne pressed her back against the prison wall. It was as cold as during their tiresome trip to the Vale, and their lot was much more dispiriting. On the road, she’d had hope to keep her going at daytime, in spite of frost, hunger, and weariness, and Jaime’s breathing to lull her to sleep at nightfall, his body to shield her from the dead that haunted her dreams.

It could be worse, she told herself, to little avail. At least, the wind was coming from the opposite direction, so the cells formed a natural shelter. The gaoler let them keep their cloaks and gloves. He fed them once a day, with mouldy bread and stale broth, so Lord Baelish did not want them to die of cold or starvation yet.

Not until he’s talked to us. Not until we break, Brienne thought sullenly, worrying her loose front tooth with her tongue. She had already lost an eye tooth to the Mummers’ fists, back in the Riverlands, and she prayed that this one might take hold again, if she was lucky. A chipped edge and a bleeding lip, those she could live with. Before they shoved Jaime further down the corridor, to another cell, he’d sported a bruised cheek and a bloody nose, but — compared to Vargo Hoat and the Bloody Mummers — Lord Baelish and his turnkeys seemed strangely kind.

She kept her eyes fixed on the patch of rough stone between her feet, rather than letting them err to the chasm a few yards away. They do not need to lay a finger on us, she realized, drawing her bent legs closer. Every half inch further from the edge counted as a small mercy. They just need to wait until we roll over in our sleep — or until we search the only way out.

Brienne’s prison opened to the west: the dim sunlight told her the second night in the sky cells lay ahead. Her head sagged to her chest. She longed for nothing more than for a few hours of rest, with the rise and fall of Jaime’s breaths against her back, the scratch of his beard in the crook of her neck. Neither of them dared to fall asleep here — not with a drop of a thousand feet nearby. Soon, she should start to sing again.

The singing had been Jaime’s idea. "You two won’t be as funny as th’other," the gaoler gleefully told them on their way to the cells. "Him as killed the Lady Lysa. A good-for-nothing minstrel, he was. Well, afore he died, he only sang for the likes of me." He chuckled. "Some proper caterwauling, I’ll say, but then the blue called him. Always does."

Brienne’s voice had gone hoarse. Her aching throat was nearly as sore and swollen as it’d been when she came down from the gallows tree, but the songs kept her awake. No matter whether she belted out whatever tune came to her mind or whether she strained to hear Jaime’s voice above the storm: it was their way of letting each other know they were yet alive.

He had started with "The Bear and the Maiden Fair", and she thought him mad at first. By the time he reached the last verse of "The Wanton Seed", she caught on to it. She’d considered some of the sailors’ songs from the harbour of Tarth: ribaldry that would make Ser Goodwin, the hardy master-of-arms, blush like a maiden at her bedding. Brienne had never cared for songs about cunts and cocks, tits and tavern wenches, and she would have a hard time to remember them all. Songs for wedding feasts, ballads of chivalry, and Septa Roelle’s hymns, yes, those she knew.

For the first few hours, it had been a glorious joke. The more pious or tender-hearted her choices, the lewder his would become. "The Sellsword Maid" earned her "A Maiden Did A-Bathin’ Go"; "Two Hearts That Beat as One" was answered with "Four Old Whores", and for "Queen of Heavens", Jaime countered with "Nine Times a Night Will Please a Lady". As the day dragged on, the joke began to wear thin. They needed to take breaks and save their strength.

Brienne stared into the fading light, wracking her brain for the chorus of "Be Thou My Vision, O Sage Crone", when a shout in the corridor startled her. "Stow it!" the gaoler yelled. His command was followed by the slapping noise of punches thrown and muffled moans of pain. Feet in hobnailed boots dragged across the floor, and a door banged shut at the far end of the prison.

"Who’s there?" she called, but her words were lost in the roaring of the storm. She listened intently — nothing. There was not another sound, save the never-ending wind outside, whose howling felt as familiar as her mother’s lullabies...

Brienne jerked awake from her drowse. She quickly made sure she was crouched in the same spot, as far from the ledge as possible. What had woken her? She could not hear the goaler’s heavy tread; even the wind had died down, and she missed Jaime’s voice. If he had fallen asleep, too, she should wake him.

"Gentle mother, strength of women," she croaked. The line ended in a fit of coughing. Brienne began anew. "Gentle mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray…"

She paused again. Was there the soft fall of footsteps in the hallway, or might she be dreaming?

"Soothe the wrath and tame the fury," she went on. Before she could finish the verse, someone knocked on the door. Tat. Tat. Tat. The dimmed light of a lantern shone through the spyhole.

"Who’s in there?" a girl whispered.

Dumbfounded, Brienne could but echo the question. "Who are you?" she said, very gently, "Alayne? My lady Sansa, is it you?"

The girl on the other side of the door did not reply for a long time. "I … I believe so."

If the answer struck Brienne as odd, she chose not to remark upon it. "I am Brienne of Tarth," she said, hoping that Sansa would stay. "You do not know me, but I am — was a friend of your lady mother."

(Liar, a bitter voice in Brienne’s head jabbered. Traitor. Oathbreaker. The taunts sounded like the indistinct sibilants that tumbled from Lady Stoneheart’s rotten lips.)

"I kept Lady Catelyn company in Riverrun during the war," she explained. "Later, I was among the party sent to King’s Landing to exchange you and your sister for Ser Jaime. I swore a solemn oath to see you safe. But when I came to court, King Joffrey was poisoned, your mother was dead, and you were gone."

Sansa pondered her words for several lengthy moments.

"If you are a friend of my lady mother, why did you bring him here? He is a Lannister. How could I trust him? Why should I trust you? Give me a reason why I should not leave you in there, like that mad hedge knight who wanted to sell me to the queen. He sought the blue a few days ago."

(She has no reason to trust in you, the voice said. Brienne bit her tongue, thankful that Sansa could not see her turn ashen in the near-dark. He tried to murder her beloved brother. You slew her mother, whom you loved. You do not deserve her trust.)

"Ser Jaime swore an oath to your mother, too. He promised to let you go and never to raise his sword to Stark or Tully again. He had no part in … in the Red Wedding. We were on the road to King’s Landing together when the Freys committed treason."

"He could have sent a Lannister army for you, my lady. Instead he came with me," she said, sending a prayer to the Seven and begging them for forgiveness. "We mean you no harm. I swear it on your mother’s bones and your mother’s soul."

The flickering lantern vanished. Darkness and silence reigned in the prison once more.

"Sansa?" Brienne whispered after what seemed like an eternity in the cold night. "Sansa?"

Its rusty hinges creaking, the cell door opened.

"Do — do not come near me, I pray you," Sansa said. "I have a knife."

It would take Brienne an instant to overmaster the slender, willowy girl and to wrestle the decorative dagger from her hand.

"The blade is poisoned. Even a lady cannot armour herself in mere courtesy all the time," Sansa added, with Lord Baelish’s indifferent politeness, slamming the door shut behind them. Brienne winced at the thunderous noise echoing up and down the corridor, but Sansa paid no heed.

"We need not concern ourselves with the guards," she said. "I have sent the gaoler and the turnkeys a jug of drugged wine from the kitchen. A pinch of sweetsleep will let them slumber deeply for hours."

"Lord Baelish?"

"I served the same vintage to my fa—to Lord Baelish myself. He ought to know better: it was him who taught me how to prepare the draught for my cousin." Sansa smiled sweetly. "I could have killed him, but then he would never learn. It does not do to be so careless."

Brienne interrupted her, as they took the turn to the corridor leading them further into the maze of cells. "Where are we going? Where is Ser Jaime?"

"There should be another prisoner." Sansa’s words came faster, as she lengthened her strides, but she still chose them with well-practiced care. Brienne had been prepared to soothe a frightened damsel or to comfort a desperate one; she had not expected that eerie calm.

"After the brawl in the High Hall, I didn’t get a wink of sleep for two nights — and I did not even have to share Sweetrobin’s bed. He wets himself and often kicks me in his sleep," Sansa explained scornfully. "But I — I thought about you, and what it all meant. Then I heard them talking."

Her voice grew ever more breathless, betraying the first hint of confusion and fear.

"He’s supposed to die on the morrow. And Lord Baelish didn’t say a word. He’s lied to me. Everyone lies…"

"Who’s going to die?" Brienne asked. "It’s not Ser Jaime, is it? Sansa, who else is here? Sansa!"

The girl did not reply, just started running down the gloomy hall, Brienne hurrying after the dancing lantern.

Before the very last cell, Sansa came to a halt. The dagger clattered to the floor when she fumbled with the heavy bunch of keys, all caution forgotten. Brienne helped to stem the massive door open: Sansa, in her sudden excitement, might drop the lantern, too.

The beam of light fell upon an unconscious man, gagged and bound, his grey hair and lined face encrusted with blood. Brienne did not recognize him, but Sansa gave a small cry.

When she knelt to undo the gag and loosen the ropes, the prisoner groaned, opening his swollen eyes and looking up at them quizzically.

"Uncle?" Sansa said. "Uncle, how are you?"

A slow smile spread over the man’s weathered features. "For — forgive me," Brynden Tully said. "I haven’t seen you since you hid be- behind Cat’s skirts. San- Sansa?"

Carefully, the girl supported him as he struggled upright. "I was afraid you’d fled King’s Landing and perished on the road," he mumbled.

"No, he brought me here," Sansa said. "Lord Baelish. Uncle, he — he killed his wife. Lady Lysa. He lied, and he deserves meet punishment for his crimes."

In the torchlight, grotesque shadows darkened Sansa’s lovely face. For a moment, Brienne saw Stoneheart’s fury reflected in Lady Catelyn’s likeness.

After weeks of tossing and turning between the sheets every time her dead came to visit, Brienne went to see Ser Mathis about the castle’s stores, in search of happier news, and her hopes were not disappointed.

"We are better off than expected, my lady," he said, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. The castellan was always working from dawn till long after dusk, burning the midnight oil over Lord Sel- her ledgers. Brienne wondered whether he feared seeing his daughters as soon as he decided to rest.

"We have lost many souls to the grey death — may the Seven have mercy — and there are too few hands to till our fields. But we’ll grow timber on the land: oak for merchant’s men is worth as much as gold and sapphires. For now, we have plenty of pasture for sheep."

"Some of our herds survived up in the mountains, in spite of the winter, and the dragon’s men didn’t carry them off. The ewes came back heavy with their young. We’ll have the first lambs soon."

"Thank you, Ser Mathis," she said. "That’s marvellous news! We should have a feast for everyone when the lambs are ripe for slaughter. If we can spare a few more sheep, let’s sell them. They aren’t fat, but hardy stock, and good for breeding. They should fetch a decent price."

"My lady," he objected. "Do you think we should part with our livestock already? Let them grow and eat and breed again. It’s far too early for feasting. We’ve been living on dried fish, sea weed, pickled cabbage, and spelt cakes long enough. We can last a little longer. There’s no need to break our fast or our mourning with unseemly banquets."

"I can’t imagine an unseemly banquet with you at the head of the table", Jaime muttered.

"I seldom saw you touch more than a glass of wine, and the only merriment would consist of courtly harpers, yammering on about Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies to put everyone to sleep. Everyone but you, my lady", he added, sounding almost affectionate. It made her laugh, despite herself, despite the care-worn lines around Ser Mathis’ mouth and eyes.

"I value your counsel, ser," she said. "But we have lost so much. Let’s forget our grief, if only for a while. We needn’t have that feast at once, but we will have one. Besides, I’d like some coin from trading sheep to buy my family’s treasures back. The chalices and stars from the sept, perhaps."

The bleating of the lambs was music in Brienne’s ears, and the tinkling of silver stags as sweet as any love song performed before the lords and ladies of Evenfall Hall. The money sufficed to purchase a modest silversmith’s art and to decorate the sept. She had enough to offer room and board to a fresh-faced septa from the Stormlands and a broad-shouldered septon from the Quiet Isle.

Industrious, pious, and humble, the holy man and woman both reminded her of Septon Meribald. Wherever the mendicant might be, Brienne hoped that he and Dog were still roaming the Riverlands, bringing glad tidings and good works to the suffering smallfolk. During the war, Septa Marusa’s motherhouse had been razed and burned, and Septon Addis claimed the Smith had appeared before him in a glorious vision, exhorting him to leave his chosen exile and follow his vocation in the world.

Since Brienne talked to the dead every night, and with one on a nigh-daily basis, she shouldn’t doubt any man’s message from the Gods, she supposed, although they steadfastly refused to speak to her. So she helped the new septon herself to strew the Smith’s altar with flowers, lady’s smock in delicate pink, blue bugle herbs, and golden nettles. She also wove a garland for the Father’s alcove in remembrance of Lord Selwyn.

It was the Stranger’s and the Mother’s shrines that she tended most. The beeswax candles before their little figurines should not go out, and the flowers between the candlesticks should not wilt.

The dried stone roses were for Renly, for hadn’t he always loved the roses of Highgarden best? Brienne had no idea whether Ser Hyle or Pod had cared a whit for flowers, so they got yellow vetches from the chalk downs: old Septa Roelle had taught her that, in maidens’ lore, they meant farewell. Blue-eyed marys from the mountain groves might please Lady Catelyn. The blossoms were as rich a blue as the lady’s eyes, and the folks up in the hills called the herb remember-me, for it looked almost alike as the paler forget-me-nots that grew along the riverbanks.

Jaime laughed softly behind her back when she went gathering flowers for his wreath, like a lovesick girl who’d pluck off the petals in a nonce. Still, she went out, early one morning, before the day’s worries would catch up with her. Before setting out for the barley fields with her overseer, Brienne hushed into the sept, laying down pansies and speedwell, sea milkwort and honeysuckle vines, carefully chosen with tender hands.

The light of the winter sun woke Brienne, dispersing the remnants of her nightmare (Pod’s thin legs kicking, then going still, Ser Hyle’s heart-beat growing slower under her palm, and Lady Stoneheart, always Stoneheart). Despite her uneasy slumbers, she felt restful and warm, so much warmer than she’d been for weeks, her night in Lord Nestor’s household excepted. Keeping her eyes resolutely closed, she snuggled further into her blanket when the quiet struck her. She was the only person there — wherever there was.

As she blinked into the glare that suffused her chambers, everything started coming back to her. She must have given in to exhaustion. Yawning, she scuffled to the crown-glass window, flung it open, and shivered in the icy blast. The sun stood high in the sky — a little past noon, Brienne guessed. While she had slept in a bed of eiderdown, Jaime could still be languishing in the Eyrie's cells.

Resolved to talk to Ser Brynden at once, she donned the clothing she found at her bedside. She finished lacing a clean pair of breeches when there was a knock on the door.

"Come on in, please," she called.

"Good morning, Lady Brienne," Sansa said, beckoning a servant to bring in a tray laden with food. "You must be hungry. I called a few hours ago, but you were sleeping so soundly you did not hear a thing. Would you like to break your fast with me?"

In spite of her chatter, Sansa looked badly shaken, her eyes bloodshot and her nose puffy from crying. She had broken down in Ser Brynden’s embrace the night before, sobbing without restraint while she told them about her trials, a lengthy account, much of which made no sense to Brienne.

She thanked Sansa politely, and they sat down in tense silence. Under the table, Brienne crossed her fingers that Sansa would not ask about her mother, not while Lady Stoneheart’s image troubled her. How could she lie to that poor girl? Sansa took dainty bites from the hot bread and disdained to taste the butter or the raspberry preserves. At the smell of the roast bacon, Brienne’s stomach gave a loud rumble, and she felt nauseous, after having lived off rusk, mealy apples, dried meat, and bloody horseflesh for so long.

Sansa giggled at the noise in a rather unladylike fashion. It made Brienne smile.

"How are you this morning?" she asked. She barely remembered her table manners enough to swallow a mouthful of egg and bacon before talking.

"I am well, thank you," Sansa said, eyeing the jug of creamy milk in disgust and sipping from a cup of herbal tea instead.

Brienne took one look at her wan face and blurted out: "Did he … did he hurt you, my lady? Lord Baelish, I mean. Did he do anything untoward?"

Sansa’s blush crept up to the roots of her hair, the beet red clashing with the rich auburn of her tresses.

"No," she whispered, with downcast eyes. "I believe he had hopes to marry me off to Ser Harrold Hardyng, so he wanted me to stay a maid. He did steal a few kisses, though."

"I used to think that stealing kisses was wildly romantic, when a knight did it in a song," Sansa said. "Symeon Star-Eyes stole a kiss from the wildling girl he rescued from the Nightfort’s hellhounds. But Lord Baelish is no knight. His lips were warm and tasted of mint, but I couldn’t help thinking of — of the way he’d talk about my lady mother."

"Life is not a song," Sansa said with a twisted little smile. "Lord Baelish taught me as much."

"You are safe now," Brienne said. She reached out to cover Sansa’s small, soft hand with her grimy palm. "Your uncle will keep you safe."

"I hope so," Sansa said. Her smile no longer lit up her eyes. "My uncle says I needn’t concern myself. The servants and guards will listen to him, and so will the knights of the Vale. Didn’t he serve as the Knight of the Gate since his niece was wed to Lord Arryn, he says. Didn’t Lady Lysa’s sister marry Jon Arryn’s favourite ward?"

"Ser Brynden is well liked and well respected in these parts," Brienne pointed out. "Lord Baelish is more or less a stranger. He’ll be tried and found guilty of murdering your aunt."

Sansa nodded, unconvinced. "That may be so. But he has spies and catspaws everywhere. They served him at King’s Landing. Why not here?"

Brienne squeezed her hand. "If you would like me, I could share your room as long as I stay. If it makes you feel safer. My sword is at your service."

Sansa’s gaze erred through the chamber until it settled on Oathkeeper. The scabbard and hilt shone red and golden in the midday sun.

"A Lannister sword, yes," Sansa said softly, "but I thank you nonetheless."

Fool! She doesn’t know about the sword, Brienne thought. Her mouth dry, she reached for the tea, washed down the last crumbs of bread, and began to explain.

"Do you remember your father’s greatsword, my lady? They took it from him when he was imprisoned. Ser Jaime told me Lord Tywin had it melted down to be forged into a blade for House Lannister."

A tear splashed down upon their hands, then another one. When Brienne dared to look at Sansa, she saw them streaming down the younger girl’s cheeks, her eyes wide and her nostrils flaring.

"But Ser Jaime gave it to me," Brienne hastened to add. "When he sent me to look for you. You’ll be defending Ned Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel, he said. Oathkeeper, he named it. If you want it, it is yours."

Sansa rose to her feet so quickly that the table shook, milk spilling to the floor. "Keep it," she said. "I want no gifts from the Lannisters, not even what is rightfully mine. And if you want to talk about Ser Jaime, you should speak to mine uncle."

The girl regained some of her composure and curtsied in farewell. "I shall see to it that he takes the time to hear you, Lady Brienne."

One morning, at the first hour of dawn, the new maester accosted her, as he shuffled down the tower staircase, hiding a yawn behind his hand. He spent many a night on the crenellations in order to study the wheeling of the stars and the unaccustomed passing of the seasons. Sailors spread awed rumours that the birth of the queen’s dragons and their strange victory in the North had unsettled their year’s course — or set it right, others claimed.

Maester Wyllis would merely laugh and narrow his eyes in absent contemplation when he heard of this. Old wives’ tales, he said, better suited for children on a winter’s night, huddling around the hearth, or for simple spinsters and knitters in the sun. He preferred scholarly wisdom to wondrous accounts of magic. Thus he would climb the steep tower time and again in the dusk.

Brienne let him be. Every man had his own way of warding off nightmares. She did not know much about Wyllis, only that he had left Oldtown recently. While the Reach had done better in the wars than other regions, neither pillage nor plague had spared it entirely. The maester could have lost fellow scholars or revered teachers, a childhood sweetheart back home or an aged parent.

She did not mean to pry into his solitary life and reopen half-healed wounds of grief. The man had done much for her and her isle in so short a time, gathering lore about the greyscale and introducing quarantine for new-arrived ships in Tarth’s port. Besides, she was afraid that he might return her question to ask whom she had loved and lost.

That time, however, the maester had not come down from his observations, but from his duties at the rookery. Specks of white soiled his cowl; its wide sleeves were covered in husks of corn, and his hands — unusually small and slender for a man — cradled a trembling bird, gingerly stroking its scintillating plumage.

"My lady," he said. "This fellow has flown all the way from the North to bring us a letter from Winterfell. May his effort be rewarded with good news."

Brienne tore the parchment in her haste to get it off the bird’s foot, barely remembering to thank Maester Wyllis before she dismissed him and broke the seal.

My dear Lady Brienne, Sansa Stark wrote in an elegant, sloping hand that made Brienne grin. Her own letters had never looked so neat, no matter how often Septa Roelle scolded her and slapped her outstretched palm with a hazel rod.

To read Sansa’s message in peace and quiet, Brienne retreated to the little alcove in the corridor to the sept. She folded her long legs into the same niche where she’d curled up as a girl, eagerly flicking through a tome about Ser Galladon, the Knight of Summer, and his adventures at the court of the Gardener King — more fanciful reading, and less weighty than this simple letter.

I pray my message finds you well. I wish I could give you my renewed thanks in person or that my uncle could have spoken to you again, but when he arrived in King’s Landing to hail their Majesties, you had left for Tarth.

I do not know if you met Lord Selwyn alive and well. It’s very hard to come by news from other parts of the Seven Kingdoms, so far in the North. The rumours my uncle heard did not bode well. Your father’s freedom from all cares and his soul’s salvation are included in my devotions, and I pray for him as earnestly as for mine own lord father.

Brienne closed her lids to blink away the sudden tears of guilt. In her mind’s eye, she saw Sansa scribbling away on her letter, the radiance of her gentle face dimmed by solemnity. The flowing hand revealed no trace of hesitation: perhaps the courteous words did come from the heart. Sansa might understand about Brienne’s grief and her regrets. However, the studiously blank features of the girl she’d met in the Vale would sometimes betray nothing, neither secrets nor lies — the latter least of all.

I hope I am not intruding on your sorrows with my happiness, but two of my siblings have returned. My sister and my youngest brother are with me now, although I fear that they have suffered much. Both have grown very wild and unruly, and my brother Rickon may need years of kind guidance until he is a man grown and a proper Lord of Winterfell. Until such time, I shall be the lady of the castle: if the hearsay from Tarth is true, this is another thing we now share, without father to counsel or mother to comfort us.

She read that passage twice, then a third time and a fourth, until she was sure she had not misunderstood. Brienne drew a shaking breath and muttered a quick thanks to the Seven. If there were gods indeed and the gods were just, the Mother and Father themselves had guided the missing Stark children home.

Lady Catelyn had sat at the high table in Riverrun, and one delicious dish after the other grew cold and stale on her trencher. She passed along the smoked trout on lamb’s lettuce, picked at the walnut-crusted salmon in butter sauce, and nibbled at the tarts with pungent cheese and rum-flavoured pears. Lord Hoster’s bannermen did not attempt anymore to draw her or Brienne into their merriment, leaving the women to themselves with their mourning.

It was the only time that Brienne saw the lady empty more than a tumbler of ale. After three or four cups, Lady Catelyn found her voice again: never before — not since the sack of Winterfell — had she seemed that lively. The pallour of her cheeks gave way to the flush of liquor. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she talked to Brienne about her children.

"Arya has always been too much like her brothers. Poor Septa Mordane must drag her to practice her needlework every time. Last year, she gave me a shawl embroidered with roses as my nameday gift. The buds looked like red cabbages. Her father and I, we shared a hearty laugh about it after the children went to bed."

"My youngest is even fiercer and more ill-tempered than she, much like that pet of his. Dog, Rickon calls him, but it’s a ferocious beast. We banned him to the kennels more than once when he was still a pup. Then we had to go looking for Rickon in the outbuildings, too. Our master of horse found him, sleeping in the straw, arms flung around his wolf."

"The beast never hurt a hair on his head. I thought he might love my son and defend him. But he didn’t." Lady Catelyn had not spoken one word more for the following hour.

Oh, he did, Brienne thought. The wolf must have saved him after all. Was it too much to hope for his brother’s safety as well? She bent over the letter again.

Alas, there is no trace of my brother Bran. I thought he would be brought back to us, too, as he and Rickon so fortunately escaped our ruined castle and fled north. But ever since they were separated, nobody has heard of Bran: the cursed Wall seems to have claimed his life, just as it claimed that of mine other uncle and my stepbrother. Both took the black, and both died on their watch.

Too much to hope for indeed. How had the boy made it so far north, hundreds of leagues through dense pinewoods and over rocky hills? Some trusty servant must have survived the fall of Winterfell and tried to carry him to his remaining family on the Wall.

It was easy to picture what had happened to Bran. "My sweet Bran, my summer-child," Lady Catelyn’s voice echoed in Brienne’s head. A summer-child who would not become a knight of summer; a summer-child with broken legs, abandoned in the forests of the North when his protector broke an ankle, collapsed from hunger or was beset by wolves; a summer-child suffering a wintry death because he could not run for help.

Sometimes, my sister will talk of our half-brother — for she always held him dear — and invent outrageous fancies of running with his white wolf in her dreams, or Rickon will speak of Bran and how he whispers to him from the trees. They are such children still, despite their wildness: I wish I had not grown into a woman beyond the power of their childish stories. Then I go to the sept to pray or to our godswood, where I sit under the tree my forefathers planted and think of Bran, and I am at peace. May your island hold the same peace for you and the same unexpected joys.

A pious wish, Brienne supposed, but a vain one, for she had not found peace of heart on Tarth yet. She did not begrudge Sansa and her siblings their moments of comfort. Like all kinds of peace, it was hard-won.

Unlike the children in Lord Selwyn’s storybooks, torn apart by siege and shipwreck, by perilous quests and villainous knights, the Stark children would not gather with Bran around their father’s hearth in the end. One villainous knight had seen to that — and even if I may burn in one of the Seven Hells for my lo- for that, I do miss him still. She continued with Sansa’s letter to avoid dwelling on that thought.

My mother’s family is prospering. Lord Brynden was named Protector of the Vale to raise Robert Arryn in his father’s stead. So Riverrun has fallen to Lord Edmure and his wife, who regularly send me word of their first-born, a healthy daughter. They named her Catelyn.

And they told me the strangest tale, too! I remember well how you confessed to me, under tears, that you did not know where my lady mother lay buried: a tattered priest begged an audience with my lord uncle, telling him about the outlaws who’d rescued her remains and offering to lead his men to her grave. For a liar, he was far too modest. He did not claim one copper penny for his services and vanished shortly thereafter. Her poor bones shall arrive soon, and I can lay her to rest with my father in the crypts.

Thoros of Myr? It must be him, ragged and drunk, pot belly sticking out on his much-dwindled frame, as Brienne knew of no other red priest in the Riverlands. How often had she cursed the followers of R’hllor, their heathen rites and dark sorcery that slew King Renly! Was it not passing strange that she should be indebted to one for his merciful service to Lady Catelyn’s house and his infinite mercy towards herself?

Thoros well knew whose hand had swung the sword to kill Lady Stoneheart —and his lie had saved her, absolving her from yet another fruitless oath. If Sansa ever learned the truth, she would not forgive her. Jaime had the decency to confess his crimes, even to Lady Catelyn’s face: a villainous knight, yet a bold one. She was but a false saviour, too cowardly to own up to her wrongs. Brienne stared at the parchment as though she could find salvation writ there, but Sansa’s farewell pierced her heart.

Then the war and the dark times shall be ended. Once our households flourish again and oce we need longer worry about hunger and sickness and broken stones, it would please me beyond measure if I could come to see your island one day. As much as I love my home, I’d also love the blue oceans and sunny skies of the South — and to enjoy your company! You were a true friend to my lady mother. In time, we might grow true friends as well.

May the Seven bless you.

Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell

Crumbling the letter in her fist, Brienne jumped off the window seat and strode towards the sept. While she longed to welcome Sansa to Evenfall Hall, with the melodies of harpers and pipers, with the flavours of spiced honey biscuits and sweetened lemon cakes, such a feast for the sister she’d never had would not take place.

My daughters, Lady Stoneheart wheezed in the deserted corridor. Why didn’t you bring me my daughters? The eerie murmur followed Brienne down the hallway. One-eyed Jack-Be-Lucky and Beardless Dick yelled at her: Whore, whore, Kingslayer’s whore! And the death cries of Lem Lemoncloak drowned out the red priest’s kindlier words: Some knights are dark and full of terror.

At the entrance to the cloisters, Brienne broke into a light run. "Don’t be ridiculous, wench," Jaime whispered. "You are not the villain in their mummer’s play. I told you before: you cannot save everyone. You are not a knight from the Age of Heroes, but at least, you aren’t me."

Oh yes, she wanted to shout, I have become a hero from a song indeed. She had yearned to be Ser Galladon, the Falcon of Summer; instead, she turned into Ser Serwyn with the Mirror Shield — the knight followed by the ghosts of those he killed.

"Did you kill me then?" Jaime asked teasingly. His laughter seemed so close. She should feel his breath on her cheek and his warm hand hovering over her shoulder. Stumbling over the threshold, she shut the door to the sept in his face.

Ser Brynden was not unkind, Brienne told herself once more while lingering before the study, trying to steel herself for the conversation. She had never been good at talking, and most men knew only two ways to respond: either they laughed and traded obscenely jokes about her lack of womanly breasts and what else she lacked between her legs, or they looked down at her, like Ser Randyll Tarly, and ordered her to go where she belonged.

She drew a deep breath as a servant opened the door. Ser Brynden did not seem repulsed by her appearance, or particularly stern-faced: he looked serious, pained, and very, very tired.

"Take a seat, my lady," he said, fiddling with the parchment on the desk. "Sansa said you would like to talk to me. Please make it brief. I have more pressing matters on my mind."

"I … I thank you for your time," Brienne said, "and for your hospitality. But — but where is — I mean — what —"

Ser Brynden raised a bushy brow. "What is it that you’d like to ask?"

"Ser Jaime?" she said, so unlike the passionate pleas she had rehearsed in her mind. "What about Ser Jaime?"

Ser Brynden laughed gruffly. "Well, what about him? My hospitality does not extend to the Lannisters. You are free to stay as my guest, or to leave if you so choose, but the Kingslayer remains my prisoner."

Brienne opened her mouth to argue, but Ser Brynden held up a bruised hand in warning.

"I beg you: do not repeat everything you said last night. You, my lady, came to free my niece, and together, you freed me. I even returned your sword as token of my gratitude, despite the sigil it bears."

"But while you may believe the Kingslayer’s lies, I don’t. No matter what he told you, he was just trying to secure the Lannisters’ claim to the North. My niece is Lord Eddard’s sole surviving child and stands to inherit Winterfell. Now that she’s wed to the Imp, her dowry would increase the fortune of Casterly Rock."

"She swears their marriage was not consummated," Brienne said, blushing. "She is a maiden, and Tyrion Lannister fled King’s Landing long ago."

"Curious that you should mention King’s Landing," Ser Brynden replied. He waved at the letters strewn over the desk.

"There’s been news from the capital this morning. It’s hard to separate the wheat from the chaff, with all the hearsay that Lord Baelish saw fit to have reported. But it’s strange news indeed."

"What — what’s happening?" Brienne whispered, her stomach plummeting in fear at Ser Brynden’s visible disquiet.

"The regent, Kevan Lannister, is dead — has been so for a while," he said. "Murdered by hands unknown, and rumours are flying free. The dowager queen swears by all the gods that the Imp snuck into the keep to kill their uncle, but she seems much disturbed since she fell out with the Faith. She was supposed to have a trial for fornication and incest, but there’s no time for that now."

He emptied the tumbler of wine in one big draught.

"There’s fighting in the Stormlands and the Crownlands," he continued. "They say the Targaryens are back. Some claim Prince Rhaegar’s son is still alive, or that Rheagar’s sister will join the true heir on the wings of a dragon."

Ser Brynden laughed grimly. "The dragons are idle sailors’ tall-tales, methinks, but Targaryen loyalists are attacking the eastern coast. Dorne has risen for their cause. The Seven Kingdoms are at war."

Brienne was clutching the arms of her chair so hard that the wood dug into her palms. "Tarth?" she croaked. "What do you know about Tarth?"

He poured her some wine. "I am sorry, my lady. Tarth is under siege. That’s all I have heard."

Declining the proffered glass, she jumped to her feet. "Then I must leave," she said. "Ser Jaime, too. We can’t sit out the war here in the mountains!"

"Again, I am sorry. Please calm yourself. I won’t hold you back if you want to go. But I will not make the same mistake as my poor niece and let a Lannister roam free. He’ll be questioned now. We can talk again later if you insist."

Brienne knew when she was dismissed. Leaving the study, she started pacing the corridor, the tread of her boots heavy on the marble floor. How could she stay in a snug room at the Eyrie, enjoying a full stomach and a crackling fire when the realm — when her home might be razed and burned? An invading army had no need of dragonfire: pitch and tar, stones and trebuchets, swords and bows were all it took to lay the Sapphire Isle to waste.

She stuck her head out of a narrow window, letting the cold hit her face until the she could breathe again.

"Missing the sky cells already?" someone behind her said. Brienne whirled round. Flanked by two burly men-at arms, his wrists and ankles bound with hempen rope, Jaime came hobbling up the corridor. Briefly, she was tempted to fling herself at him and thank the Mother above. The presence of the guards and, above all, his sneer detained her.

"You look as if you fared somewhat better than me, wench," Jaime said. "The gaolers weren’t forthcoming with glad tidings, other than the Blackfish commanding the castle. I shouldn’t be surprised you have decided to swim with the fishes again."

She was too weary for that sort of talk: the good night’s rest had vanished when she heard of the dispatches from the capital.

"Ser Brynden wants to question you," she said. "I trust you’ll be more courteous to him than you were to Lady Catelyn. Maybe he will grant you the freedom of the castle. I doubt he will let you go. Not even after the news from King’s Landing…"

"What news?" Jaime all but shouted, and she wondered what he saw in her face. "Tell me, Brienne — what news?"

"Enough with the chatter," one of the men-at-arms said, shoving Jaime into the study.

"Ask Ser Brynden!" Brienne called after him. The sturdy door closed in her face.

Unlike the grates of Riverrun’s dungeons, that door muted all sounds: she could make out hushed voices, but no words. The two guards threw her irate looks, so she walked away a few yards and went back to pacing the corridor.

"Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady," a servant mumbled. She nearly crashed into him and knocked his tray to the floor. Brienne muttered a hasty apology and picked up the spoon he’d dropped, but he kept his gaze downcast and strode to Ser Brynden’s chambers without so much as a glance at her.

Hadn’t she seen him before? She shrugged. The news from Tarth has rattled me so badly; I must be seeing ghosts.

From the study came a deafening crash — and Brienne remembered: this was one of Lord Baelish’s personal guards, the one who’d had his sword at Jaime’s throat. He had no business serving nuncheon to Ser Brynden.

She was through the doorway faster than the confused retainers, swinging the dirk from her boot. As she sped into the room, she almost tripped over a bowl of potted hare, careening over the slippery floor.

Ser Brynden tried to stand upright, swaying and clutching his head wound, which was gushing blood again. Jaime had thrown himself onto the assassin with his full weight. With wrists and feet bound, he couldn’t get hold of him, and the man was perilously close to the dagger that lay a couple inches from his grasping hand.

Brienne kicked the dagger out of reach, and a man-at-arms pressed his halberd into the assailant’s neck while she hauled Jaime to his feet. He rose unsteadily and did not protest against her arm around his shoulders, leaning into her, his beard pressed against her cheek.

Dabbing at his bleeding forehead with a handkerchief, Ser Brynden slumped into his chair and gave them a long, odd look. His face twisted as though he had just bitten into a lemon fresh from Dorne.

"Kingslayer," he said. "I must needs thank you. I owe you my life."

In front of the altars, among candles, flowers, and seven-pointed stars, Brienne hoped to find a semblance of peace for an hour. She frequently joined mattins together with Lady Janna. The castellan’s wife would arrive with an armful of bluebells and pilewort for the Maiden’s shrine, in remembrance of her daughters. That morning, she had added lily of the valley, filling the small sept with its sickly scent.

Suppressing a yawn, Brienne reached for her missal, which had survived the siege of Tarth, deep in the wooden chest of her maiden bower. It had been her mother’s before her, a precious book of hours Lady Alys had brought from Ashford as part of her dowry.

On the first page, the faded ink showed Alys’ name still. The gracious penmanship looked more like Sansa Stark’s writing than the spidery letters of Brienne’s own name underneath, blemished by a large splotch of ink. Septa Roelle had pursed her wrinkled mouth at that mishap, but neither chid nor beat the girl, for Brienne inherited the missal shortly after Lady Alys’ death.

The septa had come from the Reach with Lord Selwyn’s bride. Surely, she had lamented her lot in silent prayer on the selfsame bench: the burden of raising such a slow, sullen, absent-minded girl, after merry, musical Alys of Ashford. At times, Brienne pondered what Septa Roelle or her mother would make of her if they could see her now.

Lady Alys was a dim figure in her recollections, less buxom than her nurse, but softer, as tender as her kisses. Of tender mother’s kisses, they were singing too; it did not matter that they sang of the faraway Mother above. The well-known hymns retained the power of soothing her in their familiarity.

As Brienne turned the page to look for the lines to "O I beseech thee" — mother most glorious, mother of orphans, the consolation of the desolate — she found herself staring at a half-forgotten illustration of the Mother cradling the Maiden as a child. Their flowing locks mingled in the margins, inlaid in scarlet and copper and gold, an auburn hue, like Catelyn’s and Sansa’s hair.

Soon after, the hymns sung across Tarth were prayers of despair rather than solace or reverence. "Pirates! Pirates!" The warning rang through harbour and fortress: the crown’s warships had scarcely left the eastern shores as scavengers from Lys and the Stepstones appeared. Even some Ironmen abandoned their harsh isles when their first queen sat the seastone chair, and they went east to pick the bones of war-torn regions.

Brienne bade the Mother to be merciful and hold her guiding hand over their isle. The plunderers should not burn and salt the fields, where golden barley swayed in the wind, nor lay waste to the pastures and make off with the fat lambs. The smallfolk would soon bring in the first harvest and butcher the first sheep.

Tarth hadn’t suffered another case of greyscale, apart from a fisherman’s urchins, who recovered under the master’s diligent care. Draughts of lime juice and dozens of mustard poultices left the children hale and hearty, with some patches of cracked skin on their cheeks and necks. No man grown succumbed to the plague. The island had not seen so many reasons for hope and happiness in a long time: the reavers should not take this away.

"If they come, they will come, Lady Brienne," Lady Janna said as they were waiting for the septon to appear. Her shoulders hunched in resignation. "We have weathered fire and slaughter, pillage and rape once. We’ll weather them anew if the gods be good."

The older woman shuddered. "Those rovers might not be as honourable as the Dragon Prince’s commander, though. Our family fared well when the Targaryens came, my lady. Their captain was a sellsword, but a noble man."

"Ser Brendel took his lodgings in the castellan’s chambers, and he protected us. I’ve heard things from the port that you wouldn’t believe — things not fit for a maiden’s ears, my lady," Janna said, oblivious to what Brienne had seen and suffered in the Riverlands.

"He was sweet upon our eldest, Margot, with her honey-blonde braids and nimble hands, but he never laid a finger on her. Mind you, I think it was him who brought the greyscale into the castle, so he killed our daughters after all…"

"No enemy will set foot upon Tarth again," Brienne said. She reached over to light Janna’s candle when she noticed her shaking hands. "I swear it in the sight of the gods. May the Warrior strike me down if I am oath-broken."

"I thought you’d had your fill of promises," Jaime said as she walked out of the sept in search of Ser Mathis, her guards, and her master-at-arms. "Only of those I cannot keep," Brienne said under her breath. The morning breeze ruffled her hair, carrying a man’s laughter over the yard. It reminded her of Jaime’s.

"I shall hold you to your oath, ser," Ser Brynden said in way of parting.

"You will not take up arms against Stark or Tully. You will do no harm to my nephew Edmure, his Frey wife, and their babe. And you will not come back here with an army. Remember all the warriors that perished before the Gates of the Moon."

Jaime shrugged. "Even if I had an army of Westermen, they would be needed elsewhere. I will stand by my word, no matter of how little value you may deem it."

He nodded to Brienne. Reluctantly, she turned to go when Sansa came running through the hallway in a billow of azure skirts. For Jaime, she had only a curtsey, a curt "gods speed", and a curteous smile, but she took Brienne by the hands and tugged her aside.

"Sweetrobin finally let me go," she panted. "I thought I’d missed you! Now I have but a moment to convince you: don’t you want to stay with us? I do wish you would."

Brienne smiled, glad to see Sansa in a merrier mood, and sadly shook her head.

"Alas, I have to go, my lady. I can’t let Ser Jaime ride off on his own. Besides, there is fighting on Tarth."

Sansa sighed. "I understand — but it isn’t safe. When I was at court," her voice shook, "I often longed for Winterfell. If I’d been there, I would have died at the hands of Greyjoys or Boltons."

"What matters most is that you’re safe now," Brienne said gently. "Your lady mother would be relieved."

"I would be safer with you at my side. I am loath to wait for Lord Baelish’s trial alone," the girl said. Her blue eyes turned a darker shade in anger, almost black, and she worried her full lip with her teeth. "If it were up to me, he would not have a trial."

"Let’s not part by arguing about his fate," Brienne said. "Look to the Father above for justice."

Sansa squeezed her hands and smiled. "No, let us not quarrel. Before you go, I need to ask a question about my mother."

Brienne could not bear the apprehension on Sansa’s anxious face anymore. What should she do? Confess what she knew about Lady Stoneheart — what she had done — and thus risk Sansa’s hatred and Ser Brynden’s wrath, or take her leave by denying the truth?

"Do you know where she lies buried?" Sansa asked, tight-lipped and near to choking. "My uncle wanted to spare me the details — but he spoke of rumours that some smallfolk found her — her body, washed up on the Trident."

"I — I know naught of Lady Catelyn’s grave," Brienne said. But you know where she was killed, screamed the voice in her mind. "I swear it on your father’s blade. I am sorry. When the war is over, your lord uncle could ask the villagers at Riverrun. Maybe they know more."

When the war is over and Tarth is safe, and if I am still alive, Brienne swore silently, clutching Oathkeeper’s hilt, I will make another journey to the Riverlands, and I shall not rest until I have found her bones.

Sansa mistook her mien for honest grief. Every polite word of hers hurt Brienne like a furious blow. "My apologies, Lady Brienne. I did not mean to distress you. Nobody could have done more for my mother than you."

She stood on her toes and craned her neck for a quick kiss to Brienne’s forehead. The spot where Sansa’s lips had touched her burned all the way down the mountain, as though she had been branded a common murderer.

"What is the matter?" Jaime asked as they exchanged their mules for horses, loading the saddlebags with biscuits of barley, rye and bean flour, with carrots, apples, and stripes of smoked meat. "You are uncommonly taciturn, even for someone as sullen as you."

"If you regret leaving with me, this is your last chance to change your mind. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you stayed. It’s warm up there at the Eyrie. We’ll have to brave the cold again and travel straight to a field of battle."

"My father’s lands are a battlefield, too," Brienne replied, swinging into the saddle. "Would you stay if you knew of an attack on Casterly Rock?"

"Very well," said Jaime. He patted her meek gelding on its dappled rump and then adjusted the girth of his own mount, a lively sorrel mare.

"Truth be told," he said, smiling up at her, "I am strangely glad you’re here. Who else would I argue with? Who would sulk at me? I’ve even missed your septa’s dull hymns and your rattling snores."

Brienne snorted. "Has nobody told you could keep an entire camp awake at night? I wonder none of your squires has tried to smother you in your sleep, just to get a decent night’s rest."

"The last squire I had was too busy fucking my washerwoman to rest," he said. His infuriating grin told her he hoped to see her blush and squirm. "So, no."

She shrugged and spurned on her horse. His face looked almost comically crestfallen when she did not deign to answer, and the laughter bubbling up in her throat eased her heartbreak. They had a long way ahead of them.

They had left the Vale but a few days behind, warming their hands in a shabby inn on the way to Gulltown, when they caught the latest news from the Eyrie. Three hedge knights, thronging round the fire, talked excitedly about the former Lord Protector’s sudden death. "I’d of jumped too," the loudest of them cried, "those sky cells, they drive a man mad."

"Not Littlefinger," Jaime remarked when they sat down in an alcove with mugs of hot cider. "He’s always been as cold as charity. It would take more than some nights in there to make him lose his mind. Maybe the Blackfish has grown a pair and pushed him before he could plot any more mischief. The Stranger knows I would have!"

Thinking of Lady Catelyn’s second son, sweet Bran with his shattered spine, Brienne winced. She was about to rebuke Jaime or to defend Ser Brynden’s honour, as she remembered Sansa’s parting words and the queer smile lingering in the corners of her mouth. If it were up to me, he would not have a trial. No, it could not be…. So she said nothing, sipping her cider in companionable silence.

Thankfully, they did not have to struggle with the same gruelling weather as in the mountains. Nonetheless, winter slowed them down: the horses were sure-footed enough on the slippery roads, but craved constant feeding. They frequently had to stop at the nearest homestead to exchange some coins for hay and oats.

At least, there were hay and oats to be had. Unlike the downtrodden folks in the Riverlands, most villagers they encountered seemed well-fed, although they already had the pinched look and blueish noses of winter. The peasants had little reason to fear two straggling knights hastening onwards to the coast; so they offered the travellers a place to sleep in their barn or a meal of pease pudding.

It was in a hamlet shortly before the port that they first heard about the greyscale. A balding yeoman snatched the handful of coppers from Brienne’s fist and tipped his fur hat. "Thank ye kindly, m’lady," he said. "You’re welcome to the mutton. It ain’t meat we’ve need of: it’s coin for a ship to the Fingers. A gods-forsaken place, I’ve heard, but mayhap the grey plague won’t come further north."

"Haven’t ye heard?" the man said into their stunned silence. "It’s spreading upstream from the mouth o’the Trident. May the Seven have mercy on us all."

He made the sign against evil — a seven-pointed star across his chest — and trotted off as fast as his mule would take him. Jaime and Brienne were left staring at each other. Was this the curse the Mountain Clans had been afraid of? Should they press on nonetheless?

Jaime spoke what was on Brienne’s mind. "Grey death or no, it’s of little matter to me. Where we are going, we’re likely to suffer a bloodier death, and a quicker one, than from malady." Brienne nodded. "Better the sword than the plague."

On that night, it took them a long time to fall asleep. Brienne heard Jaime rustle and cough on his heap of straw. Even though it was warm in the stable loft, she crept over, tugging at his blanket.

"Afraid of the stone men already?" he said. He had to turn everything into a joke. "Did your wet-nurse frighten you with bedside tales of lumbering lepers?"

He lifted the woollen cloth, draping it over them both. To Brienne’s surprise, he slipped his fingers into hers. As she gingerly squeezed back, he kept holding on until morning.

Within less than three days, the Lady of Evenfall Hall levied every able man and boy on the island. Fishers manned the half-smashed ships that were barely seaworthy, setting sail to blockade the harbour with the abandoned hulks. The vessels were stuffed with driftwood and loaded with casks of tar: as a last resort, the defenders would set them afire with a trebuchet. Women and children gathered rocks from the rubble, as heavy as they could bear, to arm the catapults.

The reavers formed a small fleet. Most of their ships veered to the west, then turned south in search of easier prey, when the first volley broke some masts and the second one — full of burning pitch — set a dromond ablaze. Two boarding parties made it ashore. When they came, Brienne and her men were waiting for them.

When Brienne unsheathed the Valyrian steel, Bryce whistled appreciatively. Her heart clenched in fear for the unbloodied boy. His eagerness to make up for missing the siege of Tarth, which he’d watched from Evenfall’s battlements, brought Podrick to her mind. Pod had boasted of killing a man at the Blackwater, and he’d been hanged for that feat. She wished she could tell him that no battle lived up to the songs composed in its honour.

The clash on the beach fell short of anyone’s expectations. It was a brief, messy brawl in the dawn, shadowy figures scrambling through the dunes, blood turning the soaked sand red. Compared to the Battle of the Wall, it was a skirmish, a trifle: there Stannis Baratheon’s host and the Night’s Watch had held off the wights from the land of always winter, dying man by man until the queen’s dragons burned the cursed creatures. Everyone would speak of that battle in years to come; nobody would hear about some pirates slain on the shores of Tarth.

Still, Oathkeeper’s fullers ran red with the reavers’ blood, which dried and darkened on the blade to a reddish brown, nearly black — the colour of the viscous slime that had oozed from Lady Stoneheart’s throat. Fighting the urge to retch into the sea, Brienne slew the last man, who writhed in pain from his belly wound and begged for the gift of mercy. She had killed more men on that morning than during the entire war, but what were a few more ghosts? An easy trade for the home and the people she’d sworn to protect.

They carried their few wounded home at sunrise. She sent young Bryce ahead to aid Maester Wyllis: maybe that would temper the boy’s ardour, though she doubted it. At the castle, he would brag about his feats to the kitchen maids, and the gap-toothed smuggler from Grey Gallows, whom he’d maimed, would turn into an army of sellswords to rival the Golden Company.

She shook her head, with a rueful laugh, turning to see if Jaime shared the joke. Only then did it cross her mind that he hadn’t fought beside her. Sometimes, it was too easy to forget he was dead.

But dead he was, no more alive than the reavers they had slain — butchered — on the beach and whose corpses they burned once their own men were taken care of. The smoke hung over the coastline for hours, and its pungent stench followed Brienne into monstrous dreams of the living corpses they had seen before the ruins of King’s Landing. When the flames died down, she went back to the beach, together with a couple of scullions, and with Septon Addis, too. They gathered what remained of the reavers, charred bones and splintered skulls, broken teeth and grey ash, so much ash, so little ash, and strewed it from the pier into the sea.

Brienne would not grant them a single inch of the isle’s soil, but she could grant them a prayer. Septon Addis did her bidding and spoke a short blessing for their enemies. May the Mother have mercy on their souls. The last plunderer had begged her for mercy, and she did not even remember his face. She only remembered the frantic, grasping gestures of his failing hands as he tried to stuff his guts back into his stomach. He could have been a cruel man, a vicious one, like the Mummers and all those who wreaked havoc in the Riverlands — or he could have been just a boy before the war broke him. The waves swept him away all the same.

The harbour of Gulltown, usually bustling with traders from Bravoos and Pentos, with sailors from Loroth and whalers from Ibben, was deserted. They found only one captain who would dare the voyage south. He demanded such an exorbitant price that they had to sell their mounts to a shady horsemonger, who gave them less than half of what a breed from the Arryns’ stables was worth.

When they returned with full purses, the captain laughed in their faces.

"It’s passage to King’s Landing you want? To the Isle of Tarth? Not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. I might do it if you offered me that and the wealth of the Nine Free Cities to boot. There’s a fleet of warships milling in Blackwater Bay, and another near Storm’s End. We’ll have to sail around Dragonstone, and I can take you round Massey’s Hook. That — and no further."

Jaime laid his left hand on the hilt of his sword, but the captain shrugged off the warning. "Kill me, ser, if you please. Then you can walk on water to King’s Landing, like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, when he crossed a lake to slay the dragon Urrax. Take my offer or leave it — I’m the last to sail that way right now. Everyone’s going north."

They did take his offer and boarded the ship, though not without grumbling. After several days onboard, when there was nothing left to do but sharpen their swords, polish their blades till they gleamed brighter than the mirror shield of yore, and bite their nails, Jaime asked the captain if they couldn’t go faster.

The mariner spit a lump of rheumy phlegm right on Jaime’s boot. "I haven’t got a decent-sized crew. One third of my men ran like headless chickens at the first rumours of stone men and dragons. Should I set the sails myself, eh? You’re welcome to try a good swim, Ser Serwyn. You’ll outrun my ship, won’t you?"

Glowering at him, Jaime ripped off the man’s kerchief, used it to wipe his boots, and threw it on the deck. He did not speak another word until the fourth bell of the morning watch. From the other side of the threadbare curtain that separated their bunk, Brienne heard him toss and turn for hours. Her nails were ragged and bloody, and the ship’s reek of dried sheep pellets gave her a queasy stomach. As Jaime’s hobnailed boots clanged on the ladder to the deck, she tossed aside her blanket and followed him.

It was a clear night, and a freezing one, the stars fading pinpricks of harsh light in the dark grey skies, and their breath lingering in the crystal air like morning mist. Jaime stood bowed over the stern guard rail, studying the foam that flew up in the ship’s wake.

"What good would it do if we travelled faster?" he muttered, without bothering to turn his head.

"If you are worried about the queen — the dowager queen — your sister," Brienne said haltingly, "we’ll arrive after dawn, and you shall be with her soon."

Jaime laughed, a cackle that held more disdain than joy.

"My sweet sister, yes," he said. "I could be with her, in this very hour. She begged me for help, to champion her in the upcoming trial, but I refused. If I hadn’t, I would be in King’s Landing at her side…"

His voice trailed off, and he wouldn’t look at her, although Brienne touched his golden fingers. They were cold as ice.

"Was it — was it because of your maiming?" she asked, very softly.

Jaime clenched his left hand around the rail. "No — yes — I do not know." He whipped around. "She betrayed me," he hissed. "When I took the white, I swore my oaths to King Aerys. In truth, my words were all meant for her. I wanted to serve her, guard her, die for her."

"I loved her. In the dungeons of Riverrun, I dreamed of her, and she fucked our pious fool of a cousin and that hairy oaf Kettleblack instead. Should I still have died for her?"

Brienne stared into the murky depths of the ocean, as though she could find the answers to their questions down in the Narrow Sea. She did not know how to reply — did not want to think about false and forsworn oaths, about fornication, incest, and adultery. She was loath to discuss the woman who had imprisoned Lord Eddard and agreed to force Sansa into marriage, or perhaps she would not imagine Queen Cersei in her brother’s loving embrace. Finally, she settled on the safest thing to say.

"She is your sister still and your s—the king’s mother. The king is but a boy, and a sweet one, from what you have told me. A boy needs his mother," she said with the firm conviction of the motherless, trying to forget that Jaime had almost succeeded in robbing another mother of a sweet boy.

"Perhaps—" Jaime began. A shrill cry cut off his words. The shadow of giant wings darkened the silver rays of the dawn. When they beat the air, the masts trembled. The creature roared again, and then went rushing north.

Typical, Brienne thought, fighting a crazed fit of the giggles, that Jaime was the first to regain his power of speech.

"I wish my brother were here," he said, too carefully for someone truly unperturbed. "Tyrion always wanted to see a dragon."

After that, the captain refused to sail further. He set them ashore beneath the watchtower at Sharp’s Point while the rising sun turned the sky reddish and golden. From a surprised hostler and his wife, both wearing the swordfish badge of House Bar Emmon on their homespun garb, they begged a bony ploughhorse and a spavined nag. Brienne insisted on leaving the couple their last coppers, even if Jaime laughed at her, calling it a poor trade. Their mounts were old and hardmouthed, but they should do until King’s Landing. Neither of them mentioned the way back.

As the morning sky grew brighter and brighter, the wispy clouds a blinding red at noon, they understood. "That’s not the sunrise," Brienne said, swallowing hard and digging her heels into the flanks of her mare. "King’s Landing is burning."

It took them three days and three nights to reach the city. They would sleep in snatches and ride on after dusk, tongues of flames blotting out the stars. On the fourth morning, they entered what had once been the Kingswood, skeleton trees stretching their bare branches up at the crimson sky, like supplicants to the gods, with muddy pits of scorched earth and foul-smelling water in between. No ballad about the Field of Fire had prepared her for this wasteland, and the poets’ words ran out on her.

Brienne shuddered and spurned on her trembling horse, its coat lathered and bloody. Jaime’s face had turned the colour of curdled milk under his ragged beard, and he nearly let go of the reins. "Gods defend us," he said under his breath. It was the first and only time she heard him pray.

Then the people arrived. A band of smallfolk struggled up the Kingsroad. At first, Brienne thought they were clad in blackened rags, but when they came nearer, she realized with a churning stomach that their burned skin hung off in shreds. "Water," a woman moaned. "Water, please." Brienne tossed them one of their skins, but then she had none left to share as they ran into the next group.

Approaching the Blackwater Rush, they spotted the first deserters. Jaime rode up to a soot-covered archer in the royal livery, sporting a dirty stag and lion on his torn tunic, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

"Why aren’t you on your post?" he shouted. "You should be fighting a battle to defend your king."

The soldier laughed, unimpressed. "There’s no more battle to fight, ser. The dragon’s troops razed the northern walls with their trebuchets and set Flea Bottom afire. When that wasn’t enough, the real dragons came. The Kingswood and the harbour, the River Gate and Fishmonger’s Square, all gone up in flames."

"Then the Regent yielded: Queen Margaery, Lord Mace, and the troops of House Tyrell have thrown themselves at the mercy of the Targaryens," he continued, interrupted by a violent cough. "The Red Keep, with His Majesty and Her Grace the Dowager Queen, is holding out, but it’ll fall soon. Tell me, ser, who shall I fight?"

"You could start with me," Jaime said. Brienne reined in her horse beside his nag and put a steadying hand on his arm. "Is there a way into the city?" she asked the archer.

"Aye, if you’re mad as Seven Hells! The rubble’s dammed up the river, and the dragonfire dried up most of it. Wade through the Blackwater if you dare."

He shook off Jaime’s grip and hobbled away till the tree trunks hid him from their view.

As they paused for a sip of water in the shadow of a ruined wall, Jaime seized her hand.

"I shall try to cross after dusk. They have the ki– my son. And whatever the queen was once to me — my golden queen, the queen of whores — she is my sister still." Despite the barb aimed at his twin, the bitterness that had plagued him on shipboard seemed to have deserted him, leaving but a great weariness in its wake.

"Cersei and Tommen are naught to you," he said. "If you surrender, as the heir to Tarth, they should treat you decently. They might even send you home."

"Maybe, though I doubt they’d let me go," Brienne said with a regretful smile. "Now we have come so far together, I might as well stay."

There was nothing more to say. For the last time, they lay down to rest under Jaime’s well-worn cloak. He drew her close, closer than on the winter nights in the Vale, folding their linked hands over her stomach and burying his face in her hair. His chest rose and fell against her back, and his breaths tickled the skin of her neck, like a lover’s furtive kisses. Neither of them slept.

Later, Brienne would oftentimes wonder what might have gone differently — if they would have made it to the Keep — how they could have sneaked inside — if I hadn’t been for that patrol.

They spotted the first two soldiers as they crawled out of the river muck, and the Targaryen sellswords never gave a sound: Jaime’s common blade cut a throat as quickly and silently as her Valyrian steel. They did not see the third man.

He was upon Brienne before she’d drawn her sword from the first soldier’s neck. An instant before his weapon would have sliced into her ribcage, she unstuck her blade to parry his blow. It was a feeble defence: he pushed her back, flinging her headlong into a heap of bricks, as Jaime kicked out his legs under him, and Brienne roused herself for the killing strike.

Her swordarm hung limply by her side, red spots dancing in her field of vision. Above the rushing of blood in her ears, her heartbeat growing louder and louder, she heard the tread of boot-clad feet, the clang of weapons, the shouting of more men.

"Jaime?" she tried to say, her lips slurring his name. Still, he turned towards her and shook his head. As he swung his sword and sprinted off in the other direction, she noted, despite the pounding pain behind her temples, that he must be trying to lure them away.

"I’m here," she called, or thought she did. No one answered. While the smouldering fires in the fallen city faded to grey around her, she heard someone cry: "The Kingslayer! It's him as our queen wants alive! It’s the Kingslayer!"

Jaime, Brienne thought. His name is Ser Jaime. Then the world went black.

She woke after a couple of hours, with a splitting headache, and threw up her last meal on the ash-covered ground. She was tempted to simply keep lying there until someone found her. As she crawled over the rubble on hands and knees, broken cobbles under her palms and Jaime’s name on her furry tongue, she spotted something glittering above the ruins. A bundle of gilded skulls swayed in the night breeze — the standard of the Golden Company’s commander.

Sluggishly, step after step, she tottered towards it to lie down her arms to the Targaryens.

It was a relief when the rain started, a warm downpour that heralded the coming of summer. It dispersed the smell that haunted the beach, only leaving a whiff of smoke and salt and wet grass in the dunes. Though showers kept drenching the castle yards, the cook and the butcher dragged the fattest lambs into the perch behind the kitchen and bound their legs. After the freshly sharpened knives had come down, the sodden ground was drenched in blood.

Brienne heard the animals’ dumb and desperate bleats while she talked to Ser Mathis and Lady Janna about the feast. The shrieking interrupted their arguments about the courses: the debate about lamb roasted in lemon and honey versus a grilled haunch with carrots and raisins drowned in death cries for a while.

She was looking forward to the banquet, but she would be glad to have this part of the preparations over and done with. Soon, the earth would soak up the blood, the maids would scrub the stones, and she would not have to smell the metallic tang anymore, would no longer taste it on the tip of her tongue. Then she’d be able to revel in the flavour of turnips soaked in butter, of broth with whitefish and onion, and the first cherries in sweetened cream.

Some days later, the sun was high and hot in the sky, as Maester Wyllis had predicted, and it brought their first harvest to ripeness. The younger servants returned to Evenfall Hall from the orchards, swinging baskets that overflowed with red-and-black fruit. The youths were sweaty and grubby, faces red and streaked with stains of cherry juice, but they seemed as excited as though the midsummer feasting had already begun.

Amidst the general merry-making, one of the goodwives began to sing — a new ditty that had become a favourite of the smallfolk in the Stormlands: the Ballad about the Antler King and his Knight of Flowers, which ended with the faithful squire calling on the shade of his murdered sire to bring deliverance to a city under siege. The verses made no mention of how the Maid of Tarth had been called a kingslayer, and the poet had conveniently forgotten that Ser Loras tried to win Dragonstone, the seat of the Baratheons, for the Lion Queen. He’d survived the burning oil, but it had blemished his youthful beauty forever. Brienne had never seen Ser Loras again after their meeting in her tower cell, but she reckoned they had the scars to match. War has made us all old indeed.

Two boys produced a fiddle and a pipe, and some of their companions made deep, exaggerated bows before the maids. Soon, a lively jig replaced the tunes of the balladeers, and a handful of couples were galloping up and down the length of the great yard. Brienne laughed, for sheer joy to see them happy and carefree. Her sides ached when Ser Mathis laid a hand on her arm.

"My lady, may I beg this dance?" he asked, his dark eyes twinkling. For an instant, he turned into the friendly, jesting bannerman she recalled from her girlhood. "I thank you, ser," she said, trying for a lighthearted tone, "but I wouldn’t want to steal you from your wife."

Ser Mathis grinned. "It’s kind of you to say so. The next dance would have been hers, but now she doesn’t need to tarry one moment longer. We two can show those lads and lasses a thing or two about dancing."

As her husband spun her around in fast turn after turn, Janna’s face blurred in the whirling dance, the furrows ploughed by age and grief smoothed by music and motion. Had she dreamed of dancing thus at her daughters’ weddings?

All around Brienne, the folks from the castle were pairing up. Bryce appeared to have laid his puppyish infatuation with the smith’s wife to rest. Judging from the lopsided smile on his pock-scabbed face, he had decided to try his charms on the scullery maids. He asked three times until he was in luck: two of the older ones — close friends and bedfellows, who never had time for suitors — grasped each other’s hands instead and joined the throng, their smiles sweeter than the music.

Brienne was still humming the lively melodies under her breath when everyone went back to their day’s work. As the shadows grew longer and the light more mellow, she left the castellan’s ledgers and the clerk’s lists and the cook’s lamb roast behind to go out and gather flowers for the high table. Finally, she did not need them as offerings on an altar for the dead, but as frivolous ornaments for her guests. Her huge baskets were stuffed with columbines and daylilies, with loosestrife, tufted and yellow, with honeysuckle ripped from shady trees, and dotted with the brightest blue of the cornflower, blood-red poppies, and daisies in innocent, maidenly white.

"He loves me — he loves me not — he loves me!" a high voice cried behind the hedge along the field, the declaration interrupted by a chorus of giggles. As Brienne peered round the bushes, some of the women dropped their posies. She faintly recognized them from the harbour when the reavers attacked, from passing them in the muddy lanes of the village when she strolled down to the port. They were fishermen’s wives and fishmongers’ daughters, a wedding party picking flowers in preparation for the ceremony.

The bride must be older than herself, Brienne supposed as the woman curtsied deeply, spreading her smock of dirty linen around her like a wedding cloak. The smallfolk often married later in life than their lords and ladies, as they needed to save a few coins for their modest household first. But she seemed so young then, her rough hands toying with a daisy and her ruddy face softened by an expectant smile.

"Such fair flowers, m’lady," she said, with a nod at the baskets. Brienne did not know what to answer, save to say thank you and remember the leather purse tied to her belt. She pressed the loose coins into the woman’s calloused palm, reminding the bride and her friends to send the village paupers up to the castle for the leftovers from the feast.

Their profuse thanks were cut short by a joyful whoop when the youngest girl pointed excitedly to the other end of the footpath. Several men came marching towards the group. From the sly whispers and elbow pokes aimed the bride, it was not hard to guess that the groom must be among them. The woman dropped her daisies and ran into his arms, ignoring the clods and pebbles under her bare soles. Their embrace ached in Brienne’s chest, and their kiss tingled on her lips.

"Jealous?" Jaime asked in exaggerated sympathy. "I hadn’t thought that such a smallish, weather-beaten fisherman was to my lady’s taste. His eyes are rheumy, his hair is thinning, and he looks nothing like Renly, don’t you see?"

Since he was not really there, she could afford to be honest. "Of course I am not jealous. I am simply missing you."

The dusk cast its violet hue over the meadows, and she turned her back to the lovers to go home at last.

Jaime’s prison was not a stinking cell in the keep, like the dungeon of Riverrun where they’d first met, but a modest chamber in the servant’s quarters — sparse, but rather unlike a gaol, except for the two sellswords in Targaryen livery posted by the door.

"Her — Her Gr- Grace sent me," Brienne stammered. "I was granted a visit."

"Are you armed?" the first guard asked.

"If you lie to us," his companion leered, baring the brown stumps he had for teeth, "we can have a look. Or a feel, if you catch my drift. An ugly thing like you should be grateful."

"Enough," hissed the stern-faced septa who had brought her there. "She is not carrying a weapon. I have seen to it myself." She turned to Brienne, whose hand hovered over the pommel of an absent sword. "My lady, you have half an hour."

Jaime was sitting on the narrow cot that served as his bed, ankle shackled to the bedstead, head turned towards the slitted window, matted hair golden in the last rays of the afternoon sun. At the creak of the hinges, he swung around.

"Seven Hells," he said, "what are you doing here? I thought you had gone home."

"I trust you haven’t run afoul of Their Majesties already. Surely, they cannot find you half as annoying as I."

His forced attempt at levity merely got him a thin smile in response. Brienne shook her head.

"I have just sworn fealty to House Targaryen, and I finally have leave to go," she said. "But Tarth has awaited me for so long now. It must needs wait a few days longer for my return. King Aegon or Queen Daenerys may receive me for another audience."

She drew a shuddering breath, shuffling her feet under the unaccustomed weight of her full skirts.

"I will crawl up to the Iron Throne on my belly if I must. Jaime, I want to ask them to spare your life."

He stared at her. Then a slow smile spread over his face, so unlike the mocking smirks she was used to.

"Wench," he said, sighing in exasperation. "Brienne."

"I cannot decide if I should be flattered by your loyalty, my lady, or amazed at your foolishness. Do you wish to be taken for a Lannister loyalist and executed beside me? It should suffice that you were nearly hanged on my behalf. I’d rather you keep your head, mulish and stupid as you are. "

She did not point out that there was barely a Lannister left to be loyal to.

The boy Tommen had been run through by one of Connington’s men, in revenge for the murders Lord Tywin had ordered. Distraught with grief and drowning in tears, his mother ripped her queenly gown to shreds in the darkness of her cell and wrapped a patched-up noose around her pale white throat. Brienne shuddered, remembering every dangling corpse around the Trident. Some of the Brotherhood would call this justice, but she could no longer find any justice in death, let alone joy.

The smallfolk in the city might rejoice at the lions’ fate: it was the dowager queen who’d resisted for so long, and her youngest brother, in the dragons’ retinue, who’d urged to lay the capital to waste. The same crowds who’d cheered at the sight of a crowned child and the Rose Queen now listened, rapt and jeering, to the balladmongers and their lurid tales of the vengeful imp, of a false queen defiled by her traitor brother, of bastards begot in a rank, incestuous bed. Brienne tried not to ponder what the boy kings had been to Jaime — whether he worried about their sister Myrcella, a hostage in the solar of Sunspear, a princess from a romance, likely doomed to a tragic end.

For her, there was only ever him.

"I’ve tried to tell them about Aerys," she said stubbornly. "They did not listen — but I will not fail you. You should insist on trial by combat. It’s the customary right of every accused. They must hear you, and you can name me champion and I —"

"Brienne," he interrupted her. This time, her name was full of anger. "There will be no trial. I do not stand accused. Everyone found me guilty a long time ago. Even if I could stand trial, I would not call on you. My own brother had that chance: Do you remember what good it did him? Him and Prince Oberyn?"

She started shaking — in fury at his lack of faith in her abilities, in despair at the thought that he might want to follow his family into their untimely graves. Father and uncle slain — sons murdered — sister dead by her own hand — brother carried off by the greyscale, with half the new sovereigns’ retinue. But this was not a thought she wanted to entertain, her eyes filling with tears and her skin crawling under the woollen gown. So she clung to her indignation.

"Do you not deem me good enough, ser? I am every inch a knight like you."

"A better one, I’d wager," Jaime whispered. All the rage had gone out of his voice. He held up his right arm; the sleeve of his coarse, too-wide shirt slipped back to reveal the rosy scar tissue where the golden hand had been.

"You have your swordarm left. I have a stump: you have a badly healed bone. Going into combat like that would be folly, and you know it. I have spilled enough blood in my lifetime. I would want to shed yours least of all. Haven’t I told you before? You cannot save everyone — just save yourself."

In the epic books of a romance, Brienne could have been the white knight wielding a Valyrian blade in his honour or the maiden sinking into his arms with endearments and vows of devotion. In the narrow confines of his cell, she stood rooted to the spot. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and it tasted of bile.

In the end, he reached for her first.

Taking her hand, Jaime drew her down unto the cot, so they were sitting side by side, fingers intertwined. She had to take a few sips from the jug of tepid water next to his bed before her hands stopped trembling. Damp spots darkened the front of her dress and the cloth under her arms. Brienne had never been much given to swearing, but she inwardly cursed her shameful weakness. It was not her life that hung in the balance.

Jaime said nothing. The skin of his palm felt as clammy as the cold sweat on her brow. As they leaned into each other, she noticed he was trembling, too: little tremors that ran through his whole body and reverberated in her chest, right to the core of her heart. Her fingers itched to loosen his bone-breaking grip, so she could drape an arm around him and let his head rest upon her shoulder.

"We should have run off to become sellswords," she said. "After the Golden Company has crossed the sea, the Free Cities must be desperate for new blades."

Jaime laughed. "As a Lannister, I’d be willing to pledge my word — and my sword — in exchange for solid gold. But I cannot imagine you selling your oath for anything."

But you know I did, she thought. In Lady Stoneheart’s cave. I’d do it again, for the price of your life.

He drew their clasped hands to his cracked lips and pressed a feather-light kiss on her freckled knuckles.

"It’s too late for selling our honour. And everyone can die for it, brave men and rash fools alike." He shrugged. "Living honourably — well, that’s where everyone stumbles."

"Can you promise me this, my lady, upon your honour? Go home. Don’t linger. Promise that you shall return to Tarth and live."

"I pro- I shall," she stuttered around the lump in her throat.

Ser Jaime Lannister was executed three days after, before the Sept of Baelor, where many an accused traitor’s plot had come to an early and ignoble end.

Brienne shoved at the people thronging in the square: unwashed urchins from Flea Bottom and rancid beggars with cold sores, blacksmiths and cobblers in leathery aprons, burghers’ wives dressed in their best attire and painted whores in low-cut bodices, sellswords as fair-haired as Lyseni and as copper-skinned as the riders of the Dothraki Sea, knights from the Red Mountains to White Harbour — all had gathered to watch the king’s justice done.

She was too far from the scaffold to catch Jaime’s eye, but with relief — releasing a breath she’d held all day long — she spied the block and the headsman leaning on his sword. It would be quick, an easy death the only mercy Their Majesties saw fit to bestow. Perhaps, Brienne mused, remembering the confusion on the young queen’s delicate features and her glances at Ser Barristan, perhaps she had not mentioned the Mad King’s name for naught.

It was quick indeed. Some convicts would use the scaffolding as though it were a mummer’s stage: the balladeers sang for weeks of cowards crying at the headsman’s feet for leniency, of rogues delivering a flourishing speech to their last audience, of sinners praying loudly with the septon for repentance and the Mother’s mercy. Brienne expected no such thing from him, but she awaited a last show of defiance, a scoff or sneer. Or maybe she just hoped to hear his voice one last time.

Jaime refused to answer anyone, from the lowly gaoler who led him to the block to the king and queen in their blood-red box. It was his last taunt for the sheep that came to see a lion die. Brienne half-smiled amidst her silent tears, and she nearly laughed when it dawned on her that he was clad in white, even on that occasion: a kingslayer — the Kingslayer — garbed in a humble penitent’s gown, but there was nothing humble or penitent about him. If anything, his shift reminded her of the white cloak a boyish knight had donned with pride.

She wiped eyes and nose on a tattered sleeve, willing herself not to look away. Renly’s murder had been horrible to witness, his blood staining her shirt and breeches for days afterwards. Yet she longed for nothing more than to cradle Jaime in her arms when he died.

With a ringing noise, the sword came down.

Brienne did not know how long she stood there. As she woke from her daze, her feet hurt after nailed boots had stepped upon them, and her arms and legs would be covered in bruises where the spectators had roughly pushed her aside. The milling crowd had dispersed around her; artisans were busy dismantling the empty scaffold, and the Sept’s spires threw long shadows over the blood-sprinkled cobblestones.

Her heart heavy, but her eyes dry, Brienne turned around to go home at last.

On the eve of her celebrations, the bunch of flowers Brienne put in a small earthenware jug to adorn her chambers did not bring her sweet dreams and soothing sleep. In her dreams, there was no salty air fresh from the ocean, no odour of honeysuckles. In her dreams, the world was a cave, and it reeked of old blood, of carrion, of ash and fear and death.

"Child," someone whispered in the womb of the cave. At first, Brienne thought her mother called before she recognized her. Stoneheart. She beckoned her to come forward, to come near, and she wondered whether the dull eyes that had once belonged to Lady Catelyn — so bright, so blue — could see right through her deception. As a child, she had believed the Father above could see through everything, right into people’s hearts, so why would the Mother Merciless not see them for who they were?

The loose knots of the frayed rope chafed around Brienne’s wrists, and she stopped for a moment to flex her hands. Jaime’s hand on her back prodded her to go on. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she wanted to turn and run, to flee from the darkness, back into the light of day.

The sky outside was a forbidding grey, heavy with snow, and Pod’s corpse was swinging from a tree in front of the cave, four nights dead. Crows had feasted on his eyes, and wolves gnawed on his naked feet. He swung lightly in the wind, so ragged and light a bundle of bones. Arrows stuck out of his chest, where some of the Brotherhood had used him for target practice. It was this memory as much as the gentle pressure of Jaime’s palm that moved her forwards.

Had Lem been among those who made Podrick their sport? Brienne wished she knew, so she could rue his death less. He’d been waiting for her and Jaime, no longer a weathered outlaw with a bushy beard and crooked teeth, but a looming menace under the Hound’s helmet. It had not afforded him sufficient protection: the dagger hid up Jaime’s sleeve had slid through the visor into Lem’s right eye, up to the hilt. Crossing her fingers, Brienne hoped the grisly, snarling mask would protect Jaime at least. When he donned the helmet, blood had dripped into his blond hair, a red rain mixing with the fall of snow.

In her dreams, Ser Hyle looked at her then, from his spot in the alcove where they had him gagged and bound, his eyes gleaming fiercely in the torchlight, as though he knew that she wouldn’t bring him freedom — only death. Beardless Dick and One-Eyed Jack, his guards, had been bored and more than a little drunk, dozing over their game of dice. In her dreams, the reddish glow from the torches changed them into ogres from a nursery tale — though they were but two men she would help to kill.

"Two," Lady Stoneheart wheezed through the terrible gash in her throat as they approached her seat. "Only two. Where is the third who should walk beside you?"

"She let him escape," Jaime growled under the helmet, shoving Brienne a few steps forward. "Changed her mind at the last moment — again." He held out Oathkeeper. "Let justice be done."

Stoneheart’s eyes glinted at the word, as black as flint, as hard as her heart, and Brienne knew that she knew. The hangwoman’s hooded gaze could pierce the leathery glove that covered Jaime’s golden hand, the steel helmet that masked his face, the flesh and bone over Brienne’s traitorous heart.

"Yes, justice," she hissed. "Kingslayer. Oathbreaker."

Stoneheart’s warning cry mingled with the curses of the dying guards — whore, whore, Kingslayer’s whore — and it turned into a terrible gurgling as Brienne rammed Oathkeeper into her wounded throat, and the red priest shouted, in a mixture of revulsion and pity: "Run, child. Run!"

In Brienne’s dreams, the wound was never fatal. Blood came rushing out, as fast and roaring as a river, and it was not even Lady Stoneheart’s. It was the gush from Renly’s gorget, the spray that splattered the headsman as his blade hewed into Jaime’s neck; the stains on Lord Selwyn’s bandages and on the soiled sheets of the childbed where Lady Alys wasted away; all the blood that was shed on earth sprung from her veins. The Mother’s hands clawed into Brienne’s shoulders, and the ground turned into a spring of blood and fetid water under her feet, and Catelyn dragged Brienne down into the river with her.

With a gasp, she woke. Her limbs were tangled in her sweaty blanket, and although the walls of her room seemed to press in on her, the large bed — which had been her father’s, her parents’ — felt too wide and empty for her all alone.

Brienne lay still, struggling to breathe more calmly and focus on the birds singing in the pre-dawn light. A draft from the half-open window brought some relief into the stuffy chamber. When she sat up to reach for the tumbler of water beside her bed, she looked straight into Jaime’s smiling face. He was sitting in her chair, his boots propped upon the window-sill. If he stretched out his hand, he would be able to touch her, trail his fingers over her scarred cheek and trace the tears she had wept in her sleep.

She drew in a shaky breath and wrinkled her nose. Her room stank of smoky tallow candles and dark blood, thick and foul, of river mud and slimy things under the water.

"Don’t you have anything better to think of?" Jaime said. "What did you pick all those fucking flowers for?" His voice sounded languid and seemingly bored, but his soft laughter gave her courage.

Brienne breathed deeply, taking in the light breeze that made the curtains flutter and the sweetness of the honeysuckle. Something eased in her chest. She made the sign of the seven-pointed star and muttered a brief prayer to the Mother, as she did so often, a plea for mercy and forgiveness.

The … the creature in the cave had not been Lady Catelyn. Stoneheart had none of her understanding, her kindness, her friendship: it was her twisted bitterness and hatred that kept her alive, unable to claim the peace of the grave. If she told herself that often enough, Brienne thought, she might end up believing it one day. After one last look at Jaime, she closed her eyes again, to find something better indeed.

"I pro- I shall," she swore.

The promise clung grey and dry to her tongue, like the ashes of King’s Landing. Jaime was not wrong to remind her of the home that she had left, but it irked her he was so intent to go where she could not follow.

For the moment, he was still there, his fingers folded into hers, and so she yielded to her fancy: she kissed him gently on the mouth, a brief and fleeting touch. He could take it as a chaste gesture, a fond farewell to a condemned man, if he so preferred. Brienne did not wish to burden him with her feelings. They weighed heavy enough on her, but she would live to carry them. Jaime was being dragged down by the dead weight of father, uncle, brother, sister, sons. Even his lips tasted of ashes and dust.

When she drew back, Jaime looked at her and quizzically raised his brows. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat, searching for the right words to explain herself, to feed him kind lies and words of comfort, the only thing that was still hers to give. Her apologies were swallowed up in his mouth, though, as he cupped her marred face with his hand and returned her favour.

"I dreamed of this even on the way to the Vale," he mumbled, so close that his beard tickled her chin while he spoke. "But I thought — well, I thought I’d given up on my sis- Cersei, and that would make me like any other man, thinking of any other wench to keep him warm on a cold winter’s night."

She winced a little, and he carefully caught her lower lip between his teeth, only releasing it when he couldn’t hold back his rueful smile. "But I’m not any other man," he said, "though apparently just as foolish as most when it comes to wooing."

"And I’m not any other wench," she croaked, drinking in the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned, the flecks of tawny gold and brown in the green irises. "Or do I have to remind you?"

"No, wench," he said in feigned obedience, quickly darting the tip of his tongue against hers and laughing at her gasp. "My lady. Brienne." Her name was all it took for her to kiss him again.

She had no experience with proper flirtations or passionate kisses; she had no idea when to open her lips under his, what to do when he slid his tongue into her mouth, or how to do anything, really. But she twined her arms around his shoulders and held on to him as if she could keep him in her embrace, forever safe.

Eventually, they had to break apart to breathe. Jaime whispered her name, again and again, as he left a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses across her face: on her fresh scars, the tip of her broken nose, her chin, then down her thick neck, and upon the freckled patch of skin above her bodice.

The guards jeered when they found them thus: Brienne draped over his lap, Jaime’s lips fastened on the hammering pulse below her jaw, his hand sneaking up to brush against her breast.

One of the gaolers whistled. "So it’s true," he said. "A dyin’ man will fuck anything. If you ask nice enough, we’ll let you have a sow before they chop off your dick. I doubt you’ll know the difference."

Brienne blushed hotly, sick with anger at that fellow mocking — pissing all over her last moments with Jaime. Under her spread palms, she felt the muscles in his back tensing with rage. Giving him a small smile, she shook her head. He might be a prisoner marked for death, but she would not let him suffer a beating for her sake. She remained where she was, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head, until they seized her and pried her away.

There were no sweet words of parting, no heartfelt confessions to call across the room. But when the sharp-tongued gaoler wrenched her arm and moved to drag her out, Jaime caught her free hand and bought her fingers to his mouth one last time. His dirty, scraggy beard scratched her skin, and his lips were rough and bleeding under the pad of her thumb, and his strangled breath was gloriously warm, warm and alive, alive.

"See, Brienne, isn’t that nicer?" Jaime said. His knowing smirk told her that he was well aware what she had been thinking of. The familiar expression flickered before her eyes as his solid figure dimmed in the dawn. Brienne clung to those memories that were as brilliant as the summer morning, as hazy as her sight against the rays of the rising sun.

Bright little things they were, those treasured moments of hers, shining and insubstantial, like the perfect rhyme in a ballad or the notes of a poignant tune. And like the poet or the harper who kept working on their craft, she kept going over her remembrances, polishing them until the details felt right — the details nary a song would care to mention, because they seemed so insignificant, although they meant the world to her.

Her father’s long-suffering sigh when he said ‘oh, child’, mostly belied by his smiling eyes; Renly’s oft-ruined clothes, spoiled as he stuffed a handful of grapes into his pocket to feed them to his favourite charger; the stubborn tendrils that would insist on creeping from Lady Catelyn’s neat braids; Jaime’s singing voice, a soldier’s rather than a noble’s, rough and loud and slightly off-key. A myriad of such tiny moments would grow dimmer, and she would recall them, embellish them. It did not matter whether they were accurate as long as they were true.

At the window, Jaime’s shadow danced in the flood of light while the day was breaking. He left her, in a gust of wind, and faded on the crowing of the cock. The ruckus from the henhouse told her it was time to get up. Brienne should don her new gown, which Septa Marusa had embroidered with suns and moons for the Lady of Evenfall Hall, and see that the banquet would go smoothly. She had a feast to attend, guests to bid welcome, and the opening dance with Ser Mathis to join. There would be music at their meal, a group of minstrels that Lady Janna had hired in the port, to entertain them with the gift of song.

For the moment, Brienne was content to stay in bed, alone with her stolen memories. They sufficed to make her heart sing.